The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter

Chapter Nineteen

MIA OPENED HER EYES. She had shifted. The wizard cradled her like a babe in arms, though his gaze lingered with an interest that was far from innocent. I am caught, Exeter.

A very long time passed before Prospero looked into her eyes. “You must be Mia.”

Charm him, until I can get to you.

She did not quite comprehend Exeter’s meaning. Or perhaps she didn’t wish to. “My name is Anatolia Chadwick—or Mia—if you’d like.” She lowered her eyelids slightly—offering the sleepy look Exeter had once called sultry. “And you are Prospero.”

“To begin my life . . . at the beginning of my life, I was born Alastair Wentworth the third, on a Friday, at the stroke of midnight, I’m told. The midwife declared that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I would see ghosts and spirits. Phaeton and I have this much in common.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “But you may call me Prospero—if you’d like.”

“Wooing her with David Copperfield? It’s no surprise you have to create drooling, beady-eyed monsters to keep you company.”

The wizard’s grin was wicked, or sly. Maybe both. “Phaeton appreciates my literary references. It might even be the reason he’s still alive.”

Mia looked the intimidating man directly in the eye. “Nonsense. He’s alive because you need him to help you wheedle favors from the Moonstone.” Mia quickly took in the medieval cavern and cell. “Hello, Phaeton.” Her gaze traveled to America, who appeared to be more than uncomfortable, chained to the wall, with only a bench to rest on. “Are you all right?” Something about America’s nod bothered her.

“Put your arms around my neck.” The wizard ordered in his quiet, contained way. She had expected him to be wretched and cruel—so much easier to detest—but this Prospero was neither of those things.

As yet.

A tug on the leash reminded her who was master. Mia placed her arms around his neck and clasped her fingers. Once again, the wizard ogled her. “You are Doctor Exeter’s ward, or concubine. I’m a bit . . . confused of late.” The chamber door creaked open on its own. Mia blinked. Had someone opened the door or had the wizard used his wily ways?

Prospero passed through the opening, into another dark passage, like all the others in the catacombs.

“You’re dead if you touch her. Exeter will kill you,” Phaeton warned, as the door slammed shut. She glimpsed a stare so dark it sent a chill through her. Prospero eyed the henchman walking beside them. “What is it?”

“Three little piggies headed this way.” The hideous creature wore a battered top hat stretched over a wispy-haired, bulbous head. The effect might best be described as ill-fitting. And she was quite sure this minion was one of the strange devils spotted in Café de l’Enfer—part of a duo that had abducted America.

“What of Exeter?” Prospero queried.

“Cobbler’s awls, Guven’r—he’s as good as buried.”

Mia’s heart hammered inside her chest. Prospero checked her reaction. Could this man be a sensitive intuitive, capable of feeling a racing pulse? Mia found herself tempering a sigh. Somewhere, deep inside, she had let loose a cry. But it was more than that—something beyond her worry for Exeter and his plight. She was almost certain America was in pain.

Doors had a way of opening on their own in the wizard’s enclave. Prospero halted at the entrance to a dimly lit chamber. “Would you ’ave Skeezicks finish the job?” The milky-eyed creature blinked.

Prospero lowered his steely gaze from her body to his minion. “Just take care of it.”

The hireling bowed and backed out of the small chamber. “What was that? Homunculus? Goblin?” Mia nodded after the retreating servant.

Prospero cocked his chin a bit. “He and his clone are all that remain of a failed experiment.”

Her brows crashed together in confusion. “Whatever do you mean?” she whispered.

He continued to hold her in his arms—oddly, as if he never wished to let go. “That would be a question for Oakley.”

The man spoke in riddles, which was predictably evasive of him. Mia raised her chin. “I wish to check on America. I will need something to cover myself.”

“I might have you walk around as naked as a wood nymph.” He appeared amused, but also wary.

She dared to reach up and touch his face. “Please.” She stroked a bit of stubble along his jawline, and felt something warm her insides—not desire—more like someone watching over her.

So, you are a voyeur, Exeter, the feline in her teased. Mia pictured the doctor buried under a mountain of rubble. Use your strength to stay alive, she scolded. He must use his powers for the cocoon. Whatever was coming between Prospero and herself—a tremor ran through her body, part fear and part . . . Good God. Mia shut down her thoughts. She must try to make it difficult for Exeter to pry.

Prospero lowered her to the ground. He opened the wardrobe and handed her a clean robe.

