His Clockwork Canary tgvd-2

by Beth Ciotta

  Simon tried not to gawk and failed. Mortician? Try dominatrix.

  “Name?”

  “Simon Darcy.”

  “Not you,” she said with a raised brow and a tilt of her head. “Her.”

  “Willie,” he blurted, not sure how much information he should share. Though this woman had Jules’s trust, Bella Caro was like no doctor Simon had ever seen.

  She moved to examine Willie, glaring over her shoulder when Simon leaned in as well. “Stop hovering.”

  He didn’t budge. “She was shot.”

  “O’blasterated.” Caro’s hands moved gently and efficiently over Willie’s motionless body. “A sinister weapon that works on the same principle as a shotgun. Instead of pellets, the cartridge is packed with razor-sharp metal shards and heated by a core-propulsion blast. Imagine being pierced at a high-velocity impact by hundreds of searing hot blades.”

  Bugger. “You sound so blasé.”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “I haven’t.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Why don’t you take a walk? Get some air.”

  “I’m staying.”

  “Right, then. At least turn whilst I cut away this binding. I need full access to the wound.”

  As if he would be aroused by the sight of Willie’s bare breasts at a time like this. Still, not wanting to anger the curt doctor, he did as she asked.

  “From the chopped hair and mannish clothing, I take it Willie’s been masquerading as a boy. The dark discoloring of her face and hands suggests use of a tanning agent to further alter her appearance. Astounding what lengths a Freak must go to in order to lead a somewhat normal life.”

  The bitter tone in her voice caused Simon to peer back around. Caro had already made quick work of the binding, discreetly placing a linen over Willie’s torso. She’d also fixed some sort of mask over Willie’s nose and mouth.

  “To ensure she doesn’t awake whilst I work,” Caro said, as if reading his mind. “Stop fretting. She won’t feel a thing.”

  Regardless, Simon’s shoulders tensed as Caro pulled a weapon from her medical bag—a gleaming pistol with a thick needle protruding from the muzzle. Simon watched, fascinated and wary, as she snapped what looked to be tubes of blood on each side of the barrel. “What the devil is that?”

  “She’s lost a lot of blood. She needs a transfusion.”

  He grasped the doctor’s wrist as she took aim. “Injecting her with Vic blood could kill her, or sicken her for life.”

  “Which is why I’m using Freak blood,” Caro said, sounding vexed. “Step off, Darcy.”

  His brother’s faith in this woman be damned. “How do I know those vials contain Freak blood? Why should I trust you?”

  Caro gave a disgusted growl, then raised her tinted spectacles to her forehead.

  Simon marveled at her direct and cutting gaze. A gaze that swirled with a rainbow of colors. “You’re a Freak.”

  “I’m a Mechanic. I fix things. Except when waylaid by overbearing oafs. Do you want me to help your friend or not, Darcy?”

  He nodded, chagrined. Confused.

  Dr. Bella Caro turned back to her work. Injected blood into Willie’s arm via the transfusion gun. Simon had never seen anything like it. Then she traded her tinted glasses for bronze goggles that featured three different magnifying loupes and a tubular bulb that shot a fierce beam of direct light. She studied the multiple wounds to Willie’s shoulder and upper arm, then procured antiseptic and intricate forceps from her bag of medicinal wonders. “I’ll need to extract every piece of shrapnel. Missing one could be dire. Don’t worry,” she said with a smug smile. “I’m thorough. Although this could take some time. Do sit before your knees give way, Darcy. I’ve no time to attend to you as well.”

  He was not, in fact, woozy. Just concerned. For Willie. “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired, Dr. Caro.”

  “I don’t need to be pleasant, Mr. Darcy. I’m brilliant.”

  Her arrogance was grating yet inspiring. Though she looked all of twenty summers, surely she had the expertise to mend Willie. Jules would not have enlisted her otherwise. “How do you know my brother?” he couldn’t help asking as she pulled slivers of metal from Willie’s flesh.

  “I fixed him.”

  “Pardon?”

  “When he got his legs blown off, I fixed him. Better than new.”

