Chapter Eighteen

 

 

 

A MARK OF TRUE desperation it was, entering his family’s home through the front door in the full light of day, an open invitation for his mother to drag him into the midst of eligible young women. But she‌—‌and her friends‌—‌were the fastest way to learn about Lord Roideach’s Scottish property holdings, in particular, the location of one possessing a castle in disrepair.

“Sir!” Munro blinked.

The steam butler rocked backward on his wheels and nearly toppled over when Alec strode past him to peer into the parlor. Into an empty parlor.

“Is this not Mother’s day at home?” Irritation crept into his voice. Of all the days for her to break protocol. “Where is she?”

“She’s in bed with a malevolent megrim,” Cait’s disembodied voice called from the speaking tube. “Social disaster has struck.”

Any other day and Alec would have been amused, but with Isa missing, he wasn’t in the mood for showmanship or games. Despite her earlier request, a headache meant Mother would refuse to speak with him, that left his sister. He crossed to the speaking tube. “What do you know about Lord Roideach?”

“So, so much,” Cait answered, her voice crackling. “Descend and I will impart all the gossip.”

Resigned, he yanked open the door and descended a flight of stairs, ducking beneath a curtain of dusty cotton thread spun to resemble a spider’s web. The deterrent contained no less than nine hairy spiders constructed from lint and wire. Not a real threat, perhaps, but enough to have kept their parents and the servants from ever entering the basement laboratory.

Cait held up a finger as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He waited silently while a rotor slowed, as his sister pulled the test tubes free, nestling them each into a bucket of ice shavings with extreme care.

He squinted at her scrawled notes, then took a quick step back. “Tell me you are not culturing Corynebacterium diphtheriae.”

“How else is one supposed to collect the toxin of a nasty pathogenic bacteria for study?” Cait asked, her voice pure innocence.

Swearing loudly, he jammed his fingers into his hair. One kidnapped woman was enough to worry about. He didn’t need his sister challenging her immune system with a potentially lethal exotoxin. Not that he could stop her. She’d just find something else to experiment with.

His sister turned toward him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. He narrowed his. “You mentioned social disaster.”

“Of the best kind.” A sudden grin split her face. “I finally did it, Alec. I discovered the best way to stop a man from weighing down our parlor cushions in pursuit of my hand. All it took to chase away Mr. Morrison was one, simple phrase whispered in his ear!”

“What was that?” He braced himself for the answer.

“I’m not my father’s daughter.”

He groaned.

“Oh, but it worked like a charm. Most gentlemen don’t need such a blatant push toward the truth.” Cait waved a dramatic hand beside her face. Her eye color and complexion were far darker than his pale, blue-eyed parents could ever have produced. “Who could have known he was such a shameless gossip? And now Mother has taken to her bed, freeing my time even further.”

His father’s absence had cleared the way for Mother, frustrated by her inability to marry off her sons, to hunt for a husband for Cait among the upper crust of Glasgow society. Most men, able to read her family tree‌—‌or lack thereof‌—‌upon her face, politely refused to engage. If Cait wanted to chase away a man, well, it was her life, her decision. He rubbed the back of his neck. But to grab the truth by the scruff of its neck and drag it from the back of the closet into the light? Well, there would be a backlash that might negatively affect her future.

“We’ll have to table this topic for later, Cait. I’m here for information about a pressing and serious matter.”

“What’s wrong?” She rolled the papers from her workbench and held them tightly against her chest.

“It’s nothing to do with you.” He narrowed his eyes. “But don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to down here. Promise you won’t do anything stupid.”

“I promise.”

She blinked a few too many times, but short of setting a guard on her, there was little to do. “Lord Roideach. He’s been rebuilding some ancestral castle. Do you know where?”

“Of course,” she said. “Allanach Castle on Asgog Loch. Such fussing over castles lately. Did you hear about the one they’ve built out of iron and steel for the future Queen of Iceland?”

Alec stared at her. “Even you’ve been sucked into this wedding nonsense?”

“It’s all society talks about,” Cait huffed and bugged out her eyes at him. “No one seems interested in discussing the latest monograph on poison dart frogs and the lipophilic alkaloid toxins they secrete. Imagine that.”

“Probably not the best topic to introduce over tea,” he admitted with a grin. “Thank you.” Then, with a wary glance at her ice bucket, he gave his sister a quick hug. “Be safe.” He started for the stairs, but Cait’s next words brought him to a sudden halt.

“Don’t you want to hear the rumors?” Her voice teased.

“Rumors?” He turned. “About the royal wedding?”

“No, idiot, about Lord Roideach and his medieval castle.”

Alec crooked his fingers. “Spill, Cait. I’ve not time for games.” Isa’s life might hang in the balance.

