Chapter 30 Zaria #2
She tensed to make a break for the door, but before she could do so, Kane caught her by the arm, pulling her close and pressing his mouth to hers.
Her knees buckled as he trapped her bottom lip between his teeth, a hand sliding to her lower back.
He kissed her harshly, desperately, breaking away again all too soon.
“Sorry,” he breathed, tracing her parted lips with a finger before letting his arm fall. “I couldn’t help myself.”
Zaria’s entire body seemed to be vibrating.
She wanted to tell him not to be sorry. That she hadn’t been able to think about anything but kissing him again.
That the way her body fit against his felt like an impossible kind of perfection.
She wanted to tell him that all the reasons they weren’t right for each other only made her want him more.
That she was willing to cut herself on his edges, and that perhaps it meant something was very wrong with her, but she couldn’t find it within herself to care.
She brought her hand to Kane’s face, brushing her thumb over the curve of his cheekbone. His jaw went taut; she could tell he was clenching his teeth.
“I want…” She paused, swallowing. “I just want you to be happy.”
Kane’s gaze was downcast. He took a bracing inhale, then grabbed her wrist and brought it close to his lips. His breath whispered along her skin, his next words slightly muffled. “Ah, Zaria. I’m never happy. But you bring me pretty damn close.”
They stood like that for a long moment. Eventually, Kane seemed to realize she wasn’t going to say anything more. He took a single step back, his mouth slanting in the ghost of a smile. “Be careful, won’t you?”
Then he turned away, spine straight and unyielding as the ostentatious corridor swallowed him up.
Zaria didn’t know why it felt like goodbye.
Unsteady on her feet, she opened the nearby door just wide enough to slip through, finding herself in a narrow stairwell that clearly wasn’t for public eyes.
It bore little difference to the stairs down in the kitchens, devoid of all ornamentation.
The wood creaked where she put her weight on it, so she pressed close to the wall as she crept up to what Kane had described as the attic.
The moment she reached it, she dropped to the floor, heart seeming to ricochet between her ribs.
Even with Kane’s warning, she hadn’t realized she would be quite so visible up here.
She wasn’t as far above the hall as she’d anticipated, and it was already populated with well-dressed men, most of them seated at a long table in the center of the space.
Zaria couldn’t fathom why it was called the Egyptian Hall; though she knew little of architecture, she was fairly sure the round white pillars flanking each side of the room—not to mention the vaulted ceiling and gold accents—were a nod to classical influences.
It was all very ornate, with a large colorful stained glass window at one end that didn’t quite fit.
Using her elbows to pull herself forward, she crawled on her belly to peek through the banister.
She vaguely recognized a couple of people as being members of the commission, but most were strangers.
She hadn’t known there were so many members.
The meeting mustn’t have started yet, because they were chatting in small groups and periodically milling about, laughing in the false, self-important manner of toffs who wanted to make their presence known.
Finally, Zaria spotted Jules standing by one of the doors, his hands clasped and his attention trained straight ahead. Even from a distance, his presence eased her anxiety.
She let her focus wander to the group of men standing nearest Jules, squinting at the tallest one.
He wore a top hat that, from this angle, partially shrouded his face, but something about him was definitely familiar.
Zaria pushed herself into a seated position as she tried to get a better look at him, and that was when he finally tilted his head back to laugh, gaze drifting up.
His eyes locked with hers.
Horror shot through Zaria as she reeled back from the banister, accompanied by a wave of nausea. Her pulse was a throbbing sensation in the back of her throat. Not only because she’d been spotted, but because of who had spotted her.
Evan Pritchard was here. He was a member of the Royal Commission.
She used her heels to scoot backward to the door. As she did so, she dared to take one more brief glance in Pritchard’s direction.
He was gone.
Zaria cursed under her breath as she reentered the stairwell.
She had to find Kane. There was no point in staying any longer; she had seen all she needed to.
Pritchard was the common denominator. He was the one connecting Vaughan to the Curator.
Because he was the Curator, wasn’t he? It had to be him.
As a member of the commission, he had access to the Crystal Palace and its exhibits, which meant he could have snagged the necklace—the real primateria source—prior to the Exhibition even opening.
The revelations came to Zaria in a rush: Maisie also worked for Vaughan.
Maisie was an alchemologist, and could’ve used the source to create the devices.
Pritchard then snuck them into the Exhibition, where they served the dual purpose of driving more intrigue and harnessing the energy of everyone who attended.
But what was Vaughan doing with that energy, that magic? And why leave a business card with a clue etched right on its face? There was so much Zaria still didn’t know.
She leaned against the door that led back into the corridor, breathing hard.
She couldn’t be sure there was nobody on the other side—no matter how she strained her ears, she could only hear the echo of her own frantic heartbeat—but she couldn’t very well remain trapped here.
Apprehension was a physical weight in her stomach.
She braced herself, then turned the handle to open the door.
And once again found herself staring directly at Pritchard.
