Selkie Cove (The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Book 5)

by Kara Jorgensen

  “No,” he replied, with a shake of his head. “I learned a lot.”

  “More than if you merely relived her memories?”

  “Of course. The information I gleaned from her death paled in comparison to studying an actual body. You saw how thorough my notes were. Miss Elliott said I added more information on their anatomy to their file than they had amassed since they first discovered selkies.”

  “See? You didn’t harm anyone. The dissection may have offended them, but science offends plenty of people when they realize they are not above nature and her laws.”

  Straightening, Adam turned to Immanuel. His cheeks, lips, and eyes had reddened, making his eyes look shockingly vibrant and his scar almost white. In the silent house, his breath whistled in a steady rhythm, but the edge of anger and hurt had finally subsided into something far more thoughtful. Adam glanced toward the window for any sign of shadows or lingering selkies. When nothing appeared, Adam kissed Immanuel and rested his forehead against his.

  “Promise me you won’t throw away your chance to be an Interceptor unless you truly don’t want to be one. I can’t let you give up over this.”

  Nodding, Immanuel chewed on his lip pensively. While his outburst had drained him, his eyes seemed clearer. “Do you really think I can be a good Interceptor?”

  “I have never been more sure of anything,” Adam said, pressing his lips to the tip of Immanuel’s scar.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Missed Signals

  Immanuel wasn’t so certain. In the few hours between when the selkies left and the sun rose, he lay in bed, wishing sleep would overtake him but knowing it never would. While Adam slept soundly in the other bed, Immanuel couldn’t shake the lingering shame. Völva Hilde and the others believed he had done something unthinkable, and although, he didn’t agree with them, he had committed a sin he detested. He had treated Berte as an thing rather than a person, just as Miss Elliott and the Interceptors had. He had let his curiosity and latent ambition take over, and—

  Before Immanuel could finish the thought, he shoved off the covers and slipped out of bed. Washing and dressing in the dark, Immanuel quickly scrawled a note to Adam, in hopes he wouldn’t give him too big of a fright when he awoke and found him gone. At the threshold, he lingered for a moment, watching Adam sleep before padding down the steps. He wished he could wake him and tell him himself, but he didn’t want to talk. Through the warbled glass of the front windows, a dim ray inched across the rug. His notes waited on the dining room table where Adam had left them the night before, held down with their calling stone. Immanuel hesitated before stuffing the stone and folded papers into his trouser pocket. From his satchel, he retrieved his pencil and notebook. Thus far, it remained a rambling mess. Perhaps with solitude, he could put his thoughts in order or at least create the illusion of competence by returning to London with coherent notes.

  Grabbing a coat from the rack, Immanuel carefully pulled the door shut behind him. The wind buffeted him, sending loose sand into his eyes and the collar of his coat flapping as he walked down the grass-lined path. In the distance, he could make out the faint sounds of fishermen and bells, the mournful cries of gulls mingling with lapping waves. As he reached the top of the steep embankment leading down to the beach, Immanuel thought the better of it and settled on one of the rough boulders lining the hill. From his vantage point, he could make out a little boat bobbing between him and the lighthouse and a few dark seals sleeping on a sandbar. Reaching into his coat pocket for the vivalabe, Immanuel ripped his hand away from the brush of cold steel. He swallowed hard as he carefully pulled the revolver out as if it might go off at the slightest provocation. For a moment he merely stared at it before putting it back and fishing into the inner lining of the coat. Stashed over his heart was the envelope Miss Elliott had given them when they left London. He had grabbed the wrong coat. In the dark, his and Adam’s had been nearly identical. No matter, he would return it when he finished working.

  Perched atop the boulder, Immanuel transcribed everything he could remember about the selkies. In his mind’s eye, he could see them transform, sliding between seal and human with an ease only betrayed by the creak of bone and tear of skin reforming. Once he finished describing their physiology, he delineated what he could surmise about the social order of their colony and what he had seen in the labyrinth of tunnels. There were so many gaps, so many questions he wished he could ask them, but it was too late now. Perhaps he could return with Berte’s body as a peace offering. Then again, that could go very poorly for him. Sighing, Immanuel picked up the pencil only to catch the sound of a voice on the wind.

