Chapter 68
DRASKO
Pushing through the nausea, Drasko opened his eyes.
The hard light of an unshaded lamp blinded him. He was in some type of a windowless cellar. Five armed men were in the room with him.
His movements attracted attention.
“Why am I still here?” He sat up on the cold floor. “Where is Uriah Mawr?”
One man lit a cigarette with an air of superiority.
“You are rich and lucky,” he said, exhaling the smoke and inspecting the tip of his cigarette like it was the most curious thing. “That pretty lady of yours, she is a fighta’.”
The other men chuckled, seemingly at ease.
Anger started taking root in Drasko at the words. The drug’s effect was wearing off. He needed to fight. These men, no matter how many of them were here, didn’t stand a chance.
As long as he didn’t get shot, that is.
And then?
He’d made a deal. Uriah was cruel but a man of his word. He wouldn’t touch Grace, not when Drasko had agreed to?—
“Your lady agreed to the surgery.”
The room spun in front of him again.
No. He shook off the dizziness in his head and stood up. No, she can’t.
The men instantly straightened up. A few of them pushed off the wall and touched the guns tucked under their belts.
“She did,” the man said. “For you. You are lucky. She saved you.”
“No, no…” Drasko stared around, horror twisting his stomach.
He’d expected to be dead by now, beat up at the least, Uriah taunting him.
But not this, not the nauseating news about Grace.
“Where is she?” he asked quietly, meeting the men’s intense stares, one by one.
“Don’t know, mate. Sit the fuck down.”
“I want to talk to Uriah Mawr,” Drasko gritted out.
“He is with the lady,” the man said indifferently, the others observing Drasko with curiosity.
“How much time has passed?”
They only smirked.
“I will pay you,” Drasko insisted, conjuring the most confident expression and fixing his vest and jacket. “I will pay you more than him.”
“We already got paid.”
Drasko shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have more. I will make you rich.”
The men chuckled but exchanged meaningful glances.
He took slow steps toward the man in charge. “So rich, you will not know what to do with the money. You know who I am?”
The men’s chuckles subsided. Money always worked. The little wheels in their brains were turning, and Drasko had counted on it.
“We are waiting for the orders,” one of them said with hesitation, looking at the one in charge.
“How much are you getting for this?” Drasko asked.
He was a businessman. These men knew it. What they didn’t know was that he never left the house unarmed. And though his gun was gone, while he talked, his hand in his pocket undid the clasp on his leather bracelet, releasing a razor. “I will give you ten times more. Each of you.”
The man in charge cleared his throat and turned with his side to him as he looked at his men, trying to figure out by their expressions what to do.
“That is what businessmen do. They negotiate,” Drasko continued, taking another step toward the man. His blood was pumping away the remains of the sedative, giving him back his strength. “But you are not businessmen. You are soldiers. And the unfortunate thing about soldiers?—”
His hand flew out of his pocket as he lunged at the man in charge.
This was not businessman-like. But Drasko was many things. And one of them was a ruthless fighter.
He attacked the man so quickly that by the time the others collected themselves, only in seconds, the man in charge was sinking onto the floor, his hand pressed to the gaping wound on his neck, gushing with blood.
Before the first gun was drawn, Drasko had already head-butted one man, twisted him, and used him as a shield.
A gunshot rang through the room, deafening and piercing the man Drasko was holding. The body was pushed into another man while Drasko lunged for the next one.
Not one of them would be able to tell precisely what happened, how it was humanly possible for a man to move so fast, like a tiger in the jungle, a predator, always a step ahead of them.
The ones who survived would not remember clearly how in less than a minute, all of them were disarmed, broken, and incapacitated, and Drasko calmly went about the room, collected the guns, and, murmuring under his breath, “The negotiation is over,” walked out.
There were no men outside the dingy cellar. The staircase led straight out onto the street.
As soon as the light hit Drasko’s eyes, he squinted, and the urgency spiked his heartbeat—he had to find Grace.
“Time!” he shouted at a passerby. “What time is it?”
“Twenty minutes after six.”
He’d been out for more than an hour!
Disoriented, he darted in one direction, then in another. He had no idea where to look for her.
He rushed to a crossing sweeper boy, catching him by the shoulder. “So strikingly blue!” he blurted, but the boy only frowned at him.
