It had now been almost three months since she was brought to Thurso.
Maisy was accustomed to not asking questions of her employer, because she adored him and he always had a good reason for whatever odd requests he threw at her. She had been working for Dave Purdue for most of her past two decades, serving in various capacities in three of his estates until she was charged with this responsibility. Every night, after collecting Miss Mirela’s dinner dishes and setting the security perimeters, Maisy was instructed to call her employer and leave a message that the dog had been fed.
Not once did she ask why, nor was her interest piqued enough to do so. Almost robotic in her loyalties, Miss Maisy did only as she was told for the right price and Mr. Purdue paid very well.
Her eyes shot up at the kitchen clock, wall mounted just above the back door that led to the guest house. It was only called a guest house in a cordial manner, for the sake of propriety. In truth it was no more than a five-star holding cell with almost all the amenities its occupant would enjoy if she were free. Of course no communication devices were allowed and the building was cleverly rigged with satellite and signal scramblers that would take weeks to penetrate with even the most complicated hardware and consummate hacking exploits.
The other obstacle the guest was faced with was the physical constraints of the guest house.
Unseen, the soundproof walls were lined with thermal imaging sensors that permanently monitored human body temperature signatures within to assure the immediate alert of any breach.
On the exterior of the entire guest house, a basic mirror-based contraption employed an age-old sleight of hand used by illusionists in past eras, a remarkably simple and handy deception. It rendered the place invisible without intense scrutiny or a trained eye, not to mention the havoc it caused during thunderstorms. Much of the property was designed in such a way to divert unwanted attention and contain what needed to remain trapped.
Just before 8 p.m., Maisy had packed the guest’s dinner for delivery.
The night was chilly and the wind wayward as she passed under the tall pine trees and vast rock garden ferns that stretched out over the path like the fingers of a giant. All about the property the evening lights illuminated the paths and plants like earthbound starlight and Maisy could see well where she was going. Punching in the first code of the exterior door, she entered and shut it behind her. Much like a submarine hatch, the guest house contained two passages; an exterior door and a secondary, to enter the actual interior of the building.
When she entered the second, Maisy found the place deathly quiet.
Normally the television was on, routed from the main house, and all the lamps that were switched on and off from the main house power board were out. An eerie dusk fell over the furniture and the rooms were mute with not even the movement of air on the fans.
“Your dinner, madam,” Maisy called out plainly, as if there had been no deviation from the norm. She was wary of the strange circumstances, but hardly surprised.
The guest had threatened her many times before and promised her a painful death, imminently, but part of the housekeeper’s manner was to let things roll off and ignoring idle threats coming from discontent brats like Miss Mirela.
Of course Maisy had no idea that Mirela, her ill-mannered guest, had been the leader of one of the world’s most feared organizations for the past two decades and could do anything she promised her enemies. Maisy did not know that Mirela was Renata of the Order of the Black Sun, currently a hostage of Dave Purdue’s, to be used as a bargaining chip against the council when the time came. Purdue knew that hiding Renata from the council would buy him precious time to consummate a powerful alliance with the Brigade Apostate, enemies of the Black Sun. The council sought to depose her, but as long as she was missing, the Black Sun could not replace her and therein gestated his intentions.
“Madam, I shall leave your dinner on the dining table, then,” Maisy announced, refusing to allow the alien setting to unsettled her.
When she turned to leave the intimidating stature of the occupant greeted her from the door.
“I think we should have dinner together tonight, don’t you agree?” Mirela’s steely voice insisted.
Maisy thought momentarily on the danger Mirela posed, and, not one to underestimate innately callous individuals, she simply agreed, “Certainly, madam. But I only made enough for one.”
“Oh, that is nothing to fret over,” Mirela smiled, gesturing nonchalantly while her eyes glinted like a cobra’s. “You can eat. I shall keep you company. Did you bring wine?”
“Of course, madam. A modest sweet wine to compliment the Cornish pastries I baked especially for you,” Maisy answered submissively.
But Mirela could tell that the housekeeper’s apparent lack of alarm bordered on patronization; a most annoying trigger that provoked gratuitous hostility from Mirela. After so many years at the head of the most feared cult of Nazi maniacs, she would not tolerate an insubordinate behavior at any cost.
“What are the codes for the doors?” she asked frankly, bringing forth from behind her a long curtain rail, fashioned into some sort of spear.
“Oh, that is only for employees and servants to know, madam. I’m sure you understand,” Maisy explained. Still, her voice held absolutely no apprehension and her eyes met Mirela’s squarely. Mirela pointed the edge of the tip at Maisy’s throat, secretly hoping that the housekeeper would give her a reason to shove it forward. The sharp edging dented the housekeeper’s skin and punctured it just so that a pretty button of blood formed on the surface.
“You will be wise to retract that weapon, madam,” Maisy suddenly advised in a voice almost not her own. Her words fell in a harsh accent on a tone that lingered far deeper than her usual cheery chime. Mirela could not believe her impudence and threw her head back in laughter. Clearly the common servant had no idea who she was dealing with and for good measure, Mirela struck Maisy across the face with the limber aluminum rail. It left a burning welt on the housekeeper’s face when she recovered from the blow.
“You will be wise to tell me what I demand before I dispose of you,” Mirela sneered, delivering yet another lash across Maisy’s knees, provoking a screech of agony from the servant. “Now!”
The housekeeper wailed, face down on her knees.
“And you can whine as much as you like!” Mirela growled with the weapon at the ready to bore through the woman’s skull. “As you know, this cozy little nest is soundproof.”
Maisy looked up, her big blue eyes void of tolerance or obedience. Her lips curled back over her teeth and with an unholy hum that crept from the depths of her belly, she pounced.
Mirela had no time to swing her weapon before Maisy broke her ankle with one powerful sweep of her shin across Mirela’s lower leg. She abandoned her weapon in the fall while her leg throbbed with excruciating pain. Mirela unleashed a torrent of hateful threats through her hoarse screams, her pain and rage competing.
What Mirela did not know, in turn, was that Maisy was not employed in Thurso for her culinary skills, but for her adept martial efficacy. In the event of a breach she was instructed to strike with extreme prejudice and make full use of her training as operative of the Irish Army Ranger Wing, or Fianóglach. Since her entry into civilian society Maisy McFadden had made herself available for hire in close protection capacity, mostly, and this is where Dave Purdue came upon her services.