Mia noted the large flourish of monogram. “Capital C?”

“From Claridge’s—my London, not yours—same hotel. In the twenty-first century, they provide guest bathrobes.” He helped her into the wrapper.

Mia pulled on the plush, Turkish towel ties. “You stole it.”

Those ominous silver eyes sparkled, warmly. “I’m the bad guy, remember?”

Her gaze swept through a room that could hardly be called extravagant. In fact, the furnishings were almost Spartan. The bed was plain, and not particularly large. An old sea chest sat at its foot—with a secretary and wardrobe to each side of the quarried stone walls.

Mia scanned a number of sketches pinned to a sheet of cork above the desk. She squinted at a panoply of frightening designs, which appeared to be more like engineering plans. Good God, more sorry creatures. Some with huge heads, bulging with eyes and tentacles. Others with the stingers and claws of a scorpion—all of them appeared to be armored like soldiers. “More of your creations.”

“There is an epic war coming. There will be a need for kick-ass warriors.”

“So this is the army of the future . . . monsters.” Mia tore her eyes off the hideous living weapons. “You speak like Tim—in that odd Outremer vernacular.”

He paced up and down his chambers, slowly. “By my count, there are six of you. Exeter, Tim Noggy, the two Nightshade ninjas—Jersey Blood and Valentine. Phaeton’s paramour, Miss Jones . . . and you . . .”

A deft change of subject. But had the wizard let something slip? And he had not mentioned Ping or Edvar. Perhaps, he was holding back. “I count three here at the wizard’s outpost. Tweedledum, Tweedledee, and you . . .” As Mia sat back on the chest, the robe fell away from her legs. Prospero’s gaze traveled up her bare limbs to a deep v-shaped opening. She let the robe slip off her shoulder, exposing a curve of breast, a hint of nipple peeking out from under the fleecy cotton. Mentally, she tried to prepare for a seduction, unsure whether it would be her or this . . . extraordinary man.

“You are just as lovely in dishabille.” She pulled her knees under her chin and drew the wrapper close.

Prospero loosed the ties of his robe—enough for her to see he was impressively muscled—paler in skin tone than Exeter, but similar in physique. And he was nearly naked, with the exception of something very brief and tight covering a bulge of lower anatomy.

“Your arrival interrupted my shower.” Prospero turned to a niche in the wall of his chamber and turned a small wheel. Water sprayed from several spigots creating a curtain of fine droplets. Steam wafted out of the shallow space. Enthralled, Mia slipped off the chest and crossed the room. “So you knew I was near. And the whip you threatened America with . . . ?” She held her hand under the warm water.

“I had to get you to show yourself.” The man grinned. Not a boyish, innocent smile by any means, but a devilishly charming smile when combined with his soft-spoken voice. Mia was slightly taken aback by this monster called Prospero. At the same time, she hated the idea that she had walked—no, leapt—right into the wizard’s nefarious plans, whatever they were.

Prospero shrugged out of his tattered garment. “Those flies on the wall of Tim’s? Quite ingenious, even though I’ve turned them against you, for the most part.” Mia noted several ragged slashes she had made to the backside of his robe. On closer examination the garment appeared to be made of silk. He noticed her interest. “An ancient Chinese pattern.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “Sorry about the damage.”

“No need to apologize. The robe will mend itself.” He folded the garment carefully and lay the bundle down on the sea chest. Mia gasped as he stepped out of his skimpy unmentionables.

She jerked her gaze up from an impressive phallus at full tilt. “Those have to be Outremer drawers,” she blurted out. “Phaeton brought back the briefest of brief pantalettes for America.” Mia shook her head. “I can’t imagine wearing those strings and triangles—”

“Oh, I don’t know . . .” He wore that enigmatic half smile well. “I’d like to see you in a thong.”

His eyes were roving again, all over her body, and in a way that made her more uncomfortable than ever. He reached out to remove her robe and she shied away, enough that he hesitated before moving closer. Lifting a hand, he paused for a moment before he untied and unbuckled. He placed the emerald choker and silver chain on his desktop.

Be brave, Mia.

She bit her lip. She must have let something slip—feelings, urges. And she knew what Exeter was up to. He wanted her to live, unharmed, no matter what. His message was clear—let Prospero have his way if need be. Her knees trembled and all she could think was . . . thank God Exeter was alive.

