Stumbled over an imperfection in the floor. My toes didn’t recognize the shape or purpose. I crouched and then dropped onto my knees that still stung from the last abrupt collision with the floor.
The train slowed even more, smoothing out the ride. I didn’t have long.
My fingers found the shape of the imperfection. Cold, smooth, metal caressed my fingertips. I traced out the shape of a handle. Then I found the crack outlining a trapdoor. I grasped the brass and heaved upward. It didn’t budge. Locked.
But if a door, or escape hatch could be locked, then it could be unlocked. No keyhole presented itself to my examination. But I found a longer, wider crack than the trap. I barely had room to reach my fingers in, but once past the initial blockage, the space opened up enough that I could feel underneath. This time I lifted a short lever, and the trap swung downward to reveal some kind of platform. Not much room for me to hide. I swung my legs into the opening and dropped down.
The dawn grew brighter, red light beneath the retreating clouds, promising a sunny day with a warm breeze.
I had enough light to examine my new hiding place. Metal cross bar, a folded support post. And the platform was nearly as wide as the train car. With wheels!
The floor of the baggage car reverberated with heavy footsteps. I pushed the trapdoor back into place, feeling it click shut. Something else whirred and my “jitter” dropped down to the rails as the train rushed over the top of us.
I held my breath and counted to one hundred.
As much as I had traveled around Europe on trains and by carriage pulled by steam horses, I had never encountered a jitter I had to propel myself. I’d seen railway crews pump the handles up and down—usually one fore and the other aft—to propel them from one bit of maintenance to another. This one was folded in on itself and the wheels tucked flat over the top of the platform.
Not operational. I searched for a lever or something that might open a box with tools.
I needn’t have worried. After a full minute, an unwinding spring whirred. Slowly the wheels stretched out and down, coming to rest upon the rails themselves. Sensible. It had to remain flat and within the rail bed until the mother train passed. Once settled on the rails, the crossbar and support column unfolded. Only one crossbar, so this must be intended for a single operator.
And I was the single operator. Someone had kept the jitter well oiled and maintained. The bar pumped easily after the initial attempts to persuade the vehicle to move out of its sleeping state. Up down, up down. I fell into the rhythm despite protesting arm and shoulder muscles. Soon my lower back and thighs began protesting the unaccustomed movement.
I’d been awake most of the night and worked a long day in the café before that. But I had to see this through. No one else was available to thwart Ruthven’s plans. He might only be interested in exacting revenge against the archbishop for some perceived slight. I had to look further and know that if Howley died before the conclusion of the coronation, then Victoria would not legitimately be queen. Distant relatives and older nobility of the realm could easily step in and demand she step down. The Duchess of Kent and her lover could demand a regency. Chaos would ensue. Possibly civil war. Probably the end of Britain as we knew it.
I pumped harder.
The train had been slowing when I escaped. Presumably, we neared our destination.
Up down. Up down. I ignored my aches and pains and kept going. For once I appreciated the confines of my corset. The tightly woven layers of silk and wire mesh supported my aching muscles. If a bullet or blade should manage to penetrate, the compression would also reduce bleeding and swelling. Mostly I’d bruise badly at the point of impact as the cross-warp layers absorbed and dissipated the energy of the projectile. Covering me from mid-breast to below the hip, it protected all my internal organs.
How would it perform if Ruthven unleashed his weapon of searing light?
I didn’t like the name he’d given the weapon, kinetic galvatron. It sounded doubly ominous.
I pumped the jitter harder. Someone had to stop him.
The sun came up in a glorious riot of pinks and oranges. Dew sparkled on every blade of grass and branch of gorse. Tiny flowers in yellow, pink, blue, and multiple shades in between winked at me. Wild roses tangling with themselves on the berm released their heady perfume, inviting bees and such to share their nectar.
I kept pumping. Nothing mattered but the constant up and down motion.
