Original Story: Missing 2 / Desperate Calls: A Tale of Kidnapping in 1910
The Imperium Chronicles
Missing
Part 2
Previous Parts:
Updated
Introduction:
Consciousness returned slowly for Lydia – like fragments, as thin and treacherous as ice.
Initially, there was only sounds, distant and echoey – a slow drip somewhere in the darkness, each drop a landing with a hollow tap that seemed to echo inside her skull.
Then came the ache; a deep, pulsating pain that throbbed behind her eyes, like a heartbeat had been dragged into her head and left to pound against the bone.
Cold seeped in below; stone – it felt damp and unforgiving; with an involuntary groan, she tried to move – to shift her position, but the effort sent a sharp flare of pain through her shoulders, she realised then, her arms were positioned behind her, rope bit into her wrists; coarse fibre grinding against skin, her right wrist felt even sharper, the pain from her collapse and blind effort to flail during her fall that had bent her wrist awkwardly, it felt worse now; her elbows wouldn’t move, they were pinned tightly, too tight and forced back in an angle that made her breath catch as her body registered things slowly.
To try and twist free would not work; the effort she did put into straining against the bindings, her vision swam and nausea came rolling over her as she moved her leg in an effort to reposition herself without fully rolling over onto her front.
Her breathing had quickened; taking a moment to readjust to the feelings of nausea she controlled her breathing; eyes remaining shut – she still had control…, that couldn’t be doubted, she needed to work out what had happened, what had gone wrong, the last thing she could vividly remember was walking in fog-shrouded streets before pain erupted, the same pain now pulsating; but why was she bound.
As senses began to return, her eyes fluttered before opening only half-lidded in effort to keep the appearance of being unconscious realising she could hear voices somewhere.
Chapter 1:
With eyes half-lidded; Lydia could see a thin ribbon of light just a bit further away from a doorway, the air around her seemed to suddenly feel thick, she picked up on the scent of rot and something sweeter behind it – incense, faint but persistent; it clung to the back of her throat.
A metallic tang lingered too, sharp enough to sting her nose, it was difficult to control her breathing, it took effort to breathe even and shallow as her senses adjusted, as her eyes fixed onto the light spilling from the doorway ahead, she noticed it; Shadows.
Shadows moved across the light – long, wavering silhouettes that stretched and recoiled with each shift of the figures beyond; voices sounded low yet urgent.
She couldn’t make out the words at first, only the tone – one voice was smooth, too smooth and purred, he did not sound local though, another sounded clipped and anxious with a third trying to keep order.
Memory began to slowly rise for Lydia – she remembered the fog, the wind, the sudden shape she barely caught sight off in those final moments, she could just about remember the blow to the back of her head – the sickening, blooming pain.
The pain at the front of her head though, she realised must have come from hitting her head against the ground during her fall, as she was trying to process her predicament, she felt the world beginning to tilt again, her stomach tightening.
She gently shifted, pushing her head against the floor despite the pain; she felt the grip of nausea tighten.
As Lydia focused on that rolling feeling of nausea – a shadow detached itself from the others, stepping back into the room, the German.
He moved with a deliberate slowness as though savouring each step – the hood he wore obscured his face, but, as he crouched down beside her, the light caught his eyes; dark and sharp; assessing; a predator’s gaze, his breath carried a faint scent of cloves; he didn’t speak at first, he simply watched her.
Lydia simply locked up – her movements, she had hoped, were not too obvious – keeping her eyes half-lidded; breath, despite difficulty, was shallow but even, an effort to maintain the rhythm, the shadow of illusion of someone still lost in unconsciousness.
She was trying to relax her body as best she could to maintain the deception even as every instinct was screaming for her to recoil from him, that he knew she was awake; but she held the position.
He then shifted, he leaned forwards, his voice a low murmur, meant only for her “Gut” he whispered, the German accent curling around his words with a controlled menace “Do not struggle Fräulein Lydia; it will only make the pain worse”
Lydia felt a shiver run through her as she kept herself still; the Cultist then straightened, turning his head towards the doorway “Send word to Meister Smythe; the ‘Reaper’ stirs” he called out; footsteps shifted, a door soon creaked as murmurs resumed – Lydia, she closed her eyes fully, letting darkness fold over her again.
She felt a shift, something old and unwelcome stirred in her chest, a sense of panic; thin and as cold as wire – if these Cultists served her father, she needed to get away, and fast.
