by Beth Ciotta
“My God, Wesley! You’re the traitor!”
“Matter of perception, although I guess that’s how she saw it. Our tiff rattled her enough to consume her thoughts. She walked in front of that automocoach and my plan died with her. Those other two PRs disappeared with the stash, Dad went bonkers, and we were left high and dry. I tried tracking those Mods for over a year before giving up and making my fortune my own damned way.”
Shocked and sickened, Willie squeezed back tears. “How can we possibly be related?”
“Something I asked myself the day you took on the mundane job of a pressman.” Stone-faced, her brother pushed off the lamp pole. “Give me the bloody ACC.”
“Go to hell.”
He reached for her and she swung out with her injured right arm. The Thera-Steam-Atic Brace offered strength and her smack landed hard, knocking Wesley into the pedestrian wall.
Her brother roared and the fog diminished by half. Lightning cracked, illuminating the hazy night sky, and there it was, hovering over the Thames—the Flying Shark!
Willie heard the scraping of an iron grate and she knew it was Simon, beneath the bridge. She knew he’d heard enough and that he was coming to her rescue, only the fog started to thicken as Wesley shook off her blow. She dipped into her pocket, slipping her fingers through Reginald Darcy’s invention just as Wesley charged. Her swift uppercut connected with his chin with a loud ZAP!
Hair smoking, he literally sailed through the air, plowing once again into the bridge’s wall, only this time the force sent him toppling over.
Willie lunged, catching his arm before he plummeted into the dark, wintry river. Deadweight. The Knuckle Shocker had stunned the marbles out of her brother and if she lost her grip, her brother was fish bait. Thank God for her enhanced strength via Simon’s brace.
“Let me help.” Simon was there beside her, reaching down, grasping her brother’s arm.
Willie heard horse hooves clopping against the pavement. She glanced over and saw the Sky Cowboy galloping toward them on a black steed. She could see him clearly. No fog!
She heard an explosion and looked up to see the Flying Shark’s zeppelin in flames and the Maverick flying out from behind Clock Tower, cannons blasting.
Her muscles screamed as she held tight to Wesley whilst Simon tried to haul him up.
Wesley stirred and suddenly he was pointing a gun at Willie with his free hand.
She was trying to save his wretched arse and he wanted to kill her?
He spared Simon a glance, then looked back on Willie. “You’re a traitor to Freaks, Mina.”
“You’re a traitor to mankind,” Simon said, swinging the Remington Blaster over the wall and taking aim. “Drop your peashooter into the drink, Wesley.”
“I have a better idea, Darcy.” He jerked out of Willie’s grasp and plunged, gun and all, through the dark, through the air, into a watery grave.
Willie’s heart jerked as she heard the splash. At once a raging whirlpool erupted, blasting them with icy water before fizzling into snowflakes. “Oh, God.” Willie collapsed against Simon just as Gentry reined in.
“We good here?” the cowboy asked, flicking his gaze to the air skirmish.
“Willie’s in my care, as is the compendium,” Simon said. “You see to Strangelove.”
“One way or another,” he promised. “Don’t worry about Amelia or the engine. Meet you back at the ranch, Darcys.” He tugged at the brim of his Stetson, then kicked the horse into a dead run.
Willie turned just as feathered wings appeared and the horse and rider took flight.
Simon leaned forward, squinting into the dark. “Did I just see what I thought I saw?”
“Astonishing,” Willie said, her night vision enabling her to watch as the Sky Cowboy navigated some sort of Pegasus into the ensuing sky battle.
“No wonder my sister’s smitten with the man. He owns a flying horse. Blimey.”
Emotions churning, Willie leaned into Simon. “I tried to save him. Wesley.”
“Yes, you did. We both did. He made his choice, Willie. Not you.”
“That’s just it. He was too selfish to choose death.” She glanced toward the Thames. “I’m not sure that he perished, Simon. I cannot explain, but I don’t feel as though Wesley’s gone.”
“Just as I would know if Jules was no more. I understand.” He held her close, kissed the top of her head. “If he comes back into our life, we’ll tackle that obstacle together.”