My vision began to narrow as it did when a trance enticed me inward. I let the otherworldly images flow through me. This might be important. Knowing some symbolic piece of the near future could save my life, and that of England.
A slender figure in white, crowned in gold and diamonds marched solemnly around and around the circle that my inner eye perceived. She lifted her chin with pride, nodding and smiling to those who greeted her. Muffled bells sang a joyous litany of celebration. A smile spread through me. I was on the right course to ensure the successful crowning of our queen.
Other figures, dark and angry, skipped asymmetrically out of synchronization and out of harmony with the proud queen. Slowly they made inroads on the queen’s path, forcing her to walk in ever narrowing circles. They pulled light away from her, snuffing the aurora of her magnificent crown.
Then, with a snap, my vision cleared and returned me to the jitter and the monotonous pumping action.
The rail line curved inland and disappeared into the dark maw of a looming hill that rose high and plunged low down a cliff to the waves that lapped a narrow beach. A square building sat atop the hill.
I had to hurry.
But I had to proceed with caution. Reluctantly, I slowed my pumping, letting the jitter’s momentum carry me forward. As I cleared the arching cave entrance, I pulled up on the brake lever. The jitter slowed noiselessly until it slid to a stop within inches of the back landing of the baggage car I’d abandoned.
The growing daylight outside had veiled my perceptions. I noticed little change in the amount of light from outside to in. Then it hit me. The cave should be dim, even if the four oil lamps I counted had been placed right in front of me instead of against the far wall where the steam engine’s nose nearly touched the rock.
The smell of damp earth struck me before realization. The entire cave had been whitewashed, including the rails, ties, and gravel bed. The paint reflected and compounded the little bit of artificial light.
I stepped off the jitter and it immediately began winding its spring, folding in on itself. Once the wheels were in place, a magnet beneath the baggage car drew it inward. With a click and a snap, the cart nestled into its normal place attached to the struts.
A brief touch of the cool cave walls, rough and irregular, told me that much of this opening beneath the mountain was natural. But not all of it. Someone had enlarged the natural hole with tools, smoothing the walls so that the whitewash adhered more evenly.
Some of the white paint rubbed off on my dark rags. The work had been completed recently.
A natural cave beneath an ancient abbey that had become a more modern manor.
I heard no voices or movement within the cave, only the slow tick of the boiler cooling and the steam chambers emptying.
Why whitewash this engine barn if the only exit was back the way the train had entered? I searched for an opening that led elsewhere. Whitewashed wooden stairs, complete with handrail blended into the white on white background. My eyes slid over them twice before I noticed that the sharp angles didn’t quite fit into the natural curves.
I crept up the eight steps, cautious of creaking wood that might betray me. The carpentry was new and solid, taking my weight easily. At the landing—long and wide built to maneuver large equipment—an arched opening, without a door, led inward. More whitewash and oil lamps placed at odd intervals.
The tunnel curved right and then left, inclining slightly u
pward as it wound into the heart of the mountain.
Low voices, in deep male tones drew me on. I pressed myself against the wall so that I’d cast no shadow in the uncertain light. This section had been plastered long enough ago that little of it transferred to my skirts.
I thought a long moment about how the steps had been hidden in plain sight by the illusion of the same color. My outer rags and boots might be mostly black and dark forest green, but my petticoats, corset, and stockings—my own normal underthings—were bleached and starched white.
Quickly I shed the top layers and shivered a bit in the cool damp. My pale hair, face and arms still held too much color. The ruffles of my topmost petticoat provided a sheer veil I could see through. I wound the long strips around my head and draped them artfully over my shoulders and arms, like an elegant shawl. I hoped this was enough obfuscation for my purposes.
Sidestepping carefully, I pressed my back against the wall and crept forward at an upward angle until the tunnel suddenly opened into a wide room, also whitewashed. On all sides, the walls were lined with niches, each about six feet long and three high. Five in each tier. Four across on each wall.
