Rise of the Arcane Fire (The Secret Order) (29 page)

He grabbed my wrist and squeezed painfully tight. “Your apologies aren’t good enough.”

He pulled me closer, looming over me with his broad frame.

“Let her go,” Manoj said directly behind me.

Samuel looked up and sneered. “And what if I don’t? Miss Whitlock knocked me over and she owes me, Punjab.”

Manoj pulled a curved blade from his belt. “My name is Manoj, and I said let her go.”

Michael came up next to him, followed by Noah. “If you want an apology, I’ve got one for you,” Michael said, casually rubbing his fist. “I’d be glad to knock you down first.”

“You’re outnumbered. Drop her,” Peter said from close behind us. As Samuel turned around, he loosened his grip enough for me to twist my arm up and break his hold.

I stumbled back toward the boys, and Noah caught me and drew me behind Manoj and Michael. Samuel turned around slowly and leered at Peter as he straightened his coat. Peter crossed his arms and glared back, his head held high.

Even though my heart was nearly beating through my chest, I felt such pride in my friends.

Samuel stomped off, muttering under his breath.

“Thank you,” I said to the others, my voice breathy. “Thank you for everything.”

Peter gave me a knowing grin. “Go find him.”

I ran.

My feet flew, and I thanked the Lord I had shortened my hems for practicality and to remove the worst of the wine stains, and had been making do with a very thin petticoat the last few weeks because of the heat. I didn’t have to worry about tripping as the heels of my boots struck the stone over and over, echoing off the tight corridors.

As I entered the catacombs, I saw that the main corridor had been blocked by a group of Amusementists trying to maneuver a cart with a large engine up the ramps. When I tried to push past them, I overheard one say, “I’m glad this is the last of it.”

My hope plummeted. The ship would be leaving any moment.

About halfway to the underground dock, I had to catch my breath. I may have loosened my corset for comfort, but it still never allowed me to take too deep a breath. I leaned against the cold and slightly damp stone. The shouts of the men on the boat drifted through the thick air along with a blast from the whistle. The ship hadn’t left yet. I was almost there.

“Wait,” I gasped. “Wait.”

Finding my strength, I ran the down the final corridor. One more turn, and I’d be at the docks. Slowing down, I stayed focused on that last turn and the torch burning there as if encouraging me to chase toward its light. The open archways to the storage rooms on either side of me passed in dark shadow.

I was going to make it.

Something slammed into me from behind. An arm wrapped tight around my torso, and before I could scream, a sickly-sweet-smelling cloth pressed over my nose and mouth. It burned my lips and cheeks as I thrashed against my attacker. I couldn’t shake free. I couldn’t breathe.

“I have you now, my dear,” the man whispered into my ear. I fought and fought but the glowing torch at the end of the corridor began to loop around in large circles and turned fuzzy. The bell of the steamship clanged, the sound slow and watery as it pushed through the spinning haze. I could hear a soft ticking behind me from the gears embedded in the man’s face. “Let’s go on a little holiday, shall we?”

His words sounded stretched, like they had been shouted through a long, dark tunnel. I closed my eyes as all my strength left me, and I remembered no more.

When I woke up, at first all I knew was that my body ached all over. I tried to open my eyes. Nothing. Darkness surrounded me. I tried to open them again. Panicked, I attempted to sit up, but I found myself on my back, my knees curled toward my chest, and my neck propped forward. I smacked my hands out, and they hit walls. I was closed in.

Terrified, I couldn’t scream. I imagined myself in my own coffin, trapped and helpless as men in long black coats lowered me into my grave. In my mind I could hear the thumps of shovelfuls of dirt hitting my casket, burying me, with no escape from death. Everyone already believed I was gone.

A high wail broke out, and only then did I realize I was the one screaming, and the thumps were the sounds of my arms hitting the wood surrounding me. This was no dream. I was caught, and if I couldn’t control my panic, I would die.

I tried to kick at the lid, but it wouldn’t give, and I didn’t have enough leverage. I only had enough room to move my arms.

My breath came in quick gasps. The air around me was choking. I was feeling ill and too hot. I had to escape. My eyes focused on a keyhole just to my right. I curled more tightly into a ball to try to peer out of it, but it was no use.

Pressing my hands into the sides of the rough wood surrounding me, I took as slow a breath as I could. I had to get out, and I had to think. I wasn’t in a coffin. Coffins didn’t have keyholes. It had to be a trunk, a large one.

I was being smuggled.

I wasn’t dead yet, and so long as I wasn’t, I had to fight. I needed to pick the lock. Wriggling my hand into my pocket, I prayed something in there would actually be of use. I pulled out a marble, then fumbled with a tin soldier tangled in a bit of twine with the damn spoon. Then I felt the goggles.

Thank you.

I pulled them out and did my best to strap them onto my head, but my neck was burning with pain, and I still couldn’t breathe. As I turned the switches, the goggles began to glow, illuminating the interior of the chest.

The planks surrounding me hadn’t been shaped or planed well, so there were small cracks and gaps between some of the boards. Swirling knots plagued the wood, and the chest smelled like salt water and mildew. The casing around the keyhole seemed sturdy enough, even though rust had taken hold along the edges. Hopefully, the rust had weakened it. I tried to fit my finger into the keyhole but couldn’t. I needed something to prod around inside it. Digging deeper into my pocket, I felt a smooth wooden handle.

The awl.

It had poked a hole in the bottom of the pocket and nearly fallen through. I struggled to pull it out, but it was caught up in the folds of fabric, and I couldn’t push my elbow down far enough to remove it. Finally I managed to free it. I tried to fit the point into the keyhole, but with the angle, the point of the awl kept hitting the inside of the rusted casing. I tried again, twisting my wrist to angle the point down. The awl scratched against the inside of the lock casing but couldn’t reach the locking mechanism. It was no use. The awl was too strong and couldn’t bend to manipulate the pins inside the lock.

