The temptation to eat the sugary treats was nearly blinding, but Keegan tucked them away in his pocket. “Can I leave?”
“Leave?” He crossed his arms, shaking his head. “I offered you a job. A position with my corporation, one of great importance, I might add. I don’t make such commitments lightly, and I’m always true to my word.”
“I don’t wanna work in no factory.” That was what had killed his parents. The night before their door was busted in and his parents were pulled out, kicking and screaming, he’d promised him mum he’d do what he could to stay out of the grip of the guilds. I’ll run away. I’ll die first. “I’d rather be out on the streets.”
“A factory?” He snorted, cutting the air with his hand. “Nothing of the sort. Do you think a man such as myself would be allowed to run a business here? An American living this close to the French? The guilds would just as soon see me dead as risk me getting a foothold on their business. No, this won’t be that sort of work.”
“Then what?”
“Why don’t you eat your sweets and we’ll discuss it?”
“I dunno.” It would be awfully good to have another taste of that sweetness. But he’d learned the hard way to save any extra food for the times when it was scarce.
The man’s gaze narrowed. He wasn’t expecting Keegan to say no to him. Well, he was an idiot if he thought someone would simply trust him. Respect and fear were the only two ways an Underling would pay attention, and Keegan was still an Underling, so he was afraid of nothing.
“What if I told you the job would entail working with a very special machine? And your payment would be room, food, and all the sweets you would ever want. If you’re concerned about this cell, I promise improvements will be forthcoming.” The man put his hand on Keegan’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You see, I dislike the guilds as much as you do, though that’s not the only reason why I’m here. I have a… special project that could only be accomplished here in New London. There aren’t many people I can trust to help me with a task this delicate.”
Keegan could appreciate that. “And you trust a street rat?”
It had been years since anyone had shown him any kindness, let alone trust. Not since his parents had been taken away by the guilds. They’d been able to make machines do special things too, though not in the way he could. They would work longer and longer hours, leaving him home alone to fend for himself. He still didn’t know why the guild took them the way they did, but he knew they were dead.
God, he’d been lonely, despite having fallen in with the Underlings. On the nights when he couldn’t sleep, Keegan would dream that his mum was still there, that she’d wrap her arms around him and kiss his cheek. His dad would pick him up and carry him around on his shoulder, so high that Keegan could touch the ceiling. Those were the nights he’d wake up with tears on his face, wishing someone, anyone, would hold him, take care of him.
This might be his chance to find a new family. Maybe the man could be a father for him. Keegan squirmed, not wanting to let the warm feeling growing in his chest show.
“What kinda machine is it, sir?”
He laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, none of that sir stuff with me. Come along and I’ll show you what I started to build. You can tell me what you think of it. I bet you’ll be able to make it do amazing things, maybe even offer suggestions on how to make it better. Even more than what you can with your watch.”
The hallway outside of his cell wasn’t in much better shape. The air was cool and damp, making it hard for Keegan to warm up.
“Thanks, sir. Ah, what should I call ya if not sir?” As they walked away, Keegan took the bag of sweets out of his pocket and shoved more of them into his mouth. I could get used ta this.
“In America it’s customary to refer to your employer by his name.” He reached down and ruffled Keegan’s hair. “You can call me Mr. Edison.”
Chapter One
Emmet Dennison stood outside the Ministry of Guild Relations building and let the bitter winter wind slam against him. The freezing temperatures were a welcomed change from the stagnant air of the minister’s office. The steam heat had been turned too high in the small space, which was filled with more bureaucrats than legally should have been allowed in one location. For seven hours he’d been forced to sit and listen to the demands of the government, the changes they expected the Archivist Guild to make in the wake of the recent tragedies that had gripped New London, all while being forced to suffer the stench of their sweat.
“We expect the archivists to do their duty, to extract the memories of the dead,” the minister said with such disdain it was nearly palpable. “Jack the Ripper was your guild’s doing. Your arrogance unleashed a monster upon this city, and he tore at our society’s very fabric. We are here to ensure your pride doesn’t cause further harm.”
Government inspections. Official records keepers. Liaising with the Hudson’s Bay Company. A list of all active archivists. A list of any other “secrets” the Archives might be keeping.
Bloody idiots didn’t have a clue what they were asking. As though any guild in New London would be willing to part with their deeply guarded skeletons, laying themselves out for others to pick apart. Pulling up his collar and securing his topper low on his head, he turned sharply and marched toward the iron walkway that would take him to the Archives.
Guild Master June had put him in charge of government relations while the rest of the Elders were busy with reconstructing their refuge. The physical structure of the building itself would take time to repair, the memory vaults having suffered the greatest amount of damage after the Archives’ central machine had gone into shutdown. Emmet along with every available archivist had been enlisted to help with inventory. Rows upon rows of shelves, each one containing dozens of memories, taken from New London’s deceased. So many memories lost, lives once stored for future generations snuffed out of existence.
Maybe they were better off now. Finally gone on to the afterlife.
No. The memories of the dead were a commodity so precious they couldn’t afford to lose a single one. Every effort was being focused on the rebuilding.