Skulls and bones lay jumbled together on the lowest rows of funereal resting places. Five or six skulls to each. The upper levels had been cleared to make room for row upon row of clear glass Leyden jars. Hundreds of them. Colored clouds in angry red hues roiled within each.
I’d found Ruthven’s crypt.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I DREW SEVERAL shallow breaths, not daring to take more of the damp-tasting air, lest the slight sound and movement of my lungs alert the enemy arrayed around the room. Three men only. No fourth groom to stoke the firebox of the engine.
In the center of the domed room, where a funeral altar should stand on a slight dais, three metal tables on wheels sat in a neat row. The one closest to me contained a sheet-draped body. The far one was empty but for a shrouded lump that contained no human shapes, or pieces thereof. I did detect a long rounded shape that could have been a skinny arm. I suspected more likely the barrel of a weapon.
In the center lay a naked girl with masses of dark hair, struggling against wrist and ankle restraints. A metal band attached to long copper wires waited to encircle her brow.
Reva. Jimmy’s beloved sister.
I’d been in her position and seethed at the indignity as well as her potential demise. Not even a sheet to cover her, a small grace Stamata had granted me. She needed only my body, not my anger and humiliation.
Drew and Rigby faced the necromancer where he presided at the head of Reva’s table. Ruthven’s back was to me. I prayed that if either Drew or Rigby noticed me, they would make no sound or expression of recognition.
Ruthven concentrated on the dark flush of anger on Reva’s face. “Ah, my beauty, you shall enhance my army of tainted women in powering my lovely gonne.”
Cautiously I took one side step into the cavern, keeping my back as close to the wall as possible. Silently, I slithered closer and closer to the array of Leyden jars and the red sparking along the copper wires.
A rustle of my skirts, or a brush of my arms against a wire, I’m not certain what caused Ruthven to look up.
With a lifted eyebrow and a cruel smile he greeted me. “Ah, Madame Magdala. I’d hoped you would join us. You shall complete my triumvirate of anger to fuel the kinetic galvatron.”
Just because I shed my outer garments didn’t mean I shed my weapons as well. Before I could think about it, a throwing star flew from my hand and landed precisely in Ruthven’s right shoulder.
He screamed as he yanked it free along with a well of blood. “You shall pay for that,” he sneered. Then he righted himself, absorbing the pain as fuel. “Blood for blood. The Persian promised that the necromancer’s own blood triggers the spell much more efficiently than all the angry emotions of the victims. The spell will be stronger for my blood mingled with yours.” He flung the sharp metal back at me.
I grunted with the impact of metal against metal. I felt as if he’d jammed his fist into my gut. I bent double expecting a warm trickle of blood. But the star dangled uselessly from where a point snagged on the wire mesh embedded in my corset.
“You need to put more strength into it,” I taunted him, still bent double, as if he’d truly hurt me.
He didn’t pause to gloat but leveled a small pocket pistol at me. I had to stand to make certain the corset did its job in protecting my vulnerable torso. But, oh, Hades, it hurt to do anything but curl around the bruise in the region of my belly.
Ruthven pulled the trigger before I completed my shift in posture.
I screamed from the sharp slash to my chest. Impact spun me backward, around, and down. I let the bullet’s momentum take me to my knees. Then I fell forward in a controlled slump. Gasping against the pain.
“Magdala!” Drew screamed.
Dimly I heard him thrash.
“Leave her. She’s dead meat. Unless you care to join her and fuel the gonne with your outrage?” Ruthven said calmly.
I crawled beneath the foot of Reva’s bier, keeping three pairs of legs in view. Drew and Rigby shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Ruthven remained hideously calm.
Reva grew still, no more weak thumps and bangs against the metal table as she thrashed against her restraints. But I heard her rasping breath. She lived. From beneath the table, I yanked on the straps binding her feet.
The star dropped free with a gentle ripping of fine cloth and clanked on the floor, chipping the whitewash.
