The expression on Mamoru's face became one that frightened Adele. It held something dangerous. “You wouldn't.”
“You've pushed me to drastic measures! Your network is far too vast for me to allow you to walk free. All I asked was to keep this one vampire safe, and you failed me. I trusted you, Mamoru.”
“No. You trust it.”
“At least I know I can.” Adele turned and strode from the room. Her breath became ragged in her chest as she closed the door behind her and signaled Captain Shirazi, who stood with several White Guardsmen down the corridor. The men jogged to her side, clearly alarmed by her frantic demeanor.
“Majesty, are you well?”
She gathered herself, looking into the faces of her captain and his soldiers. With a deceptively steady voice, she said, “Master Mamoru is confined to his quarters. Station a watch at every potential door, and even at his windows. Do it quickly. He is to have no contact other than myself. No visitors. He is not to speak with anyone, including yourself and your men.”
Shirazi leaned forward in surprise. “Ma'am? Master Mamoru?”
“You heard me, Captain. Post your guard.” Adele strode off, head up, outwardly calm, but digging her nails into the palms of her hands. Bitter at Mamoru for his hatred. Furious at herself for letting her emotions drive her. Heartbroken at what she had done.
THE EMPRESS, THE sirdar, and the Greyfriar walked into Iskandar Hospital. Anhalt had rushed to Alexandria after receiving word of both the bombing and Mamoru's fall from grace. The halls were lined with soldiers. Staff bowed and curtsied. She had to slow her step several times as Greyfriar lagged behind. The warmth of Alexandria was taking some small toll on his ability to heal from the damage caused in the bombing. They took the stairs to the top floor, the fourth, rather than trust an elevator. The hospital director, Dr. Turabian, met them outside a heavily guarded ward.
“Your Majesty, General…sir,” the doctor said to each of the three, “the assassin is conscious, but has yet to speak. He's in decent-enough health. Bit anemic. I don't believe he's from Alexandria, or even Equatoria. But that's just my opinion.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Adele replied. “I apologize for the disruption to your hospital. If my reign lasts much longer, you'll need to build a new wing to hold my would-be assassins.”
Dr. Turabian coughed with embarrassment that she might have heard that now-common joke in the halls of his hospital.
She held up a calming hand. “You and your staff have performed heroically in the aftermath of the terrible opera bombing. We thank you.” She indicated for him to lead the way into the ward.
The four pushed through the swinging doors into the gaslit chamber that had been designed for many patients, but only held one. This was the same ward where Selkirk had been confined after his attempt on Adele's life last summer. They marched across the green-and-white tiles toward a bed. A squad of soldiers came to noisy attention.
“Leave us.” Anhalt saluted, and the troopers escorted the doctor from the ward.
Adele looked down at the bruised, battered face on the pillow. “Good afternoon. My name is Adele. What is yours?”
The man stared at the ceiling with lost eyes. He turned slowly to look at her with an expression of regret. “When will you kill me?”
“Soon enough,” General Anhalt snapped.
The prisoner actually smiled and lay back.
The sirdar gave a snort of bemusement. “Well, that seemed to please him.”
“He's Undead,” Greyfriar said coldly. “I'm sure now. His voice. He's from London. He's disappointed he wasn't killed in the bombing. There is only one fate sufficient for him. He must be kept alive for a very long time. Let him die the natural death of an old man, the death of a failure. The death from which there is no escape.” The prisoner glared at Greyfriar with terror in his face. The swordsman leaned over the frightened man, and said, “Or tell us what we want to know and we will kill you.”
“Do you swear it?”
He repeated, “Tell us what we want to know, and we will kill you.”
The man looked from him to Adele to the intense Anhalt. He nodded.
Adele asked, “Who sent you?”
The prisoner hesitated, and then said, “Prince Cesare is my master. I am General Montrose, commander of Cesare's Undead Legion.”
Adele silenced Anhalt's scoff with a look before asking the prisoner, “What was your mission here, General Montrose?”
“To kill you.”
“How many Undead are in Alexandria?”
Montrose replied confidently, “Many. We are everywhere. Our faith is spreading.”
Greyfriar whispered in Adele's ear, “Those bombs did not come from Cesare. I've never seen anything like them in London.”