“Miss Mendoza.” He grabbed the door before she could shut it again, holding fast. His smile was tight, unamused. “Now, what in the world are you doing here?”
Zaria cast about for an answer, unable to think of one that would suffice.
As long as she was with Kane, as long as she was at the manor, she had been safe from Vaughan and his people.
Now, however, she was the opposite of safe.
And if Pritchard had paid any attention to the Mansion House staff, he’d doubtless recognized Jules, too.
“I should ask you the same” was the reply she settled on, but it came out hoarse.
Strangled. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’re on the Royal Commission.
You’re the Curator. Or rather, Vaughan is, and you’re his inside man. ”
Pritchard’s smile disappeared. “What do you know about the Curator?”
“Enough to know you have a primateria source. Enough to guess at what you’re planning with it.” Anger swelled past the constriction in Zaria’s throat. “I’m not the only one who’s figured it out, by the way. You’re going to get caught.”
To her confusion, Pritchard heaved a sharp sigh, checking his timepiece as though their conversation was beginning to bore him. He didn’t appear at all perturbed by what she had said as he muttered to himself, “I suppose we might as well move up the timeline.”
Rather than ask what the hell he was talking about, Zaria took a step back, retreating into the stairwell and simultaneously yanking out the aleuite revolver.
She’d hoped to catch Pritchard unawares, but he moved faster than she could’ve anticipated, lunging to close the space between them.
The force of his body knocked her to the ground, and one of her elbows struck stone.
Her other arm—with the hand holding the gun—was abruptly in Pritchard’s iron grip.
He loomed over her, turning her wrist painfully so that the weapon faced away from him.
Try as she might, Zaria couldn’t resist his strength, and the next moment he had plucked the gun from her fingers.
“Up,” he snarled, yanking her arm so that she had no option but to comply. Although getting shot with aleuite wouldn’t seriously hurt her, Zaria had no desire to risk it, knowing the chemical would put her out cold.
“What are you talking about?” she said through clenched teeth as Pritchard shoved her down the hallway. He kept close to her side, holding tight to her bicep, the revolver pressed to the small of her back. “What timeline?”
“Shut up and walk faster.” He jammed the barrel of the gun more firmly against her spine.
Zaria did as he commanded, shooting furtive glances in each direction in the hopes they would encounter someone—anyone—else. But if they did, what then? Pritchard would only shoot them. “You’re going to miss your meeting.”
He ignored her. They had reached the back of the building now, and he shouldered an inconspicuous door open, then pushed her out into an onslaught of rain.
Zaria cringed as the cold drops pelted down on her, squinting in an attempt to see where Pritchard was leading her.
Unless she was mistaken, they were rounding the side of Mansion House, sticking close to the exterior wall.
Hope lanced through her—Fletcher would still be out here.
If she could only find an opportune time to break away from Pritchard, maybe she could find him.
But Pritchard started to guide her away from the building, giving the door to the kitchens a wide berth.
They were moving on a diagonal across the property, toward the street where a stagecoach awaited.
Intuitively, Zaria knew she did not want to enter that stagecoach.
Boots kicking up water where she dug in her heels, she tried to pull away from Pritchard, no longer caring that he held her weapon.
“Stop it,” he said tersely, his grip on her arm tightening to the point of pain. “You don’t want to make this difficult, Miss Mendoza, I assure you.”
Zaria glared at him through the rain. His top hat protected his face from the worst of the downpour, but water sluiced off the rim and soaked his suit jacket. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Pritchard’s lip curled, his retort interrupted by a sudden holler in the near distance.
It took Zaria a moment to realize that whoever it was had yelled her name.
She fought to pivot in the direction of the sound, glancing wildly over her shoulder as Pritchard continued his bid to force her into the stagecoach.
Then she saw him—Fletcher. He was sprinting toward them, a sodden, towering figure silhouetted by the gray buildings. His arms were outstretched as he pointed what could only be a gun. “Let her go!”
Pritchard cursed under his breath, bodily maneuvering Zaria so that she was directly in front of him.
Breathing hard, she tried to break away, tried to sprint to Fletcher, but the man’s hold was unyielding.
“Stay out of this,” Pritchard called back to Fletcher.
“This has nothing to do with you, fool boy.”
Zaria could see Fletcher deliberating, looking for a way he could shoot Pritchard without hitting her.
Her hopes weren’t high as Pritchard fastened an arm across her chest and dragged her backward.
She thrust her chin up, going limp, but it only seemed to make his task easier.
He was using her as a human shield. In that moment, Zaria had never felt so weak and inadequate.
It was impossible to kick at Pritchard from this angle, and she let out a keening sound of frustration at the exact time that a gun fired.
She went utterly immobile at the noise. At first, she couldn’t determine what had happened, panic and fury making her disoriented. Then, in the distance, she saw Fletcher crumple to the ground.
“NO,” Zaria screamed, fighting against Pritchard with renewed vigor, lashing out in an uncoordinated frenzy of limbs. “No, you son of a—”
The next thing she knew, all the world went black.