When Prospero offered, she took his hand, and he led her inside the alcove. Following behind him, she could not help but study the crisscross pattern of scars on his back—some pale and flat, others irregular and fibrous. All of them appeared to be old.

The curious cat urged her to reach out and touch—trace the mysterious pattern of slashes down the length of his spine. Pattern . She caught herself and held back. What if this hash of disfiguring marks was not evidence of brutal floggings, but a pattern of scars . . . by design? Stunned by the idea, Mia squinted at an intricate web of lines connecting dots—a labyrinth of torment.

Testing the water with an open hand, Prospero turned back and examined her. “You are wondering about the stars.”

She started to nod, then stopped. “Stars?”

His gaze cut through a thick mist of steam. “I meant to say scars.” He pulled her into the shower. The fine spray of water stung her flesh. “Most exhilarating.” Her words, barely audible under the patter of drizzle.

The tall wizard turned his back to the water, and dipped his head under the spigot. He closed his eyes and let the water rain down on his face. Feeling increasingly awkward, Mia watched as he took down a violet-colored bottle and poured something into her hand. The shiny thick substance smelled of wild berries and fresh lavender. “In my world, they call this body wash.” He cupped her breasts and stroked, lightly. Swirling the scented soap over each nipple—slippery, and utterly arousing. “Would you rather I not wash you?”

Her sensitive breast tips peaked and she inhaled sharply. She peered up at him through the fine mist. “You are going to give me a paroxysm.”

There it was again—that close-lipped smile. He bent low enough to suckle, and when she tried to back away, he held her to him, sucking harder and tonguing the nipple until her knees nearly buckled.

Why was there suddenly no oxygen in this small niche? The steam certainly made the air as thick as a summer day, or had this man just taken her breath away? He reached lower, between her legs. His fingers explored, probed, and made her shudder. How long could she pretend—how much of this charade could she take before it was no longer a charade?

“Please,” she moaned.

His silver eyes and black pupils gleamed through warm rain. He pulled her against his body. “Please yes or . . . please no?”

Mia placed slippery hands on his chest. The only way to force another shift would be to climax again—Prospero could enable that shift. If she loosed the cat, she would likely tear him apart . . . or would she? Once more she gasped, “Please, don’t.”

Droplets fell from his eyelashes to high cheekbones—rivulets of water ran down his muscled torso. “Mia, what you think you’ve seen. What you’ve been told about me—”

“I am almost certain America has begun her labor.” Mia blurted out. She shivered at the thought of her dear friend having her baby alone—even the steaming rain of water provided little solace. “You must let me check on her.”

He stared at her for a very long time. “You are worried—and that worries me.” He turned her about and rinsed off the soap, then he shut off the spigots. The look on his face told her everything she suspected about Prospero. They were wrong about him. And if that were so, then whose side was she on?

He opened the wardrobe and handed her a clean robe. “Dee will show you the way.” The door banged open to Prospero’s quarters. “Hurry up, maker—the girly girl is wailin’ awful,” the Skeezick warned. Mia tied on the wrapper and hurried out of the room. As usual, the door closed on its own.

“Certainly your name can’t be Dee—it must be short for something?” Mia inquired as she trotted after the smallish, bulbous-headed creature.

“Tweedledee, miss-is,” the minion stated matter-of-factly. She detected a faint speech impediment.

“Don’t tell me, your twin is Tweedledum.” The most unexpected feeling surged through Mia. Her heart was nearly bursting with an odd sort of warmth for the enigmatic wizard. And for America and Phaeton—and dear, dear Exeter. And most certainly for this shy, homely bloke that led the way.

“Tweez we call him, as I was cloned from him.” The small man grunted, inserting a skeleton key in the lock. Metal ground against metal and the rusty cell door wheezed open. Mia stared at a wide-eyed Phaeton. “Is she . . . ?” She turned to America. “Are you . . . ?”

America wrapped an arm around her belly, and smiled weakly. “I think so.”

Entombed under rock and rubble, Exeter fought to stay connected with Mia. Earlier, he had experienced a sensory impression of rain, and the scent of lavender. A part of him was incensed, protective—frustrated he could not help her. And yet another side of him was curious, most disturbingly, in a prurient way. Mia was being touched, and yet he received only fleeting impressions of her growing arousal before she cut him off.

