CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
She was falling, a black maw below her. She couldn’t think, couldn’t begin to understand. She heard Nicholas shout her name, but she couldn’t stop, she was falling, falling—something was choking her—
Nicholas, Nicholas, I’m so sorry— Her neck slapped to the side, hard, and she was jerked to a stop, like a bungee cord, only she wasn’t dangling in space. She banged into a hard wall, the breath knocked out of her. She realized she was choking and pulled hard at the gun strap now twisted tight around her neck. She couldn’t loosen it, it was cutting off her air. She heard Nicholas yell, “I have you!”
She dangled in the darkness, Nicholas’s hand holding the gun strap, and she was tearing at it, trying desperately to loosen it. She realized the strap was pressing against her jugular. She couldn’t breathe, spots started to dance in front of her eyes. She struggled, but nothing worked.
“You’re okay, Mike,” he called down to her. “Breathe, your wind’s been knocked out, little sips of air, I have you. You aren’t going to fall.”
He quickly pulled her up through the darkness, back into the white room. Her gun clattered against the metal edge of the hole, ripped free of her body. It was a long time before it hit bottom.
She landed on the floor, arms and legs splayed out, wheezing for breath. Nicholas saw what was happening and grabbed the strap he’d caught and pulled it away from her neck. “Breathe! Breathe!” She did, a great shuddering breath went through her, and she rolled up, pulled her knees to her chest, rocking, rocking. He was rubbing her back, her sternum. She wheezed out, “That’s better. I can nearly breathe again. Did I break my neck?”
Nicholas quickly looked back to see Radu hadn’t moved. He still pressed the scalpel to Isabella’s throat. He was watching them, a strange expression on his face. As for Isabella, she looked frozen, probably too terrified to move.
“No, your neck’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t see I was choking you.” Instead of saving her he could have killed her. He brought her close, continued to rub her shoulders, her neck. When she was breathing easily once again, she looked over at Radu Ardelean, but he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at the empty expanse between them.
She looked down. There wasn’t a floor between them. It was gone. It had opened, and she’d fallen through.
Radu said, nodding, “Oubliette. It goes down a good thirty feet to a stone floor. Remember, I did tell you to stop.”
She stared into that huge black hole, at least ten feet by ten feet. Thirty feet to the bottom? If Nicholas hadn’t caught her by the gun strap, she would have died or her body would have been so broken— She swallowed. A gift, a miracle. She felt Nicholas’s hands now resting lightly on her shoulders. She was alive. She drew in a deep breath and lifted her hand to squeeze his.
Nicholas said slowly to Radu, “An oubliette, built into this house. It’s not on the architectural plans.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. Roman told me about it, said he couldn’t imagine it would ever be used but showed me what button to press—” Radu pointed to a small black spot on the edge of a counter close to him. “Roman said it was like an oubliette our ancestors used, like the one in their castle, a surprise defense.”
“What ancestors, Radu?”
“Tell them, Isabella.”
She felt the scalpel ease back, swallowed. “Their most infamous ancestor, and mine, too, perhaps, is Vlad Dracul III, but—”
“No, that’s enough,” Radu said against her cheek, and it looked to Mike like he breathed in the blood on her neck. He raised his head. “I assume your helicopter is what’s burning outside the windows? I heard it coming. Iago set off the missile. It would have crashed through the window, but Roman put in special glass. But you made it to the roof first. And you made it past the guns in the gallery, and the gauntlet.” He looked at Mike. “You were lucky this man caught you, or your body would be broken on the stone floor at the bottom on the oubliette. Iago says that luck is sometimes the conqueror’s best friend. If Vlad Dracul were here, though, he’d kill you both and stick your heads on a pike.”
Nicholas said, “It’s time to put a stop to this, Radu. We have your brother in custody.”
“No, that’s a lie. My brother called me, he was about to blow up a theater, I believe.”
Nicholas felt the blood drain from his head. He called over his shoulder, “Gareth, you and Mike cover him.” And unspoken was If he tries to kill her, shoot him dead.
Gareth was sitting on the other side of the oubliette, one of his socks tied around his wounded leg. He raised his gun to point at Radu. “I’m okay.”
Nicholas turned away, tapped his comms. “Is anyone there?”
There was silence.
He pulled his mobile out of his zippered thigh pocket and dialed his father’s number. It went to voice mail.
He called Adam, who answered on the first ring.
“Nicholas, are you and Mike alive?”
“Yes, but it’s very complicated. My father?”
“We lost comms with your dad. Nicholas, there’s been a bombing at the Prince Edward Theatre. We don’t have any information yet, but I’ll call the moment I get anything. Keep your phone close, okay? Your dad, I’m sure he’s okay.”
Nicholas pushed down the rage and the fear, pushed away the sight of his father’s body, dead, burned. His mother’s face—he felt the fear clog his throat, then: “You call me the moment you know something. We’re talking to Radu Ardelean, Roman’s twin brother. Do you know where Ardelean is?”
“No, we don’t. The whole operation went sideways. There are several teams heading your way, with medical services. You’re bringing out both the brother and Dr. Marin?”
“To be determined.” Nicholas turned back to Radu. He said, his voice so rough with rage Mike flinched. What had he been told? Nicholas enunciated every word. “Where. Is. Your. Brother?”
Radu shrugged. “So he’s escaped you. I never doubted he’d beat you. Killed your team, did he?”
“He murdered my father!” Nicholas raised his Glock, but he couldn’t get a clear shot. He couldn’t run at him, the oubliette was in his path.