“Fine. Six, maybe seven years ago‌—‌or so the story begins, Lord Roideach was collecting mussels on the shore when he came upon a gray-eyed lass taking a dip in the sea. Besotted, he pursued and married her. She made quite the splash in society. Bore him a son. Then simply…‌ disappeared.” His sister’s matter-of-fact voice took on a lilt as the story turned into a fairytale. “Some say she’s a selkie, that Lord Roideach stole her seal pelt, trapping her in human form and forcing her to wed him.”

“Nonsense,” Alec said. “Shapeshifting is a physical impossibility.” But he couldn’t entirely discredit the myth, not after Isa had all but claimed to be one. Every time he uncovered new information, it tied back to her and her so-called people. Finn, she’d called them, and they clearly possessed physiological characteristics not found among the general Scottish population.

Cait shrugged. “Agreed, but it makes a good story. Do you want to hear the rest?”

“There’s more?”

“No one has seen his wife in years, though he is sometimes seen with the child. He refuses to speak of her and there’s speculation that childbirth unhinged her mind. Shortly after her disappearance, Lord Roideach set about restoring Allanach Castle. Some say she’s there now, locked away in a tower, but calmed by the view of open water and the Scottish Highlands.”

Alec rolled his eyes. “Perhaps he returned her pelt.”

“What?” Cait widened her eyes in mock horror. “Allow his love to change forms and disappear back into the ocean? Never.” She sobered. “Any man who would steal such a thing to force a woman into his bed would be disinclined to return it.”

“That’s not love.” Alec might not know exactly what love was, but it didn’t involve force or captivity. But he wasn’t here for a philosophical discussion or to debate the existence of mythological creatures. “No one has visited this castle?”

“Only those involved in its restoration. Lord Roideach claims it too dangerous for tours. But yet another rumor, no doubt perpetuated by said workmen, claims it’s haunted, that screams echo from the dungeons.”

“Haunted.” Alec doubted that anything supernatural loitered in its halls, but expected to find at least one tortured soul within its walls.

“The moment it’s finished, Lord Roideach will have all kinds of visitors keen to wander about in the dark pushing at locked doors and listening for nighttime disturbances.”

“He’ll have one tonight.” No mistaking the growl in his voice

“You,” Cait surmised. “Who has he kidnapped? Another selkie?”

Alec swore.

“Really? A selkie?”

“There’s no such thing,” he insisted. “Now, not a word about my mission.” He pointed at her ice bucket. “Or I’m sending in a biohazard team.”

“Oh please. I’ve held my tongue for years. If you’re not ‘eliminating a threat’, you’re rescuing some poor hapless individual.” Cait tipped her head. “But there’s something different about this rescue.” She slapped him on his shoulder with the rolled-up papers, laughing. “There’s a woman involved. And you care. Have you gone and fallen in love?”

