Chapter 32 Zaria
ZARIA
Zaria came to with a start, squinting at her unfamiliar surroundings.
At first she thought she was back at the manor.
She was on a sofa in what looked like a rich person’s drawing room; everything was arranged for show more than comfort, with a pianoforte propped in front of a window overlooking a grassy stretch of property.
But the wooden floor and accents were brighter than the manor’s deep mahogany theme, and it was obvious that they were nowhere near London’s most urban areas.
Based on the light outside, it looked to be about midday, although Zaria wasn’t certain.
She shot up to sit, only to curl in on herself as her head spun with vertigo. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to bolt as the events at Mansion House came flooding back, but she knew she was in no condition to walk, let alone run.
Fletcher, she remembered suddenly. He would be okay—he was large enough that the aleuite would’ve worn off quickly and left few side effects. How long ago was it that she’d watched unconsciousness drag him to the ground? How long had she been unconscious, and why had it lasted so long?
Someone at the edge of the room cleared their throat. Zaria whirled, narrowing her gaze in an attempt to focus her vision, which continued to swim. Still, she recognized him at once.
“What the hell is this?” she growled at Pritchard, who watched her impassively where he stood by the grand double doors.
He flashed a satisfied smile. Looking at him now, Zaria didn’t know how she’d ever believed him a well-mannered gentleman from upper-class stock.
It was evident in the way he moved that he was no stranger to violence.
This wasn’t the stiff, falsely pleasant bloke she’d encountered in the stagecoach that first day—this was a man you didn’t want to turn your back on.
He reminded her of Kane, she realized abruptly. He was a con.
Pritchard approached the sofa, his hands clasped in front of him. “How are you, Miss Mendoza?”
“How am I?” Zaria resisted the urge to spit in his direction. “Not great. You shot me, if you’ll recall.”
“Ah, yes.” Pritchard patted his waistband. “Your aleuite revolver was a clever idea, truly.”
Zaria narrowed her eyes. Pritchard doubtless had some knowledge of the dark market, but she hadn’t thought he would recognize the gun for what it was. She’d only come up with the design a couple of weeks prior. “If you knew what it was, then you never intended to kill me, did you?”
He chuckled. “Of course not. Besides, do you really think you were the first person to create such a thing? I’ve been working with aleuite for nearly as long as you’ve been alive.
It’s more versatile than most people think, if only they’re willing to experiment with it.
How do you think I managed to keep you unconscious this long? ”
“You’re an alchemologist.”
His shrug was blasé. “Guilty.”
“So you are the Curator.”
Pritchard laughed again, this time with a smug edge to the sound. “Goodness, no.”
Something about the way he said it snagged Zaria’s attention. “Then it has to be Vaughan. Who are you, really? How did you come to be a member of the commission?”
Pritchard sighed through his nose. “My father was a chairman of the East India Company. He recently passed, so I took his position.”
Zaria stilled. The East India Company was one of Britain’s most powerful—and horrible—corporations.
She didn’t know much about history, but she did know that the company was responsible for inciting numerous overseas wars in their bid to force territories to become colonies of Britain.
Colonies whose art and culture were now being exhibited in the Crystal Palace by their usurpers.
“So evil is hereditary in this case, is it?”
She could tell she’d struck a nerve by the way Pritchard’s nostrils flared. Apparently done with their conversation, he stalked even closer, stretching out a hand. “Give me your arm.”
“My arm?”
“I’m not going to ask a second time.”
Still Zaria didn’t move, fear overtaking her. Pritchard beckoned with his outstretched fingers. “You can do as I say, and receive the explanation we both know you’re so desperate for, or I can shoot you again, and you can go into this blind. It’s your choice.”
She leaned away from him. “Go into what blind?”
“You have three more seconds to make your decision.”
Biting the inside of her lip, she thrust her arm out, feeling horribly vulnerable.
Before she could comprehend what he was doing, Pritchard jabbed a syringe into the crook of her elbow, eliciting a gasp.
She yanked her arm back, her gaze blurring with panic as she examined the tiny red pinprick where he’d injected her.
“What was that? What did you just put in me?”
