A Heart Deceived (29 page)

“But I thought you were gone. What you doin’ in Newgate of all places?” Duffy’s arm stretched as the boy made a run for it, yanking him back without a pause. “Did you find that fella you were lookin’ for finally?”

“O’ course. I always find my man. Ol’ Ethan Goodwin is locked up at last.”

The boy snaked up his head and stared at Nigel. Raw contempt sizzled like burning coals in the lad’s gaze.

An eerie chill shivered up Nigel’s spine. “Quite the l’il criminal you got there, Duff.”

“What … this?” Duffy’s big teeth shone, and he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’m not really going to jail him, just put the fear o’ God in the boy for fighting in a street brawl in Old Nichol. Some kind of scuffle over sweeping rights and—ow!”

Duffy jerked up his hand. Nigel reached to grab the little hooligan, but the thin material of the boy’s shirt ripped off. Knees pumping, the lad zigzagged down the street.

“Ow, ow, ow!” Duffy pressed one hand against the back of the other. Blood rained down each of his fingers. “The blighter bit me good.”

Nigel whistled low. “You better get that looked at. Human bites is worse than a dog’s. I learned that one the hard way.”

He rubbed his forearm over the ridge of a poorly healed scar. “You ought to know better than to drag around a street waif, especially one from Old Nichol. Since when does anyone care about street fights in that slum?”

“A reverend started some kind of holy reform down there. Trying to save souls, I guess. Cockamamie idea, if you ask me. Some souls ain’t worth the savin’. Anyway, it’s riling up some of the residents. They’re starting to care ’bout things like brawls and brothels and such. Ain’t wantin’ ’em, that’s what.” Duffy paused and lifted his top hand to peek at his wound. Blood oozed afresh. He blanched and pressed it tight again. “I got to go.”

Nigel watched the hedgehog toddle off. Even in a hurry, the man waddled.

He turned and headed the opposite direction, down Canal Street to his own flat, all the while thinking on Duffy’s bit of news. If Old Nichol was getting cleaned up from the inside, then the brothel madams, the gin guzzlers, or the gamblers couldn’t be happy about it. Preachers were bad for business. He scrubbed at the itchy days’ growth on his chin. A little holy water would flush out the vermin, all right, forcing them elsewhere … which could be to his advantage. Maybe Buck was gone already. If not, it wouldn’t be long.

He practically skipped home, his burden so lightened. A shave, some sleep, and a meal, yessir … he grinned, returning Lady Luck’s smile.

The stink of cabbage past its prime and one too many onions greeted him as he entered the flat. He tiptoed past Mrs. Spankum’s door. The old girl’s cooking rivaled the stench of Newgate’s. He climbed the first set of stairs, cresting the top of the landing, then paused, listening intently. Though everything was as it should be, a peculiar scent mixed with Spankum’s dinner—danger.

He spun. The stairwell was empty.

“Pish.” He grumbled, ashamed at acting more doltish than Duffy. After the second set of stairs, a distinct floorboard creaked behind him. He wheeled about. “Look, if it’s about the rent …”

The stairwell remained empty.

He stomped up to the third floor, slamming down his boot on each step to prove that fear was a bug to be squashed, not run from.

“Lady Luck, that’s what. She’s smilin’ on me now, she is. I’ll spring Ethan tomorrow, collect his money the day followin’. Lady Luck’s my little gal, she is,” he mumbled to his door, the pep talk lifting his spirits once again. “A shave, some sleep, a meal, ahhh.”

Entering his room, he gasped.

His bed, his table, even his lucky elephant—gone. All that was left were some brown water stains on the plaster beneath the windowsill and coal dust in the hearth—just dust, no coals.

“What in the—”

“Down payment.”

He whipped around into a crouch.

Buck filled the doorframe. “I come for the rest.”

A lump lodged in Nigel’s throat. He swallowed. It stayed. “Two days. Two more days is all I need and—”

“Yer time’s up, Thorne.” Buck pulled out a knife with a very long blade.

