Boneseeker (16 page)

What is keeping her?

Stygian nods and he and Montgomery canter across the field to the other suspected excavation site. I slide off and tether the horse to a tree. She whinnies, her ears flat against her head. I remember Bella’s comment about animals and danger and pull my father’s old service revolver.

I’m not taking chances this time.

My gaze shoots south toward the sound of crunching underbrush.

A muscled hulk of a man, with flaming auburn hair, is lumbering toward me, through the forest. He’s large. Large as the skeletons we search for.

I glance at the pistol. I’m not sure a shot would halt him. Maybe if I unloaded every shot—it would slow him.

He stops, ten feet away, black eyes scrutinizing me under bushy red eyebrows.

“You should not be here. These lands are sacred.”

“Says who?”

“Says many generations—older and wiser than you, boy. Who walked the earth before you were even a gleam in your father’s eye.”

“I’m an antiquary—”

“I know who you are.” He lumbers closer. I don’t want to shoot him. He looks mentally deficient. His cheek is scarred. I squint, trying to make it out. It almost looks like a letter.

“You and the girl…tread lightly.”

Hoof beats break the forest silence, approaching fast.

Arabella is driving the mare through the woods, her eyes fixed on the giant. She hoists the riding crop menacingly above her head.

I nod, telling her to ease off, and she lowers it.

The massive man shuffles into the trees. “Heed my words.”

“Who are you?”

He waves his hand. I turn to look at Arabella. Make sure she’s not going to attack. She slows the mare to a trot.

I glance back, and he is gone.

Gone?

Arabella vaults off the horse and we both rush to the left, mouths ridiculously agape.

She snaps hers shut. “How?”

I sigh. “Amazing consequences happen every day. Many without reasonable explanation.”

She huffs, crossing her arms. “Preposterous.”

She stamps toward the last footprint. They disappear into nothing. Bending down, she pulls a measuring string out of her pack and bites her lip as it reaches the toe tip.

“How large?”

She huffs again scribbling it into her tiny notebook. “Seventeen inches.”

I walk over, and place my size 12 boot into the impression. A chill scurries up my neck.

It looks like a child standing in his father’s print.

“So he was around—” My mind starts the math. I pull out my own notebook, starting a graph. I walk backwards, measuring and recording the length of his strides.

Arabella mutters under her breath, staring past me as if I’ve disappeared with the footprints. “The average length of the foot from toe to heel is the exact length of the forearm from elbow to wrist.”

She stands, extending her measuring tape with a flourish. She wrenches my hand away from the notebook, straightening my arm. Starting at my elbow, she measures it to my wrist. I shiver.

The tape runs far past the ends of my fingertips.

I feel curiosity’s burn in my chest. He was huge. Not as huge as the giant we seek to unearth, but a mountain of mankind, just the same.

“This measurement is more accurate—the other is—”

“Just an estimation of his height. What, 7 feet?”

She nods. “More or less.”

A high-pitched caw makes me start. I turn and notice the birdcage tied to her saddle. A small, black crow peers out from behind the bars.

“Is that what was keeping you?”

She smiles and walks to the horse, reaching inside her saddlebag to extract a tome.

“Is that—?”

“Your father’s chemistry volume?” She smiles wickedly. “I stole it from his stateroom whilst we were back at the ship.”

“You clever, rotten girl.” I smile back. “Have you looked up the ingredients, then?”

She ignores me, lifting the cawing crow and walks towards me.

I am perplexed, my eyes narrowing on the bird for a half a minute. Arabella follows my gaze.

She smiles, clearly thrilled to be winning the mental match-up. “It’s for—”

“Detecting poisonous gases. Elementary, my dear Holmes.”

She glares at me. “Let’s go, genius.”

Love was never in the equation

Bella

Time seems to halt in this wretched tunnel. Henry’s endless joking is beginning to wear on my already thin nerves. So far, our trek has been uneventful. I take deep breaths and keep reminding myself.
The hand
. Its match may be buried just ahead, or with any luck, it’s entire skeleton.

“Henry, wait.”

My eyes flit to the bird. Is it my imagination—or does it seem woozy?

