Heart of Brass (15 page)

The connection was made a second or two later. Static crackled. “Jabberwocky.”

“Bandersnatch,” Arden replied. The code words changed on an irregular basis, and Mr. Carroll’s writings were excellent for them, as they weren’t really words at all.

“To which number may I connect you, madam?” The operator inquired. There were six of these women who took turns running the Warden switchboard so that there was always an operator no matter the time of day or night.

“Oh-four-two-five-eight-three-nine, please.”

“One moment.” There was silence, followed by a click and then ringing in the same long-short-long sequence in which she had turned the crank. That would alert Alastair that the incoming call was from a fellow Warden.

The rings repeated once more before he picked up. “This had better be good,” he growled, his voice thick with sleep.

She took a deep breath. “It’s Arden. Alastair, he’s come home.”

His silence lasted two thumps of her pounding heart. “I’ll be right there.”

Five…er, rather, Luke, almost fell asleep on the magnetic pallet that held him hostage. This room—this house—filled him with a sense of security he couldn’t remember ever feeling before. Despite not being able to lift his hand to scratch an itch on the side of his nose, he was content; filled with the naive hope that perhaps his life was not the raging shite storm he suspected it of being.

His wife—he was still trying to wrap his brain around that one—had left him after making her short telephone call. She promised to be back as soon as possible, saying that she was going to her workshop to get something for him.

For all he knew she could come back with a handsaw and a wheelbarrow, but he didn’t think so. Not that a handsaw would do her much good against his bones.

His gut told him to trust her, and he had learned several years ago to trust that instinct. In fact, he was fairly certain it was not trusting his instincts that had gotten him into this mess to begin with. If only he could interpret the scant, chaotic images vying for attention in his mind, then he might know how he came to be in this position, but they were only fragments—nothing that made sense.

Trying to make sense of it all made his head hurt, and he’d had enough of that for one day. He closed his eyes and listened to the slight, pleasant buzzing in the back of his mind. It lulled him like the gentle whir of an airship motor, making his eyelids heavy and his muscles as languid as a cat draped over the back of a sofa in front of a sunny window.

There was no one in his mind. No one could eavesdrop on him or shout orders. For the first time in as long as he could remember—which given the grand scheme, wasn’t impressively long—he was completely and utterly alone. The whirring was proof of that, caused by the powerful magnet pressed against his head. His eyes closed, and peaceful darkness drew him down regardless of the images swirling behind his lids.

He woke with the sensation of being watched. His eyes reluctantly opened as exhaustion tried to keep them shut.

The ginger man stood over him, watching with a curious expression. Had he not been incapacitated Luke would have leapt to his feet and ruined that pretty face. The pressure holding him to the floor wasn’t so lovely anymore, when thoughts of this man holding his wife filled his head.

“Where’s Arden?” he demanded.

The ginger arched a brow. “Her workshop. She’ll be here in a moment.”

Something in that statement ignited Luke’s ire like a letter carelessly tossed onto the hearth. This man had been his best friend once. He knew that just as he knew Arden was his wife, but that knowledge aside, he could cheerfully rip the bastard’s arms off. “Are you often in her bedroom?”

A groove deepened in Alastair’s left cheek as his lips twisted grimly. “Only when her husband, long presumed dead by everyone but her, returns home intent on causing her death.”

He didn’t share the man’s humor. “I have no intention of hurting her.”

Alastair gave a slight shake of his head. “You’ll understand if I don’t take you at your word.”

Luke would have shrugged had he been able. “Your opinion doesn’t concern me.” Actually, it did. And that pissed him off even more.

The other man crouched beside him, a dangerous glint in his gray eyes. “I could kill you right now just to keep her safe.”

A cold smile took hold of Luke’s mouth. He’d been right to be jealous of this man who would kill to protect
his
wife. “Best make it look like an accident then. Killing me won’t get you into her bed.”

His old friend paled a little before his cheeks flushed a dull red. “You’re as much a bastard now as you ever were.” Then the damnedest thing happened—Alastair grinned. “It really is you. I’ll be buggered.”