  He turned, expecting to see Adam when, instead, he found Casper Quince ambling toward him. Immanuel slowly stood, hoping his added height would give the man pause should he decide to cause trouble again.

  “Mr. Winter, you worked with Jacobs, right?” Quince asked, standing a good distance from him.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know if Greta told you, but he came to speak with me the day he died. I think I have some information about the women that you might be interested in.”

  “Go on,” Immanuel replied, slamming his hand on his notebook as the wind blew it open and sent his pencil skittering down the cliff face.

  “Let’s talk inside. I promise there will be some hot cider in it for you if you come.”

  Immanuel looked back at the cottage.

  “It’ll only be a few moments. Your pal won’t miss you.”

  Stuffing his notebook into his pocket, Immanuel cast one last look at the darkened window and followed Quince to the lighthouse.

  ***

  Immanuel paced across Quince’s living room, fiddling with the strap of his satchel as the other man disappeared into the basement to fetch some cider. Every so often the other man’s voice drifted up in a question about Immanuel’s life, and even though Immanuel’s jaw resisted each word like a trap, he managed to give him a flat, vague answer if it meant he could get a little closer to the killer. He lived in London. No, he didn’t work on the water. No, he merely studied seals from specimens and the work of other scientists. Immanuel shifted uncomfortably as his eyes drifted to the squat clock sitting over the hearth. On the way over, he had watched the tide begin its march across the grass, slowly separating the lighthouse from the rest of the island. If he didn’t leave soon, it would be impossible for him to get back until the tide receded. Unless he swam across… He batted the thought away. Adam would give him a well-deserved lecture if he so much as soaked his stockings in the sea. All he could hope was that Quince would be quick enough that he didn’t have to worry about Adam waking to find the note.

  Circling the parlor, Immanuel could see what Adam meant about the lighthouse keeper not matching his surroundings. He should have been at ease, but something nagged at his mind. Drifting over to the loft, Immanuel cast a glance toward the basement door before climbing halfway up the ladder until he could make out the books’ spines. There were the expected volumes on tide cycles, atlases, ledgers, and texts on navigating the British Isles. Beside them, he found books on medicine, Grey’s Anatomy, Huxley’s manual on animal anatomy, along with several other relatively advanced tomes that one might find at a medical school, and a book on electrical currents. Immanuel furrowed his blonde brows. It was hard to imagine the man harassing Byron could be as bookish and knowledgeable on science as his library suggested.

  Climbing down the ladder, Immanuel inched down the hall toward what he had assumed were bedrooms. As he turned his gaze, he froze at the beast staring back at him. His legs nearly buckled under him at the sight of its brown snout and giant glassy eyes peering up from a bedraggled pile of traps and crates. It was the head of the creature he had seen corner Berte and rise out of the murky water to skewer Mr. Jacobs. Drawing closer, Immanuel touched its brown head only to find yellow metal hidden behind a layer of mud. A hunk of metal had been blown out on the top by what looked like a bullet. He stepped back, blinking a
way the phantom images threatening to rush back to his eyes. Beneath the muck were several more openings and brass wingnuts around a flared collar. The beast had been a diving suit.

  Immanuel’s heart thundered in his throat. Casper Quince was the one to dive down to fix Byron’s tidal generators when they became too encrusted with mud to work. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that the generators would be fixed underwater. He hadn’t seen one before, but he could see their flat tops peaking between the waves at the lighthouse’s base. He had seen them before, hadn’t he? In a nightmare where he found himself irresistibly drawn to them, to a sound at once horrible yet as nostalgic as a lullaby. Then that meant— His eyes widened at Quince’s slow tread plodding up the stairs. How could he have been so blind? Immanuel looked over the shelves and furniture before landing on the gear stacked into the rafters. Above him hooks, rods, and oars of all sizes hung crusted in a film of sediment and gunk. Higher, running along the ceiling, Immanuel could make out a thick, black wire that disappeared above the door on the far end of the house.