Manchester, England
The afternoon light; thin and colourless giving Manchester’s streets a look of washed-out weariness, fog still clung to the street, but, it was no longer the heavy swallowing curtain it had been during dawn, now it drifted like a pale sheet, swirling amongst passing carts and mixing with the churning of black plumes that belched from factory stacks.
Thomas, Miquel and Elizabeth had come to an agreement on their next plan of action; the search had failed, now, they would expand their support network; while Elizabeth waited back at the safehouse, Thomas and Miquel would make their way through the streets; the narrow, claustrophobic leaning of the buildings felt much more intense now, wind struck them like an icy blade cutting across the skin “Bloody cold” Thomas muttered as he pulled his jacket tighter, a low growl within the back of his throat as he glanced about the street “Sun’s up an’ still feels like night”
Miquel walked beside him with long, deliberate strides to match the pace; his eyes drifting about taking in their surroundings “The cold is not the enemy my friend” he said quietly; his voice still carrying that clipped tone with the steady Nairobi cadence “Delay is”
Thomas gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible in movement as he looked across to the opposite side of the street; it was busier now – factory workers on break, women carrying baskets or pushing prams, children darting between puddles; noise was constant, tram-wheels rattled along the tracks, echoing through the cramped buildings, random shouts of men and a rhythmic thump of machinery echoing, none of this helped though.
In their search for a telephone, the purpose of this very outing – they finally came to a stop at a pub; open, crowded and very loud – Thomas pushed inside just long enough to question about a telephone with quick gestures “Line’s down!” the landlord barked without looking “Storm took it out last week, try elsewhere lad!”
Back into the cold of Manchester, they went; they would stop by two more before they would be met with a more hostile response forcing them once again out into the street “Bloody ‘ell, that’s the fourth one, what the ‘ell is wrong wi’ this city?”
Miquel’s jaw tightened as he glanced about the streets “We keep moving; keep pushing, we’ll find one soon, I am certain”
As they crossed into a narrower-street where the fog began to thicken, the afternoon grey beginning to darken, the chimney’s looming overhead belching smoke that merged with the misty fog, the tram rattled by in the distance with its bell clanging sharply; Miquel finally slowed when he spotted something and raised a finger “There” he declared with a wide smile; a small tobacconist was wedged between two shuttered shops, it’s windows glowing faintly, like the light of a candle fighting against the wind
Thomas’s eyes immediately found it as he gave a quick nod “Worth a try”
When they stepped inside; the warmth hit them first – stale, smoky, but it still held a welcoming hold against the biting cold outside.
The shop itself was cramped, shelves stacked high with tins and packets, various odds and bits that could be quickly grabbed in a hurry; behind the counter, a wiry old man stood, a face like dried leather, and eyes that narrowed the very moment he looked at them “No trouble” he rasped
“We’re not bringin’ any” Thomas said “We just need to use yer phone; it’s urgent mate”
There was a pause; the man hesitated before jerking his head toward the back door “For a price laddy”
Thomas didn’t argue, he didn’t feel there was any time for that – they had already spent far too long searching just for this moment; stuffing his hands into his pocket as he moved forwards, he quickly slapped down some coins onto the counter, there was no need for counting – he didn’t care, he just wanted the phone, anything in his pocket would be worth the sacrifice.
Miquel moved to follow, as Thomas went through, Miquel positioned himself by the doorway to try preventing possible eavesdropping.
The telephone hung on the wall, the bulb overhead buzzing faintly – Thomas cranked the handle, the bell jangling sharply and echoing within the cramped space as static crackled.
Then, a voice came through; a clipped, Scottish and unmistakably irritated voice “Wilson speakin’; who’s callin’”
Thomas swallowed “Sir…., it’s Davidson, Thomas Davidson, I…, I need yer help sir, I am in Manchester”
There was a pause, paper rustling in the background “Davidson?” the clipped voice repeated “What in god’s name are ye doin’ in Manchester, and why are ye ringin’ me on a civilian line lad”
“We’ve…, joined that group; but it’s the lass…, Lydia; she’s gone missin’ sir, summat’s happened” Thomas answered – he began to explain things, trying his best to still keep it short and quick; explaining how he and Miquel re-encountered Cathryn and Lydia in Dover and joined their group, how they’ve been in Salford and now Manchester and that Lydia has gone missing and they’ve already spent hours searching – Miquel stood silently, occasionally glancing back.
