Chapter Eighteen
Darkness pressed in from all sides, thick as cloth against her skin, even as she tried to rouse from her sleep-induced state. Isla strained to hear past the pounding of her pulse, panic clawing up her chest. She was tied to a chair, blindfolded, but not by fabric.
Then she heard a noise. Tap ... tap ... tap. It drew closer with every strike, and her heart rate spiked. Whatever was making that sound, it was getting closer.
The last sharp tap seemed to stop right in front of her, so close she felt the skirt at her ankles sway. A stick striking wood. Fear crawled beneath her skin, echoing in the hollow space where her sight should have been.
The air shifted as someone leaned in. A whisper, soft as breath, brushed her ear.
“Such a bright young woman, Isla Cole. I have studied you for quite some time.”
The thought that that was a rather creepy confession came to her. Her voice trembled as she asked, “Who are you?”
“Ah, yes. I would love to introduce myself to you, my dear, and I will, in due time, but for personal protection, I need to keep the identities of everyone in this room confidential—at least until we come to an understanding of sorts.”
Others—there were others in the room. Isla shifted, trying to move away from unseen faces. She heard movement and flinched as an unseen bony hand rested on her shoulder. She gasped as she felt a hot flame approach her head. The fire didn’t burn her flesh, but the heat was unbearable.
“What are you doing?” she yelped, trying to pull her head away from the flame.
“Hush, child,” the voice soothed, as one comforting a child during a nightmare. “My flame will not burn you, I promise.”
Isla sensed another figure draw closer. It felt as if the rim of a glass was pressed to her temple, where sweat trickled down her face from the heat. As the glass moved away, so too did the flame.
Silence descended, thick and waiting, as if the room itself held its breath for what would come next.
“So, Professor Cole,” the woman said, her voice elderly but honeyed and eloquent, “I have brought you here tonight to offer you a position.”
Isla’s mouth must have opened on its own. “A position?” She didn’t understand.
She felt the woman lean forward. “I run an organization where women are valued. Where intelligence and strength are admired rather than tolerated. A woman of your caliber would do exceptionally well with us.”
Isla felt the blood rush to her head with a cold, furious clarity—the tone, the implication. They wanted to recruit her. These people who had attacked her friends.
“You are an impressive lady, Isla,” the woman continued, each syllable deliberate. “Your degrees, your papers, your lectures—your brilliance is spoken of in rooms where men still presume to judge. So many doors have been shut on women of talent. We open them.”
Isla’s spine stiffened even as pride flared.
She had fought for every bit of recognition, accepted slights, worked twice as hard, but she hadn’t done it for praise.
Yes, she had wanted to do well, to be able to provide for herself to escape her childhood.
Yes, it made her feel valued, and she wasn’t sure if seeking the praise of others was a healthy habit.
But ultimately, she had done it for security.
That way no one could leave her alone and helpless with nothing to her name.
“You have risen from the ashes, Isla.” Another voice spoke this time, a man’s voice, almost fatherly.
“I’ve seen it—the day you stood in that great hall, collecting your first-class honors.
The men around you whispering that your brilliance was unexpected from a woman—oh, how your smile never faltered. You held your head high, did you not?”
Isla’s breath caught. How could he know that?
“And later,” the voice continued, circling her like a cat with a cornered mouse, “I saw you at the lectern—the youngest professor in your department. I can still hear the applause when you dismantled poor Dr. Redfern’s argument in front of his own students.”
The darkness suddenly felt too tight. Isla tugged at her bonds, her pulse thudding in her ears.
That hadn’t been one of her finest moments; Doctor Redfern had been trying to put her down, and she had retaliated, using her knowledge as a weapon.
She hadn’t meant to humiliate him. This man spoke as if that were a good memory, one she should be proud of.
“Then there was the prize,” the man went on, his tone lilting, almost nostalgic. “The ribbon pinned to your lapel, the way your heart swelled because, for once, they saw you. And that little clipping, the one you pinned to your corkboard—‘Miss Cole’s Breakthrough Discovery.’ So proud. So deserved.”
Isla felt sick. That clipping had been in her private study. Under the confession was a sickening awareness: the way he spoke of Isla’s prizes and private triumphs was knowledge taken without permission.
“But my favorite,” he murmured, “is the memory of you at that long oak table, surrounded by men in gray suits, their voices drowning yours—until you made your quiet correction and left them speechless. That tiny, secret smile when you were proven right—that, Isla, is the face of power.”
The air in Isla’s lungs froze.
The old lady spoke again, her tone velvet.
“We value that power. You’ve fought your whole life to be heard, to be equal.
You came from nothing. With us, you wouldn’t need to fight.
Join us, and you will never again be told you’re not good enough.
You will have power and wealth. You will be admired. ”
Isla shook her head slowly. “You’ve read me,” she whispered, horrified. “You’ve used my sweat to read my memories.”
“Such cleverness. Yes, my dear. You’ve just proven my point. You’ve only recently stepped into the world of the Aetherians, and yet you already grasp so many of its nuances.”
The thought hit her like a fist to the chest. Someone had read her memories.
That was illegal. It was intimate—a trespass of the highest order.
