He left her tied to the great iron hook on his sacred oak tree, drugged into a stupor, and deposited the equally stupified James Maybrick on the floor of the sewer outside, then locked the door to Lower Tibor and began walking through the dark tunnels beneath London, laughing softly and wondering what he ought to wear when he carried Dominica through the Britannia Gate two days from now, dying of the wounds he would inflict shortly before arriving in Battersea?
* * *
Sometime early in the morning hours, Ianira Cassondra woke to gibbering terror. Dr. John Lachley had crashed into her bedroom, rousing her from drugged sleep with slaps, bruising her arms and shaking her. “Tell me about the gate!” he demanded, cracking his hand across her face. “Wake up, girl, and tell me about the gate! And the station! Where are you from?”
Ianira shrank away from him, weeping and trembling. “I came through the Britannia Gate! From the station! Please . . .”
“What station? What’s it called?”
“Shangri-La,” she whispered, her bruised face aching where he’d struck her. Her wrists, crushed in his hard hands, were slowly purpling under his grip. “Time Terminal Eighty-Six—”
“Eighty-Six? My God, are there so many of them? Tell me about your world, woman!”
She shook her head, desperate and confused. “I live on the station. I am not permitted to leave, for I am a down-timer—”
“A what?” His face, looming so close above her own, had twisted into an unholy mask of madness. She shrank back into the pillows, but he jerked her up again, roughly. “Explain!”