Wilson’s irritation faded – instead replaced by something colder, sharper; “Right” Wilson said after a long moment “Listen carefully lad; stay where ye are, I’ll gather what men I can spare, pass a letter up top, t’ quietly let those above know what I am doin’, an’ we’ll head for Manchester; give me the address” Thomas let out a relieved sigh before then quickly telling the address of the safehouse “Good; hold fast, an’ Davidson; keep yer eyes open, this smells wrong”
The line clicked dead; Thomas, he lowered the receiver exhaling shakily – the tobacconist could just about make out his expression past Miquel; when the two finally emerged fully, Thomas dropped a few more coins down before he and Miquel stepped back out into the chilly streets.
The afternoon light had already begun to fade, the fog thickened as the sun dipped behind factories; Miquel clapped him on the shoulder “We move quickly now ndugu; let us return to Elizabeth”
Thomas gave a sharp nod before the two turned down the maze of grey streets, unaware that far beyond forces they had only just begun to learn about were already on the move – a man of great wealth and power was being ferried by train from the south towards the north; a man whose very arrival was going to darken the days far more than the winter sun ever could.
Chapter 2:
The safehouse door swung back with a shudder as it bounces against the wall; Thomas and Miquel entering with purpose before Thomas twisted to close the door once more; Miquel noticed the shift in temperature instantly when the warmth hit him, yet, it was not a comforting warmth – it was a stale, heavy kind that clung to walls, made the air feel thin and still.
Elizabeth jumped slightly by the sudden ‘bang’ of the door twisting sharply, her gaze moving away from the window – since they’d left, she had spent most of her time waiting, her mug of tea sat untouched, steam long gone, her rigid posture snapped back in place, hands clasped firmly behind her back “Thomas” her voice cracked at the first syllable before she managed to catch it and smoothing it back into the usual control she used “Did you reach out to your soldier friends?”
Thomas gave a quick affirming nod, breath a little uneven from the cold “Aye, Wilson’s comin’” he answered her “He’s gatherin’ some o’ the lads an’ headin’ ‘ere to Manchester”
Elizabeth gave a slow nod; Thomas could see the relief, it was brief, only a heartbeat of a moment, but it was there – it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed by the same composure she always maintained, that icy-detached exterior “Good” she said quietly, the clipped vowels still present “That at least…, gives us something”
“We will find her” Miquel chimed, his voice was low, but it was certain “We are not alone in this”
Elizabeth didn’t answer, she simply moved to the table, placing her hands against the rough wood as she leans forwards “I need to send a message” she said, her breath catching
“Too?” Thomas approached the table, he too leaned forwards watching her expression
She seemed to hesitate – it wasn’t for a long moment, but it was enough to be noticeable, Thomas and Miquel felt the shift in the air “Mother”
The room seemed to contract around the word – while Thomas had yet to see Cathryn in action, from what he’d seen of her leadership, of how Lydia spoke of her, even the first encounter where they followed Cathryn into a strange, mysterious ancient temple; it was enough to go off, Cathryn was a woman of warmth and kindness, scarred beyond what Thomas could comprehend.
But, he recognised the potential ruthlessness if her daughter’s where in danger – if anything would snap that ‘deadly’ side in place, it would be the current situation they’ve just found themselves in; Miquel’s expression remained unchanged – he had joined this group because of Thomas, and unlike Thomas, paid little attention to the stories spoken by Lydia, Miquel simply saw a mother leading some kind of strange and chaotic group.
Thomas looked at Elizabeth carefully “Elizabeth…, are ye sure tha’s wise?; bringin’ her in…”
“I don’t have a choice” she interrupted; her voice was tight, brittle at the edges “If something has happened, if…, if someone has hurt my sister; I need to tell her…” there was a pause as Elizabeth brought her gaze up, locking onto Thomas “My mother will tear this city apart brick by brick if she has too”
Thomas noticed the whitening of Elizabeth’s knuckles as she gripped the table – when she noticed, she withdrew them, hiding them behind her back in effort to keep the slight tremble from being seen.
Thomas exchanged a look with Miquel; neither of them spoke; there was nothing ‘too’ say.
Outside the wind picked up enough that it began to rattle the windowpanes – the fog had begun to roll through, blanketing the cramped streets and swallowing the last of the afternoon light; the first drops of rain began to tap the glass, soft at first, then harder until the sound filled the room like a distant clattering.
