Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

Isabel lowered the pick and hurried toward Margaret. “Delraven himself told me I was being kept prisoner here.”

“You saw him? When?” Margaret asked sharply.

Isabel glanced at the enormous rumpled bed. How long had she slept after she’d passed out on the staircase? Had he laid her in that bed?

“Are you all right, Miss?” Margaret asked. Isabel realized she must have noticed her shiver.

“Of course I’m not all right,” she grated out. “I woke up in a strange house with weird people—no, creatures, in it—I haven’t got a clue what happened to me and I’m being told I’m a prisoner. How would you feel?”

Margaret grimaced and resumed her task. “I see your point.”

Isabel watched the stout woman pick up garment after garment, rustling out invisible wrinkles. In the far corners of her awareness, Isabel realized each new piece of clothing was more exquisite than the last.

“You’re not like them,” Isabel declared.

Margaret’s eyebrows went up before she walked toward the closet. Isabel followed her as she briskly started to hang up the clothing.

“I’m mortal, if that’s what you mean. The only mortal on Lord Delraven’s permanent staff.”

“You must be so proud,” Isabel replied acidly as she followed the energetic woman back to the foot of the bed. Part of her found the woman’s statement ludicrous, of course. Another part, however—the part that recalled the terrifying absence of a life force of the man who had forced her to touch that crystal, the film negative-type auras of Aubrey Cane and Lorenzo Titurino and the strange, magnificent force surrounding Lord Delraven—accepted what Margaret said without question.

“There was another mortal here,” Isabel challenged. “A woman. A man was painting her.”

Margaret glanced back, an elegant wool skirt extended in her hand. “Well, mortals frequently come to Sanctuary. They’d have to, wouldn’t they? You really did get out of bed earlier, didn’t you? And you saw Delraven?” A shadow crossed her features. “Oh dear. No wonder he was so tetchy this morning.”

“If he doesn’t want me here, why doesn’t he just let me go?”

Margaret’s expression softened. She picked up an emerald silk blouse. “He would, if he could. You must understand. You wouldn’t be safe outside of Sanctuary. Morshiel would find you again. No matter where you go.”

“Morshiel,” she hissed, once again trailing after Margaret toward the closet. “That…that thing, that monster that kidnapped me?”

“Yes. I’m afraid Morshiel is every human’s nightmare,” Margaret admitted sadly.

“If he’s every human’s nightmare, why is Delraven singling me out? I doubt he’s keeping every citizen of London secure in this house. Why force me to come here? Why should he care if I live or die?”

Margaret glanced at her apologetically before marching out of the closet. “

Well you’re special, aren’t you, Miss? That’s why Morshiel wants you. Lord Delraven has also brought that strange crystal to Sanctuary. He told me how Morshiel had forced you to touch it. With you as a conduit for the crystal—an amplifier of the earth’s energy—Morshiel would become unthinkably powerful. Delraven says it was a stroke of luck Saint Sevliss had given him a tip about an anomalous surge of electromagnetic energy in the tunnels. There’s no telling what would have happened if Morshiel had been strengthened any more by you and that crystal. Delraven said he was nearly murdered by Morshiel on that platform, his clone had grown so uncommonly strong.”

“That would have been a pity,” Isabel said darkly.

“Delraven may be a bit rough around the edges, but there’s no one more brilliant, powerful, selfless, kind—yes, kind,” Margaret said, speaking sharply when she heard Isabel snort in disbelief. “Thousands of mortals owe him their lives, though most are ignorant of that fact. Forgive me for my bluntness, Miss, but you don’t know much of anything. Not about his world, you don’t. He has suffered more than we humans could wrap our minds around. He could easily have become as cruel as his clone, but he has endured. His suffering has been so great, the friction and fires of it have made him more human than any mortal I know. You’re a child when it comes to these matters, trust me. I was once in your shoes.” She glanced down in humorous apology at Isabel’s bare feet. “I was just as naïve,” she added gently.

“I am not naïve.”

“Up there, perhaps not,” Margaret said with a shrewd look as she pointed to the ceiling. “Down here, you’re as witless as a baby.”

“Down here. What? Are we in the basement?” She glanced curiously toward the heavily draped windows. She’d noticed there was a strange, opaque piece of glass in the panes when she’d tried to escape earlier, but she hadn’t considered she might be underground.

“You might say that,” Margaret said breezily as she picked up the last item of clothing and headed toward the closet. Isabel dogged her footsteps. “But then, every room in this building is in the basement, in a manner of speaking. You’re currently about a thousand feet below the earth’s surface, my dear. Sanctuary is an underground highrise—or lowrise, as the case may be. Sixty stories, straight down into the ground. It’s like an inverted pyramid. Sanctuary not only houses Lord Delraven’s home, but his textile factory as well, although Silk takes up the floors just below the surface. The workers there find the access straight off the Tube to be a major employment benefit. We’re a good deal farther underground here in the residence, though.”

Margaret ignored Isabel’s stunned expression as she walked out of the closet. She called out a warm greeting when a pale, anxious-looking young man entered the room carrying a tray. “Ah, perfect. Come in, Jessie, come in. Lay out the things over at the table there. Stop gawking. It’s rude. She’s just a woman,” Margaret admonished under her breath when she noticed Jessie gaping at Isabel, his mouth slack. Isabel smoothed her wrinkled dress self-consciously. She must look a mess.

Not that she cared how she appeared to these people.

Margaret beckoned her toward the table. “You may not have the morning sun to welcome the new day in Sanctuary, but you’ll have the finest breakfast in all of England.”

Isabel hesitated. She certainly didn’t want to give the impression she in any way planned to comply with her imprisonment.