  Simon frowned down at the woman. “Jules is in possession of both of his legs. They weren’t blown off. Just horribly mangled.”

  She shrugged. “Figure of speech. Now do leave off. You’re a distraction, man. I abhor distractions.”

  Simon couldn’t care less about Bella Caro’s comfort level. Damnation. Jules considered this shrew a friend? Mind reeling, Simon dragged a chair to the other side of the bed. Not knowing how else to help, he sat and held Willie’s hand. Though limp, her touch was familiar. This moment every bitter thought he’d hurled in her direction melted away until there was nothing left but their pure and youthful love. He chanced a look at the good doctor, who was, thank God, intently focused on Willie’s wounds. “Are you and my brother lovers?” he asked directly.

  “Rude of you to ask, but no.”

  “Were you ever—”

  “We are associates. Doctor and patient. Acquaintances. Friends. Nothing more.”

  Never once did she meet his gaze. He did not wholly believe her, but he did not press. He’d been too bold already. His only excuse was that he was now morbidly curious about his twin’s life as a Mechanic, as well as the intimate relationships between Freaks and Vics. Simon suppressed further questioning, allowing the doctor to focus on her work. He smoothed his thumbs over Willie’s knuckles and allowed his mind to wander. The nostalgic journey was both pleasing and troubling. A hundred questions welled.

  “My work here is done.”

  Simon blinked out of his musings. How much time had passed?

  Caro stood abruptly, returned her instruments to her bag, and traded her surgical goggles for her tinted glasses. “Willie will be down and out for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “A week or two. Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On her.” The good and arrogant doctor pulled on her coat and fastened each button with rigid focus. “There could be fever, delirium, but she will survive. Rest is of supreme importance. Do not allow her to move about too soon.”

  “Anything else?” he asked as she pulled on her riding hat and leather gloves.

  “She sustained severe nerve and muscle damage,” Caro said with a compassionate glance toward her patient. “Regaining full use of her right arm might prove an arduous and long process. See that she strengthens the muscles and advances flexibility no matter the difficulty or pain.”

  “What if there are complications?” Simon asked as she marched toward the door. “How can I contact you?”

  “You can’t. We never met, Mr. Darcy. I was never here.”

  “Understood. Still.” Simon glanced toward Willie’s unconscious form. “Have a heart, Dr. Caro.”

  “How flattering that you find me lacking in compassion,” she said with a sniff. “Oh, very well.” She slipped a calling card into his hand and glared. “Emergencies only. And that means someone had better be dying.”

  Simon glanced down at the card as she bolted from the room. He wanted to thank her. He should have thanked her. A scant second later he followed the curious doctor into the hallway . . . into the lobby . . . into the street . . . but Dr. Bella Caro was gone.

  CHAPTER 10

  THREE DAYS LATER SOMEWHERE OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  Bingham owned a personal fleet of substantial and impressive dirigibles, but none as grand as his modified zeppelin, a spectacular flying machine dubbed Mars-a-tron. Fitted with advanced equipment—steam turbines, rocket blasters, and a state-of-the-art gyrocompass—as well as a luxurious gondola with an ornate private cabin, Mars-a-tron would afford Bingham a swift and comfortable journey to the lan
d down under.

  Although the day had been pitted with various bumps, Bingham was riding high from a string of good news. On the downside, he’d been visited by the shire constable, who’d been intent on inquiring about the viscount’s rocket fuel supply and mentioning the disastrous explosion caused by that buffoon Ashford in his efforts to build a moonship. Bingham had confessed to loaning his poorly neighbor a modicum of fuel, but he was in no way responsible for the regrettable accident.

  The constable agreed.

  But Bingham’s mother doubted the law official’s sincerity. He’s sniffing about, she’d said.

  Let him sniff. Bingham would not be outsmarted by some bumpkin constable, nor would he be henpecked by his worrywart mother.

  Aside from that minor nuisance, his master plan was progressing.

  As of a day ago, the members of Aquarius were indebted to Bingham for handling a potential catastrophe on their behalf, and now, because of his ruthless determination, plans for the royal assassination were once again in motion.