She looked up at him and forced a small, brave smile. “Everything will work out.”
“Yes, it will.” He brushed a kiss over her mouth and she felt her world settling into something good and right. “Ready to go home?” he asked.
“Not quite yet,” she said, smiling into his eyes. “I have an adventure to pen and I haven’t seen the end of the story yet.”
Huddled together against the wintry mix, they gazed up into the dazzling night as the Sky Cowboy tussled midair with the Scottish Shark of the Skies.
“I do hope Phin doesn’t steal all of Gentry’s glory,” Willie said as their friend roared by on some sort of kite flying contraption.
Simon winked down at her. “I hope he does.”
EPILOGUE
ONE WEEK LATER . . . MCSTEAM’S COFFEEHOUSE
“How did it go?”
“Surprisingly well.”
“It could have gone better.”
Simon squeezed his wife’s hand, then held out her chair as she sat across a table from Phin. “Willie’s disappointed because the queen refused to recognize our marriage.”
Phin snuffed his cigar and regarded Willie with a furrowed brow. “You thought she’d overturn a long-standing law just for you.”
“No, not just for me. For all Freaks.”
“We live in a country where people are still frowned upon or penalized for marrying outside of their social class,” Phin said. “The kind of change you’re suggesting won’t happen overnight.”
“I realize that,” Willie said. “I was just . . . hoping. Part and parcel of my new optimistic attitude.”
Simon smiled whilst signaling the server for two more coffees. “At least she didn’t ban you from the room.”
“Aye,” Willie said as she removed her derby and smoothed her hair. “Although Queen Victoria was wary of my race and the powers we possess, I confess she was most tolerant. And, in the end, somewhat reasonable, although I wish she were more so.”
“I must say, I’m impressed that Gentry was able to arrange a private audience for you,” Phin said. “Although it did take a bloody long week.”
“Apparently the queen spent the last few days deliberating with an adviser,” Simon said. “Given her views on time travel and the Peace Rebels in general, I’m grateful she didn’t act in haste and order the artifacts destroyed.”
“What did she decide?”
Simon waited until the server had placed two fresh cups and a small pot of aromatic coffee on the table before plunging into what he considered to be a fantastic tale. Never had he thought to meet Queen Victoria face-to-face, let alone receive a royal invitation to share his sketches and plans for Project Monorail. Indeed, his shock and elation were such he’d found it most difficult to fully concentrate on the legendary submissions. Thankfully, Willie, Amelia, and Gentry had been present, keeping the task at hand on track.
“Not so surprisingly,” Simon said, “although the queen believed the engine and compendium to be worthy of submission for the Triple R Tourney, she did not deem a formal submission wise. Publicly declaring the PR’s engine had not in fact been destroyed and that it was indeed the original engine used by Briscoe Darcy? Governments across the globe as well as assorted criminal kingpins would be vying to pinch the engine for God knows what use.”
“So the queen and her adviser, the director of Her Majesty’s Mechanics,” Willie said, “decided that the best course was to lock away the clockwork propulsion engine in a secret vault, a royal vault. I cannot think of a bette
r solution. It is safe. It is sound. And it is no longer my responsibility,” she said. “I firmly believe my mother can now rest in peace, and that is a great comfort to me as well as to my father.”
“What of the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium?” Phin asked.
“Curious, that,” Simon said. “The director of HMM was not aware that the data of the ACC had been divided amongst three disks. Apparently the agency is in possession of one-third, compliments of guess who?”
“Thimblethumper?”
Willie nodded. “So now only one disk is at large and they believe that disk is in the possession of Professor Maximus Merriweather.”
Phin drummed his fingers on the scarred table. “Did the director say? Is that what they sent Jules to procure?”
“The director and indeed the queen were loath to talk about Jules and his mission,” Simon said. “Frustrating to say the least.”
“The best news,” Willie said after giving Simon’s hand a supportive squeeze, “is that Queen Victoria was most pleased that Tucker and Amelia convinced Captain Dunkirk to hand over the antiquity he’d stolen from them. Leonardo da Vinci’s ornithopter will be returned to the Italian government and that international incident will be put to rest.”
