Chapter Twenty-Five

 

 

 

Doc was so hasty in locking the door behind him that he didn’t seem to notice Asher until they stood face-to-face. “Oh my goodness!” One hand clamped to his rib cage, he reached the other up to stop his spectacles from sliding down his nose.

“Sorry,” said Asher insincerely. “Didn’t see you there.”

The stairwell was a wide, swooping spiral connecting all three stories of Ambrose’s home. From the landing, the view down the eastern corridor was unimpeded. Asher couldn’t have missed the doctor’s furtive exit if he’d tried.

“It’s quite—I was just, ah…” Flustered, Doc glanced over his shoulder at the closed wooden door, as if to remind himself which room he’d stepped out of.

“How is Miss Angelita?”

Since dinner had been such a success the last time, Asher’s name must have been scratched off the guest list. He hadn’t seen Ambrose or Ambrose’s plaything in a handful of days. Admittedly, he hadn’t had much time to deplore the snubbing since Willowbranch. The handling of the cattle still called for more men than Sargasso had to offer.

“Better,” Doc replied, with a smile that didn’t reach the deep-set eyes behind his thin spectacles. “The fresh sea air would help speed along the recovery, but I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He cleared his throat. “I was actually on my way to, um…”

Arms folded across his chest, Asher planted himself in the way. “Ambrose won’t allow her the treatment she needs?”

“Indeed.”

It wasn’t an answer. “Shame. She seems nice.” She probably was, the same way ornamental flowers were nice until they wilted in the vase. “Well, if there’s anything I can do…” Asher gestured his willingness to help. He lacked any sort of medical competence and Dr. Matheson didn’t seem like the type to welcome a second opinion if he was.

“Thank you. I’m sure we can manage, but thank you.” Doc shammed a cough. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Oh, of course.” Asher turned to let him pass.

Like the rest of Ambrose’s manor, the corridor was large enough for two men to walk abreast without rubbing shoulders. If Asher’s elbow happened to brush the doctor’s flank, it was no accident. They traded apologies for it, but Doc seemed to be in too much of a hurry to give the hindrance any thought.

His tread faded hastily down the stairs and out the front door. Presumably he was bound for the general store to retrieve his orders of expensive medication, not easily procured so deep in the valley. Asher had seen him slithering about town on such errands before. He’d wondered what they might be about, but asking the doctor was out of the question. Halloran had plainly said he didn’t know.

The house was quiet around Asher. Ambrose had left early to see the ruin of New Morning Farm for himself. Malachi was off doing whatever it was Malachi did with his time—spinning webs for the rest of them, most probably.

There was no obstacle between Asher and the bedroom door. He slid Dr. Matheson’s key from the palm of his hand and into the lock, mindful of making too much noise. If it should come out that he was trespassing, he could always claim Doc had neglected to close the door behind him. For whatever reason, Ambrose had spared Asher thus far. He wouldn’t break with tradition now.

Sure about that? crowed a voice at the back of his mind.

Asher smothered it. Ambrose wouldn’t dare.

He might, Asher decided once his eyes fell on a very nude, very much not ailing Angelita on the other side of that locked door.

“Did you forget something, Doc?” She swiveled her gaze around just as Asher made to avert his.

Bewilderment made him slow. An unnatural force seizing his mind did the rest.

“You!” Angelita took a step back. “What are you doing in here? Who let you…?” Her gaze trailed down the frozen tendons in his arm to the key.

“I thought…” Asher started, but the pressure in his skull snagged him by the throat, arresting his breath.

He had felt that snare close around him once before. He had seen it in action, wielded against Malachi at Ambrose’s table.

But Ambrose wasn’t here.

Angelita yanked her peignoir off the bed and hastily threw it on. The silk shimmered as it caught the light streaming through the window. So did the vials arrayed on the dresser, too crimson to contain anything as harmless as perfume.

“You’re not supposed to be here. No one is supposed to be here!” Angelita’s voice shook as she pulled the sides of the peignoir tighter together. The invisible hand squeezing Asher’s throat clenched just as solidly.

He scrambled for purchase, yet his fingers encountered nothing but air. He dug his nails in only to feel his own skin give way to the useless scratching. His racing pulse no longer marked the passage of time. With every throbbing beat, Asher lost a little more strength, a little more of his grip on reality.

Angelita became a foggy mirage. Blood rushed against Asher’s eardrums. Blood filled his throat.

As suddenly as it had begun, the ghostly claw released him.

Gravity tugged him down in a useless heap. He slammed his palms against the floor, barely succeeding in keeping his head from striking the wooden boards.

