Chapter Sixteen

 

 

 

^“SHAW!” ALEC YELLED AS he jogged to his friend’s side, ignoring the slight crunching sound his knee made. “Your bite, did the hyena fish infect you?” He flipped up the edge of her skirt.

Swearing, Shaw yanked up his sleeve. A nasty bite on the side of his hand was swollen and bloody, but not blue. “What the hell?”

“Help me get her to the Fifth Ward.”

Leaning on the horn of a conscripted Armored Navy Steam Demon, Shaw careened down the city streets at breakneck speed, weaving wildly through any pedestrians or vehicles unfortunate enough to be in his path. Alec held Isa tight, clasping her limp form against him during an interminable ride through Glasgow. The Demon screeched to a halt beside a small, obscure sandstone building‌—‌a back entrance to the Glaister Institute. The guard snapped to attention, flinging the door wide. A spiral staircase led down three stories to an iron door. Shifting Isa against his shoulder, Alec pressed his finger into the identification slot, praying for the pectin coagulator to recognize his signature and respond.

The light blinked green, gears turned, and a thick iron bolt retracted.

He strode down its tunnels, shoving doors open with his shoulders as he barreled into the research ward where doctors and nurses confronted the unknown on a daily basis. “Find Dr. Grant!” Alec bellowed.

A nurse stepped into his path, blocking his access. “Sir! This is not standard procedure.”

“My name is Dr. McCullough, and this isn’t a standard ward,” Alec replied, again flipping up her skirt. The nurse gasped. “Her infection is cryptic and spreading by the minute.” He tempered his voice. “Please, find Dr. Grant.”

Eyes wide, the nurse sprang into action. “Follow me.” She held open the door to an isolation chamber. “Stay here. I’ll bring him directly.”

He carried Isa inside, laying her gently upon the bed. Her head lolled to the side, her breaths shallow, face pale. He brushed aside stands of hair to press a palm to her forehead, noting an elevated temperature. Would she chastise him for the guilt that tightened his chest? She’d insisted on being a part of his investigation, insisted she not be left out. His team always had his back, but a woman? The only woman he knew who ran toward, rather than away, from trouble was his sister, and his feelings for Isa were anything but sisterly. Would he lose her before he had the chance to know her? Worry clogged his throat.

Determined to exhaust every possibility to save her, he threw open the doors of a supply cabinet and grabbed a pair of scissors. Dragging up her skirts, he cut away the linen strips that bandaged her wounds. Red and swollen with inflammation, a blue tinge overlaid the jagged bite marks, converging into bluish tendrils to form a fine web-like mesh beneath her skin, a gossamer net that crept proximally, edging toward her thigh.

His stomach clenched. In the time spent traveling from airstrip to hospital, the blue streaks had gained an inch.

Several excruciatingly long minutes passed‌—‌spent cleaning Isa’s wounds with a more potent antiseptic‌—‌before the door opened again. A stooped man entered, peering at Alec through thick glass lenses perched upon his hooked nose. Dr. Grant might appear feeble, but his mind was razor-sharp. Years ago, his discourse on infectious water-borne organisms had made an impression upon Alec as a student‌—‌impossible to forget the gruesome images projected by the magic lantern upon the lecture hall’s screen.

Dr. Grant’s mouth opened‌—‌perhaps in greeting, perhaps in reprimand‌—‌but closed again as he caught sight of Isa’s bare leg. “Aether, what happened?”

“Approximately four hours ago, she was bitten by hyena fish. I cleaned and disinfected the wounds, suturing the deepest one. En route to Glasgow by dirigible, she vomited repeatedly before passing into unconsciousness. Though ascribed to airsickness, upon landing, I discovered this. The streaking pattern brought to mind your research into filamentous mycobacteria infections.”

“It does,” Dr. Grant said, dragging an overhead argon light directly over the wound site, bending close. “You were right to bring her to me. Fortunately for the lady, the creatures did not enter her body via the central nervous system nor do they appear interested in her blood vessels or lymphatic pathways.”

Alec nodded, forcing his mind to focus on the infection and not the patient as he fought to speak despite the lump in his throat. “They appear to be moving beneath the epidermis.” A surgeon by training, sterile procedure was second nature, but he knew little about infectious disease beyond those that were common to field work.

“Agreed. Though it’s not moving in a manner consistent with flagellated organic-walled plankton. However, the color is suggestive of blue scintillans, similar to those I’ve observed in dinoflagellates. Therefore, we’ll start with an application of Cyprus Metal Acetate. It’s quickly applied and might purchase us some time.” Dr. Grant passed Alec two gas masks. “One for you, one for her.”