Panicked, I drew my breath short. I didn’t wish to imagine what would become of me if I couldn’t escape. I would surely end up dead, but that fear seemed the least of the sufferings I’d have to endure before I was murdered.

I gritted my teeth.

It’s not over yet.

There had to be another way to escape. I pulled my knees in as tight as I could to my chest and kicked out. My boots thudded against the planks of the trunk. I thrashed my shoulders, trying to sit up just a bit more, to somehow press the walls of my prison outward with the force of my will.

My foot curled and tightened painfully, drawing into itself until I wanted to scream with the agony of it. I had no way to stretch it out. I kicked again and felt a tear slide over my cheek. There had to be another way to get the lid off. I glanced to my left, and with the magnification of the goggles, I noticed a small triangle of burrs in the wood. They were nothing more than tiny breaks in the grain. A few splinters cracked away from the plank. I reached over and smoothed my finger along the wood. The skin on my finger caught on a sharp protrusion.

Nails.

Of course, they were the points of the nails that held the hinges. I fought with my skirt until I could stuff my hand back into the constricted pocket and feel around. After a moment I was tempted to rip the front of the pocket off and use that, but finally I touched the rough weave of the rag I had been using with the automaton. My elbow hit the wall three times before I could pull out the rag. I ignored the ache as I wrapped the rag over the end of the awl. After fitting the tip of the awl against the point on the nail, I slammed the heel of my hand into the fat wooden handle.

My hand felt as if it had shattered, but I swallowed the pain and hit it again with all the force I could manage in my awkward position. I heard the distinct
tink
of the short nail hitting the ground.

Thank you, dear Lord.
I tried to take a deep breath. My arm ached, and I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to continue to strike. I didn’t have good leverage, and the nails near my knee would be even worse.

I couldn’t give up.

Just five more.

The second one came easier, but I feared I had broken a bone at the base of my thumb. My entire hand thrummed with pain and I had managed to gouge my palm. For the third I tried twisting the awl against the nail, and eventually it came out, but the effort left my shoulder aching.

My strength was running out. Somehow I manage to curl my body tighter to reach the other nails. Biting my lip to steal the pain from my hand, I pounded the heel of my palm against the blood-slicked awl. I had no other choice. Each time I curled to reach the nails, my corset constricted and I couldn’t breathe.

Finally with a gasp I slammed my fist into the awl a final time, thankful for the terrible wood and weak hinges of the trunk. Holding my breath, I pulled my body as tight as I could and kicked with all my force. The lid burst into the air, then clattered back down onto the trunk. I shielded my face with my arms, and a corner of it hit my shoulder. I shoved it away with my boot.

I lurched up and took several deep breaths. The stench of river water nearly overpowered me, but I breathed it in gratefully. With a sore and bleeding hand, I perched the goggles on top of my head.

I was free.

Feeling dizzy, I attempted to stand, but my head swam and my cramped muscles protested as a thousand needles seemed to jab into my skin at once. I fell back down, bracing my arms on the sides of the trunk. I kept my hands out, as if their presence outside of the trunk could somehow prevent me from being forced back into it. I felt helpless and weak, and my captor could return at any moment. I had to find my damn feet.

I scrambled out of the chest, tipping it over and rolling out onto the floor.

After coughing until my lungs burned, I lifted my head and cautiously pushed myself up. I was still in the catacombs, in what looked like an empty storage room. The smooth stone walls were the same as the rest of the underground tunnels, but I had to be very near the river. Seeping water had stained dark streaks down the walls near the door.

I stumbled to the door and fell against the damp wood. I shook the latch until the entire door rattled on the hinges, but it was no use. It was locked from the outside. At least my prison was now less cramped, though just as terrifying.

The light from a flickering lamp inside the room created shifting shadows in the darker parts of the chamber. A blanket lay crumpled in the corner next to a small crate. A rat was perched on a plate beside a half-eaten loaf of dark bread and the rotting skeleton of a fish. Shaking, I took a step back and almost knocked into an old whisky barrel. Atop it rested several delicate tools, a mirror, and a small brown glass bottle. I hastily wrapped my injured hand in the rag as I took a closer look at the items.

I picked up the bottle and inspected the label. Just as I’d suspected, it was chloroform. I pushed hard on the stopper, then tucked it into my pocket.

Whoever the man in the clockwork mask was, it seemed pretty clear he had been living in this wretched place for some time. Hunting me.

I had to escape before he returned.

My hand went to my neck, where I kept my grandfather’s key.

The familiar weight was gone.

I staggered, still dizzy from the chloroform. The key was gone. My father had died with that key in his hand, trying to keep it from the man in the clockwork mask.

I had to get it back.

I ransacked the dingy, foul-smelling alcove, throwing the blankets against the wall. Grabbing the crate with both hands, I swung it with all my might against the wall. It smashed open as the plate clattered against the stone. The rat squealed, then scampered to the door, where it wriggled its fat black body through a tiny gap in the wood. I’d never been so envious of a rat.

I kicked the broken remains of the crate, but it was empty.

The clockwork key was gone.

What was I going to do?

My palm stung. I inspected the wound and concentrated on pulling out a large splinter. Once free of the wood, I stanched the blood and inspected the lock on the door.

I heard a scratching on the other side.

He had returned.

Shaking, I leapt across the room and tried to conceal myself behind the whisky barrel. I heard the unmistakable click of a bolt sliding back, and the door creaked open.

I tried to peek around the barrel.

The man in the clockwork mask stepped through the door with my key hanging like a trophy around his neck. The brim of his hat and his high collar obscured his face.