  Scrambling up the ladder, Immanuel grabbed an oar from the rafters, slid back to the floor, and ran the instant his soles hit the boards. He stumbled over the rug and reached the cellar door as Quince hit the third to last step. Their eyes met in surprise, Immanuel’s gaze trailing to the hooked harpoon in the lighthouse keeper’s hand. In one swift motion, Immanuel slammed the door shut, throwing his weight against it as he wedged the oar through the knob and into the frame. It wouldn’t hold long with Quince battering against it, but it would give him time. Immanuel wrenched open the far door to reveal the dank interior of the lighthouse.

  Water dripped somewhere in the distance, bathing the room in the stench of brackish water along with the tang of machine oil. Immanuel’s footfalls echoed off the walls only to be drowned out by his rough breaths and thundering heart. Rounding the corner as he entered the main room of the lighthouse, his eyes fell upon a telegraph mounted on a table. Flipping the switch, he was relieved to hear the electric whir of its motor reawakening. He grabbed the envelope from the inside of his coat and pulled out the slip of paper with the Interceptor’s information with shaking hands. His eyes darted over the square contraption beside the telegraph. Half a dozen copper-lined holes labeled with station codes covered its face, and in the top left a wired peg stuck out that connected with the rear of the telegraph. He scrambled over the numbers etched above each hole until he found the one that matched what had been carefully printed on the page. He stuffed the peg in, listening for any sign of Quince, only to hear the drum of wood thumping against wood. There wasn’t much time.

  He had only worked a telegraph a handful of times at the museum when the operator was unavailable or taking too long for Sir William’s thin patience. It was simple enough, but as his hands shook and his mind tumbled ahead of him, he hoped he hadn’t missed any steps. Luckily, it didn’t seem as if Mr. Quince was particularly adept either, as a Morse code key sat beside the device. Immanuel drew in a calming breath and desperately tried to block out the thump of the cellar door behind him. With his eyes on the key, he entered in the code Judith had supplied him. He scanned the alphabet and quickly tapped out the most succinct message he could think of.

  Short, short, short, short…short…short, long, short, short…short, long, long, short. Help.

  Immanuel’s mind reeled as he stared at the handle humming beneath his fingers. He had done it so fast that he couldn’t recall if he had counted correctly or if he had even legibly spelled a word he had learned so well. Stepping away, Immanuel listened, only to hear the wind battering the brickwork and the patter of rain against the glass-domed beacon. He squinted down the hall but saw no sign of Quince. The lighthouse’s only door stood less than ten feet away, and if Quince escaped the basement, he would have only seconds to get out before he was on him. He stared at the machine beneath his fingertips. What else could he say? What could he write that might make the Interceptors understand the gravity of his situation? Immanuel swallowed hard. If the harpoon was any indication, he could be dead long before they arrived.

  Long, short, short… short… short, long… long, short, short.

  As he began to type the next word, the door creaked open behind him. Immanuel froze, letting his hand down on the knob in a long, shrill note. The sound died away at the snap of the cord running over his head, and the device fell still. Slowly turning, Immanuel found Casper Quince at the door with the hook of his harpoon tangled in the telegraph’s wire. Rain dripped down his cropped hair and gathered in thick drops in his beard. His grey eyes burned as he leveled the weapon at Immanuel. Quince nodded for Immanuel to step away from the dead telegraph. As he moved, Immanuel’s gaze traveled to the door standing open behind his captor. A breeze whistled in. laden with the taste of the sea. If he could catch it, he could knock Quince over or at least rid him of his weapon, but as he tried to focus enough to see the invisible threads, all he heard was his heart in his ears. For once, he was thankful to not feel the draw of Adam’s energy nearby. Even if he couldn’t use his powers, at least Adam was safe. Quince raised the harpoon until it hung inches from Immanuel’s eyes.