He continued to manifest enough potent force to keep the cave-in from collapsing his lungs, but he would not last forever. In the interest of conserving energy, he had attempted to quiet his mind, and purposely slowed his breathing. Inhales had grown as shallow as exhales. Frankly, he wondered if he was nearing delirium, or worse non compos mentis.

He held out hope that the communicator device, no matter where it was buried, still served as a locator. The others would arrive in time to unearth him. He would survive. He would make sure that Mia, America, and Phaeton were safely away. Then he would find Prospero and kill him.

Reaching for deeper stillness, he was distracted by the slightest disturbance of air. A sense of motion, and something else—a presence in the catacombs—an entity of some kind. He resisted the urge to call out for help, until he could resist no longer. Not when there was a possibility that Tim and the others were close by. “Hello—anyone?”

Something skittered along the edge of the wall. Small dark objects with many legs rounded a pile of stone. Exeter squinted. Christ . . . locator bugs. Nearly a dozen of them swarmed over the rubble and came to rest near his head.

“Ah, there you are.” The voice came from overhead. A bushy brow and a very large eye peered over the rock pile directly above him—something heavily whiskered and ornery looking.

Suddenly, he had company. Exeter allowed himself a small moment of elation. By the size of the beast, this had to be the troll—the creature Ping had mentioned. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to levitate large stones and a good deal of sand and rubble . . . by any chance?”

The troll’s muffled reply came from behind the rock. “I was sipping a cup of Earl Grey below Sorbonne Square when I heard the explosion. What on earth happened?”

“Trip wire.” Exeter released a loud exhale. A complete waste of potent force, but then again—why not? This large specimen of troll could easily lift some of the bigger chunks of limestone with ease. “Some friends of mine are in trouble . . . I must go to them.”

“And you, sir? Would you not call your predicament . . . trouble?” The troll’s chuckle loosed rock and debris from the ceiling.

Exeter squinted to keep the dust out of his eyes. “My friends,” he reemphasized, “have been captured by an off-world wizard by the name of Prospero. Know him, by any chance?”

A huge, hairy head rose from the top of the rubble pile and blinked both eyes. “We haven’t been introduced, per se, but I do believe I know to whom you are referring.” The troll spoke in a deep, refined voice, with a vocabulary that was educated.

“Yes, well, if you would be so kind to help me out from under these rocks and point me in the right direction? I’ll be on my way.”

“And might there be a reward”—in no hurry, the troll rested his chin on a mitten-like paw—“for the effort?”

“Compensation is not a problem. Name your price, sir.” Exeter coughed up a lungful of limestone dust.

“I have no use for money,” the troll harrumphed.

“I see.” Exeter wrenched his neck to get a better look at the wooly mammoth. “You did mention a reward—might we strike a trade, then? My release for—”

“Arcane knowledge.” A large, hairy face dropped down in front of him—nose to nose, only upside down.

“Right.” Exeter inched as far away as his confinement would allow. He racked his brain for an offer. “I am acquainted with a gentleman by the name of Mr. Eden Phillpotts, proprietor of the Antiquarian Bookshop, 77 Charing Cross Road. London.”

The troll lifted the rest of his hulking frame over the top of the rock pile and took a seat on a slab of limestone. “And might this proprietor—have a knowledge of spells?”

The furry-faced character removed a pipe and pouch of tobacco from a velvet smoking jacket. Exeter noted the elaborate tangle of embroidery covering the shawl collar and cuffs. Rather tony for a troll. “So . . .” A side of his mouth twitched upward. “You are a prince who was turned into a creature of the catacombs by an evil sorceress.”

The troglodyte struck a match and puffed, thoughtfully. “Hardly a gripping hypothesis, yet astonishingly accurate in some respects.” The acrid stink of sulfur was quickly replaced by the pleasant scent of pipe tobacco.

For a moment, Exeter thought he might be balmy from lack of oxygen. “Or, if you’d rather—I have an extensive private collection—in the library of secrets—the shelves are chock-a-block with spells, as well as counterspells. You are welcome at Roos House on the Thames anytime you happen to be in London . . . in the late nineteenth century.”

The troll took a few more meditative puffs. “Counter . . . spells?”

Exeter nodded. “Indeed. For every conjuration there is often an equal and opposite incantation, or haven’t you heard?” For a beast under an enchantment, the troll seemed woefully unacquainted with spells. Unless this strange character was acting the dunce. As exhausting as this circular conversation was, he almost smiled. “Newton’s laws of spells, actually.”

Exeter. The baby is coming.