“Not by me you won’t,” Luke shot back without thinking. The wonder in the other man’s eyes told him that this was something that they used to say to each other, years before, when he knew who he was.

This man—Alastair—knew him better than he knew himself at the moment. Or rather, knew more about him. He tried to remember more, but the memories that had come back crowded his brain, crawling over one another, demanding to be recognized. It made him dizzy.

Christ, he hoped he didn’t puke. He’d choke to death, pinned to the floor like a bug. Then Alastair could eventually slip into Arden’s bed with a clean conscience.

“Are you all right?”

Through narrowed eyes, Luke stared up at the still-hovering ginger. “No.”

As his luck—which had been described as being as good or bad as the shithouse rat, depending on how one looked at it—would have it, that was the moment Arden swept into the room. She had some sort of crown in her hand.

She took one look at him and her eyes widened. “Good Lord.” Quickly, she crossed the carpet. Had she been wearing shoes he would have described her step as “stamping,” but that might have more to do with his head than her stride.

The hem of her dressing gown brushed against his cheek, and he caught the scent of her. Sweet, with a hint of bergamot, and woman. He remembered the noises she had made in the bath, and how he had wanted to climb into the tub with her and give her something to really moan about.

Thankfully he was in enough discomfort that he didn’t embarrass himself by getting hard.

There was a thunk as she shoved the lever, and then the humming in his brain stopped, and his body felt lighter—capable of movement. She had turned off the magnet, and any moment the Company would have at him again. This time they might kill him. He wasn’t afraid to die—he’d come close so many times he’d begun to think death didn’t like him much—but now that he remembered her, he found himself reluctant to give up his wife and her big, worried brown eyes.

“Alastair, help me get him up.”

They were intimate enough that she called his old friend by his Christian name. Luke couldn’t remember if it had always been that way. Had they become more than friends in his absence? He had no right to be jealous; he’d had lovers of his own. Knowing that he had broken his marriage vows made the sickening in his belly even worse. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known he had a wife.

Arden took his left arm, and Alastair the right. Together, they began to pull him upright. The exertion turned both their faces red.

“Heavy son of a bitch,” Alastair grunted. Arden did not seem the least bit shocked by his language. Luke couldn’t remember if that was new or not.

He pulled free of their hands, sending both of them skidding backward a few feet. Then, head feeling as though it was being beaten by a brick on the inside, he slowly pushed himself to his hands and knees, then his feet.

“I’ve gained a few pounds,” he explained to the three Alastairs wavering before his eyes.

The other man eyed him…warily? “So I’ve noticed.”

“Come sit down,” Arden commanded, then to Alastair, “Fetch a glass of water, please.”

She came to Luke’s side to help him as he moved toward a chair on trembling legs. Obviously she wished to help him, but if she couldn’t pull him up with help, she certainly wouldn’t be able to support him if he fell. He lowered himself slowly onto the chair—too fast and he might break the delicate-looking thing. When she shoved a clean chamber pot into his hands he was thankful. When she pressed a cool, wet face cloth to his forehead he clasped her hand in his and gently squeezed.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

He couldn’t tell if she smiled or not, because a second later he retched, stomach muscles clenching as the contents of his stomach burned his throat and hit the white porcelain bottom of the pot with a sick splash. He puked twice, holding the pot with trembling hands.

“Are you done?” she asked after a few minutes. She didn’t sound disgusted in the least.

“I think so,” he replied. He was weak to the point of helplessness. If he was attacked at that moment he doubted his own ability to defend himself, despite his superior strength. She took the chamber pot from him and set it close by.

Alastair returned with the water, which Luke drank greedily. It cleansed his mouth, soothed his throat, made him feel as though living might be a good thing. Arden removed the cloth from his forehead, and replaced it with something cold and hard. Something metal.

“It’s not much,” she explained. “A lesser version of the one that held you to the floor. It’s weak enough that it shouldn’t affect the metal in your body unless you touch it, but strong enough to interfere with the Company’s device until we can get it out of you.”

