The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box (Crawshanks Guide to the Occult #1)

Prologue

Crowscroft Asylum, Spitalfields.

The moon is a pale spectre amidst the dark clouds barely visible above the ever present smog of London’s filthy streets.

Its sickly beams of light filter through the bars of the high window just enough for me to see as I huddle against the cold bricks of the wall.

My eyes have long since adjusted to the blackness of my cell; none of the patients are allowed access to light, not even a single, solitary candle.

They, like me, are chained in the darkness like beasts. Worse than beasts. At least stray animals are free to roam the streets.

A shadow passes across the moon, momentarily casting the room into darkness, and when the dim light returns, it falls upon the narrow metal-framed sleeping cot, the only piece of furniture in the narrow room.

A coarse blanket lies bunched up on the thin, bare mattress, and leather cuffs and chains hang limply from the four corners.

A violent shudder wracks my body, and I draw my legs close in an attempt to conserve some warmth, but it’s no use. I can’t remember a time when I was warm and safe. The memories of before seem like a distant dream, hazy from the constant drugs they force upon me.

Neither can I recall the last time I had proper clothes to wear.

Once I had owned elegant gowns and fine jewellery.

Now I’m allowed nothing more than a thin smock, grubby with stains and barely enough to cover my modesty, not that I have any left.

In a place like this I learned very quickly that my body is no longer my own.

My toes are numb, my feet and legs filthy as I try to tuck them under me.

My bare arms are covered for the moment by the tight sleeves and bindings of the straitjacket they have me imprisoned in.

Any comfort of warmth I might have gleaned from the heavy and restrictive fabric is muted by the searing agony burning my shoulders from being bound in the same position for hours.

I can’t even shift slightly to ease the pressure.

Not only are the straps buckled tight but they’ve also added a thick leather belt around my waist, and from it hangs a sturdy metal hoop and chain, which is anchored to the wall.

I’m so exhausted and I can’t even lie down on the cold, unforgiving stone floor.

It’s too easy to lose yourself in a place like this—I see it on the occasions I’m dragged from my room.

I see others lining the narrow corridors, strapped into wheelchairs or huddled in dark corners, bound by harsh canvas straitjackets.

There’s nothing left, no glimmer of intelligence; they’re walking corpses.

Some of the newer ones retain an air of hopelessness, but the ones who’ve been here a while—the ones who have been subjected to Dr Whyte’s treatments—are dead behind the eyes.

Not me.

My pain and rage fuel me. I know the second I let go, it’s over. My life is a living hell, as it has been for the past seven years. The only reason I’ve survived as long as I have is because I’m one of his favourite playthings.

Doctor Ignatius Whyte.

To the rest of London society he is a prodigy. Highly intelligent, praised by the Royal College of Surgeons and the Queen herself for his groundbreaking treatments of the mentally ill, or so he often boasts.

I suppose many would consider him an attractive man, impeccably attired, with a neat moustache and dark hair greying at the temples. But it is only skin-deep.

When I was a child, my father had been one of the British governors of a province in India where we’d lived for several years before our return to England.

I have a very clear memory of a snake charmer who’d come to the embassy.

My brother and sister had watched the snake in fascination, lulled by its sinuous dance, but not I.

I’d watched the man: his eyes, his movements, every tiny expression that had flickered over his seemingly impassive face.

The others saw the dance, how the snake bowed to the man’s will, but they didn’t see what I did, the way he hurt the creature.

The way he taunted it, then locked it away where no one could see it.

Dr Whyte reminds me of that snake charmer. How he croons and manipulates people, and oblivious to his true nature, they adore him for it, completely unaware they dance to his tune. None of them see the monster behind the mask.

But I do.

I see it and recognise it. Dr Whyte is a man who enjoys inflicting pain, who revels in the suffering of others. His position at Crowscroft Asylum grants him full rein to perform his cruel and unethical medical experiments, and they aren’t his only perversions.

I’ve lost count of the times he comes to my room late into the night.

Strapped to the bed by heavy leather restraints and drugged heavily, I’m unable to fight him, unable to stop him from taking what he wants from my body.

I learned early on to not make a sound, to not give him that.

