The Poisoner's Game

Chapter 42

M.

A burning pain in my arms forced me to flutter awake. I unconsciously turned over, seeking to relieve the pain and slip back into the fold of a dreamless sleep.

"Ow." My watering eyes opened. The pulling sensation sliding from my sockets to my wrists brought to life visions of Medieval torture. I sat still for a moment, my eyes shut in pain until the burning sensation faded from my skin.

I opened my eyes again, taking in the cracked and water stained ceiling. My hands, tied tightly behind me to two posts of the four-poster twin bed, left me immobile. Scooting myself up to release the tension from my arms, I looked around the gloomy room. The bed had no sheets, and some yellow-reddish substance stained the grey-striped mattress pad.

I had no idea where I was.

What a pleasant thought to wake up to. Panic climbed up my throat and filled my eyes with tears. No one would be able to find me. I doubted anyone was looking from me or even knew that they should. A shiver of disgust threatened to heave my stomach upwards. Yet, the dress I wore earlier still draped my body, filling me with a modicum of ease.

Nothing filtered through my memory but the image of a dark shadow standing over me before everything went black. My uncle's face also came to mind, his ruddy red skin, balding head, and malicious smile cutting even in my imagination. Pain beat at my temples. Tears, unchecked, streaked down my face. I didn't wish to cry for the Wellmonts.

I'd have to figure out how to save myself, the thought filled me with crippling anxiety. A shuddered breath escaped my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

Filling my head with thoughts of escape and possibility, I looked around the room once more. Sparse and clean in an empty way, the room gave me little new to discover. Shutters bolted with thick nails covered the windows. Only small streams of light floated through the cracks. An eerie quiet filled the space, but for a faint hum that came from outside. Voices muted by running water. The room smelt much like a damp basement—the pungent River Thames, fishy, salty, oily, and briny. London? The farthest they could have taken me—if I had been out for the night—was Reading. Unless they wanted to break their necks avoiding the potholes hidden by the night. I wouldn't hold out the hope that a madman would take such care. I sent out a little prayer anyway.

I yanked on the ropes, the coarse weave burning the flesh of my wrists. Unlike the contortionists at Barnum & London Circus, I could not maneuver out of the rope bindings. My throat begged for water. A spider, which looked suspiciously like a false widow, stalked down the post toward my bound hands. My breath stilled in my chest, and my gaze fixed upon its spindly legs. Just a bit closer. I flicked it away, my eyes shut, and a squeal trapped in my throat.

As my breath returned to normal, my ears perked at the unmistakable sound of someone coming toward the room. Blast. I scooted myself up further to a somewhat dignified position. With each step-cracking footfall, my heart raced faster until it felt like it would tear out of my chest and run away. Pushing myself back against the board, I brought my legs to my chest. I could kick whoever it was if they got close enough.

The door screeched open, at first blocking my view. There a man stood like a marble statue of Adonis. Shy of Alexander's height, he was in his late forties at least, with grey at his temples. His crystal blue eyes watched me with his long straight nose notched in the air. He brushed a hand through his perfectly groomed blond hair. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit of superfine fabric, his black oxford shone even in the dim light, and a waistcoat of burgundy velvet peeked out from under his top coat.