But it was the damage to the reputation of the archivists themselves that would be the hardest to fix.
They’d unwittingly created the most devastating killer New London had ever known. The zombies, as the public loved to refer to them, were a menace to both the living and the dead. They needed to be controlled, watched; otherwise, how could the people of New London be assured that they would remain safe? How could they know if another Jack the Ripper was hiding in the basement of the Archives? It was a refrain he was tired of hearing. How could the Guild Masters expect Emmet to right the mountain of wrongs that now lay atop the soul of the city without giving in to the demands of the king and his representatives?
He was third son of the Duke of Bedford, not a fucking god.
Darkness had crept upon the city while he’d been stuck inside arguing with fools. The glow from the sulfur lamps left pools of shadows and light across the frost-covered cobblestones. Emmet walked to the side of them, not wanting to face the continuing assault on his sensitive vision. He’d foolishly left his radiation goggles at the Archives. More and more, Emmet was finding himself distracted, an unfortunate habit that in the end would cause him physical harm if he continued.
The dark halls and cavernous rooms of the Archives provided him with respite from the growing radiation in the New London air, a reminder of their war with the French. Things would only get worse for him once he underwent his first extraction. His mind would slowly be filled with holes, picking away at his memories until he was left as a pale shadow of his former self.
Emmet adjusted his collar, pulling it tighter against his neck. He’d managed so far to put off his inevitable step to become a true archivist. While one by one his friends were assigned a mentor and an extractor, Emmet found other tasks, important responsibilities that required his presence anywhere but out on the streets of New L
ondon extracting memories from the deceased. It was only a matter of time. Soon the Archives would be repaired, the government would be appeased, and his name would once again appear at the top of the assignment roster.
His father would laugh if he knew how hard Emmet had worked to stay as far away as he could from the thing he’d begged to be allowed to do.
Bloody little fool. Go then, be nothing more than a harbinger of death. But don’t expect to come crawling back. I’ll harbor no zombies in this residence.
The gate that led to the iron walkways came into sight. The moving walkways that crisscrossed New London weren’t policed by the King’s Sentry or the Bow Street runners. Emmet could certainly afford to take a hackney, or could even have requested one of the Guild’s carriages to take him back to the Archives, keeping him out of harm’s way.
But where would the fun be in that?
The collector swallowed his copper as he pressed it into the slot. One of these days he’d love to find out where all the coins went.
As the gate closed behind him and Emmet gained his balance on the moving walkway, he took stock of his surroundings, cataloguing everything with a single glance and storing it in his eidetic memory. A group of three was in front of him, slumped forward in exhaustion as they stood silently. The iron walkway track joined in with a second, adding more bodies to the mix. Emmet slipped his hands into his overcoat, to curl his fingers around his pistol. Not that many were foolish enough to attack an archivist, but a person couldn’t be too careful. He looked around once more, catching the eye of a burly man, who sneered at him. Emmet silently dared him to make a move by refusing to look away. The contact lasted only a moment before the man turned his face away from Emmet’s.
It was a good thing the man hadn’t pushed him tonight, given his foul mood. He’d been itching for a fight for weeks now, needing to find a way to burn off his excessive energy. Even a covert visit to the boxing club the previous week had done little to quell his need to hit, punish, vent his frustrations at the direction his life had taken. He couldn’t risk losing that sort of control, not after he’d seen the result of what had happed to Jack.
No. Emmet knew he was under scrutiny by too many people to let his control slip now. Not simply because he’d gone against the Guild Masters’ orders and helped his friends Piper and Samuel, but because he’d never truly been one of them. His brief dissention had simply reinforced what many already believed to be true—Emmet was only a part of the guild for his own benefit.
A man stepped up beside him, his long black coat, high collar, and bowler doing little to hide his surreal visage. Emmet hadn’t been aware of his presence or his approach, which set the hair on the back of his neck on end.
Clearing this throat, Emmet kept his eyes forward. “Good evening, Administrator.”
The Administrators were the secret enforcement officers of the Archives. While the populace of New London was often scared of the archivists, the archivists were equally scared of what the Administrators would do to them. They were an all too real boogeyman who coexisted with them, watching their every move.
Even Emmet wasn’t above their watchful gaze or their rules.
“Good evening, Mr. Dennison. How was your meeting?” The man’s voice was as flat as the dark night.
“As I’d anticipated. Tedious and a waste of the guild’s time. I was able to deflect the majority of their requests, while ensuring the ones that required action would flow to the correct individuals so as to not inconvenience the Guild Masters.”
“Well done, Mr. Dennison.” His tone undercut the compliment.
There’d been rumors for the past several years that Emmet was being groomed to become an Administrator himself. They existed in the world of shadows, in the darkness where no one else would dare tread. Emmet had always been drawn to the darkness, the excitement of the unknown. It was what had drawn him to this job in the first place. As the son of a duke, Emmet could have been granted the position of liaison instead of archivist. But taking a lesser role was the only way he’d escape the far-reaching shadow of the Duke of Bedford.