Elizabeth turned her attention back to the window “We move fast” she said “We don’t stop and we certainly do not assume she is safe”
Thomas gave a slow nod “Aye; we’ll get ‘er back luv” though, even as he said it, the unease coiled tighter in his chest
Far beyond Manchester though, a train was cutting its way through the countryside carrying a man that would not be stopped until he reached his daughter.
With a plan now made – Elizabeth deciding to travel, Thomas and Miquel would remain behind; it was at the platform at Manchester Victoria that Elizebth stood rigid, the thickening fog rolling low across the tracks, her hands now clasping tightly around the strap of her satchel – she felt the weight building, her mind was looping on one thing; Lydia.
‘Lydia
Missing
Hours now’
It was only when the loud shriek of a whistle somewhere along the platform – a thin, yet sharp piercing sound, snapped her attention making her flinch; she hated that, the fact she flinched at something so mundane.
Drawing a breath she brought her gaze towards the powerful glare penetrating through the fog as the locomotive pulled into the station with a groan of metal and a hiss of steam, Elizabeth hesitated the very moment she had the chance to board the carriage, realising exactly what she was doing; she would be taking news directly to her mother; Lydia is gone.
Her expression cracked, her breathing quickening as she moved forwards gingerly, feet seemingly testing the ground each step.
Moving to a seat near the window she barely took notice of how empty the carriage was; a few workers were slumped from exhaustion, a mother sat stroking her fingers against the forehead of her sleeping child, a man towards the back with a newspaper that trembled in his fingers.
No one looked at Elizabeth – no one cared, and as the train lurched forwards, the rain streaked across the glass, blurring the city into a smear of dark silhouette’s and pale fog, Elizabeth’s head turned ever so slightly to watch as it all went past her, staring at her reflection ‘I failed’ she thought ‘I let mother down, I let Lydia down’ she told herself
Her thoughts tightened – her mother; Cathryn, so filled with warmth and kindness despite everything she’d gone through, but she also knew that when push-came-to-shove; her mother could flip like a switch regardless of her trauma; if her daughter’s were in danger, if they were lost; Cathryn would not be stopped, she would tear Manchester apart once she learned Lydia could be hurt, that someone had taken her.
Elizabeth closed her eyes as the train rattled on, the rhythm of the tracks a dull, relentless heartbeat.
Chapter 3:
Manchester’s streets had grown darker – far darker than the night prior, it was as if the city itself sensed an approaching storm and was making an effort to shield it’s inhabitants; with Elizabeth on the move to Salford, Thomas and Miquel once again moved through the streets – boots splashing through shallow puddles from purposeful strides as they walked the claustrophobic streets.
The cold gnawed at exposed skin, but neither of them took notice; their breath came out in pale bursts and dissolved into the grey “We’ll start again” Thomas stated, his jaw tight “Every street.., every alley; someone will ‘ave seen ‘er”
Miquel gave a short confirming nod; his expression carved from stone “Agreed ndugu” he answered with that clipped Kenyan rumble
Turning down a narrow lane; the buildings seemingly leaned inward as if to conspire; the heavy rain sagging the laundry lines overhead, in the distance the rattling bell of a tram clanged sharply, a sound that echoed through the fog like a warning – Thomas came to a stop when he spotted the first late night worker; a soot-stained mill worker hauling a heavy sack over his shoulder
“’Scuse me mate” Thomas called out, his voice stead but laced with urgency “’Ave ye seen a young woman pass through ‘ere; ’bout this ‘igh wi’ dark long hair and silver-eyes, usually ‘as a Serbian crest on ‘er jacket and carries a Chinese straight sword”
The worker blinked, he was utterly baffled by the description then slowly shook his head “Nah, lad, sorry; not seen anyone like tha’” Thomas let out an irritated sigh but thanked him, nodding before moving on with Miquel; frustration tightening his chest
The two would move once more – each stop, each question would be met with the same dismissal crushing any sense of hope, but yet it deepened Thomas’s determination into something sharper; as they came to turn at another corner, Miquel paused, his eyes scanning the shadows “This city, it hides too much” he murmured “Too many places to disappear”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed as he peered forwards, though something caught his attention, it was brief, but it seemed out of place; a shadow of movement that anyone else would have missed but triggered that soldierly instinct – that intuition that had been sharpened by warfare and danger “Eh up; what’s goin’ on there” Thomas said quietly, Miquel following his gaze – something began to feel wrong
Without warning, Thomas moved forwards forcing Miquel to follow – reaching the corner, Thomas peeked around into the alleyway, purposely pressing himself to the wall to keep his silhouette unnoticed, he heard rough men, two of them, discussing something – a passing comment immediately clicking into place, widening Thomas’s eyes; ‘The Reaper’
“Lydia” Thomas whispered quietly to himself, his gaze flicking back to Miquel and with a simple gesture, the two surged around the corner; they had no plan, but that wasn’t going to stop them – both men already experienced situations that require immediate action.
