Selkie Cove (The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Book 5)

by Kara Jorgensen

  Adam rubbed his wrist, but as he moved his arm, he felt the weight of Immanuel’s vivalabe in his pocket. “Stay right here, I’ll be right back.”

  Shutting the cottage door behind him, Adam drew out the brass orb. Beneath his trembling hands, he could sense the stir of intellect within the metal. He clicked the front and the top fell away, but unlike every time Immanuel had used it, the balls didn’t scatter; they didn’t even appear. Adam released a breath and tried again. Staring at the contraption, Adam forced back the image of Immanuel being drowned or ripped apart by the selkies.

  “Show me Immanuel,” he whispered, opening his eyes only to find the stone balls hadn’t moved from the perimeter of the plane. “Find Immanuel.”

  Gritting his teeth, Adam glared at the vivalabe and resisted the urge to hurl it at the wall. It ticked mockingly in time with his pulse. “Look, I know I’m not your master or owner or whatever Immanuel is, but he could be in danger right now. He and I are bonded, and if you don’t help me, we may both lose something important to us. Please, show me Immanuel.”

  Adam stared the etched face of the vivalabe down as if willing the impossible parts inside of it to move. After a tense moment, a loud click resounded deep within the belly of the device as half a dozen balls slowly rolled across the plane, changing color as they went. A tiger’s eye and a blue stone stood together while in the distance Immanuel’s white quartz gleamed beside a chip of sapphire and a hunk of blue jade. He stared at the tiger’s eye. In whatever logic the vivalabe used to discern bodies, it had decided to make him a striped, honeyed stone.

  Adam followed the trajectory of the sliding stones and tried to imagine where on the island Immanuel might be. If the village sat somewhere behind his shoulder, then Immanuel couldn’t be there or in the labyrinth beneath the island. The only things in that direction were the lighthouse, the powerhouse, and the sea.

  “Thank you,” Adam whispered to the vivalabe before snapping it shut and stuffing it into his coat pocket.

  There were two people with Immanuel, and while he couldn’t tell who they were, he hoped to god they were human. Byron’s anxious knock sounded again. Adam took a step toward the stairs but stopped. Immanuel had his gun. Walking briskly into Mr. Jacobs’ room, Adam snatched the dead man’s gun, even though it wasn’t loaded, and stormed past Byron.

  “Where are you going? The village is the other way,” Byron called after him.

  Adam turned, locking gazes with Byron as he stood wide-eyed in the lane, and for an instant, he saw himself reflected in the other man’s eyes, all fire blazing against the grim dawn.

  “I have to go to the lighthouse. Mr. Winter is missing, and while I appreciate that all hell is breaking loose down there, I can’t help you.”

  Byron’s mouth fell open. “But Greta said to—”

  “Greta started this mess. Let her deal with the consequences,” Adam snapped, turning on heel.

  “But what should I do? They’re threatening to kill any who’ve wronged them.”

  “Then, if I was you, I would hope my conscience was clear.”

  Without waiting for Byron’s reply, Adam marched down the path toward the lighthouse. Anger and fear bubbled up together, threatening to spew out, but he buried it deep, hardening it into cold resolve. His steps slowed against his will as he reached the dip in the path where the tide overtook the land. Water gushed over the hill in a powerful current. It was deep enough that Adam doubted he could attempt to cross it without being swept out to sea. Digging his nail deep into his palm, Adam steadied himself. He had to get to the lighthouse, but what would he do when he got there? Demand to see Immanuel? If nothing was amiss and he was merely speaking with Quince, he wasn’t sure he could hide his relief. A good friend could still worry, couldn’t he?

  Something white bobbed at the edge of Adam’s vision. Breaking from his thoughts, Adam spotted a rowboat beached against a hunk of driftwood. Adam’s heart sank. The boat bobbed with the tide, revealing the dead man’s ravaged form with each dip. As Adam scrambled over the rocks and dunes, the smell of rancid flesh hit him before he could fully see Jacobs’ body. Holding his breath, Adam inched closer until he could make out the same frayed black coat and distorted face he had seen days earlier. Unlike their first encounter, his body had begun to leak a putrid liquid somewhere between blood and muck. His flesh had distended and fallen with gravity until his features resembled melted wax. Drawing as close as he dared, Adam noticed frayed gouges across Jacobs’ body that he realized with sickening clarity had been caused by seabirds feasting on his corpse.

