Jake braced himself as Palarae’s finger tightened on the trigger once more, the jeweler’s eyes bright, his mouth slightly open in anticipation of the torture to come.
A sudden thud came from above, then the faint sounds of struggle.
Palarae frowned, and the head of the crossbow dipped a little as he tilted his head to listen.
Morgan. It must be.
But she wouldn’t know what weapon Palarae held and Jake couldn’t bear the thought of that bolt striking home in her flesh. He would take the pain himself before letting Morgan be hurt. He had to give her time to reach him — and he needed Palarae to loose that bolt.
Jake rattled his chains, pushing out his broad chest against the bonds to present a target.
“I’m ready for another.”
Palarae raised the crossbow again. “Quiet!”
But Jake didn’t stop with the jangling of his metallic restraints, every movement masking the sound from upstairs.
Palarae took two steps across the floor of the basement, his face contorted with rage. He rammed the hilt of the crossbow into Jake’s solar plexus with brutal force.
Jake gasped for breath, unable to double over as he sagged from his bonds.
The sounds drew closer. Footsteps in the room above.
Palarae crouched like a hunter, raising the crossbow as he eased open the door and headed up the stairs on silent feet. He had all the advantages of knowing the terrain, and the man was clearly an experienced killer.
Jake tried desperately to suck in some breath, anything to fuel his voice.
“Morgan!” he croaked, and then a little louder. “Morgan!”
But there was nothing he could do to stop Palarae, and Jake could only imagine the sharp tip of the crossbow bolt slamming into Morgan’s body.
Morgan descended the narrow wooden staircase from the office. The steps creaked under her feet as she stepped down carefully; the cane raised and ready for attack. A green light shone from below and the musty smell of old books wafted up along with the sharp tang of metalwork in progress. She couldn’t sense anyone in the room ahead, but then the old woman’s curses were loud enough even through her gag to disguise any sound.
Aware that she would be framed in the doorway as she stepped into the room, Morgan ran down the last few steps. She ducked and rolled at the bottom, presenting a moving target as she found shelter behind a large armchair.
No shots came, no sound or even a response to her arrival.
She peered out from behind the chair and looked around the room. Fitted shelving filled with books flanked an oversized desk where the equipment of the jeweler lay ready for use. Sharp edges of files and diamond-tipped cutters glinted in the light next to a heavy sketchbook, its pages lay open to display the clean lines of a man’s body.
Morgan couldn’t quite make out the detail so she ran across to the desk in a crouch, pulling the sketchbook to the floor as she sheltered behind the thick wooden table legs. The man in the drawing was perfectly proportioned, his muscle tone outlined with the strokes of someone intimately acquainted with human anatomy. His face was contorted with pain from the arrows piercing his skin, but Morgan could still recognize Jake beneath the agony.
She could not let this sketch become reality.
There was only one other door in the room. It must lead to wherever the jeweler prepared his art.
Morgan stood and grasped the sketchbook in both hands, leaving the razor-tipped cane behind as it was less useful in close-quarter fighting. Her heart beat faster with the anticipation of violence and she let her anger rise as she strode to the door. Palarae must be down there, but she would not underestimate him as she had his mother.
Morgan stood to one side of the door and turned the handle slowly. It opened with a soft click.
As the crack opened, she heard Jake calling her name.
She ducked into the open doorway, a feint designed to draw Palarae out, then quickly drew back again.
A crossbow bolt thudded into the doorframe, missing her by an inch.
With no hesitation, Morgan hurtled down the stairs, rushing the jeweler, hoping it wasn’t an automatic crossbow. This was her only chance.
Palarae stood at the bottom, his attention on reloading. He glanced up as Morgan darted down, a silent Fury, a goddess of vengeance.
She rammed the jeweler, using the sketchbook to shove him back into the basement.
He smashed into a massive light rig and fell backward, dropping the crossbow. Morgan followed him down, straddling him, pinning his arms with her legs as he writhed beneath her.
The jeweler screamed as she hammered his face with the sketchbook. Its sharp edges carved deep furrows into his skin, knocking Palarae senseless as his blood soaked the rigid ivory paper.
Morgan kept pounding until he fell silent, then she reached for the discarded crossbow, turning it around to use the blunt end as a club. Her breath came fast, her vision narrowed only to the bloodied face of the jeweler.
She raised the crossbow, ready for the final blow.
“Morgan.” Jake’s voice filtered through the haze of bloodlust. “Wait. We need him.”
His words stopped her, even though she wanted to hammer the weapon down and crush Palarae’s skull. Morgan slowed her breathing, returning from a place of darkness that stank of blood and suffering, a void that could consume her if she allowed it to. When those she loved were threatened, Morgan knew she was capable of anything.