The two men that had been speaking snapped to attention the moment Thomas and Miquel surged around the bend reacting too late to defend themselves as they found themselves being taken down in a swift display of power they had no means to defend against; at the mercy of two soldiers, it became clear that things were about to go in a direction they were not ready for – Thomas approached pulling a knife free, eyes narrowing with purpose as the second Cultist was restrained by Miquel.
Preston, England
The barracks were never truly quiet, yet even tonight, the air carried a different kind of tension; it was colder, sharper and seemed threaded with urgency; lanterns burned low along corridors; Captain Wilson strode through the main hall with a pace that brooked no delay.
His coat was half-buttoned, hair damp from the rain outside and his expression was carved from iron – the message from Thomas had been brief, yet it had been enough, he knew the urgency.
“Sergeant Graham” Wilson barked as he entered the armoury
A tall, broad-shouldered man snapped to attention “Sir”
“Rouse the regiment; quietly, full kit, winter gear and close-quarter equipment, we are to leave within the hour”
Graham didn’t hesitate, he didn’t question – he simply moved “Yes sir” he responded, his voice already echoing down the corridor as he began issuing out orders; Wilson carried on, checking the readiness of the men already assembled – rifles slung, belts buckled, boots laced tight
As Wilson came out, breath misting in the frigid air, one soldier stepped forwards: Private Richardson “Sir, permission to ask…”
Wilson though cut him off with a simple gesture “You’ll be briefed enroute lad” he said kindly, gesturing towards the wagons, quickly confirming their intent to travel from the barracks by wagon to the station and onwards from the station to Manchester and the reuniting with Thomas and Miquel – the army was on the move.
Oldham, England
In industrial quarter buildings lay smothered beneath a blanket of fog – chimneys rising like blackened spires reaching for the sky.
At this late hour, the streets were mostly silent – too silent, the kind that would make even the bravest men glance over their shoulder.
Inside of a derelict public house at the edge of the district, the Cultists had gathered around the old creaky table in the backroom – the building stank of stale beer, damp rotting wood with the faint, acrid tang of incense that had been burned earlier in the day; the windows were boarded, the lamps dim.
Flickering light casting long, elongated shadows that warped shadows that crawled across the bare walls; stood closer to the door; the German Cultist leaned against the frame, his gaze fixed in the back room watching their captive, slowly, he adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves – a slow, deliberate movement.
“Sören” a rough voice called out, drawing the German’s gaze “Any update on master Smythe?”
The German; Sören, his lips twisted upwards slowly into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes “Ja” he said softly “Meister Smythe should be nearing Manchester soon, it would be best that we arrange for someone to be present and greet him upon his arrival”
“What about her” a younger Cultist queried “She’s awake, but she isn’t really in the best of conditions, the Master…, he wants her alive…, we’ve all heard the rumour of his intent…”
“Quiet” Sören interrupted “Indeed we do, and if you’re intending to bring up the failure of Albert, Meister Smythe has seen the mistake in that alliance, a…, ‘new’…, suitor has been arranged” he maintained the uneasy grin, a subtle flick of the tongue to wet his lips as his gaze drifted back out “Do not concern yourself with needless worries; everything is well in hand”
From the adjoining room that Sören kept looking towards – the rest of the Cultists heard the faint sound of movement; Lydia’s shifting against her restraints, she had yet to make the effort to sit up, but her soft, pained exhale in her struggle with her wrist bindings was audible for all of them to hear.
“She’ll panic” the younger Cultist muttered “She’s not ‘The Reaper’ here, and she’ll realise it soon enough, and what if she falls unconscious in her effort to escape…, she’s barely holding on from that head wound”
Sören simply kept that grin in place, his eyes remaining fixed on Lydia’s form “That is my concern; not yours” he said simply
Written By: Westley H.
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