  He swallowed down the bile climbing his throat. How had Jacobs gotten loose again? His body was supposed to have been stored in the cellar below the lighthouse. He had left Quince to deal with the body, but he hadn’t thought to check that he did it. Had the tide swept into the basement during the storm and dragged the boat out to sea? Adam raised his eyes to the spiraling form of the lighthouse looming at the end of the precipice. Storm clouds darkened the horizon, blurring the world beyond the island into middling smears of grey and green. No, Jacobs’ body had been released on purpose.

  Adam kicked at the sand, releasing a string of curses. He should have told Immanuel his suspicions the night before, but he had been so upset by the selkies leaving that Adam had forgotten. Quince. Quince had killed Jacobs. Greta said she had seen them talking before he disappeared, but more importantly, Adam was certain Quince owned the calling stone they found in Jacobs’ watch. Quince had said he had a sister named Hilda, and Hilde had a brother who had given away his stone to a stranger. Of course the moment he thought to ask, Miss Larkin had ruined any hope of getting help from the other selkies. Adam stared up at the lighthouse. Had he lied about the broken telegraph, too? Jacobs was dead and rotting, and as long as he was presumed missing, Quince’s secret would be safe. But why? Why kill him and why kill the selkie in the first place? It didn’t matter. Adam’s ribs tightened, sucking the air from his lungs at the thought of Immanuel trapped with that man.

  Resisting the urge to take a breath, Adam grabbed the side of the row boat and shoved it down. Immanuel’s narrow-backed jacket strained as he tipped the boat on its side. Jacobs rolled against the boards with a wet slap, bits of flesh and offal spiraling at the soles of Adam’s boots. It’s a shell and nothing more, Adam repeated to himself as he shifted the boat further until it capsized on the sand. Carefully stepping over Mr. Jacobs’ corpse, Adam slid the boat toward the water, stopping before it reached the water-soaked sand. He looked across the beach for anything he could use and found a twisted branch of petrified wood. The oars had been lost days ago when Quince had killed Mr. Jacobs, but if he could cross the stream before the current widened, he could stab and pull his way across like a gondolier.

  Wiping his hands with his handkerchief, Adam checked the vivalabe one more time. He stared down at the brass markings surrounding the etched face, wishing he knew what they meant. Bits of uncolored stone lingered near the symbols, but they never moved. Adam banished the thought that perhaps its sudden silence was due to its owner’s death. Shoving the brass device deep in his pocket, Adam grabbed a long branch of driftwood and pushed the boat against the wet sand until it hit the water with a rocking thump. The row boat bobbed uncertainly, threatening to tip him into the stream before he could gain his balance. Using the wood as a pole, Adam stabbed the land beneath the boat and dragged himself across the stream. Something—he told himself was water—sloshed into his shoes and drifted over the smell of the sea. He pushed all thoughts from his mind, except one: Immanuel needed him.

  ***

  Adam tumbled out of the rowboat and crashed into the grass, hauling himself up before the brackish water could wick up his trousers. Beads of sweat trailed down his back and loosened his pomade until locks of henna hair hung limp across his forehead. His arms ached from dragging himself across the water, and as he caught his breath on the shore, he cursed himself for not continuing his exercise regime more faithfully after Immanuel
arrived. Rising to his feet, he turned in time to watch the boat bob away, swept up by the meandering tide. Adam reached for his tie before letting his hand drop as he remembered he left it back at the cottage. Instead he straightened the collar of his coat and smoothed his hair from his forehead before making his way up the hill.

  The lighthouse seemed so much more imposing than it had the day he went to speak to Casper Quince. At the front door, Adam hesitated. His hand instinctively drifted to the gun in his pocket but remembered it was empty. Plastering on a neutral expression, he knocked and waited. When no one came, Adam peered through the window, but the whitewashed parlor appeared to be empty. Moving on to the lighthouse door, he knocked and once again found the building seemingly silent. Walking down the hill, Adam didn’t know whether to feel relieved or ill. His eyes drifted to the outbuilding resting against the cliff side. The brick powerhouse thrummed with a rhythmic pulse that mimicked the ebb and flow of the sea. Drawing closer, Adam’s skin prickled at the energy emanating through its walls. A crude sign hung on the door warning others of the dangers of electricity and barring entry to all but those who were responsible for its upkeep. Resisting the urge to train the gun ahead of him, Adam threw open the door and ducked inside. He stumbled in, moving behind the nearest generator for cover. Peering around it, Adam’s heart sank. Empty.