“How can I help?” Alec asked, his voice reverberating inside the mask.

Dr. Grant selected a paper packet from the drawer. He tore the paper and dumped the contents into a shallow bowl, added three centiliters of solvent and stirred. He handed Alec the resultant paste and a flat wooden stick. “Apply this to the wound and affected skin one inch past the margin of streaks.” His voice was muffled from the heavy rubber mask. “The mixture should slow lamellipodial protrusion. Do not touch her skin with your bare hands again. I’ll prepare a skin biopsy for the aetheroscope.”

Neither the sharp bite of a scalpel nor the cold wet paste caused Isa to stir. And when Dr. Grant beckoned him to the aetheroscope, his heart plunged into his stomach.

“I’ve never seen the like,” Dr. Grant said, shoving his stool back so that Alec might peer through the eyepiece. “It appears to be a kind of chimera, sharing features of both marine ameboid trophozoites and fluorescent organic-walled plankton.”

The aetheric gas permeating the chamber ought to have killed the tiny creeping amoebae, but somehow those in the sample survived, meandering across the microscope slide, glowing a faint bioluminescent blue.

Swearing, Alec dragged a hand through his hair. Those bloody hyena fish. Another hybrid organism. Everywhere he turned, chimeras. Somewhere a most bizarre marine laboratory existed and within it was an extremely prolific mad scientist. He intended to locate both and put an end to these malicious creations.

The moment Isa was cured. He glanced at her face and ran a jerky hand through his hair.

The doctor scratched his head. “What confuses me is that the amoebas infected her at all. Both such species are free-living. Neither of them infectious, not to humans.”

Finn. Not selkie, she’d said. Was it possible? Was Isa not completely human? And what could that possibly mean? Not that he’d be getting answers to any such questions if she died. “Would salt of propamidine with isethionic acid kill them?” he asked.

“Perhaps.” Dr. Grant tapped his chin. “Is there any chance of locating ipecacuanha? It’s a drug made from the dried root of Cephaelis ipecacuanha, originating from the tropical forests of Brazil. A pharmacobotonist by the name of Tredegar published something about using the alkaloid to cure amoebic dysentery.”

“If it’s in this building, I’ll find it.” Even if it meant digging into the forgotten corners of every single storage closet, cabinet and cupboard. He stood, and his knee popped. Audibly. Dr. Grant’s eyebrows lifted. But Alec waved it away. “It’s nothing.” But it wasn’t. Something inside the joint had again been knocked ajar. If Dr. Morgan learned he had fast-roped from a dirigible into the ocean, he would probably wish to see him spitted and roasted over hot coals. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

Teeth clenched against the pain, Alec burst from the Fifth Ward into the tunnel and came to an abrupt halt. Arms crossed and a foul look upon his face, Logan leaned against the door that led to the research wing, blocking his exit.

“What the hell have you done?” Logan growled. “Going over my head. Involving the BURR team. Not to mention the bevy of birds hovering above my various lodgings. The arrival of one particular skeet pigeon nearly compromised a mission in progress.”

When did his brother not have a mission in progress? Alec rolled his eyes. “A new lead arose, I followed it.”

Logan slapped a handful of punch cards against Alec’s stomach. “Here. All labeled by Lady Rathsburn to the best of her ability.”

“Finally.” He pocketed them. “I need you to locate and secure the anatomical evidence we retrieved from the mission. See it carefully stored on ice until I can examine it.” He paused. “And find out everything you can about Commodore Drummond.” Potential friend or foe?

The answers might provide enough information to formulate a strategy for approaching Isa’s uncle. She might dislike him, but perhaps they could meet, face to face, and set aside their differences so that they might work together rather than at cross purposes. Given Commodore Drummond’s actions and because he far outranked him, Alec would proceed with caution, making it clear he respected the man’s wish to conceal his relationship to the Finn community.

“I’ll make it my very next order of business,” Logan said. “But no more working outside the boundaries I have set. Do you have any idea of the political ramifications your actions have caused?”

“No. And at the moment, I don’t particularly care. Now step aside. I’ve not the time for a political debate.”

He shoved past his brother. Newly published, ipecacuanha was an obscure drug that might not yet have attracted the attention of an Institute scientist. With luck, it would still be in specimen storage facilities.