No one would come to my aid—after all, what’s one more scream inside this hellhole of a hospital.

Even when I conceived a child from his repeated abuse, he did not stop.

I am surprised that I even managed to carry the child to term given the punishments and medical treatments I endured in my confinement.

Maybe that had been his plan all along—that with enough brutality, I’d lose the bastard child he’d fathered.

A girl. I’d only caught a glimpse of her between my thighs, laying screaming and squirming on the bloodstained sheets before one of the nurses had bundled her up in a coarse blanket and hurried from the room.

They’d left me there, in the freezing cold, bleeding and empty.

Maybe they’d hoped I’d die, but I didn’t. I survived.

I don’t know what happened to my daughter. If she lived, she’d be five years old by now. I glance over to the bare brick wall, to the rows and rows of tiny, neat scratches that have marked the passage of time in this nightmare.

The cold fury sweeps through my veins like ice.

I will have my vengeance, no matter what they do to me.

I will endure. Even now, I can feel the muted presence of my magic deep inside me, lying dormant.

The constant drugging and torture makes it all but impossible for me to focus enough to wield my power, but it’s still there… waiting.

The rattle of keys and the clatter of the metal lock have me looking up sharply, my heartbeat ratcheting up with a deep, primal instinct. The sense of a predator approaching. The door swings open slowly, the neglected hinges protesting with a high-pitched whine.

For a moment, my gaze narrows against the sudden glare of the lamplight even though it’s banked low. The door closes with a resounding click, and slowly, as my eyes adjust, a familiar form begins to take shape.

Dr Whyte stands staring down at me, the lantern in one hand and a heavy set of keys in the other. Despite the late hour, his hair is still combed and oiled, not a strand out of place, his collar pristinely starched and his white coat without a single wrinkle.

“Good evening, Cordelia.”

His soft voice, devoid of any warmth, echoes in the stillness of the room. I don’t answer him. He doesn’t deserve it. I speak only when I want to, it’s one of the few measures of control I have left.

His expression is one I’ve come to recognise. It’s the one he never shows the rest of the world. This is him without his mask, all traces of humanity gone and an emptiness left that I can’t explain. It’s like he’s missing his soul.

“I see you’re going to be difficult tonight,” he says, one of his brows lifting a fraction. A deeply unpleasant smile curves his lips. It’s unsettling, makes my stomach tighten. There’s no humour in that smile, but there is a cruel hunger.

He calmly sets the lamp on the floor and places the keys beside it.

His polished shoes make a slow, ominous clicking sound as he crosses the small room towards me.

I can’t help the involuntary shift of my body, and I press myself tighter against the wall.

There’s no chance of me fighting him off, not with my arms pinned to my body the way they are, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be compliant in any way.

I glare at him, and hate for this man vibrates through every single inch of my body. He crouches in front of me, his head tilting slightly as he watches me. Slowly, he lifts a hand and tucks a matted curl of my hair behind my ear, his fingers graze the sharp angle of my cheek bone.

I used to be softer, with curves that drew many an appreciative gaze, but now I’m too thin, my face gaunt with hollowed cheeks and sharp angles, my bones barely covered by a layer of dry skin. A result of too many drugs and too little food.

“Still a beautiful woman,” he says quietly, almost to himself, and trails his finger down to my jaw.

I jerk away from him, but he grips my face, his fingertips dig painfully into the hinges of my jaw, hard enough to leave bruises. Not that anyone would notice…or care.

“Are you going to struggle?” he whispers, his eyes burning with an unholy kind of glee. “You know how much more I enjoy our time together when you struggle.”

I give a feral kind of hiss and yank my head back despite the pain it causes when he doesn’t loosen his grip.

“Yes,” he hums. “That’s it. You know what I’m going to do to you, don’t you?”

I don’t answer, but he leans in closer anyway, until I can smell his cologne, something woodsy mixed with bergamot. Just the hint of it makes my stomach churn with nausea.

“I’m going to make it hurt,” he croons, his face so close to mine I can feel his breath against my mouth. “You can’t imagine how much sweeter it is when I break through that iron control of yours and make you scream in agony.”

I hold his gaze, my disgust for him evident in my tone when I give a harsh whisper. “You’re the one who’s going to scream.”