Angelita’s room echoed with his wet, pitiful coughing. It was only right, given that its owner was responsible.

“How…how did you…” Asher’s vocal cords would not cooperate. His throat smarted, bruised from the inside.

And yet Angelita was watching him with wide doe eyes, visibly anxious. She shrunk back toward the corner between the bed and the window when he pushed himself to his knees. She seemed confused as to who was the real predator here.

“How about,” Asher wheezed, “some water?” His voice was husky with effort.

Angelita didn’t move.

“Water, please.” Asher jerked his head toward the pitcher on the dresser for good measure. He could probably get to it himself once he managed to stand up. That was going to take a while.

To his great chagrin, Angelita seemed willing to wait him out. If she’d been a cat, she would have arched her back and hissed at him by now—a lesser threat than the one she presented standing there petrified.

Asher settled his back against the bed. At this rate, he was going to have to crawl out and try to get as far from Sargasso as he could before Ambrose or his progenies found out what he’d done. Looking in on the mayor’s pet with less-than-honorable intentions was one thing. Scaring her, quite another.

And there was still the small matter of the red-black vials laid out on the dresser.

“That’s…that’s some trick,” he breathed, wrestling with another bout of coughing. “Halloran thinks you’re all human, you know that? Reckon he ain’t the only one.”

All those painted guests at Ambrose’s shindig had viewed him with such admiration. Angelita, they had ignored or complimented as they might do a handsome piece of furniture.

Her silence seemed as solid as stone.

“You’ve got everyone fooled, huh? Ambrose too?” Asher thumped his head against the footboard. With his eyes shut, he could concentrate on sucking air into his starved lungs and letting it out again with slow, deep puffs. His heart should stop pounding at his ribs soon. “No, I bet—I bet he knows… He got you the help you need so he can go on…using and abusing that talent you got for pain. Sure was nice of him.”

“You want to murder him.”

When Angelita finally spoke, her voice came from a few feet nearer than Asher anticipated. He peered up to find the copper pitcher held out in a trembling hand.

He took it with silent thanks. “Wanted. Gave it my best effort… But bygones are bygones, right?” The lie rolled easily off the tongue, as much survival tactic as reminder of what he’d dared in the past. What he could do in the future, if he was brave enough.

Water sloshed down the sides of the pitcher and ran down his chin to soak into his shirt. Asher wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.

“Don’t worry,” he told Angelita. “I’m perfectly harmless now.”

Her eyes narrowed. For the briefest of instants, Asher could have sworn that creeping shadow was in his head again, stealing his breath just to prove that it could. He tripped over his breaths and it pulled away again, just as Angelita retreated to the window.

“You’re not, though, are you? Harmless, that is.” He didn’t need her confirmation to know he was right. “What’s your story? Defective bloodsucker? Another of my uncle’s creations? Doc seems like a fan—although if he’s hoping to fix you up with a pair of metal plates, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

At least that earned him Angelita’s attention, however briefly, her gaze dipping to the metal scales peeking out of his damp collar, the articulated joints and plates on his hands. But still, there was no answer.

“Couldn’t help notice…there’s no key on your side of the door.” No key, no lock. No way for Angelita to bar the way. “Why is that? You’re far from helpless.”

“Sometimes.”

Eureka. “I remember you were pretty darn worn when I last saw you. Doc must be working some miracles in here.”

Angelita peeled back the lace curtain from the window and peered out over the dusty street. She seemed almost normal like that, a portrait of a girl waiting for her sweetheart to come home—one that no paper would print it with her en deshabillé.

“Do you love him?” Asher blurted.

“Dr. Matheson?” For the first time, a show of emotion flashed through Angelita’s expression.

“Ambrose.”

At that, she gave a minute toss of the head, tendons tensing beneath the fragile skin of her neck. “Do you?”

“Said I got over wantin’ to kill the guy. Didn’t say I had a complete change of heart.”

“I meant the other one.” Angelita bit her lip. Her frown seemed genuine enough. “His name… I forget these things.”

“Halloran?” Asher suppressed a quiver in the pit of his stomach. “Of course not.”

“But you’re his.”

His to use when Halloran wanted. His to lock away to his heart’s content. Asher drummed his fingernails against the pitcher. “And you belong to Ambrose.”

Angelita nodded. “Exactly.” Her gaze flew to the window, as if hooked on a line. “You have to go now.”

“Why?” Asher staggered to his feet. If his short stint in Redemption had taught him anything it was that whispers like that demanded to be followed.

“They’re back from the farm.” Angelita glanced back, something stony and dangerous in her inky eyes. “Leave the key.”