“She was also pleased that Gentry apprehended one of Europe’s most wanted sky pirates within a day of being commissioned to do so,” Simon said.
“And,” Willie said, her rainbow eyes sparkling with the sensation of it all, “she agreed to consider pardoning Captain Dunkirk of his past crimes if he apprehended and delivered Lord Bingham to the director of Her Majesty’s Mechanics.”
“Dunkirk only made that offer to keep himself out of the Tower,” Phin said.
“Clearly,” Simon said. “But Dunkirk’s holding a colossal grudge against Bingham, and Gentry, who seems to hold some sort of professional regard for the pirate, thinks he’ll make good on the promise.”
“I’m still shocked knowing Strangelove and Bingham, a titled noble who actually owns land near Ashford and who had designs on marrying Amelia, are one and the same,” Willie said. “I will not rest until I know the whole of his story.”
“I’ll not rest until he’s crushed,” Simon said.
“Speaking of Amelia,” Phin said. “I thought they were going to join us.”
“I daresay Tucker’s not up to socializing,” Willie said. “He received news of his sister this morning. Unbeknownst to him Lily had been aboard the dirigible transporting Prime Minster Madstone across the Atlantic.”
“The airship attacked by Freak Fighters?” Phin asked.
“The same,” Simon said. “Without getting into the long of it, she was badly injured and Gentry’s former ship’s doctor was pulled into the scene.”
“Doc Blue,” Phin said. “The Freak who betrayed Gentry and his crew.”
“The Freak who saved Gentry’s sister, returning her sight and her will to live. The Freak who married her.”
Phin blinked. “So now Gentry’s wrestling with the knowledge that his little sister married a dubious sort?” He snorted. “You just made my day, Darcy.”
“I have faith that it will all work out,” Willie said.
Phin toasted her with his coffee. “Compliments of your newly adopted optimistic attitude.”
Simon regarded his friend with intensified interest. “Willie has given her notice at the Informer. She’ll be penning a memoir, a novel about the Darcys and our past and present adventures, whilst working diligently, peacefully,” he said, squeezing her thigh as a private reminder, “to advance the emancipation of Freaks. A cause I support. Meanwhile I’ll be pouring my energies in advanced prosthetics and perhaps Project Monorail.” He raised a brow at Phin. “And you?”
The man leaned back and regarded Simon a moment before speaking, a quiet connection that knotted Simon’s gut. “I’m leaving for Australia this afternoon,” Phin said.
“Because we’ve lost touch with Jules?” Simon asked.
“Yes. And because Bella Caro’s ship went down in Queensland. Her pilot was killed. She’s missing.”
“How awful,” Willie said.
Simon frowned. “The director of the HMM said nothing of losing his Freak surgeon.”
“Naturally,” Phin said. “Bella’s journey was unsanctioned.” He rose, kissed the back of Willie’s hand, then gripped Simon’s shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”
A moment later he was gone and Willie leaned into Simon. “I feel awful,” she said.
Simon took a deep breath, searched his mind, his heart. He listened to his gut and heard nothing. “As it happens, I feel hopeful. I don’t know what’s going on with Jules, Willie. I don’t know what he’s up to. But knowing my brother, it’s something great.”
Willie smiled, then stole a brief kiss before looking out the window and across the bustling street. “I’m glad we decided to buy Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. Wherever Ollie Rollins is, I’m sure he’d be most pleased to know my father agreed to step in as the proprietor. If anyone appreciates twentieth-century wonders and historical oddities, it is Michael Goodenough.”
Simon wrapped his arm around his wife, marveling that he felt as though he’d made his mark upon the world simply by focusing on family. “I’m glad your father agreed to move back to Notting Hill. And I’m relieved the queen’s gratitude extended to securing Ashford for my mother. We may not be legal, Willie, but we’re blessed.”
“Aye,” she said, smiling and leaning into his kiss. “We are blessed.”
Read on for a look at the first novel in the Glorious Victorious Darcys series by Beth Ciotta,
HER SKY COWBOY
Available in print and e-book from Signet Eclipse
PROLOGUE
GREAT BRITAIN, 1887 THIRTY-ONE YEARS AFTER THE INVASION OF THE TWENTIETH-CENTURY PEACE REBELS
“Could you have been any more rude?”