Why did everyone keep accusing him of that? “Me? Of course not.”

~~~

Rough fingers pried open Isa’s eyes. A bright light blinded her, and she tried to turn away‌—‌a futile attempt as a leather strap bound her head to a hard metal surface. She clenched every muscle‌—‌arms, legs, back‌—‌but moved not an inch. Straps bound her tightly in place upon a metal gurney. But for the rough wool blanket that covered her, she was naked.

“The corneal epithelium is highly keratinized.”

The features of the man bent over her were indistinct, obscured not by the decilamp he held, but by the bright argon lamps above them. There was a soft scratching sound. Miss Russel taking dictation?

“The sclera is thick,” he continued. “Excellent for withstanding the pressures of diving. But there is only a hint of a nictitating membrane.”

“She’s awake,” the boy announced in a small voice. “Is she cured?”

“Yes. Now hush, Thomas,” Miss Russel said. The sound of her pencil moving never stopped.

The light blinked off, and Isa caught an unfocused glimpse of a pale, emotionless face before the smoky and distorting goggle lenses were pulled over her eyes again.

“Water, please,” she whispered. Her lips were dry and cracked, and a chin strap left her barely able to form the words. Though her stomach growled, she didn’t dare ask for anything more. How long had she been in captivity? What had happened to Alec? Had he come to harm? Or was he even now wondering what had become of her?

“I think she’s hungry too,” Thomas spoke up once more. “Isn’t possible to feed a person by sticking a tube in their arm.”

“All that is necessary to sustain the creature has been done,” Miss Russel hissed.

“She’s a woman,” the boy objected. “And pretty. Why are you being so mean?”

“Thomas,” the man’s voice was stern. “I’ve explained the need to collect information. Do you recall what is at stake?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, contrite.

“Now not another word, or there will be no sweets after supper.” The man cleared his throat. “To resume. Dry body temperature elevated one degree above that of human core temperature.” Cold metal probes touched against the sides of her nose. “Initiating nostril exam.”

A bolt of electricity ran through and across Isa’s nose, spreading outward. Her back arched, and she squealed in agony as the voltage contracted a number of facial muscles to their limits.

“Subject possesses musculature to close the nostrils, most likely the nasalis muscle,” he noted while Isa panted in pain, unable to wipe the tears that ran downward from the corner of her eyes. “Closure is sufficient to prevent water entry during submersion.”

“That hurt her!” the boy objected.

“Thomas!”

“Recorded,” said Miss Russel. “Lung capacity is next on the list.”

“Now, Mrs. McQuiston,” the man said. “We need to record the full amount of air you are able to inhale and exhale in preparation for a dive. It’s a simple matter of breathing‌—‌as deeply and as strongly as possible‌—‌though a spirometer. I am going to remove the chin strap. Cooperate and Miss Russel will provide you with oral nourishment.”

The buckle fell free, but before Isa could ask any questions or make any demands, rubber tubing was forced between her teeth. Two fingers pinched her nose closed.

“Exhale first. Then seal your lips and inhale as deeply as possible,” the man commanded.

With no real choice but to breathe through the tube, she did her best to reduce the volume of air moving into and out of her lungs. Isa refused to allow them to collect accurate data on the lung capacity of a Finn. They knew too much already.

“Mmm,” he said. “Rather low. Perhaps because she’s still recovering from the amoeba infection.”

A bell clanged in a distant corner of the room. The man and Miss Russel exchanged silent glances, then set down their instruments and hurried off to investigate.

A small hand shoved wet strands of hair away from her face. “Sorry,” the boy said, leaning close. “I can try to slip you one of my biscuits later.” He paused. “Unless it’s true what he says, that you would prefer raw fish?”

“No fish,” Isa rasped. Sensing a potential ally, she added, “But tea would be lovely.”

“I knew it!” the boy exclaimed. “You are human.”

Miss Russel stomped back, yanking Thomas by the arm. “Do not speak to the creature, Thomas.”

“But she wants tea!” he whined.

“Go. Now. You have a math assignment to complete.”

“But‌—‌”

“Now, Thomas!”

Isa’s small friend ran away.

“There will be no forthcoming tea,” Miss Russel snapped, pushing a rubber tube between Isa’s lips. “Drink.”

Isa sucked. And nearly gagged as the nasty taste of fermented cod liver oil met her tongue. This was what the woman imagined the Finn people consumed in lieu of tea? But fat was a substance unavailable to her via an intravenous line. She drank every last drop. The moment she was done, the woman yanked the chin strap back into place, snapping Isa’s teeth together, buckling it more tightly than before.

“Well, well, well,” the man said. His footsteps came to a stop beside her. “Now that I have managed to secure an Ichor machine and a proper program card, I can definitively say that this woman’s husband was brilliant. If only he’d shared his work earlier, there would have been no reason to see his work so abruptly terminated.”

Isa inhaled sharply, the leather straps digging into the skin of her chest. Had this man seen Anton killed? She squinted, trying to make out his features through the lenses. Miss Russel had called him “my lord” and he knew‌—‌had known‌—‌her husband. Could it be Lord Roideach? Not that she would know; she’d never been introduced.

“The Ichor machine has provided us with fascinating data.” Paper rustled in his hands. “As suspected, in hypoxic conditions, she strongly expresses factor Q. The protein allows her blood to bind oxygen at twice that of human blood and explains why a Finn can stay submerged for up to twenty minutes at a time. That makes her a most excellent candidate for our project.”

Factor Q. Project. This had to be Lord Roideach. Fear clawed at her skin like sea lice. Not only did it sound as if he’d played a role in Anton’s death, but he didn’t consider her‌—‌a Finn‌—‌to be human. A state of mind that would make it all that much easier for him to conduct experiments upon her and her people.

“Do you think the data will convince the committee to continue their funding?” Miss Russel asked.

“CEAP is to receive only the basic physiological data. As our private sponsor procured the Ichor machine, the Q status of our test subjects is to be considered among the proprietary information. Never forget he holds the trump card, Miss Russel.”

“Of course not, my lord.” Was she mistaken, or did Isa detect a hint of acid in the assistant’s voice? “Are there any further tests you wish to run before we return her to the tank?”

“I need fine needle biopsies of her liver and spleen to examine potential location of blood reservoirs.” Steel instruments rattled upon a metal tray as he searched for the right tool. “Perhaps a lung biopsy as well.”

What? “No! Please!” But only a strangled, feral cry emerged from Isa’s throat. One to which they paid no heed.