  “Let’s go. We have some things to discuss, merwif,” Quince said, nudging Immanuel back toward the main house.

  With each step toward the cellar door, the dread deepened in Immanuel’s gut. How long would it be before Adam awoke and went looking for him? How long before his love for him led him right into a trap? Immanuel swallowed against the lump in his throat as Quince kicked aside the oar wedged under the knob and nudged him forward with the tip of his blade. As his foot hit the first squealing board, a blow landed hard in the small of his back. Immanuel scrambled to grab the rail only to find the smooth, slick surface of stone. Pain bloomed across his back as he struck the first step. His elbow rang and head throbbed as he fell until the world passed in bursts of pain and blurs of grey. With a final crack, his poorly healed ribs bounced against the bottom steps and his legs crumpled under him.

  Lying with his cheek pressed against the cool stones, Immanuel fought to keep his eyes open. His mind screamed for him to sit up, to run, to stay put and play dead until Quince left, but all he could do was listen as the door at the top of the steps creaked shut.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Unmoored

  Adam groaned and pulled the pillow closer. What the hell was Immanuel doing to be so damn loud? he wondered, though not enough to move from the cocoon of his covers to find out. As the sound continued and his mind cleared, he could make out a voice outside the window accompanied by the pounding of a fist against the door. Adam bolted upright, his mind flashing to the police until he remembered where he was. Shaking off the remnants of sleep, he scanned the room for any sign of Immanuel, but as he rose, his eyes fell upon a piece of parchment left on the coverlet.

  Gone to the beach to work. Didn’t want to wake you. Feel free to eat without me. I.L.D.

  Immanuel.

  Adam sighed and rubbed his eyes as the rapping continued. “Just a second!”

  Grabbing a shirt and trousers from the wardrobe, Adam quickly donned them over his union suit and trotted down the creaky steps. He blinked with each stair, his mind on what he could scrounge up from the cupboard that might be palatable at such a wretched hour.

  Opening the door, Adam quirked a henna brow at Byron Durnure waiting on the doorstep with his fist poised to knock. Byron leaned heavily against his scuffed walking stick, his breath labored as if he had attempted to run from the village to the cottage. Smudges of soot marred his forehead and cheek and his waistcoat had been torn across his breast to reveal a shallow scratch beneath.

  Before Adam could speak, Byron blurted, “I need to speak to you and Mr. Winter straight away. Greta said I had to get you.”

  When the dark-haired man went to grab his arm, Adam ducked out of reach. “What are you talking about? What could be so pressing at this ungodly hour?”

  Byron shifted, his grey eyes boring into
Adam before darting toward the village. “The selkies are rebelling. Look.”

  Adam reached for his coat only to find Immanuel’s hanging in its place. Releasing a breath out his nose, he slipped it on, feeling the narrow back tug with each movement. The damned selkies were the last thing he wanted to deal with, but the thought died as he followed Byron up the hill.

  The village was in shambles. Through a haze of smoke, Adam could make out figures running toward the water, others moving through the streets from house to house as if searching. A house near the bay had been set ablaze while several around it smoldered as the embers ate their way through their ivy-clad roofs. The groan of a great crack drew his eye to the water where a ship bobbed wildly. Squinting, Adam could make out figures grappling on the fishing vessel. From that distance, he couldn’t tell if they were selkies or men, but he could see bodies prone on the deck and dark forms floating in the water beside it.

  The saliva dried in Adam’s throat. “Why are they doing this?”

  “Revenge,” Byron said softly, “for all they have suffered. I couldn’t find Jenny, but Greta said you might be able to stop them. She says you started this.”

  “I started it? I did nothing of— Never mind. We need to find Immanuel. He’s down on the beach.”

  “No, he isn’t.” When Adam stared at him, Byron glanced at him nervously and added, “The main road runs parallel to the shore. I would have seen him if he was on this side of the island.”