  Adam let his head fall back against the damp brick. His stomach knotted at the thought of Immanuel trapped somewhere he couldn’t reach him. That had happened to him once already; Adam saw its aftereffects in nightmares and delusions and irrational fears that he still couldn’t puzzle out, and he wouldn’t let it happen to him again. Adam was about to leave the powerhouse to head up to the main house with the intention to smash in a window when a voice carried above the generator’s thrum. It had been so faint that he wasn’t sure it hadn’t originated in his mind, but it had been human. Biting back the urge to call for Immanuel, Adam slowly stepped out from behind the generator’s massive steel wheel. He slid his hand into his pocket as he moved around the next wheel and found the cold metal of Jacobs’ gun. As he trailed it ahead of him, he flicked his wrist at the foreign weight. It was too light, but Quince wouldn’t know the difference.

  Stepping around the last generator, Adam stared down the barrel of the gun at a metal door set into the bricks. Unlike the lighthouse, this knob turned easily in his hand. His relief died into dread at what waited on the other side. His heart scaled his throat at the brick barrel vaulted catacomb closing in around him. It wouldn’t have reminded him of the underground rail stations back home, except for the shelves lining both walls as far as he could see in the dark. Light glinted off row upon row of jars filled with what Adam hoped were preserves but deep down knew were anything but food. He shuddered at an eye lazily spinning in its jar. Even in the dim light, he knew it to be human. The gorge rose in his throat as he spotted what appeared to be kidneys, lungs, and finally a heart submerged in alcohol. Bits of human and seal sat side by side, objets d'art in a mad man’s studio. Adam crinkled his nose at how the smell left a faint tang on his tongue that reminded him of the awful swill Quince had given him. Adam’s mind clung hopelessly to reason. It was possible that Quince or a past lighthouse keeper had procured some of the specimens through distributors in London or Edinburgh, but not humans. Immanuel had told him how the curators often lamented about the lack of human specimens available from reputable sources. Adam’s mind flashed to the faceless women tacked to the wall of the study. Had they ended up disarticulated and jarred like livestock before anyone could realize they were gone?

  He didn’t want to think of a reason anyone would do it. Inching down the hall, Adam kept the gun ahead of him as he silenced his steps against the old brick. The tunnel above him grew to a semi-circular room with a ceiling high enough to dispel the wreak of the jars. Lingering on the threshold, Adam listened. The room was silent apart from the pounding of his heart in his ears and a faint whistling of breath. Adam reached along the wall until his hand brushed against a switch. In one quick motion, he threw on the lights and drew his gun.

  The harsh electric lamps illuminated horrors far worse than any his mind could have conjured. Adam’s hands dropped as he gasped but clamped his mouth shut before the sound could escape. The room could have been used for storage or smuggling; now, it lay somewhere between a dungeon and an operating theatre. Crates and trappings for fishing had been stacked in front of the door on the far wall to block anyone entering from seeing the long, stained butcher-block tables lining the other two walls. Bits of offal had dried onto the surface while what looked like a putrefied fruit sat in a pool of its own juices near the table’s edge. A massive pot still loomed over Adam, but beside it were shelves and racks containing the lighthouse keeper’s tools. Some Adam had seen in Hadley’s workshop, but here they seemed made for disarticulation rather than creation. Beneath the smell of alcohol from the still, lingered the metallic tang of blood and rot mixed with sea water. A not quite human shape lay hidden under a sheet on the table. Adam willed his feet to move toward the figure, but his body stayed locked in the doorway.

