A cobbled path stretched out behind the main house, tracing a curve around an ancient stone well. Anne Guillory led the way, Rusty and Pierre following and keeping a guarded distance from each other. Copper electric lanterns in the style of antique gas lamps stood at intervals, lighting their progress across the grounds. The grass grew thick, not looking to have been mown in some time.
At the end of the path stood a two-story, red brick building. It looked to Rusty like a barn or stable, but as they drew closer he saw a matching set of doors and windows clearly designed for human habitation.
“The carriage house,” Guillory said. “Oldest structure on the property.”
Rusty glanced back over his shoulder. His mind captured an image for future reference. He assessed the distance separating the carriage house from the main building. Roughly a hundred feet, with the stone well at a midway point.
He turned back to find Pierre glaring at him.
“I had it refurbished for guest quarters when I took ownership of the estate,” Guillory said, speaking as if Rusty was an interested buyer. “Partially refurbished, anyway. There’s still quite a bit of work to be done.”
“Let me guess. Used to be the slave quarters.”
“My family gave considerable thought to demolishing it over the years,” Guillory replied. “I gather the idea was to wipe away ugly memories. My father came quite close to tearing it down in the sixties but fortunately had a change of heart. You can’t erase the past by destroying its material vestiges.”
“So you’ve kept it standing as a place to hold someone against their will. Sounds like real progress.”
“What an asinine remark. Why don’t you come in and see just how wrong you are.”
Pulling open the unlocked door, she stepped into the carriage house. She flicked on a light switch by the door, illuminating a narrow antechamber.
Pierre waited for Rusty to follow.
“You first,” Rusty said, having no intention of turning his back on the man.
Pierre shrugged like it wasn’t worth debating and stepped into the carriage house. Rusty took a last look behind and followed. The antechamber led to a bannistered stairway. Guillory had already walked up to the second floor landing, where she turned on another overhead light.
Rusty paused before going any further. None of it made sense, but he couldn’t exactly describe this building as a prison. It did look like a tastefully appointed guest house—shiny fixtures, unblemished wallpaper, the scent of clean wood in the air. The stairs gleamed under the light of an overhead lamp wrapped in a frosted glass sconce.
“Are you coming or not?” Guillory asked. Rusty could no longer see her from where she stood on the second floor.
He ascended the stairs rapidly, pushing past Pierre. Any shred of patience he’d been maintaining was gone. He needed to see, now.
Reaching the landing, he turned left at a gesture from Guillory. At the far end stood a wooden door, secured to the adjacent wall by a bulky padlock on a brass hasp. Carved into the door at eye level was a square Judas window with bars crisscrossing over the embedded glass.
Rusty walked over and yanked open the Judas window.
He found himself peering into a simple, well-furnished room. With its antique canopy bed, three-mirrored vanity, and hooked rugs spread across the floor, it looked remarkably similar to his suite at the Cornstalk Hotel. Neat, well-maintained, and comfortable.
Rusty flinched at the sight of a body lying on the bed under a pile of plush comforters. Turned away from him, legs tucked into a fetal ball, long, black hair spread across the pillow. He thought he heard a faint sigh, like someone emerging from sleep.
Was that Marceline Lavalle?
It could be her. It had to be her.
Rusty’s hand fell to the padlock dangling from the door’s hasp.
“Locked on the outside, huh?”
He said it without turning around, feeling every muscle in his body tense. Seeing her—it has to be her!—so close and apparently in one piece, electrified him. He had to contain it, to channel it, or lose control of the situation.
“For her safety only,” Guillory calmly intoned. “We have no way of knowing when Mr. Abellard might show up and try to take her against her will.”
“If I have to listen to one more lie—”
“Pierre, open it.”
The manservant stepped past Rusty and removed a key from his pocket. He opened the padlock and lifted it from the hasp.
“Want me to warm her up for you?” he said with a leer, placing his hand on the door. It took everything Rusty had not to strike him.
“No? OK, she’s all yours.”
He stepped aside, pocketing the lock.
Rusty reached for the door. His hand froze. It was simple, too simple.
“If either one of you tries to stop us from leaving,” he said, “I’m going to cut both your throats.”
Those words rang slightly false. The Marrow Seeker was still secured in his boot. He’d have to subdue or at least stun the man next to him before gaining control of the weapon, and he felt less than total certainty of accomplishing that.
“Are we clear?”
Neither Pierre nor Guillory answered.
Rusty’s left hand reached for the door handle even as he detected movement in the peripheral vision of his right eye. Pierre was pivoting toward him, arms held low.
He felt a fist slam into his kidneys. It was a glancing blow, diminished by his split-second reaction of turning away. He registered little pain. Everything slowed in his mind. He seemed to observe rather than participate in what happened next.
Can’t reach the blade.
Next best thing…
Rusty’s right hand flew up in a knifehand strike aimed at Pierre’s throat. Direct hit. He felt the man’s Adam’s apple recede half an inch as the flat edge of his palm made contact.
A strangled gasp escaped the servant’s mouth. Rusty watched him stagger back before realizing he’d been struck a second time in the midsection. This one did more damage. It felt capable of fracturing a rib and caused him to double over.
He saw Pierre’s left hand emerging from his coat pocket. It held something silver.
Gun!
No.
A cylindrical aerosol can. Four inches long with a red nozzle at the top.
Close your eyes!
Rusty didn’t know where that intuition came from, but he followed it—an instant too late. Pierre’s thumb pressed the nozzle. A cloud of white mist sprayed forth with a discordant hiss. Rusty’s screams drowned out the noise even as the vaporous assault continued.
He fell to a crouch, both hands clasping his face. Several seconds passed before the pain fully kicked in. Both eyes filled with fire, like they’d been sprayed with battery acid. He screamed louder and his legs buckled, the thud of the stone floor against his kneecap overwhelmed by the agony filling both eye sockets.
He rubbed furiously at his face, feeling a sticky wetness coating his skin that had to be blood. The fire spread deeper into his head until he felt sure both eyeballs had been burned or gouged out. The wetness streaming down his face grew more viscous.
Blood. It’s got to be blood.
But it wasn’t blood, because he couldn’t wipe it away. His eyes were open, but sightless. He used his fingers to spread the lids as far as they would go to prove to himself they were open. Nothing, except a red curtain that darkened to black.
He was blind.
Stumbling to his feet, his upward progress was halted by Pierre’s arm wrapping him in a chokehold. Rusty kicked and swung but only made contact with air. He was suspended two inches from the ground, oxygen supply rapidly being cut off. Pierre tightened the vice until Rusty stopped fighting.
“You’re doubtless wondering what’s eating away at your ocular membranes,” he heard Guillory say from somewhere very close. “It’s called Excoecaria, a plant genus of the family Euphorbiaceae. That’s a mouthful, isn’t it? In the tropics, you’ll find it more commonly called blind-your-eye tree. I don’t need to tell you why. Consider it an honor to be the test subject for a project that never enjoyed the opportunity it deserved. If VECTOR came to full fruition, Excoecaria would have been deployed on the front lines.”
Pierre’s hands released Rusty’s neck. Before he could react, a hard shove launched him through the doorway and into the chamber. His balance gave out completely, the misery in his eyes overpowering every other sensation.
“You wanted her,” he barely heard Pierre say. “She’s yours.”
The door shut noisily, followed by the sound of the lock snapping into place on the hasp.
Rusty leaned unsteadily against the door. Giving it a hard push, he felt it open an inch only to be stopped by the padlock.
He could just barely make out the sound of descending footsteps over his own ragged breathing. The footsteps faded to silence. After a few more seconds, he heard the lower door being closed.
Then he heard her voice.