  Wilhelmina Goodenough was in league with Simon Darcy, and, if she knew what was good for her, would report to Bingham in due course. Captain Dunkirk, the air pirate he had put on the tail of Amelia, had the youngest Darcy sibling in his sights. The elder brother, Jules, was the only Darcy to elude Bingham, but that would soon change. Bingham paid his spies handsomely for results. He did not reward incompetence. One of them would ferret out the science fiction writer, affording Bingham yet another possibility of stealing away a time-traveling mechanism.

  The most promising news had come from one of Bingham’s Mod Trackers. After months of chasing their tails, one of his more motivated mercenaries had finally located Professor Maximus Merriweather. The genius recluse had established a small camp in a remote region of the Australian outback. It would take days to make the trek, but Bingham would circumnavigate the globe in order to speak face-to-face with Merriweather. The twentieth-century physicist/cosmologist would be a wealth of information if coerced or bribed. An original Peace Rebel, he’d been instrumental in designing the time-traveling Briscoe Bus. “Time to repeat history.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  Bingham turned away from the massive map on the wall and regarded his ship’s captain with a dour expression. “Set the controls to hover, Northwood, and join the crew topside. Captain Dunkirk should be rendezvousing with us shortly. When he does, send him below.”

  “Aye, sir.” Northwood toggled a switch on the control panel, then left the bridge.

  Bingham sank down on his plush throne. The air pirate had been the bearer of encouraging news as well this day. The fact that Amelia Darcy had joined with the famous and pathetically moral Sky Cowboy in her search for an invention of historical significance had been disconcerting. Tucker Gentry was a worthy opponent, and dammit, Bingham wanted that invention—assuming it had something to do with time travel. If the invention allowed him to pursue a futuristic voyage, well then, no need to journey all the way to the godforsaken outback.

  “I am underwhelmed by yer mite crew, but yer dig’s damned impressive.”

  Bingham glanced over at the pirate rogue, known as the Scottish Shark of the Skies, lazing on the threshold of the bridge. Dark, menacing, and arrogant. A mercenary. Dunkirk had served Bingham well on previous occasions. As long as Bingham paid handsomely, the pirate produced. He ignored the man’s insolence and gestured him inside. “You intercepted the Sky Cowboy and Miss Darcy?”

  “Aye.”

  “You acquired the artifact?”

  “It’s what ya hired me to do, yeah?”

  Bingham rubbed his hands together in wicked anticipation. “Is it aboard the Flying Shark?”

  “As I said in the telepage, my ship sustained damages. I commandeered a small transport to meet with ya.” Dunkirk produced a brass box from behind his back. “Miss Darcy made quite the fuss when I took this from her. Offered me a percentage of the jubilee prize. Fifty percent of half a million pounds. I confess I was tempted.”

  “Crossing me would not bode well,” Bingham said. “But I guess you know that, as you are here and not in league with the lovely yet vexing Miss Darcy.”

  Bingham’s hands trembled as he rose and reached for the box. So small. What could it be? A component for the clockwork propulsion engine? A diagram of the time machine? A formula or perhaps a document stating the precise location of pertinent wormholes?

  He set the box near the gyrocompass and, upon opening the lid, discovered an exquisite model of an ornithopter. Somewhat fanatical regarding aviation, he’d seen drawings of a similar construction. Flying machines as imagined by the master, Leonardo da Vinci. “Where precisely did you procure this?”

  “Tuscany, Italy. Mount Ceceri.”

  An old stomping ground of da Vinci’s.

  The great bird will take its first flight on the back of Monte Ceceri. . . .

  What, if anything, did this exquisite model of a da Vinci flying machine have to do with time travel?

  Bingham donned a pair of magnifying specs and examined the model at great length and with utmost intensity.

  “Pay up,” Dunkirk said, “and I’ll be on me way.”

  Bingham tempered his disappointment as he inspected the compact, though intricate, model of a da Vinci ornithopter for the third time. He had to be sure. Unfortunately, he was. “This isn’t it.”

