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 Cafe 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.
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.
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.
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.