Becoming an Administrator would give him unprecedented access to the inner workings of the city, the king, and each of the guilds. It was a position even his father wouldn’t have been able to procure on his behalf and an opportunity Emmet wouldn’t refuse if it was ever presented to him. Accepting that title would wipe the smug look off his father’s face when he finally returned home.
If they ever made the offer.
The Administrator turned to face him. His pale skin and white eyes gave the man a ghostly presence, one that made it difficult for Emmet not to look away despite the unsettled sensation gathering in his stomach. Still, he straightened and maintained eye contact. If he were to become one of them, he better have the fortitude to confront what he may himself evolve into.
If the man was impressed with Emmet’s ability to remain nonplussed, then he didn’t show it. Instead, he stepped closer and lowered his voice. The sweet smell of tobacco had Emmet’s mouth watering as the scent washed over him.
“A matter has come to the attention of the Administrators. One that could have serious ramifications for the guild if not handled in the proper manner.”
Emmet could only imagine what that could be. Until recently, he’d had only marginally more information than some of the other archivists. While the Guild Masters took advantage of his status to gather information they’d otherwise not have access to, they didn’t completely trust him. “I take it this has a degree of sensitivity?”
“Indeed, Mr. Dennison, one that the Administrators would like to handle as quietly as possible.”
Casting a glance around where they stood, he noted that the forward group of three had taken an exit gate. Several people in front of them had drawn farther away and were casting uneasy looks there way, giving them a surprising amount of privacy considering their location.
“Mr. Dennison, the Administrators are giving you an assignment, one that the Guild Masters are not fully aware of. We expect it to remain privileged.”
“Of course.” Rarely did anything good come from secretive missions. His older brother Tobias, a captain in the King’s Army and an intelligence officer, had often spoken of the negative fallout of such cases. Still, it was rather exciting to be on the action end of such a scenario, rather than simply listening to the story.
The Administrator’s gaze never left Emmet, rarely blinking as though the added scrutiny would reveal something previously unseen. “As you are already aware, the Hudson’s Bay Company insisted on sending an engineer to assist us with the rebuilding of the Archives’ central machine and to check the structural integrity of the memory vials. Their claims of being the original architects and therefore having a greater fundamental understanding of how the central machine functions were persuasive. The king’s insistence sealed our fate. We are to play host to a clockwerker.”
There had been a serious breach of containment when Piper and her now husband and former archivist Samuel had been on the trail of Jack the Ripper. The Guild Masters had managed to keep the general public in the dark regarding Jack’s true identity. Master Ryerson, who’d been responsible for the whole debacle, had been handled by the Administrators and hadn’t been seen since that fateful night. As for Jack… his body might still be alive, but his brain was dead and personality gone.
What they weren’t certain of was if the archived memories of the deceased men, women, and children of New London were still preserved. And if so, if the central machine, and, by extension, the Archives themselves, was capable of continuing on. Without it, then their entire guild would cease to be of any use.
“I am. I assume this clockwerker is causing some problems for the guild?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The Administrator licked his lips. A nervous tic, or simply a tell that whatever he was about to say wouldn’t be pleasant. “We have received information that has led us to believe there is a possibility that Master Rye
rson didn’t act alone. The information we have indicates there is a member of the Illuminating Company in New London and that Ryerson might have been providing this individual with information.”
“What is that?” God, there was a time when he knew every major organization in the New London, now he couldn’t keep track of them all.
“They are the main competition to the Hudson’s Bay Company. With Ryerson now gone, our informant believes that the HBC engineer will be a target. That they will try to take the clockwerker and force them to reveal their knowledge of the Archives.”
No. “You want me to play nursemaid to this man?”
The other man smiled, his lips twisting up to reveal too-large white teeth and reddened interior flesh. “I think you’ll find Tesla to be an intriguing subject.”
“With all due respect, sir, I haven’t worked my way through the ranks of the guild, spent my spare time acting as liaison between His Majesty and the Guild Masters, and providing the Administrators with information from the ton that they would otherwise not have access to, to play nursemaid to someone that one of our apprentices is perfectly qualified to watch.”
The iron walkway jerked and jumped on the track, causing Emmet to lose his balance. But as he reached back to grab hold of the rail, the Administrator moved forward. Emmet froze as icy cold fingers gripped his wrist, preventing him from moving.
“Mr. Dennison, I don’t believe you understand. This is not a request, a suggestion, or an assignment you can pass off to one of your lackeys. You are to stay with Tesla. You will ensure that nothing happens while work is being conducted on the Archives. And you will see to it that no one from the Illuminating Company comes close to Tesla while she is under our protection.”
Emmet swallowed hard, ignoring the rising pain. “She?”
“I believe this is our stop.” The Administrator pulled away and stepped past Emmet before he could react. Forced to chase after the man, Emmet covertly rubbed his abused skin.
“Nicola Tesla is one of the greatest engineering minds of our generation. She has a way with machinery that would make the Clockwerker Guild envious. She’s refused the normal protection of the HBC, and it is our responsibility to keep her safe while she fixes the Archives. The consequences of failure are too steep otherwise.”
Quicksilver Soul Page 2