The Damnation Affair (23 page)

H
er throat ached.

Cat stirred. There was something soft underneath her, but it was so
cold
. The shivering began, great waves of it passing through her, and when she sought to open her eyes and push herself up, she discovered two things.

One was that it made no difference whether her eyelids were open or closed. The dark was complete, phantom-traceries of colors she could not name bursting as she blinked. She could
feel
the lids closing and opening; her eyes were so dry they scraped. Perhaps she was blind?

Dear God, no.

The other thing was silence. She could hear her own heartbeat, and a sliding sound when she moved, her riding habit rasping across some other cloth. There was no thunder, no lightning.

What happened?

She had been riding; she remembered
that
much. Across the flats, the black mare giving a good account of herself. Then, confusion. Something had happened—a figure cut from black paper rising up, a geyser of earth spewing heavenward, concussive blasts of lightning and an immense sound tumbling her from the saddle. It bent over her, the thing, and consciousness had fled her.

Cat frowned—or at least, she thought she was frowning, her face twisting on itself. Her Practicality had flashed, blue-white to match the lightning, and the thing had hissed at her. Its breath was so cold the rain flashed into spatters of ice, a chill-fog rising like white steam from the streets of Boston on sunny winter mornings.

Then, nothing.

She patted about her with trembling hands. The softness was a pile of cloth, and the sounds of her movement fell away into the vast darkness. Her throat burned as she swallowed; her side cramped with pain as her ribs protested the treatment she had endured.

“Robbie?” she whispered, and the word vanished, swallowed by the all-encompassing dark. Then, a little louder, “Jack?”

No answer.
Am I dead? No, my heart beats, I breathe. Am I blind? Or…

She swallowed through the dry pain, held up her fingers. Concentrated, breathing as deeply as she could. Two of her corset stays were broken, and she had to be careful lest they jab at her in a most distracting manner.

The dim glow clinging to her fingers scored her dark-sensitized eyes. Still, she blinked several times, tears of relief welling up. The simplest of light-charms, mancy responding sluggishly to her call, but still wonderfully welcome.

She gazed about her.

The softness underneath her was a pile of discarded, rotting clothing on flat sterile earth. The chamber was large, and its walls were rock. Moisture clung to the stone surfaces, and in the distance she saw a fluid glimmer—water, catching and holding the light she was producing.

At least I shall not die of thirst. I do hope it is potable.

She examined the clothing underneath her. There was no rhyme or reason to the pile—dresses, petticoats, frock coats, torn stained shirts, even some articles of children’s garb. She tugged the locket free of her dress’s neckline and transferred the light-charm to its metal; the shadows danced and spun as she rose on legs unsteady as a new foal’s, arranging her clothing as best she could. One of her bootheels was broken, her dress was torn and damp. Still, it was comforting to see her attire was still whole; it wasn’t torn
that
badly. She twitched at the fabric, gingerly, and twisted her hair up as best she could. She could find no pins, and her hat and veil were nowhere to be found.

With her person set to rights as much as possible, she stood next to the sad little pile of clothing and sought to calm herself further. Her neck twinged, and when her fingertips explored the pain they found two crusted scabs. She had bled on the front of her dress, and a cold knife went through her as her fingertips brushed the throbbing clots. She was cold, but the wound on her throat burned.

Oh, dear.
But her charing-charm lay quiescent, and when she gingerly touched it there was no scorching to her skin.
This is troubling. Very troubling indeed.

Do not be maudlin
, she told herself sternly.
You have been carried into this place, there must be a means of carrying yourself
out
of it. Then you may decide what to do next.

The gleam of water was a larter was ge underground lake; this place was a semicircle of sandy beach. The pile of cloth was at one tip of the crescent, and the weeping stone walls gleamed sullenly as she worked her way along the shore, finding more blank sheer stone. She found a handkerchief in her skirt pocket, and washed her face and hands as best she could in the cold, clear water. It had a faint metallic taste, but it slaked her thirst tolerably well. She would be hungry, soon.

Unless the water held something that would gripe her.

Where the crescent of sand was thickest, there was a narrow aperture, and she eyed it for some time before stepping close enough to peer through. Her nose and fingers throbbed with the cold, and she wondered if the chill would kill her before whoever placed her here returned.

The darkness yielded only grudgingly to her tiny light-charm. She pressed forward, uncertainly, one damp hand reaching out to touch the stone. There was a nasty odor, striking her chilled nose and twisting her empty stomach into knots.

She stepped just over the threshold of the door in the stone, breathing a word to strengthen the light-charm—

—and stumbled back, retching, from the twisted pile of meat and snapped bone, a pile of naked corpses pushed against the wall of the passageway like a jumble of unordered firewood. The momentary sight almost drove every scrap of wit she possessed from her, and she went to her knees, heaving as the water from the lake sought its escape.

And ch-children, there are ch-children’s clothes too…
The light-charm flickered as her concentration waned, and the inside of Cat’s skull throbbed painfully. If the charm failed she would be here in the
dark
, with that pile of bodies, and oh
God
she could not,
would not
bear it.

She found herself huddled on the pile of discarded clothing again, hugging her knees, rocking back and forth and moaning softly. The broken stays scraped her most painfully, but she didn’t care.

“Oh God,” she kept saying. “Oh, God. Please. Dear God. Oh, please.
Please.
”

The light-charm did not fail, but it took a long time for Cat to raise her head, her hair falling forward in a distinctly hoydenish manner and the wounds in her throat finally ceasing their infernal throbbing. The stain of bile-laced water she had vomited had stopped steaming, and was only a dark spot in the sand.

Now she could see that the pocked surface of the beach was the result of footsteps. Had others been brought here, and left? How was their clothing removed? And the…the bodies…

A faint scratching sound. Cat scrambled to her feet, stumbling over the mound of clothing, catching her broken heel on a dress of gray linsey-woolsey that looked just large enough for a girl of eleven or so.

A rushing noise filled her head. She found her back to the stone wall, the light-charm’s glimmering dying to a low glow as fear threatened to overwhelm her reason. She gripped her charing-charm tightly, the locket’s glow full of shadows now, and the scratching became movement.

Rats, perhaps? What would live down here in the dark?

The shadows leapt and spun, crazily. A figure melded out of the dark mouth at the back of the crescent, and Cat made a small inarticulate noise.

It stopped dead. A long, shuffling sound, as if something was sniffing. A sharp exhale. Was it a dog? If it was, perhaps the animal could be persuaded to—

“Cat?” A familiar voice. “Are you awake?”

“
Robbie!
” She ran forward, blindly, stumbling through the pile of clutching cloth, and when her brother’s stick-thin arms closed around her, Catherine Barrowe-Browne gave herself up to sobs.