Isla’s jaw tightened. The flattery was twisted.
She would never join them. Whoever this man was, he had not merely violated Isla’s mind; he had invaded the only space that truly belonged to her.
Recruitment under such terms was not persuasion—it was coercion. She would not be owned.
And besides, did this deranged woman honestly believe she would turn against her friends? Were they even alive? The question sent a tremor through her chest.
“Join us, Isla,” the voice purred. “I will show you wealth beyond your wildest dreams. Power such as you have never imagined.”
Isla gritted her teeth. “I don’t know who you are, but I do know this—no amount of money or power could tempt me to stand beside those who do what you did tonight.”
A sharp tap struck the floor, reminding Isla of a child’s petulant stomp. Then something ghostly brushed her chin, a caress as light as gas. It tilted her face upward, forcing her to face the unseen figure though her world was still cloaked in black.
“I suggest you think again,” the woman murmured, “before you dismiss my offer so hastily.”
“You attacked my friends,” Isla hissed.
“Friends?” the voice repeated, sweetly mocking. “Oh, my dear, is that what you call them? Once we had you, we let them go. They didn’t even try to stop us. Not one. They left you behind. To them, you weren’t worth the risk.”
A pause—long, deliberate. The words slithered in, half truth, half poison, coiling around the oldest fear in Isla’s heart.
A single tear slipped down Isla’s cheek, hot against her cold skin.
“Ah,” the woman sighed in pleasure. “There it is.”
Isla felt the faintest tremor of air beside her face as the glass vile caught the tear on her cheek. The Aqua Summoner was going to steal more memories. Her body shuddered.
“They didn’t want you, Isla. Just as your parents didn’t. Do you remember the day they left you?” the man said.
Her breath caught.
“They dumped you at the orphanage gates in London without so much as a backward glance,” the voice went on, almost tender now.
“The matron never wanted you either—you were a strain on their funds. And the other girls?” A soft laugh.
“They whispered about you, didn’t they? Mocked the way you dreamed of a better life.
The clever little girl who didn’t belong anywhere. ”
“Such sadness,” the woman crooned. “Such exquisite loneliness. You could spend the rest of your life trying to prove your worth to those who will never understand you—or you could stop. With us, you would have nothing to prove. You would have a family that wants you, Isla. One that sees all that you are—the brilliance, the flaws, the thirst for more. I know this evening has been ... unpleasant. But we are only showing you that we accept you, the good and the bad. We would value you as no one else ever has.”
For a moment, the perverse words almost broke through. Isla did want that—to be seen, to be wanted, to stop fighting for every scrap of respect. To have someone say she was enough. But not like this. Not in darkness.
She’d rather face the world alone than stand beside people who thrived in shadow.
She forced herself to remember facts—Andrew’s nervous hand closing over hers, Juliette’s irrepressible laughter, George’s kindness, even Edmund’s quiet patience as he swept the floor of broken clay pots. They were kind people, her people, in their strange, new, mismatched way.
They might not stay beside her forever—but if they were still alive, they would come for her. Andrew had said only recently that he would always rescue her. Something deep in her chest told her he hadn’t been lying.
The new direction between them was unexpected, fragile, but it was real. And it was worth clinging to—a spark of hope worth kindling against the dark.
Isla shook her head. “I will never join you.”
Silence.
It stretched long enough that she could almost feel them speaking around her—words exchanged without sound, the air pulsing faintly as if charged with thought.
“I think,” came another man’s voice, cool and measured, “we’re too late to recruit her. The emotions I read from her are quite determined to refuse your offer.”
The older woman sighed, the sound one of mild disappointment. “Yes, I suspect you’re right. Such a shame. She would have made a fine addition.”
A pause—then, briskly, “Well. I have a dinner engagement this evening, and I do so hate to be late. Leave her here for the night.”
Her tone lightened as if she were discussing the weather.
“I can see that you have strained yourself enough this evening and you won’t be able to extract any more memories.
Do you have a memory prepared to soften her resolve for the information we need?
I want her hope removed piece by piece, so that by the morning, she’s willing to talk about other matters. ”
“I know just the one,” the first man replied, a quiet satisfaction in his voice.
“Splendid,” the woman said. “I am going to leave now. Once I’m gone, bring the others in and inform them how to use it, then go and get some rest. A touch of fear can do wonders for compliance. I’ll attend to her myself in the morning—once she’s ready to tell us everything our clients require.”
Isla felt a shiver run down her spine. How were they going to use her memories to pressure her into obedience? Footsteps shifted closer. Isla flinched as cold, gnarled fingers gripped her chin, nails biting cruelly into her skin.
“You should have joined us, my dear,” the woman murmured. “But no matter. Your tears will tell me everything I need by morning one way or another ... and after that, I shall have no further use for you.”
The touch withdrew, and Isla was left trembling in the dark. Voices spoke low, and somewhere beyond the blackness, she heard the faint scrape of a door and the echo of a retreating tap—the old woman leaving for her dinner.
And then, too soon, a prickling sensation filled the air—static, electric. The faint scent of ozone stung her nose. A storm was coming. Her childhood nightmare. They were going to make her relive it.