The flay-your-flesh-from-your-bones kind of blade.

Nigel ran a shaky hand across his brow. It came away wet with perspiration. “See here, mate—”

Huge veins popped on each side of Buck’s neck. “I told you once before, I’m not your
mate
.”

Buck charged.

Nigel turned tail and ran. Shards of glass ripped his skin as he dove through the window. He rolled onto the roof, stopping just before the edge. A shudder ran through him at the thought of what might’ve been. Apparently Lady Luck was still with him after all.

Buck blasted out after him.

Now what? Peering over the roof’s edge, he almost vomited. A straight drop to the cobblestone three stories below would break his neck.

Behind him, Buck growled.

Staying put would mean a slit neck. He scampered sideways, then darted up to the peak of the roof.

A sneer grew on Buck’s face, increasing with each of his deliberate steps. “I got you now, Thorne.”

“Think again,
mate
!”

Buck bolted toward him.

Nigel sucked in a breath, then ran full speed downward. Just before the edge, he sprang. If Lady Luck truly was his woman, he’d sail across the gap and land on the neighboring roof. Buck would never be able to do that, the big lummox.

Stretching straight out, Nigel reached for the opposite roof, fingers ready to grasp and hold on for the inevitable collision.

He reached.

And clutched nothing but air.

The world shot upward. His stomach, his kidneys, his heart and liver, all his insides ran up to his mouth, as if each organ might independently climb to safety. He flailed, wondering if rolling on impact would help.

A sharp crack sounded somewhere at the base of his neck. Everything went black.

Rolling would never again be an option.

“In you go, maggot.”

The guard jabbed Ethan forward, the momentum too much for his shackled feet. He thrust out his hands and landed on all fours. Fiery pain shot along each lash mark on his back, and he sucked in air to keep from passing out.

Behind him the iron door slammed shut, the screech of its hinges raking his eardrums. A lock slid into place, and then the walls closed in. Darkness smothered him. All the wretched reality of Newgate sank to the pit of his soul. His worst nightmare come true—and for a crime he didn’t commit.

Anger trumped panic.

He bolted up and swung around, chains clanking. Throwing his weight against the door, he hammered his fists. Hard. Bruising knuckles. Splitting skin.

“Let me out! I am innocent. Innocent! Thorne’s the guilty one, not me. Let … me … OUT!”

Pummeling the cold metal, he suddenly understood why a trapped fox would gnaw off its leg to get free. If it would do any good, he’d beat this door until all he had left were bloody stumps for fingers.

“God, this isn’t fair.” Though he couldn’t see it, he shouted at the sky. “You hear me? It’s not fair!”

“God don’t live here, boy.”

Ethan whipped around, startled by a voice as agreeable as rocks in a tin can. The only light in the cell came from an air vent high up on the wall, and that from a mere hand’s breadth of space. He thought he could distinguish dark forms around him. Then again, maybe not. But now that he’d stopped making noise, he could hear the blackness breathing.

A touch swept along his right arm. He jerked left.

“Skittish one, this,” the darkness snorted.

A waft of air fanned his face as if something flew by. Close.

He swatted at it. “What do you want from me?”

Fingers reached out from the abyss and brushed the length of his left leg. He jerked right.

Dry laughter wheezed in and out from mouths he couldn’t see.

“Make this easy, boy, and it won’t hurt so much.”

The flesh at the nape of his neck rose. He crouched, waiting. Whispers circled, coming from everywhere at once.

Then stopped. Silence filled the black space. No whispers, no talking, no breathing, as if all life had been driven from the room.

The cell was a crypt.

Ethan’s heart pounded in his chest, his throat, his ears, unbearably loud and out of control.

“Where are you?” His question hung like a noose—

And squeezed the air from his lungs. He crashed to the floor beneath the weight of countless men atop him.

This time when darkness came, he didn’t mind.