“You’ve contaminated the whole process!” Ruthven yelled in outrage at the marring of his perfectly clean and bright floor. He bent to watch me as I reached to free Reva’s other foot. “You’re supposed to be dead or dying. What an amazing creature you are. Your soul will strengthen my spell beyond the addition of my own blood.”
I grabbed the table legs and shook them. Ruthven jerked up and banged his head. Hard.
He withdrew with a grunt, hands clasped to the top his head.
Rigby used the distraction to dive for the shrouded object resting at the head of the empty bed. He grabbed it with his left hand, still not revealing the mechanical nature of his hidden right limb.
And Drew, bless his heart, my Drew yanked all the copper wires and glass tubes free of some infernal machine—also whitewashed—that pumped and groaned in the corner.
Ruthven pulled another gun. A revolver fully loaded.
We froze in place. My fingers worked anxiously at Reva’s wrist restraints while I assessed Ruthven’s intentions. He waved his pistol with the huge bore at each of us in turn and back again. His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. An ugly sneer of disdain crossed his face.
“Do you honestly believe you can thwart me?” he asked. Too calm. Too focused.
I watched his eyes for clues. They’d tell me when he meant to pull the trigger before his hands did.
Not a flicker. I don’t think he even blinked. Slowly he moved the gun back and forth until the barrel pointed at Reva. Shivering, naked, and tied down, she was vulnerable. An innocent girl with everything to lose.
Anger flashed in her eyes as she set her chin and twisted her wrists. If only I could get her free . . .
Then I spotted it. A simple button on the side of the table. I stretched the middle finger of my right hand as far as I could. Not far enough. Was I quick enough.
“Don’t even think about it,” Rigby said.
I looked up with a lie on my lips and determination in my heart.
But he had his strange weapon, a collection of bulbs and crystals and barrels pointed at Ruthven’s heart. Not mine.
Ruthven turned his head and his gun at Rigby.
Then, and only then, did Rigby thrust his undamaged right hand out, through a slit in his greatcoat. He held the magnificent purple crystal. The eye of Kali that held the ca
ptive souls of those sacrificed to the goddess.
Possibly the soul of Lord Byron, the poet king, as well.
Ruthven gasped and made half a step toward his foe. All the while patting his pockets for that crystal. “How did you . . . ? You gave it to me days ago.”
“And stole it back an hour later,” Rigby smiled without mirth. Slowly, deliberately he seated the crystal between the fuel bulb and the head of the barrel.
That must be the kinetic galvatron, the monstrous weapon that shot searing light at great distances.
With Ruthven’s attention elsewhere, I slammed my hand against the button. Reva’s headband snapped free with a clang as it bounced against the far side of the table.
Ruthven lunged at Rigby, taking him to the floor where they wrestled and rolled for control of the gonne.
Drew clattered with the connections and machine behind me. I hadn’t time or attention to spare him.
I grabbed the sheet from the dead body on the other side of Reva and threw it over her. She had one hand, her head and feet free. I trusted her to help herself.
But my eyes sought the face on the body.
Toby!
My precious moon-faced boy who performed every task I asked of him without question. The small boy inside a man’s body who loved cleaning my stoop because it pleased me. His innocent blue eyes stared sightlessly at the white ceiling, mouth agape with his last scream of pain and frustration. I knew that scream. I knew his anger, blind rage when frustration and his own limitations kept him from doing what he wanted to do.
Toby.
More clatters and clangs behind me. I had to turn away from my grief for now, as I had with Kit Doyle, though this gaping hole in my gut felt larger, like my very being seeped out of me.
Toby’s death damaged me more than a throwing star and a bullet ever could.
With renewed resolution and determination, I turned back to face Ruthven. I had to stop him from murdering more innocents for his own senseless revenge. For his own perverted, selfish, vile, sense of justice.
The Transference Engine Page 25