  Dunkirk, who’d been lounging in a seat without invitation, leaned forward with a sneer. “It’s what Miss Darcy came oot of that cave with, and she was damned well averse to letting it go. I searched the cave for anything else. Empty. Ya told me to steal whatever Amelia Darcy was after, yeah? This is it. A da Vinci ornithopter. An invention of historical significance.”

  “But it is not significant to me.”

  “What the fook does that mean?”

  Bingham straightened and slid the specialized specs to his forehead. “I don’t want it.” It did not apply to time travel. It was not even a full-scale working ornithopter. A prized artifact for a museum or a private collector, but nothing but a disappointment to him. “It will not advance my cause.”

  “Could be worth half a million.”

  “Ah. The jubilee prize.” Bingham refrained from rolling his eyes. Dunkirk was ignorant of his role as anonymous benefactor of the Triple R Tourney, and he intended to keep it that way. He’d learned long ago that the best way to control his “employees” was by controlling what they did and did not know about him and his many ventures.

  Bingham rocked back on his heels, anxious to be on his way. He had many irons in the fire, Professor Maximus Merriweather, at this moment, being the hottest. He gestured to the sixteenth-century model. “By all means.”

  Dunkirk stood. “You’re offering me the invention instead of the payment we agreed upon?”

  “The ornithopter is worth more than I offered you.”

  “If it wins the prize.”

  “Thought you were a gambling man, Captain Dunkirk.”

  “We had a deal.”

  “Indeed. You failed to deliver what I anticipated. I am not satisfied with your services and thus shall not pay.” He flashed a lethal smile. “Take the ornithopter or leave it. This transaction is over.” Bingham had toyed with killing the insolent pirate, but the man was a valuable minion—as long as he stayed in line. Cutting Dunkirk loose for a while, denying him lucrative “work,” might inspire the man to treat Bingham with more respect in the future—when next Bingham needed him.

  The Scottish bastard eyed him up and down, then smiled. “I be takin’ the ornithopter.”

  Bingham watched as the intimidating man gently scooped up his “prize.” “Oh, Dunkirk. You neglected to mention the status of Miss Darcy.”

  “Dead.”

  “Pity.”

  “Aye, it is,” he said on his way out.

  Bingham sensed true regret in the pirate’s voice, when all Bingham mourned was the chance to dominate Miss Darcy in bed. Ah, well. At least her demise would please
his mother.

  He called for his captain. “Set a course for Australia.” He would not dawdle and pine over Miss Darcy’s less-than-thrilling discovery. Certainly he would not mourn the outspoken utopian’s death. He would seek the expertise of Merriweather, who had firsthand knowledge of the Briscoe Bus. As backup, he intended to contact Miss Goodenough.

  Time to turn up the heat on Simon Darcy.

  But first he would deplete some of his frustration by ravaging his sex slave and confidant. He moved toward his private cabin, knowing the automaton was naked and waiting in his bed as ordered. “Renee!” he bellowed. “Get on your hands and knees.”

  CHAPTER 11

  JANUARY 16, 1887 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

  Heaven.

  Willie had died and gone to heaven. Surely that was the only explanation for the bliss flowing through her. No worries. No agony. Unlike before. Before there had been such blinding and weakening pain that she’d felt her mind and body shutting down. But instead of finding peace in a state of unconsciousness, she’d been pummeled with sporadic agitated dreams.

  Now, however, there was bliss.

  Quite certain she would awake to golden archways and fluffy white clouds, Willie smiled a little as she opened her eyes. Disappointment resonated as her gaze fixed upon a cracked blue sky. No, not sky. Ceiling.

  “That smile was all too brief.”

  Willie jerked at the sound of a husky voice very close to her ear. She would have bolted upright, but she was pinned down. Fully aware now, she registered the soft mattress beneath her and the hard man wrapped around her like a human vine.

  Simon.

  She was conscious of his leg draped over her thighs, his arm wrapped around her middle. Heat stole though her body, a heady rush, as she tried to make sense of the moment. Surely this was, at the very least, inappropriate.