31

Miri sat on one of the benches lining three of the walls in her cell and closed her eyes.
Are You there, God? Do You know where I am? Do You even care?
She scrunched her eyes tighter, pretending to be any place but here in Sheltering Arms.

Huh. What a name. Sheltering Arms, the great sanctuary and haven for those suffering brain illness, was nothing more than a jail. No … worse. It was a warehouse, storing the unwanted or those too embarrassing for polite society. A great pantry, with jars of forgotten humanity, left to dwindle and rot.

In the four days since she’d arrived, she’d had no contact with the outside world or the staff of the asylum—except for the crony that brought gruel and emptied the waste bucket once a day. Though Miri pleaded for news of Roland’s welfare, the woman ignored her. She began to despair of ever knowing, and desperation was a crueler companion than the inmates around her. When Ethan told her that sometimes faith was a moment-by-moment thing, she hadn’t really understood.

Until now. With every breath, she fought to trust anew that somehow, good would come of this plight.

Resting her head against the wall, she opened her eyes and sighed. Careful not to focus on any of their faces, she watched the women around her. Shapeless blanket gowns hung loose on their thin bodies. None had hair. Her initial fear and revulsion had given way to curiosity, leastwise toward one in particular.

A sprite of a girl named Lil sat on a bench across from her. Miri smiled. The girl waved in return, then resumed conversing with another. Eight or maybe nine years old, she displayed the mildest form of the affliction marring the faces of the group. Only one gap split open from her upper lip to her nostril, making her nose slightly tipped and flat. She could speak somewhat in a nasal monotone, though with much effort and concentration, and it was hard to understand.

Instead of such verbal gymnastics, Lil and the other women snapped their fingers and intermittently clapped, a primitive yet unique language structure. As near as Miri could tell, not one of them showed any outward signs of madness. None acted as erratically as Roland. To the contrary, they’d treated her with kindness. Yet she understood why they were locked away. The smallest glimpse at their abhorrent faces would bring a grown man to his knees.

One woman’s mouth extended into both nostrils, with no upper lip and no way to ever close the gaping hole. Pink skin with reddish veins, moist and plump, was visible to deep recesses that ought not be seen.

Next to her, another woman’s jaw jutted the opposite direction of her mouth, a slanted affair, with misshapen lips that in one corner appeared to be attached to her ear. A few wore perpetual smiles, curved splits in the flesh with tongues that lapped out like a dog’s. Except for Lil’s, everyone’s teeth were helter-skelter, some missing altogether, others with extra, all malformed into spiky pillars or flattened nubs.

Here in this patch of poorly carved jack-o’-lanterns, Miri felt pretty for the first time in her life—and the feeling shamed her. She was no better than Roland, superior only because of noting the impediments of those around her.

The grate of a key in the lock pulled her from her thoughts and pushed the women toward the back corner in a huddle. Their fingers snapped up a frenzy, clicking and snipping some kind of warning. Would it be safer to join them or remain where she was?

She rose. Too late.

The door opened, and every hand dropped.

Mr. Graves stood on the threshold, gripping the hated stick and wire device. No one moved.

He lifted it and faced Miri.

Her throat closed at the thought of the wire biting into her skin. Tender flesh still smarted on the back of her neck from when Spyder had dragged her here.

“There is no need to yank me about. You have my word I will follow you,” she said.

He did not lower the stick. Neither did he advance.

“Look”—she lifted her wrists, iron cuffs still attached—“do you really think I’ll be any trouble?”

The stick hesitated in midair, then lowered.

Graves stepped aside, nodding for her to exit. He relocked the door and, without a word, grunted for her to follow. As they descended the stairwell, Miri braced herself for the clamor of the big room.

But even prepared, she winced when they entered.

Occasional howls pierced the air, awful in pitch, though that didn’t curdle the blood nearly as much as the undercurrent. A continuous drone babbled, passionate and charged with energy. The many voices blended into one foreign monologue of cries for help.

“Oh, the worms! The bloody worms again. They’re crawling. Crawling! Somebody get ’em off!”