“It’s harmless,” he reassured her. “Now, if I were you, I’d try to relax. She’ll be in soon enough.”
“Who will?”
Zaria might as well not have spoken. Pritchard was already on his way to the door, his steps purposeful. She repeated the question, lurching to her feet only for her legs to give out.
The door slammed as Zaria collapsed to the floor, bewildered. Had her limbs gone numb after too many hours of immobility? They didn’t seem to be tingling the way she might expect had they fallen asleep. Rather, it was as if the connection between her brain and body had simply been… interrupted.
Panic surged as she realized her arms, too, were being leached of their strength. She used one final bit of effort to drag herself back to the sofa and propped her body against it, breathing hard. Obviously whatever Pritchard had injected her with was causing this, but what was it? And why?
Then she heard the door open.
Although her limbs had failed, Zaria found she was still able to turn her head, and she watched as a lovely blonde woman swept into the room.
She was slim and keen-eyed, perhaps twenty or so years Zaria’s senior.
Her hair was the color of spun gold, piled in an intricate-looking knot atop her head, and her dress was a deep red with velvet embellishment.
Of three things, Zaria was immediately certain: This woman was wealthy, self-assured, and cold as ice.
She blinked pale lashes, unperturbed by Zaria’s strange position on the floor. “Don’t tell me you tried to run.”
Zaria tested her voice, relieved to discover that it still worked. “Who are you?”
The woman ignored her. “It was convenient Evan happened to come across you. I don’t have need of you until tonight, but I suppose a day early doesn’t hurt.”
It took Zaria a moment to recall that Evan was Pritchard’s given name. “What do you need me for? Where am I?”
“You’re not too far outside of London. I’ll admit, I rarely make use of my late husband’s country home, but I’d forgotten how charming it is. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t give a damn about your country home,” Zaria snapped. “Tell me what you want from me.”
The woman sighed, fingering a ringlet that had been left to hang artfully loose by her face.
Despite her slight stature, she seemed to take up much of the room.
“I don’t want anything from you. Not anything that requires effort on your part, at least. All I need is your presence.
A good thing, since you appear to be incapable of carrying out the tasks I assign you. ”
“What tasks? I don’t even know who you are.”
“I suppose it’s true that we haven’t met face-to-face. You do, however, know who I am.”
“What do you…” Zaria trailed off as those words sank in. Horrified understanding pulsed through her. “No. No way.”
The woman waited, smiling coyly.
“You’re Mister Vaughan?”
“Miss Vaughan, if you will.” A light laugh. “Mister Vaughan was my husband.”
Zaria’s head was spinning too fast to form a complete thought. “I don’t understand. Why do you want control of the dark market? How can you be a kingpin?” Then, a realization: “My mother works for you?”
“Ah, Zaria. You can be whatever you want, so long as enough people are willing to accept it as truth. As for why I want control of the market… Well, that’s my business. But you’re going to help me achieve it.”
“I’m not going to help you do anything. You had me kidnapped.”
“Like I said before, all I require is your presence.” A shrug. “I don’t even need your cooperation.”
“Screw you,” Zaria said throatily. She was beginning to notice that speaking required more effort each time she did it.
The woman laughed again, and this time the sound was far higher. It sent a chill skittering over Zaria’s skin. “God, you’re so like your father. He always seemed to think that if he only got angry enough at a problem, it would simply go away.”
“How would you know anything about my father?”
The woman settled primly on the couch. She angled her body closer, extending a hand to take Zaria by the chin, almost as if she wanted to examine her features. “How would I know anything about Itzal Mendoza? Ah, my darling girl. I had a child with him.”
The floor seemed to bottom out from beneath Zaria.
Her immediate thought was that Itzal couldn’t possibly have had another child without her knowing—but then she became conscious of the way the woman was scrutinizing her face, continuing that slow examination.
She remembered the letter they’d found in Cecile’s apartment. The initials AV.
“Aurora Vaughan,” she whispered, disbelief and horror dawning. It couldn’t be. There was simply no way that the cold-eyed woman before her was her mother.
Aurora released her with a thin smile. “I couldn’t help wanting to take a good look at you first. A pity you’re more like your father.”