Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(21)

“To the river.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where we need to go.”

A while later, the sound of the wheels changed. He drew back the curtain. “We’re on the bridge now. Nearly there.”

“Who are you?”

No reply. On instinct, she moved toward the closest door.

He launched himself at her in an instant, her neck in his hands, jamming her up against the side of the carriage. She flailed as his grip tightened.

“Just let…it…go,” he grunted, bearing down harder. Black stars swirled in front of her eyes as she struggled to breathe, fingers clawing at his iron grip. She kicked at him, clipping a knee. His fingers loosened for a second, then redoubled in pressure.

Panic exploded within her. Another kick caught him mid-groin, and the air filled with blistering oaths. Cynda jammed a bunched fist into his midsection, as hard as she could. This time he released her, gasping for breath. His face changed as the white fuzziness around him faded.

Cynda flung herself at the far door and it swung open, revealing patchy darkness beyond. She wrenched herself free from the hands on her shoulders, hearing her sleeve rip. When she landed, the impact drove the air out of her. She instinctively rolled, fearing the carriage wheels.



Her head came to rest against a metal support, a gas lamp on the bridge. With a furious shout and the skittering of horses, the carriage screeched to a halt a few feet away. As she pulled herself upward, hands grabbed her from behind. She fought back, trying to keep them away from her neck. Too late, she realized the man’s intent. With a grunt, he hoisted her in the air and heaved her over the side of the bridge.

Cynda sailed downward. The wind billowed her skirts and whistled in her ears. Acting on instinct, she tucked into a ball the moment before she struck the water, then sank into the freezing depths like a bedraggled mermaid heading for a muddy grave.





Chapter 7




Why didn’t someone help her? Furious, Cynda struggled upward. With a tremendous effort she finally broke the surface, only to sink down. Lungs splitting, she clawed desperately toward the surface again. The second time Cynda breached the water something jammed into her shoulder. She grabbed at it blindly. Shivering intensely, she clung to the wooden oar, trying to work her legs free of the cloth wrappings as the pull of the water worked against her efforts. A moment before she lost hold of her lifeline, hands pulled on her, drawing her up. She scraped across something and then flopped face down into the bottom of a boat.

“Why’d ya go and do that?” a rough voice asked. “If ya’d left ’er in there a bit longer, we’d ’ave got more brass tonight.”

“Oh, hush up,” a second voice replied.

Cynda focused on each breath. In…out. In…The breath caught and she choked, spitting up water in a heaving gasp, nearly causing her throat to spasm.

“That’s it girl, ya keep breathing, ya hear?” the second voice commanded.

“Just clunk ’er on the ’ead with the oar. Does the trick every time.”

“I can’t do that.”

The first voice swore. “And I thought we’d get another five shillin’s.” He spat into the water. “Maybe she’s rich, and we’ll get us a reward for findin’ ’er.”

“Not bloody likely. Give me that tarp, will ya?” Something heavy and rough enfolded her. “There ya are, girl. It’s up to ya if ya live or die. I’m not God, so I got no say in the matter.”

Cynda couldn’t speak; her throat hurt too much. She focused on each breath as the watermen chatted back and forth. She finally caught their names: Syd and Alf. It’d been Syd who had suggested they hit her on the head with the oar. Listening to their conversation, it sounded as if they spent their nights hauling passengers back and forth across the Thames. Occasionally, they’d snag a body. Those were always worth money.



Her eyes blinked open when the boat landed.

“Is she still alive?” Syd asked.

Alf peered over at her. “Yup.”

He spat into the water again. “Never get a break.”

~??~??~??~



Saturday, 27 October, 1888

Rose Dining Room

As usual, his superior was already in his chair, paper at his elbow, enjoying his breakfast. They’d traded terse pleasantries and then food had arrived. Still, Satyr sensed that all was not as it should be.

“Are the buyers in London yet?” he inquired, swirling a bit of toast around the plate to capture the remaining bits of egg.

The Ascendant did not answer, but poured himself another cup of tea. Satyr poured his own tea, buying time. He always took it black. The darker the better. In fact, the dining establishment made a separate pot just for him as his superior had pronounced it unpalatable.

Satyr tried again. “Have our customers indicated how they’ll remove the items from London without drawing attention?”

“That is not your concern.”

Satyr’s irritation rose. “On the contrary; as Lead Assassin, everything is my concern if it involves you, sir.”

“The transfer is in hand,” the Ascendant replied tartly.

“Do you need me there to ensure—”

“Not needed.”