He glanced up at her—his eyeballs ached. “Can you do that?”

“Not me,” she replied with a gentle smile. “But I know of a brilliant surgeon who will know how to go about it.”

Luke frowned. A splinter of pain lodged deep in his skull—a hard pinch deep in his brain—but he ignored it. “Stone,” he said. “Dr. Stone.” Did he know this because he remembered, or because Stone’s name had been one of many he had seen listed of known W.O.R. agents and collaborators?

“Yes,” she replied with a smile so hopeful it damn near broke his heart. Looking at her was difficult. On one hand he wanted to grab her, throw her on the bed and ride her until they were both sore. He also wanted to hold her, just so he could smell her hair. And then there was part of him—a small part, but it was there—that hadn’t accepted that she wasn’t the enemy and that still wanted to choke the life out of her.

It was like being awake in a nightmare. He couldn’t tell reality from deceit, and he didn’t know whom he could trust. He couldn’t even trust himself.

“We have to take him to the Director,” Alastair said to Arden as he handed Luke a packet of powder. “For the headache.”

Luke turned to him. “How did you know?”

The other man frowned. “Please. I’ve known you since we were eight. By the way, could you show me your right shoulder?”

The powder was bitter as Luke ripped it open with his teeth, but he washed it down with the water he’d been given. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before lifting his gaze. “Why?”

Alastair’s lips thinned. “Just do it.”

“Alastair,” Arden admonished, but he ignored her, fixing Luke with a determined stare.

Sighing, Luke unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it down to reveal the tattoo he’d had since long before the Company found him. He had a few, but this was the oldest. The black ink was faded to a teal blue, but the image was clear enough: a gryphon pawing at the air with its talons, beak open in a fierce cry.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

Alastair nodded. “Yes,” he rasped. He seemed oddly relieved, happy and yet saddened by the sight. Arden looked as though she was biting her tongue to keep from crying.

It struck Luke then that this was their irrefutable proof. Were it not for the fact that his head felt like it had an axe buried in it whenever he tried to think, he would have realized sooner that they would need to see this for their own peace of mind. And he needed to see their reaction for his own. These people truly knew who he was. After seven years of wondering—of almost reconciling himself to the idea that he might never know—he knew his name.

A name that felt less real to him than the number he had been assigned.

“I’ll send for Dhanya in the morning,” Arden said, her voice hoarse.

This Dhanya had to be the “Director”—W.O.R.’s commanding officer. She must be new, because he didn’t recognize the name. It had been a man running things last he could remember. But these were modern times, and women were employed in many positions once held by men alone.

“You know it cannot be left until morning,” Alastair argued as Luke rebuttoned his shirt.

“It can and it will,” came her angry, flushed-cheek reply. Her back was as straight as a poker, and Luke couldn’t help but notice how her impeccable posture pushed her breasts up and out. Wolfred noticed as well. The only one who didn’t seem to notice was Arden. “She’ll want to test him and interview him. She’ll take him away and I—” Her voice broke, and she turned away from them both, moving to the dressing table where she braced both her hands and bowed her head. In the mirror, Luke could see her squeeze her eyes shut—fighting tears.

And still her back remained straight, her shoulders stiff.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Alastair start toward her, and he came to his feet in protest. Blood rushed to his head, making him sway, but the nausea had passed and he no longer felt as though his skull was being chipped apart by a dull chisel. His old friend steadied him with a quick hand, which Luke thanked him for but brushed aside.

As though he could read Luke’s mind, the earl backed off—not just from him, but from Arden as well.

What the hell did he do now? Comfort her? He hardly knew how. All he knew was that for the last seven years he hadn’t known he had a wife, and that for that same seven this beautiful woman had been left wondering if her husband was dead or alive. He’d been out having adventures—granted on behalf of the enemy—and fucking whomever he wanted. Doing other things he hadn’t wanted, but had been ordered to do. He’d thought they were the right things….

She had been waiting for him. And he didn’t have to be a bloody genius to see that she was afraid of losing him again.