Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(71)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Artemis shivered and glanced at the front doors.

Hell might have a gorgeous shell, but it still roasted the damned within.

She passed the porter and paid him her precious penny, though she wasn’t here to sightsee. Under the dome was an echoing hall with two long galleries leading off to her left and her right. It was early yet and the visitors were few, but that didn’t mean the inhabitants of Hell weren’t awake. They moaned or babbled, if they could make utterance, except for the few who simply howled.

Artemis ignored the galleries, walking straight on. Beyond the dome, two staircases curved away into space. She mounted the one to the left, holding her covered basket carefully. It wouldn’t do to spill her few, meager offerings.

At the top of the stairs, a man sat on a wooden stool, looking bored. He was tall and thin and Artemis had amused herself—rather morbidly—on previous visits by noting his resemblance to Charon.

She paid Charon his due—a tuppence—and watched as he took out his key and unlocked the depths of Hell.

The stink hit her first, a thing so solid it was like wading into filth. Artemis held the handkerchief on which she’d sprinkled lavender water up to her nose as she made her way. The inhabitants here were always chained, and many could not or did not make it to their chamber pots. To either side were small, open rooms, almost like stable stalls, though most stables smelled better and were cleaner than this place. Each room held a denizen of Hell, and she tried to avoid looking in as she passed.

She’d had nightmares in the past from what she’d seen.

It was actually quieter up here than the vast galleries below, whether because the inhabitants were fewer or because they’d long since given up hope. Still there was a low droning of something that once might’ve been song and a high giggling that stopped and started fitfully. She knew to skip swiftly past a cell on her right, dodging the foul missile that flew out, hitting the wall opposite.

The last chamber on the left was where she found him. He squatted on filthy straw like Samson restrained: manacles on both ankles and a new one—she saw to her horror—about his neck. The heavy iron ring encircling his neck chained him to the wall with not enough slack to let him lie down fully. He was forced to crouch, leaning against the wall if he wanted to rest, and she wondered what would happen if he slept and fell forward. Would he strangle himself in the night without anyone knowing?

He looked up as she hesitated in the entrance to the chamber, and a broad smile lit his face. “Artemis.”

She went immediately to him. “What have they done to you, my heart?”

She knelt before him and took his face in her hands. There was a lump over one hairy eyebrow, a scabbed graze high on his right cheekbone, and a cut on his too-broad nose. It looked broken.

But then it always had.

He shrugged massive shoulders covered only in a filthy shirt and coarse waistcoat. “It’s a new beauty regime. All the court ladies are following it, I hear.”

She swallowed a lump in her throat but tried to smile for him. “Silly. You mustn’t taunt them just for fun. You’re rather handicapped by these chains.”

He cocked his head, his thick lips curling. “Only makes the playing field even, doesn’t it?”

She shook her head and dug into her basket. “I … I haven’t much, I’m afraid, but Penelope’s cook kindly gave me some meat pies.” She offered one on a napkin.

He took it and bit into the pie, chewing slowly as if to make the repast last. She examined him covertly as she unpacked the rest of the basket. His face was leaner and if she wasn’t mistaken, he’d lost weight. Again. He was naturally something of a giant, with the shoulders and chest to fit, and he required large amounts of food. They weren’t feeding him and she hadn’t been able to sell the necklace for money to bribe the guards so they’d look after him.

Her brows knit worriedly as she came to the last thing in her basket.

“What’s that?” he asked, leaning as far as he could to look.

She grinned at him, her mood lightening. “This is my prize, and I hope you’re properly appreciative of the efforts I’ve made to procure it.”

She drew out a fabulously quilted gentleman’s banyan in dark red.

He blinked at it a moment and then threw back his head, roaring with laughter. “I’ll look like a veritable Indian prince in that thing.”

She pursed her lips, trying to look stern. “It’s a castoff from Uncle and it’ll keep you warm at night. Here, try it on.”

Artemis helped him into the banyan and was pleased to see that while it was a tight fit across the shoulders, he was able to nearly pull it closed in front. He leaned back against the grimy stone of the chamber walls, and he did indeed look like an Indian prince.

If Indian princes had bruised faces and sat on straw.

After that, he insisted on sharing some of the food she’d brought, so they had something of a picnic. And if the sounds of shouted swearing filled the air at one point, counterbalanced by loud weeping, well, they both made a show of ignoring it.

All too soon, she knew she must leave. Penelope wanted to go shopping today, and Artemis would be needed to carry parcels and keep track of where they went and what her cousin bought.

She was quiet as she fussed with her basket, hating to leave him alone in this place.

“Come,” he said softly as her lip began to tremble. “Don’t carry on so. You know how I hate to see you sad.”

So she smiled for him and gave him a hug that lasted just a bit too long and then she left that horrible chamber without another word. Both she and he knew that she’d come again when she could—most probably not until another sennight had passed.

When she made the outer hallway, she paused by Charon and gave him all the money she had within her purse—an embarrassingly paltry amount, but it would have to do. Hopefully it would be enough for the guards to remember to feed him, to empty his slops, and to not beat him to death when his wit became too much for them to bear.

She glanced over Charon’s head at the sign that hung above the locked door at his back: Incurable.

Every time she saw it, her heart beat with equal parts rage and fear. Incurable. It might as well be a death sentence for her beloved twin brother, Apollo: the incurably insane never left Bethlem Royal Hospital.

Otherwise known as Bedlam.

WHEN THE DOCTOR arrived two hours after their lovemaking, Megs insisted on staying in the room while he examined Godric. The men seemed to find this an odd behavior. Godric exchanged a wary look with Moulder, while the doctor tutted under his breath, muttering in French. Megs wanted to roll her eyes. None of the ladies of the house thought her strange to stay with her injured husband to see if he’d ever use his left arm again. She nearly choked on another wave of fear, grief, and anger, and had to turn away from the sight of the doctor probing at Godric’s arm. He’d already taken apart the original bandage on Godric’s right arm, prodded the long, shallow cut, pronounced it trifling, and rebandaged the arm.