The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 216

“Yes?” Kartik prompts. His hand wanders to my breast.

“I think it might be a place,” I say, reaching up to kiss him.

He moves on top of me, and I accept the weight of him. His hands slide down my body and mine push down the broad expanse of his back. His tongue makes small explorations in my mouth.

There’s a knock at my door. I push Kartik off me, panicked.

“The drapery!” I whisper.

He hides behind the drapes as I quickly arrange myself. I perch on my bed, a book in hand.

“Come in,” I call, and Mrs. Jones enters. “Good evening,” I say, turning the book right side up. I can feel the flush on my cheeks. My heart thumps in my ears.

“A parcel has come for you, miss.”

“A parcel? At this hour?”

“Yes, miss. The boy just left it.”

She hands me a box wrapped in brown paper and tied crudely with string. There is no name or card with it.

“Thank you,” I say. “I believe I shall turn in. I’m very tired.”

“As you say, miss.” The door clicks shut, and I lock it, exhaling loudly.

Kartik comes up behind me and wraps his hands around my waist. “Best open it,” he says, and I do. Inside are Tom’s ridiculous hat and a note.

Dear Miss Doyle,

You possess something of great value to us. At present, we possess something of great value to you. I am certain we may come to an agreeable arrangement. Do not be tempted to use the magic against us. At the first hint of it, we shall know, and your brother will die. Mr. Fowlson is on the corner. Do not keep him waiting.

The Rakshana have Tom.

The Rakshana mean to take my magic, and if I deny them, they will kill my brother. And if I attempt to draw upon my power now to save Tom? I cannot say that it is solely my power, and I may do more harm than good. I’ve nothing at my disposal tonight but my wits, and they seem little aid just now. But at present, it is the only hope I have.

“I’m coming with you,” Kartik insists.

“You’ll get yourself killed,” I argue.

“Then it’s a good day to die,” he says, and it makes my stomach flip.

I put my fingers to his lips. “Don’t say that.”

He kisses my fingers, then my mouth. “I’m coming with you.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

FOWLSON IS WAITING FOR ME BY HIS SLEEK CARRIAGE. HE flips a coin high, catching it neatly each time. When he sees me coming, he stops the coin on his arm with a slap.

“Awww, look at that—tails. Bad luck, luv.” He opens the carriage door for me. I see Kartik sneaking around the back.

“Tell me, Mr. Fowlson, will you always do their bidding? And when, pray, will they reward you for your efforts? Or will it always be like this—they dining at the feast, you off doing their dirty work?”

“They’ll reward me in time,” he says, pulling a blindfold from his pocket.

“No doubt that is why you are here instead of sitting with them. They needed a driver.”

“You shut it!” He glowers, but there’s a small ember of doubt in his eyes, the first I’ve seen.

“I shall make you a bargain, Mr. Fowlson. Help me, and I shall take you into the realms.”

He laughs. “Once we ’ave the magic, I’ll be there all I like. No, I don’t fink I’ll be makin’ bargains tonigh’, luv.”

He secures the blindfold over my eyes more tightly than is necessary. He threads rope around my wrists and ties it to something—the door’s handle, I think.

“Don’t go nowhere,” he calls, and laughs till he coughs.

The carriage starts with a jolt. The horses’ hooves strike the pavement in quick rhythm, and I hope Kartik is holding fast.

We do not travel far. The horses come to a stop. Fowlson’s fingers work to loosen my bindings, but the blindfold remains in place. A cloak is thrown over my head.

“This way,” Fowlson hisses.

A door is opened. I’m half dragged, down, down, around and around, and when the blindfold is removed, I find myself in a room where candles line the periphery. My brother sits in a chair. His hands are bound, and he appears drunk. A cloaked man stands behind him, his knife at the ready near Tom’s throat.

“Tom!” I run for him and a voice booms out from above.

“Stop at once!” I look up to see a gallery that runs about the room. Men in cloaks stand watching, their faces hidden. “If you touch him, he will die, Miss Doyle. Our man is quick with a knife.”

“Gemma, don’t worry,” Tom mumbles. “It’s my ini…inish…”