And here I was congratulating myself for being so astonishingly polite. “Apologies, Mother.” Repressing her frustration, Miss Amelia Darcy endured her mother’s disapproving glare—she was well used to it—and moved to the rear of Loco-Bug, the family’s one-of-a-kind steam-powered automocoach. Stoking the coal in the firebox, she simultaneously praised her papa’s ingenuity and cursed the extraordinary and unreasonable price of gasoline.
Since the Peace War, only the very rich could afford petrol for everyday use. Others, like Papa, hoarded such fuel for special occasions or, in his case, special projects. She supposed she shouldn’t complain about their fickle and sluggish mode of transportation. If her mother, who resisted anything relying on cogs, pipes, and belts, had her way, they’d be traveling by horse and buggy. The woman feared progress as though it were the plague. The only thing that vexed her more was her daughter’s emancipated mind-set.
Whilst Amelia replenished the boiler’s water supply, her mother stood by, tugging on her fur-lined gloves, tightening the sash of her ridiculously frilly bonnet, and arranging her thick traveling cloak to accommodate her portly frame. “I spent two months cultivating a relationship with the dowager Viscountess Bingham,” she grumbled under her breath, “and you managed to ruin my matchmaking efforts in less than two hours.”
“Proof of my restraint. Otherwise we would have earned the boot much sooner.” Not that Lady Bingham had physically shown them the door, but she’d certainly expedited their exit.
Speaking of which, Amelia glanced over her shoulder and saw the dour-faced woman in all her straitlaced glory standing on the front steps of the magnificent country estate alongside her son—the Viscount Bingham. Decorum dictated that they oversee their guests’ departure, no matter how tedious the process. Whereas Lady Bingham was no doubt scandalized by Amelia’s determination to fire up and drive a horseless carriage like an unrefined commoner, she could feel Lord Bingham studying her every move. She knew he was fascinated by her passion for aviation and flair for mechanics and somewhat amused by her father’s Frankenstein version of an automocoach. Influenced by sketches of B
ollée’s La Mancelle and a time-traveling Mod’s psychedelic Beetle Bug, Papa’s hybrid, built from available scraps, was a visual curiosity. However, to someone like Amelia, who had not experienced life before the invasion of the Peace Rebels, Loco-Bug just was.
What really irritated Amelia was Lord Bingham’s keen fascination with her bountiful bosom. Even the modest and hideously constricting visiting gown she’d donned to appease her mother had not detracted from her bothersome “fine figure.” Most women would have been flattered by his attention, she supposed, especially since Lord Bingham was a man of great wealth and influence. But he was also an arrogant and crafty sod, and it was for that reason that Amelia had striven to alienate Lady Bingham and her son with her fervent utopian ideals. Influenced by the cautionary tales of the Mods, she took her role in policing the fate of the world most seriously.
The steam engine finally puffed to life and Amelia burst with joy. The sooner she distanced herself from Wickford Manor and the pompous Binghams, the better. She’d been duped into believing Lord Bingham was a fellow utopian, a New Worlder. After an hour in his company Amelia suspected he was, in fact, a Flatliner, someone who cared only for his future—and not the future of mankind.
Learning that he’d employed an entire staff of domestic automatons had singed Amelia’s bustle. How insensitive to purchase robotic domestics at a set cost when so many living, breathing Vics were desperate for employment! It was just one of the things that had soured Amelia on the man her mother had envisioned as her husband. Not that Amelia had any intention of marrying. Ever. Why tie herself down when there was so much of the world to see? Why bend to a man’s will and agenda when she possessed her own dreams and goals? As she lived and breathed, someday she would pilot her own airship and experience grand adventures! She imagined her exploits being reported alongside the colorful escapades of the Sky Cowboy, an American outlaw who flew the fastest airship in all of Europe. If only her mother would match her with that fearless aviator. Horrid husband material to be sure, but since she had no designs on being a wife—ever—she cared not about his notorious and scandalous reputation and only for his superior knowledge in aeronautical engineering.