Henry turns toward me, holding the lantern closer to the map. His eyes flick to my face, and drop to my chest—monitoring for hyperventilation.

“How are you managing?”

I swallow—trying to ignore the suffocating press of the cave against my lungs.

“Fine,” I lie.

He smiles, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. “And our little friend?”

“Alright for now. How much further?”

We’ve been walking for a quarter hour, which feels more like a fortnight.

Anxiety tightens my chest at letting Henry have total control—of my steps, of the excursion. I cannot even attempt to lead however, as it takes every bit of my willpower to beat down the claustrophobia.

Anxiety dulls my senses, like the night I had too much port. Once was enough. I abhor this weakness and my inattentive, sluggish wits.

“Not far.” Henry turns, squinting into the dark. He holds up the lantern.

“Help me attach this rope to the stalagmite. It feels like the path is veering down.”

I set down the bird and help him secure the rope. He hands it to me. “Don’t let go.”

I pick the bird up in the other hand, and we slide along the rope as the floor descends. I follow behind Henry as he grasps the lantern in one hand, and the rope in his other. The lantern illuminates a tiny circle of yellow, keeping the cave’s utter blackness at bay.

The sound of rushing water fills my ears.

“An underground river?”

“Hmm?” Henry turns, mid-stride to look at me, and loses his balance.

The rope between us jerks and I fight to stay upright. The floor tilts with a sudden lurch. My boots slip on the loose rock, and my feet fly into the air.

My bottom connects with the hard ground. “Ow!”

We slide like a coal shuttle, faster and faster. My pace speeds because of my lesser weight and my boots slam into Henry’s back.

The rope burns a line into my palm as it slides madly through my fingers.

“Don’t let go!” I scream to him.

Henry looks ridiculous as he tries to hold the lantern aloft, sliding like a boy on a snow sled. Dread closes my throat.

If the light extinguishes…the dark.

The suffocation.

The bird. I won’t know if the bird is still alive.

The cage is crashing off the ground despite my efforts to keep it up. The crow’s squawking raises the hairs on my neck.

The cawing is no more.

We finally slide to a stop. Henry has managed to keep the light safe. His face is covered in black dust and if I weren’t so mind-numbingly terrified, I’d laugh.

My breath sucks in. “Henry!” I point. The words won’t come.

He follows my gaze. Bony fingers stick out of the dirt, submerged to the metacarpals.

“That’s odd.”

They shouldn’t be exposed. It’s as if someone started and quit midway through the extraction. I fly to them, pulling the spade out of my pack. I thrust it into the dirt, but hit hard rock. “You’ll need your pick.” I suck at the air, wheezing like I’ve contracted consumption.

I fling the bag open, searching for it.

“Arabella.”

My fingers find it. I whip it out and begin peck, peck, pecking around the bones with specific force and care.

“Arabella!” Henry’s tone startles me.

“The bloody bird!”

The crow is sprawled, lifeless, on the bottom of the cage.

“NO! No, no, no!”

“Stop shrieking. You’re breathing in more of whatever’s down here. Get up. We must go.”

I hesitate. My mind does feel thick.

His fingers are instantly on my shoulders, tugging roughly. I resist, pecking harder. “Just one more piece, Henry.”

I’m in the air. My head flipped over his shoulder and down to his back as he hauls me to the rope.

He flips me to my feet again.

“Now, please.” He shoves the rope in my hands.

I comply, my rational mind taking over. The incline is approximately forty-five degrees. I start; hand over hand, step by step, scaling toward the surface.

“Bella, remain calm. We must be quick. I need both my hands. I’m going to have to leave the light.” He slurs the final word.

Panic explodes in my head, radiating flashes of pyrotechnics to my vision; fear fireworks behind my eyes.

“Keep moving. I’m putting it out now.”

I nod. “Of course. The gas may be flammable.” My voice breaks on the last word.

Utter blackness.

My breath shudders out. I remember being frozen to my bed in the darkness, unable to go to my father’s room for help. The suffocation paralyzed me.

Like now. I stop climbing.

Henry bumps into me on the rope. “Arabella, stay calm. You
must
move.”