“It’s OK, he’s out,” Jake said softly. “Help me down from here.”
Morgan threw the crossbow into a far corner and clambered off the jeweler, pushing down her rage as she took in the scene.
Jake hung from chains, wearing only a pair of green boxer shorts, his feet shackled to the ground. His muscular chest was a match for Palarae’s sketch, and a crossbow bolt pierced his leg, blood trickling from the wound.
“Nice timing.” Jake grinned, the corkscrew scar twisting away from his eyebrow. “Although ten minutes earlier would have been preferable.”
Morgan strode over, relieved by his wisecracks, even though she knew his leg must be agony. “I stopped for a slivovitz on the way over. Didn’t want you to think I was worried.”
As she stood close to Jake’s shackled body, Morgan wanted to wrap her arms around him. There was so much unsaid between them and, to be honest, she had imagined his naked chest pressed against hers, but this was hardly how she’d pictured it.
She pressed the button on the hydraulic hoist and lowered him down. Jake took his weight on his uninjured leg while Morgan unhooked his hands and helped him to a chair.
She knelt down in front of him, focusing on the wound in his leg rather than his semi-naked muscular frame. The crossbow bolt was lodged deep. “You need proper medical attention. I can’t deal with this myself with whatever basic first aid supplies we can find.”
Jake nodded, his face pale with shock. “Sorry I can’t help with Palarae, but I trust you’ll find out where the relics might be. If I get some good drugs, I’ll be ready by the time you figure out where we’re going next.”
He looked down at his almost naked body and grinned up at her. “Any chance you can find me a shirt or something?”
Morgan flushed a little and stood up to look for something other than the scraps of fabric on the floor. “I saw a coat rack upstairs. Don’t go anywhere.”
She darted back up to the workroom and grabbed one of Palarae’s trench coats and the razor-tipped cane, taking them back down to Jake.
“Just don’t wave this around at the hospital or they’ll get a nasty shock.”
He hobbled up the stairs, leaning on the cane while Morgan ran up to the shop in front of him and called Martin Klein, ignoring the muffled cries of the old woman.
Morgan explained the situation and by the time Jake made it up to the entrance, the flashing blue lights of a private ambulance came from the cobbled streets beyond.
As a paramedic wheeled a gurney toward them, Jake reached for Morgan’s arm. His face was pale with pain, but his amber-flecked eyes were set with determination.
“Don’t go without me.”
She hesitated a moment and then nodded. They had managed missions while injured before. They could do it again. “I’ll find out where we’re heading. I’m sure the jeweler will be happy to tell me now.”
Jake lay back on the gurney, and within a minute, the ambulance was speeding away. Morgan was grateful for ARKANE’s contacts all over the world and she knew he was in the best hands. It left her free to deal with Palarae and after seeing what he’d done to Jake, perhaps the jeweler needed a taste of his own medicine.
She went back into the shop and past the little office. The old woman had fallen silent, her eyes wary, like an animal whose instinct drives them to stillness in the presence of a stronger predator. Morgan retraced her footsteps back to the workshop and then further down into the basement.
Henry Palarae lay unconscious on his back, his face bloody, lit by the powerful photography lights he’d set up for his macabre reenactment of Saint Sebastian’s torture. The bent and broken sketchbook lay next to him, the pages stained crimson. Fragments of Jake’s clothing littered the floor by the shackles that had restrained him, and Morgan wondered how many others had suffered in this room.
While part of her wanted to enact appropriate judgment for Palarae, Morgan knew there were crimes he needed to answer for. The police would tear this place up looking for evidence once they knew about the fake relics. She would hand this whole thing over to Director Marietti and he could facilitate the next steps, but right now, she needed to find out who had the Becket reliquary and the bones of the Magi.
She looked down at Palarae. His breath rasped through a broken and bloody nose, and bruises already formed around his eyes. The heavy sketchbook had been a remarkably effective weapon and Morgan appreciated his dedication to quality art materials.
Right now, the jeweler was of no use to her. He was out cold and would probably emerge with concussion. However, Palarae was organized and meticulous in his art, so perhaps he would be similar in his record-keeping.
Morgan returned to the workshop and searched the shelving for invoices related to the business. She pulled out boxes of paperwork going back years, rifling through them for any sign of the fake reliquaries. They were truly precious works of art in themselves, so the payments must have been substantial.
After hunting in several boxes, she found a slim folder containing sketches of the Becket reliquary and other similar projects, the pencil lines drawn with Palarae’s distinctive style. Between the pages, there was an invoice made out to Dr. Kelley Montague-Breton.
Morgan smiled as she traced the name with a fingertip. Once Martin Klein set his algorithms on her, the woman would have nowhere to hide.