  It wasn’t Immanuel. Adam knew that in the core of his being. If Immanuel had been decimated like that poor creature, he would have felt the tug of his soul crying out to his. He was sure of it. Perhaps it was the handfasting or maybe it was simply in his head, but he knew Immanuel’s presence. This was one of Quince’s victims, and he was too cowardly to look into the face of someone who had died because they didn’t figure it out soon enough. As Adam reached the crates on the far side of the room, a faint breath whistled behind him. Adam froze, turning slowly with the gun pointed ahead. There was no one, no one but the shape beneath the dirty canvas. Swallowing hard, Adam inched toward the table and ripped the sheet away.

  The gorge rose in his throat before he could stop it. Stifling bile-burned coughs, he wiped at his lips with his handkerchief and slowly walked back to her side. On the table lay a selkie. Her legs remained trapped in the smooth skin of a seal while her upper body was human, apart from her webbed fingers and the sleek grey fur covering her figure. A mass of sweat-matted curls clung to her face as she shuddered with each shallow breath. Adam’s heart pounded in his ears as he caught sight of the deep wound bloodying her scalp. It slashed across her forehead, and Adam feared if she moved, he would see a flash of white bone. On the table beside her sat a hand drill and boning knife. Despite the coating of fur, her face shone with sweat and her hands fluttered against her arms as she hugged herself. Lightly brushing her hair from her lips, Adam realized he had seen her. Even though her face was fuller and more seal-like now, he recognized the swirls and dots decorating her arms and the blonde curls that had once been wild. It was Byron’s companion, Jenny. Byron. A pang of guilt rang through Adam’s gut. He had shrugged the man off without a second thought, yet the selkies had spared him in their massacre. He hadn’t even thought to bring him.

  “Jenny,” Adam whispered to the place where her ear would have been in her more human form. “Jenny, wake up.”

  He gently rubbed her arm, but she barely stirred. Adam stood beside her, his eyes trailing to the hidden door. He had to find Immanuel, but he couldn’t leave her. Immanuel would have shoved her into Adam’s arms and sent him off to safety, and he would have been right to. As Adam lifted her shoulders, her head lolled against him, revealing a blackened bruise blooming across her temple. Grimacing, Adam slid his arms beneath her shoulders and fins. He hefted her to his chest, staggering back under her surprising weight. If he could get her through the tunnel and out to the sea, he could hand her over to the selkies. Even if they were rioting, perhaps they would come for their own. When Adam reached the door, he balanced her weight against his chest and fished in his pocket for Jacobs’ watch. He let his head fall back against the rusted door; Immanuel had it. Jenny shuddered, releasing a not quite human cry. Hearing her breathing falter, Adam hoped she and Immanuel could hold on a little longer.

  Adam reached for the door but
tightened his grip on the selkie as a voice rang from the other side of the crates. His eyes flickered over the room for a place to hide, but he didn’t dare put her back on the table. Darting into the hall of jars, Adam carefully lowered Jenny onto the floor behind the nearest shelf. He ripped off his jacket and stuck it under her head to ease her labored breath. Keeping his back flat to the wall, Adam slunk as deep into the shadow of the still as he could manage and waited for whatever walked through the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Where Magic Lies

  Immanuel groaned, cautiously rolling onto his back and clenching his eyes shut against the pain blooming in his bones. Daggers lanced through his spine and hips where they had struck the stone steps on the way down while the rest of his body ached. Immanuel slowly opened his eyes, the pain in his temple flaring as black spots danced in his damaged eye. The electric lights glaring in a crooked line down the hall brought tears to his eyes, but even through the dim side of his vision, he could make out a brick tunnel looming over his head and a rusted metal door not far down the hall. He rose into a low crouch, grimacing as his knee slid into place with a sickening crack. The corner of his lip itched, and when Immanuel touched it, he found blood staining his fingers and crusted to his cheek.

  Taking slow breaths, Immanuel fended back the panic threatening to overtake his senses. Each flare of pain sent him closer to the edge, and for a moment, he feared losing his connection to reality more than the man who had caused it. What was it Adam told him? Feel. He pressed his palms into the cold brick, running his finger along the nicks and imperfections. Hear. A steady pulse rang through the stone, like the repetitious chug of a locomotive and somewhere far closer, the scuff of steps. See. Immanuel turned to find Quince standing before a stack of old ropes and what looked like oversized crab pots. In his hand, he hefted the harpoon, its tip taking on a lethal gleam in the lamp light. Immanuel stood perfectly still as the lighthouse keeper closed the distance between them.