Logan followed, spouting nonsense about security preparations for the upcoming Icelandic-Danish wedding and how Alec had forced him to excuse himself from planning procedures. When he began to spout the names of politicians, Alec let his brother’s voice fade into the background like the buzz of an annoying insect one could never quite manage to swat. Logan loved his snarled web of intrigue.

Limping, he threw open a door and turned a corner. Holding tight to a railing, he made his way down three flights of stairs into the bowels of the Institute. Right, then left, then down a hall.

“You need to have that knee looked at,” Logan snapped. “You’re a fool to push yourself so hard after such an injury. None of us will ever measure up to Quinn, and Father isn’t even around to take note if we did. It’s long past time you stopped trying to prove you’re as skillful and as brilliant as he.”

“I’m aware, and I’m not trying to prove anything.” Alec had dropped that burden from his shoulders long ago. He stopped before a plain door‌—‌marked with only the number 549 painted upon it‌—‌and dialed in the entrance code. The lock clicked open, and he pushed, stepping inside a vast, dark chamber.

Upon the wall to the right was a switch. He flipped it, releasing the catch on a tightly wound spring and setting the lighting mechanism into motion. Overhead, long glass tubes began to rock gently, slowly stirring the bioluminescent bacteria within to life and casting a faint blue-white light throughout the chamber.

Rows and rows and rows of metal shelving filled the space, all of them stacked with a variety of items. At the front of the room were boxes and bottles and paper packets‌—‌supplies of commonly used drugs and reagents‌—‌and commonly used medical supplies. Further back, outdated equipment. And in the dark shadows, obscure specimens of all kinds lurked in bottles, bags and boxes, each sent to the Institute in hopes of precipitating medical breakthrough. Some sat forgotten. Others awaited discovery. Or funding.

“Why are we in here?” Logan demanded. “Does this have something to do with the civilian woman you returned with from your unauthorized mission?”

“I had the Duke of Avesbury’s approval.” Pulling a decilamp from his pocket, Alec began by raiding the drug supplies, pocketing a vial of isethionic acid and one of propamidine.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother vibrate with anger as he followed. “You gave the duke the impression that I approved. Do you have any idea how many Naval officers would like to see me keelhauled? Don’t you ever dare go over my head again.”

“Don’t ignore me and I won’t need to.” Stalking deeper into the room, he scanned hastily scrawled labels tied to paper-wrapped packages. There. Cephaelis ipecacuanha, contributed by one Mr. Evan Tredegar. He pulled the parcel from the shelf and tugged loose the twine that bound it. One dry and shriveled root. It needed to be processed, but finding it gave him hope. He closed his eyes a moment in gratitude, hoping the strange plant would enact a miracle.

Time to return to Isa. With luck the disinfectant and antimicrobial paste had slowed the advance of amoebae. Tucking the packet in his pocket, he pivoted.

And nearly toppled to the floor. A grunt of plain slid past his lips, but he managed to bite down on the foul words that threatened.

“Alec,” his brother muttered in a dire tone.

“Later.” He made his way back to the stairs and hauled himself up, one painful step at a time, returning to the Fifth Ward. “I’ve a critical medical emergency on my hands involving an unheard of, lab-created, parasitic amoeba. The woman infected is rather important to me.” That gave him pause, but now was not the time to examine his growing affection. “To our case.”

“She must be, to risk your knee in such a manner.” Logan tipped his head, a light sparking in his eyes. “Important to you how, exactly?”

He slid his eyes sideways as he pushed open the door. “Not your concern.”

“He’s back!” a nurse called.

The entire room froze as Dr. Grant rushed forward, eyes wild, gas mask shoved onto the top of his head, hair sticking out in all directions. “They took her.”

“What!” He’d been gone all of fifteen minutes. “Who took her and where? She needs to be kept in strict isolation. She needs treatment.”

“I’m so sorry,” a nurse said, placing a hand on his arm. “We couldn’t stop them.”

“Masked men in canvas overalls stormed the room and refused to identify themselves.” Dr. Grant swallowed hard. “One pointed a weapon at me while the others rolled your woman onto a canvas stretcher. The handles were wooden.”

Canvas and wood, easily burned. The perfect way to contain infectious disease, once a patient had‌—‌

“Alive?” His heart thrashed wildly inside his rib cage.

Dr. Grant nodded, but his eyes predicted a grim future, for no place was better equipped to handle such a patient than the Fifth Ward.

Alec pinned his brother with a stare. “We need to find her. Now.”