“I—cant. Henry, go without me. Pass me, save yourself. Henry, I looked up the ingredients. The combination would dissolve bone. If I die, you must find the truth.”

His voice is calm, but I hear the quiver beneath. ”Don’t be ridiculous. You are not going to die.” He coughs.

“Henry! Go!” My thoughts pitch with a jerky panic—like a Ferris Wheel. With every revolution I’m further away. Darkness presses, inside my head.

Henry whispers in my ear. “Darling. Darling you must move.”

His voice pushes back the dark panic, just a sliver of calm. I shuffle a step. “Henry?”

“I’m right here, love. Right behind you.”

“I can’t.” But I take another step.

He exhales against the back of my neck, relief coloring his voice. “That’s it.”

Something wails below, in the dark.

Henry stiffens.

“What in the name of—”

“Keep talking, please. Talk about anything.” My feet are moving again, one in front of the other.

“I’m going to keep calling you darling. Do you understand? You’re lying. About everything. I see it in your eyes. You do want me. But you push it away, again and again. I will not have it.”

I struggle to keep my breathing even, my fingers inching up the rope a fragment at a time.

Step. Step. Shuffle. Step.

“I don’t care if you blow things up, have ink permanently tattooed on your fingers, or even do not want children. I want you, Arabella. And all of your glorious…differences.”

I smile. And for a brief flash, I’m glad for the dark.

“What about your bachelorhood? Such a carefully-crafted reputation, going to waste,” I manage.

He laughs. “I told you. I’ll never touch another.”

“Henry, there are more skeletons here. A burial ground, perhaps? And they’ve been moved, it’s obvious.”

“Bella. Stop sucking in the air.”

Mercifully, the floor begins to flatten. A speck of light glows in the distance. I feel Henry beside me.

He shoves a handkerchief into my hand.

“Run.”

###

Henry

I sit on my bed, staring out at the night, my hands fidgeting in my lap like restless toddlers.

Stygian and Montgomery have retired after peppering us with questions for what felt a fortnight. With our discovery of the hand, they’ve all but abandoned the other dig site.

I should be exhausted. I can’t sleep. Arabella is down the hall. One or two hands also live on the second floor.

Stygian and Montgomery are also restless on the third floor; their boots clomp from one end of the room to the other, wearing a hole in the ceiling above me.

Finally, I hear the bed groan above as one retires.

My mind shifts through the past week, examining clues, data.

The large man…who disappeared.

Surely, the giant wasn’t…a Nephilim. While I believe in a higher power, I find the idea of one still walking the earth impossible. I think back to my boarding-school bible studies, thrown in with every other subject under the muted London sun, to produce a well-rounded graduate.

The flood was to have destroyed them all.

The pins. The states. The hands. The dead bird. Stygian’s tattoo.

“Giurio di vendicarmi.” Something about the phrase prickles the inside of my skull like déjà vu. And I remember.

I open my belongings to extract a London paper. I’d requested our butler forward The Times to me, so that I might remain abreast of all that I was missing in London.

I shuffle through the pages, searching right and left.

It was a story from a few months prior about the murder of an heiress.

‘Giurio di vendicarmi’ was scrawled on the victim’s wall and is thought to be connected to the vigilante group L’uomo Deliquente, who are suspected of the murder. Sherlock Holmes assisted Scotland Yard in bringing most of the organization to justice, but several fled prior to trial.’

I wonder if Bella has made this connection.

I shove the paper back in my bag and bite my lip.

My hands press against my temples and I squeeze my eyes closed.

A worm of unease wriggles in my gut.

I must know if she’s safe. I do not trust her.

My legs walk me toward the door before my brain can restrain them.

I’ve never, ever pursued a woman.

They pursue me
.
Hang on my every word and letter. No woman has ever rebuffed me. Arabella puts me off every day, ever-increasing my insatiable idée fixe, as my French friends call obsession.

She’s
my
seven percent solution.

A pang of fear sparks.

Is that why I want her so badly? If she finally returns my affections, will this longing cease?

I pray not. The thought of hurting Bella is utterly repulsive. Her intellect may be like few others, but in many ways she is childlike.