Chapter 2 - Shadows in the East Wing
The darkness of the east wing did not feel like empty space; it felt like a weight pressing against Fiona’s ribs. Holding Arthur against her chest, she could feel the frantic, irregular fluttering of his heart. The boy was tiny, far too light for a seven-year-old, his body worn thin by months of systematic poisoning.
"Fiona," he whispered into the crook of her neck, his breath hot and shallow. "The floor is moving."
"It's just the shadows, Arthur. Keep your eyes shut. Trust me."
She stepped over the threshold, her soft rubber-soled nursing shoes making no sound against the polished herringbone hardwood. Behind her, inside the bedroom, Dr. Reed lay unconscious, but he wouldn't stay down forever. The blow from the bronze lamp had been solid, but adrenaline and desperation could wake a man quickly.
To her left, the grand corridor stretched toward the main staircase—a death trap. Victoria’s voice had come from that direction, sharp and laced with a cold, terrifying authority. To her right lay the older, unused service wing of the mansion, a labyrinth of linen closets, disused dumbwaiters, and narrow staircases meant for staff who were meant to be neither seen nor heard.
Fiona turned right.
Her own thumb was throbbing now. The puncture wound from the hidden needle felt like a small, localized fire spreading upward into her palm. A faint, bitter taste sat at the back of her throat, identical to the smell that had risen from the shredded memory foam. A neurotoxin, her medical brain analyzed automatically, detached from the raw panic threatening to paralyze her. Something lipid-soluble. Absorbed through the skin over prolonged contact, causing gradual neurological degradation. But injected directly? The onset will be much faster.
She needed to slow it down. For Arthur, and for herself.
A floorboard creaked fifty feet behind them.
"Check the guest suites," a male voice barked—one of Victoria’s personal security hires, not the regular Costello guards who patrolled the outer perimeter. "The doctor said the girl wouldn't get far if she got stuck by the traps."
Fiona slipped into the first open doorway she found, sliding into the darkness of a cedar-lined linen storage room. She pressed her back against the wall, pulling Arthur’s head down onto her shoulder, muffling his sudden, sharp gasp.
Through the slatted wooden door, she watched the beam of a flashlight cut through the hallway. The light swept past their hiding place, lingering for a terrifying three seconds on the doorknob before moving on.
"Nothing here," the guard called out. "Moving toward the solarium."
Fiona waited until the footsteps faded before she allowed herself to breathe. She slid down the wall until her jeans hit the floor, cradling Arthur in her lap. The boy was shivering violently now, his skin covered in a cold, clammy sweat.
"Arthur, listen to my voice," she whispered, her thumb already growing stiff as she pulled her penlight from her scrub pocket. She checked his pupils. They were dilated, sluggish to respond to the light. The poison was taking hold.
She opened her compact emergency kit. She didn't have an antidote—she didn't even know the exact chemical compound Reed had used—but she had epinephrine, atropine, and sterile saline. If the poison was an acetylcholinesterase inhibitor, which many synthetic neurotoxins were, atropine might buy them time.
"This is going to sting a little, brave boy," she murmured.
She didn't use a syringe on him yet; instead, she took a sterile blade, made a clean, shallow incision across the three puncture marks on his neck, and used a manual suction bulb from her kit to draw out as much localized fluid as possible. Arthur whimpered, a sound that tore at her chest, but he didn't pull away. He trusted her completely.
When she finished, she wiped the wound with alcohol and applied a tight pressure dressing. Then she looked at her own thumb. The joint was swollen, turning an ugly, bruised purple. Without hesitation, she sliced into her own flesh, squeezing the wound until dark, thick blood welled up and ran down her wrist. The pain was excruciating, but it cleared the fog gathering at the edges of her mind.
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"We can't stay here," she whispered to the empty room.
The house was a fortress, but tonight, the fortress had turned its guns inward. Dominic was six hundred miles away in New York, and his inner circle was either dead, compromised, or locked outside by Victoria’s sudden lockdown. Fiona knew she had to find a way to communicate with the outside world, or they would both be dead before the storm cleared.
