Tempus came to a rocking stop in Marley’s front yard as Colt flipped off the GGD switch by twisting the horse’s ear into a backward-facing position. Marley had dubbed it that when he’d shouted “Giddyup, God Dammit” at his seventh version of the horse, and it had actually moved. Colt wrapped the reins around the hitching post. Just for show. Tempus wouldn’t go anywhere until pressure was applied to the plate in his back beneath the saddle, compressing the springs that allowed the GGD switch to be engaged. It was what Marley called a double safe precaution against horse thieves.
Not that a thief could get close to Marley’s place. He had artificial eyes stuck here and there that were wired to an enormous lens in his laboratory. He could see who was coming or going at all hours of the day or night. Colt decided he’d hate to see which of Marley’s deterrents an unsuspecting thief might run into. He’d had a close encounter once with one of Marley’s spine-shooting mechanical cacti, and it had been enough for him.
Colt raised his fist to pound on the door, but it opened before he could knock. A man half a foot shorter than Colt peered at him from behind a pair of intricate multi-lensed brass goggles that extended six inches from his face and magnified his brown eyes to enormous proportions.
It was hard to tell exactly how old Marley was. The smooth youth of his face and dark brows competed with a cap of wild snow-white hair on his head. Marley attributed the premature color change to a lightning bolt that had struck him during an experiment. Colt wasn’t sure, but he’d bet it was the side effect of yet another harebrained experiment gone awry. Marley’s inventions, while undeniably brilliant, tended to hit big or miss horribly.
“I say, it’s about time you made it back,” Marley said, his words as clipped and undeniably British as his manner. He wiped his hands on his stained leather apron, then pushed past Colt and headed directly for Tempus, clucking and fussing over the machine like an old mother hen.
Colt grunted, glancing over his shoulder. “Good to see you too.”
Marley was too busy checking Tempus over to reply. He was already bent over double, flipping up hatches and inspecting gears and springs, poking and prodding the beast’s inner mechanics as he muttered to himself.
“I’ll just make myself at home,” Colt said under his breath.
Marley glanced up, his eyes magnified to the size of small saucers behind his goggle thingies, making gold flecks and the ring of darker brown around his irises stand out. “Don’t touch anything.”
Colt nodded. He wouldn’t have dared. Last time he’d tried to move something, he’d gotten a nasty electrical shock from it. Nearly every surface of Marley’s place was covered with a jumble of odd bits of brass and wire, heaps of gears and springs, and stacks of sketches. He’d find a chair and sit, maybe forage for something to drink while he waited for his friend to finish his inspection of Tempus. The only chair available turned out to be the one Marley sat in at his workbench.
He settled into the seat, thankful that it was softer than his saddle. He glanced in the direction of the kitchen and thought better of trying to navigate the trails of teetering junk piled up along the way. Instead he tipped his hat down over his eyes and relaxed for the first time in days.
Marley sauntered in about ten minutes later looking far too pleased with himself. “That horse is a marvel o Kis an>f mechanical engineering, if I do say so myself. I’ve been working on a new version that would remove the leather covering and allow the copper to act like a chemically powered boiler for steam. Make the beast move faster and more smoothly . . .” He trailed off, as he frequently did when he was distracted. Which was always.
Colt pushed his Stetson back. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I don’t know how stable sitting on a steam boiler is going to be, especially if I’m getting shot at,” he pointed out, his voice dry.
Marley’s dark eyebrows bent down in a deep V, disappearing behind the edge of his goggles. He worried his lip with his finger. “True.You do tend to draw a lot of fire. Perhaps that method of locomotion would better serve the horseless carriage I’m working on.”
A horseless carriage? Last time, Marley had been working on an improved steam flyer. “In the meantime, you might want to see what you can do about this.” Colt pulled the sting shooter out of its holster and tossed it to Marley.
Marley caught it, then pushed the button. A high keening sound split the air a second before a vivid blue wiggling arc of electricity shot out, launching a marble bust of President Lincoln off a nearby table and scattering a stack of papers. They instantly burst into flame. “Nothing’s the matter with it. The Tesla coil is active. Seems to be working properly to me,” he said as he stomped out the flames.
Colt tipped up the edge of his Stetson a little farther with his finger. “It blew two holes clean through the last person I used it on and nearly got me lynched.”
Marley peered at the sting shooter more closely. “I see. Perhaps it requires an adjustment. It’s still in prototype stage for the Tesla Rangers.” He set it amid the flotsam and jetsam on his desk. “In the meantime, I’ve got something else for you.”
Colt stood up and held out a hand. “After you, Professor.” He followed Marley to what would have been the kitchen in any normal home. It was a damn good thing Marley wasn’t married. Colt seriously doubted any woman could stomach the kind of chaos that Marley lived in. It smelled faintly of ammonia, and the counters overflowed with copper pots and various brown and green glass bottles, all marked with little white labels written in nearly indecipherable handwriting.
Marley pulled off his goggle thingies, handing them off to Colt. “Hold my spectro-photometric oglifiers. I don’t want them too near the oven. Might change the chemistry in the lenses.” Marley pulled on an oven mitt and opened the door to his large six-burner cast-iron stove and pulled out a cast-iron mold with little holes in it at regular intervals. He tipped the mold upside down over a tray, and out came a pile of bullets that looked like little, narrow, shiny cookies. “New silver bullets. Filled them with an improved mixture of powdered bone, lead, salt, and gunpowder. Should kill just about anything, natural or supernatural.”