But Isabella saw her chance. She drove her elbow into Radu’s belly, and he went flailing backward. The tubing in both their arms tore free.
There was a moment of silence, then Radu cried out. He was looking at his arm, watching blood begin to well at the site of the needle. He pressed down so hard his knuckles whitened with the pressure, but it didn’t stop the blood. He had to compress the vein so no more blood could get through. It was physically impossible—only it wasn’t. Radu said, his voice strangely calm, remote, “There is hemostatic gauze in the drawer. I need it.”
Mike said, “We can’t get to you. The oubliette is in the way.”
“On the wall, to your left. There’s an override switch. Please, hurry.”
Gareth slapped at the button, and the floor closed. Nicholas rushed to Radu, rolled him onto the hospital bed. Radu cried out in pain and curled into a ball, moaning. “No, don’t touch me, I can’t stand it.”
Mike came up to his side. “All right, it’s all right. We won’t touch you.”
Radu whispered, “The gauze. Please.”
Mike didn’t hesitate. She reached out her hand. Nicholas said, “Don’t, Mike,” but she ignored him and opened the drawer, then stopped short. She looked at Radu.
“I swear to you it’s not a trick. It’s not a trick. The drawer won’t explode. If you don’t get it on the wound, I’m going to bleed to death.”
They saw blood dripping from between his fingers now, saw the stark fear on his face. She pulled open the drawer, saw a stack of military-grade hemostatic gauze packages with the brand name QuikClot on them.
She opened one and slapped it on his arm. “You won’t bleed to death, you’ll see, the pressure will cut off the vein.”
Nicholas quickly released Isabella from the webbing. She ran to stand over Radu, the tubing dangling from the needle in her arm. “What he has, it’s a different kind of illness.”
Radu answered, his voice remote as he stared down at his arm. “Most hemophiliacs can’t simply bleed to death. It’s true, I have a disorder that isn’t treatable. My blood simply won’t clot. Even with the vein compressed, it doesn’t matter.”
Mike said, “What else can we do?”
“Pressure, and the medicine on the counter. The green self-injectable tube. It’s still in development, experimental, but it’s my only chance.”
She had the tube in her hand when she saw the edges of the hemostatic gauze were already red and pooling.
“Inject that into my neck, please. Just here. Please do not touch me with your skin while you do so. I don’t like being touched. Except Isabella. She’s my sister.” He pointed at the artery. He bent his head, and she jammed the auto-injector pen against his neck and depressed the button. He winced but didn’t make a sound.
“This is experimental, how, exactly?” she asked.
“As in I’ve never tried it before. I haven’t had a bleed in years.”
He lifted the edge of the now soaked gauze. Even Mike knew this was bad—the QuikClots were designed to stop bleeding, to save lives on the battlefield, but for Radu, it wasn’t enough to stop a simple IV needle removal. And he believed Isabella’s blood would cure him? She pressed down against the site with all her strength, but it didn’t help, blood still poured out of the wound in his arm. Her hands were red with his blood. But how could that be? Was he bleeding internally?
Mike said, “Your neck is bruising, Radu. It’s almost black.” And she slapped a fresh gauze pack in place, applied more pressure.
Isabella touched his uninjured arm. “We need to get you to a hospital, Radu. Surely they’ll be able to do something.”
Radu said, his voice still remote, almost disinterested, “It won’t matter. The bruising on my neck wasn’t supposed to happen. It means the medicine didn’t work. At the rate I’m bleeding, I’ll be dead soon now.” He raised glazed eyes to their faces. “Roman researched a dozen people, so many that could possibly be of our line, tracked them down, and exsanguinated them to give me their blood. None worked until Isabella.” He gave a laugh so thin and insubstantial it was like smoke. “And now I’m self-exsanguinating.”
The blood was pooling beneath him now, dripping onto the floor.
“We’ve designed a whole life around making sure I didn’t have a bleed. Isabella, you are my only hope.” He spoke to her in that strange, guttural language. She whispered back in the same language, then turned to them. “I’m going to try to hook us back up. My blood—it might help.”
Nicholas said, “I’m sorry, we don’t have the training for that. Listen, the medics will be here soon—”
Radu lifted the gauze from his arm and stared at the pulsing blood. He whispered, “Roman is going to be furious with you. He has tried so hard.” And he slid over onto his side, his eyes closed, his hand pressed against the gauze in the crook of his elbow, now red with his blood. He called, “Isabella? You’re all I have.”
She grabbed the needle adhesive still sticking to his arm and shoved the needle back in, hoping she’d hit the vein. She straightened the tubing on her own arm and lay down beside him. She took his hand in hers. “Lie still and feel my blood come into you, Radu. You will live, do you hear me? My blood will make you live.”
She felt him sigh. Felt him squeeze her hand. He was so cold, shivering now, though it was very warm in the lab. “I’m here, Radu.”
He whispered in Voynichese, “Tell Roman, tell him your blood is the key. Your blood. The potion isn’t important, not the book, not the pages. You are the cure, for me. Make sure he knows. I don’t want him to blame you, kill you.” His voice faded until his last words were a faint whisper.
His eyes closed.
“I’ll tell him, Radu. You must hold on. My blood is flowing into you. You must hold on.”
Nicholas and Mike watched the blood, Isabella’s blood now, flowing out of his arm, pooling on the floor.
Gareth limped up to stand beside them. Isabella pulled the needle out of her arm, applied pressure. They all stood in silence, helpless, and watched Radu Ardelean die.