Fuck!
He saw the boy who sold matches across the street, ran up to him, and repeated the words.
And there it was, the Bankees’ ingenious system—the boy whistled loudly, and another whistle echoed from down the street.
“Find Brodia!” he barked.
He glanced around at the street signs, assessing his location, and ran in the direction of the auction house, the match-seller following on his heels.
Not her. Just not her , Drasko’s feverish mind repeated.
He was hoping that the Crimson Tear was not at the auction. No humiliation or public scorn mattered. What mattered was that Grace did not go through the gruesome procedure that could ruin her life and break Drasko. He would never forgive himself.
Another whistle sounded from the distance.
The boy behind him answered.
In a matter of seconds, the ground shook with the horse’s hooves. Atop the horse—a man Drasko had never looked forward to seeing more than now.
“Grace! He’s got Grace!” He rushed to Zeph, who dismounted and met him mid-way. “He’s got Grace. She is in danger!” He fisted Zeph’s suit jacket and shook him. “I fucking asked you, Zeph?—”
“She is safe!” Zeph grabbed him by his shoulders. “She is fine! Brother, you have no idea what happened!”
“Where?”
“Safe!” Zeph fisted the front of Drasko’s vest and shook him to calm him. “That guy? Your uncle? Whoever that sick pig is?—”
“Where is Grace?” Drasko repeated, his wild eyes on Zeph.
“At the auction. She rushed there because of the deal. The stone. And you. Fuck, brother, you could’ve told me, no?”
The world that was wildly spinning around Drasko at last slowed down.
He let go of Zeph’s jacket and put both hands on top of his head, closing his eyes as relief pulsed through his veins.
Safe.
Safe.
Safe.
His eyes darted to Zeph again. “And Uriah?”
“Dead.” Zeph shrugged his shoulders.
Safe.
Safe.
Grace was safe.
A gust of wind ruffled his hair. Thunder broke out above them, just like that day he’d walked to St. John’s Church.
Drasko lifted his face to the sky, feeling the cool breeze graze his hot skin.
“Wait…” He turned to Zeph. “But the diamond. How…?” He met Zeph’s cunning smile. “How did the diamond…?” He frowned and stepped into Zeph in a warning. “Don’t fucking tell me?—”
Zeph pushed him in his chest. “Oy, calm, my man. Stay calm. He did not touch her.”
“Then how?—”
“If you’d fucking told anyone what was happening and what the deal was, it could have all been avoided, you know.
” Slowly, as if there was no worry in the world, Zeph lit a cigarette.
A boy ran up to him, bringing a message.
“To the auction house,” Zeph ordered the boy.
“I want several dozen of you there. Now.”
“How?” Drasko barked impatiently.
“Rivka had the bloody stone all along.”
“Rebecca?”
“Yes. Miss Rebecca, Rivka, that beautiful witch. Some magic. That woman, I tell you. I was visiting her at her shop when the news came about Grace. The story is as wild as everything that has to do with the Mawrs. Crazy uncles, cursed diamonds, forced marriages, fucking tigers.” He loudly exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air.
“We need to go to the auction,” Drasko said impatiently, an eerie sense of unease still in him.
He needed to see Grace and make sure she was indeed safe. His mind was already racing toward her, a new hope taking root in it that they had survived the worst.
Suddenly, a siren rang in the distance.
“The city siren,” a passerby said, everyone on the street halting to a stop, their heads turned in the direction of the emergency sound.
Where the Benham Auction is , Drasko thought, his heart skipping a beat.
A hansom cab flew by. Then another carriage.
“Disaster!” someone shouted.
The newsboys started running in that direction.
Without the knowledge of what was going on, Drasko’s heart started pounding, an uncanny feeling gathering inside him.
Rakshasa clawed at his back. His scars started to burn. Something was wrong.
His eyes widened at the smoke rising in the air, a dark cloud of it thickening above the buildings in the distance.
Policemen on horseback trotted by barking orders, “Move out of the way! Out of the way!”
Curious gawkers followed them.
A man halted next to Drasko and Zeph and shook his head.
“Another blow to the wealthy,” he muttered grudgingly. “The Benham Auction House is on fire. Dozens are trapped inside.”