Page 53 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

The sorcerer, whoever he was, whirled in place, Dire-torch high.

And Nigel shot him.

Not in the back. In the front.

The kickback shocked him so much, Nigel yelped in surprise, his voice lost in the reverberations echoing through the tunnel. For a moment, he was too stunned and his ears too rattled to take in anything else. Then the sorcerer’s screams broke through. Shaking his head, Nigel peered down at his victim, who lay writhing on the ground, clutching his knee. Nigel’s brow lifted a little, even as he shook out his shocked arms. He’d aimed for the heart, but . . . well, this would do. He’d probably committed enough murder for one day anyway.

“Who’s there?” the sorcerer shrieked between inarticulate groans of agony. “Damned wardsman! Come out where I can see you!”

His weasely voice gave him away: Percival Blackmere, a devout practitioner of necromantic arts. Nigel sneered as he holstered his weapon. He’d always hated Blackmere. But then,that was pretty much par for the course among all members of Nocturnus. They weren’t exactly an affectionate bunch.

Striding swiftly forward, Nigel knelt beside the now blubbering Blackmere. He was definitely incapacitated, but it wouldn’t hurt to incapacitate him a bit more thoroughly. Whipping off the tie of his dressing gown, little caring how this made him shimmer back into visibility, Nigel wrenched the man’s hands behind his back and secured them. Then he squeezed Blackmere’s jaw until his mouth opened and popped an egg-shaped bomb firmly between his teeth.

“Don’t make a sound,” he growled. “That is a severmist bomb. One wrong move out of you, and the crystal will break. Then you can commiserate with Lancelot Mortimer in hell, you bastard.”

Blackmere whimpered, his whole body quivering with a combination of shock and terror. Nigel spared him no sympathy, but scooped up his fallen Dire-torch and stood, facing the cell.

For a moment, he braced himself. He knew he must enter. He had no choice. He must enter and face whatever he found within.

Terrible visions, horrible memories, hideous nightmares danced across his mind’s eye.

Shaking them away, Nigel pushed the door open and shone the Dire-torch inside the cell.

She was there. Alone in the dark. Seated on the stone floor, her back to the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her arms dangled from chains suspended over her head, and her chin was dropped to her chest.

Even in unconsciousness, her face wore an expression of absolute horror.

“Luna!”

Nigel dropped the Dire-torch to sputter on the stone floor, casting weird red lights across the black walls of the chamber. The much-too-small chamber. The closed-in, claustrophobic, tomblike chamber.

“Oh, Luna! Luna, talk to me!” Falling to his knees before her, Nigel whipped off the gas mask and took her face between his hands, his fingers tense as he lifted her chin from her chest and pushed back snarls of limp hair. A wild storm of emotion threatened to overcome him, and he pressed his forehead against hers, breathing raggedly. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, the words spitting with pain through his teeth. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my dear, my dearest girl. I came as soon as I could. Oh, Luna, dear heart, can you hear me?”

His trembling fingertips felt for a pulse. He knew it would be there, of course—the Brotherhood would not allow her to die, no matter how severe her panic got. But how could they keep her in a space like this? Could they not see her terror? Had they nocompassion in their heartless souls? Had they left her in here, screaming in panic, until she fainted from sheer stress?

But no. Now that he looked, Nigel found many sorcerous workings surrounding her, including a subduing spell to knock her unconscious. Good. As much as he hated it, perhaps it meant she was never aware of this dark and dreadful cell. He also found indications of siphoned essential energies. Mortimer would have needed those for the creation of such a lifelike simulacrum. There was another spell as well. Something he did not recognize in the moment. But he didn’t have time to work it out just now.

His gaze scanned from her face down to her huddled body. They’d taken her clothes. Everything but her delicate white slip. Even her stockings and shoes were removed. They hadn’t taken any chances when they dressed that simulacrum to take her place.

A rush of raw fury boiled up in Nigel’s soul. How dare they? How dare those monsters lay hands on her, stripping her, leaving her nearly-naked and defenseless? How dare they dishonor and sully her, how dare they lay these hideous spells upon her? The temptation was strong to call down that last incendiary spell here and now, to obliterate all Nocturnus and its inhabitants!

But no. He had to get Luna out. He had to get her to safety.

Dragging another agonized inhale, Nigel forced himself to check her for other injuries. There was a bad cut on her forehead, and, once again, he had to fight the surge of vengeance in his gut. They seemed to have treated it at least—there was a bit of ointment and a small plaster. He would clean it himself once he had her to safety. First things first, however.

He ran his hands up the chains clutching her slender wrists. A few tugs told him he would never have the strength to pull them from the wall, not without the aid of sorcery. But, holdon! Blackmere was most likely coming down here to fetch her. Which meant . . .

“I’ll be right back,” he whispered, stroking her cheek with the backs of two fingers. He hated to leave her side even for a moment, even for a breath. He swallowed thickly. “Hold on. I’m getting you out of here.”

With that, he hastened back out into the passage where Blackmere continued to sit with his back to the wall, shuddering, a bomb stuck between his teeth. He hadn’t spat it out, at least, probably fearing it would shatter. In his state of shock, he wouldn’t have the defenses to protect himself from the severmist. Nigel couldn’t see much, having left the Dire-torch inside, but he felt around inside the man’s black robes until he found what he sought: an old-fashioned, iron keyring. Very gothic, very villainous. Very in keeping with the aesthetic.

“Hmmm mmmm mmmph!” Blackmere whimpered.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Nigel replied, patting him gently on the cheek—too gently to break the crystal, but just firmly enough to be a threat. Then he returned to the cell.

Within moments, he’d unfastened the shackles. Luna slumped forward. Nigel caught her in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder, and he breathed in her honeysuckle-and-vanilla scent. A scent which no simulacrum could possibly mimic. Not without weeks of drinking the same auspicious tea every morning, like a ritual.

Nigel closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Allowing this moment, at least, to be full of rightness. She was alive. She was in his arms. He’d got her.