Colt grinned and clapped Marley on the shoulder. “I always said you were a good cook.”
From the depths of Marley’s laboratory came the clanging of a bell. “Incoming message.” Marley handed the tray of bullets to Colt, then skittered into the other room, the bell still clanging. He dug through a heap on a sideboard table until he’d unburied a teletypingwriter, then flipped a switch that shut off the bell as the machine began typing out a message from Morse code. Marley waited until the typebars had stopped clacking, then rotated a few knobs and pulled the paper from the machine. He took the brass and leather goggles from Colt and snapped them back into place, flipping an extended lens over his eye as he scanned t K hehine. He the note.
“It’s from Remington. He’s gone to retrieve China McGee from jail.”
The bullets rattled on the tray. Colt set the tray down and ripped the paper out of Marley’s hand, reading it for himself. “Damn fool,” he muttered. “She’s a shape-shifter. I’m lucky she got caught and not me when that bank blew to hell in the fight. What’s he think he’s doing?”
“Maybe he thought you two were together.”
Colt grunted as he crumpled the page into a ball. “She might be easy on the eyes, but I’d be as likely to shack up with a mountain lion as that little blond hellcat. She’s a good thief, but you can’t trust a shifter.”
“Then why didn’t you just shoot her?”
“There wasn’t time,” he hedged. The fact was he’d been too damn busy trying to locate the deposit box of a deceased Hunter named Diego. It was rumored to hold a clue to a map revealing the location of one of the pieces of the Book. He hadn’t been paying attention to how short China had cut the fuse. The damn explosives to get out of the jail had blown too soon. He suspected it was a double-crossing gone wrong.
In the end he’d climbed from the rubble before the au
thorities arrived and had to leave both China and the deposit box behind and move on to his next lead in finding his pa’s part of the Book. He’d had no doubt she could fend for herself, and frankly she was Darkin, so he wasn’t all that concerned in the first place. One less Darkin in the world wouldn’t be such a bad thing. “Do you think you can get him a message?”
Marley shook his head. “His receiver isn’t working. He can send messages, but I have to telegraph him in return. I’m going to fix it next time I travel in his direction.”
“If you telegraph him, tell him to watch his back. That China McGee is bad news and if he needs a thief, he should look elsewhere.”
“Certainly.” Marley scooped up the bullets off the tilting tray and grabbed Colt’s hand, facing it palm upward. “Don’t forget these. I do hope they make the proper impression.”
Colt grinned. “If you mean by impression a hole eight inches deep, then I’m betting they’ll be just fine.” He began putting them in the individual loops holding the ammunition on his gun belt. “Thanks, Marley.”
Marley shoved his spectro-whozee-whatsit goggles back onto his forehead. “Don’t mention it. I do my best for the cause. Where are you off to next?”
“I’m going to see a man about a mine.”
“Still looking for the lost pieces of the Book of Legend, are you?”
“Last year I took down a dozen supernaturals prowling around. Last month alone it was five. This month ten. It’s gettin’ worse.” For the last three years he’d been talking to every Hunter he could find, scouring every scrap of written information he could lay his hands on, to piece together the location of the different remnants of the Book of Legend.
The Legion had become so fractured over the centuries that none of the branches—not the Hunters in Europe, nor the ones in Asia, nor those in the Southern Hemisphere—knew the true locations of all three pieces. But his latest discovery of his mother’s diary led him to believe the clue in Diego’s box wouldn’t lead him to Pa’s part of the Book, which was his main focus.
Better to risk his neck on a sure thing than a rumor in a deposit box in the clutches of that shifter. “I don’t know how big the crack has gotten in that gate to Hell, but thin Kellh="1em">
Marley threaded his fingers up through both sides of the cotton-like fuzz on his scalp. “I say, I didn’t realize it was as bad as all that. Perhaps you ought to take this as well.” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a corked brown bottle with no label.
“Whiskey?”
“Holy water. You may find you need it.”
Colt chuckled. “You may be right. It might be pretty hard to come by in Bodie.” The saloons and houses of ill repute in Bodie outnumbered the churches by forty to one.
“Bodie?”
“According to what I found in Ma’s diary, that’s where the mine is.”
“But isn’t Winchester in Bodie?”
“Last I heard.”
Marley nibbled thoughtfully on his bottom lip. “You’re in more trouble than I thought.” He fished around in the drawer again, pulling out another bottle with a different-colored cork.
“More holy water?”
“No. Whiskey. You’ll need the water for fighting the demons and the whiskey for fighting your brother.”
Colt kissed the second bottle and tipped his hat at Marley. “You’re a good man, Marley. Don’t let no one tell you different.”
“Just do me a favor, old chap, and don’t do anything foolish.”
Colt chuckled. “You know me, Marley.”
Marl
ey raised one dark, bushy brow. “Precisely.”
About the Author
The progeny of a slightly mad (NASA) scientist and a tea-drinking bibliophile who turned the family dining room into a library, Theresa Meyers learned early the value of a questioning mind, books, and a good china teapot. A former journalist and public relations officer, she finds far more enjoyment using her writing skills to pen paranormal novels in the turret office of her Victorian home. She’s spent nearly a quarter of a century with the boy who took her to the prom, drinks tea with milk and sugar, is an adamant fan of
the television show Supernatural, and has an indecent love of hats. You can find her dabbling online on Twitter at www.twitter.com/Theresa_Meyers or at www.theresameyers.com.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by Theresa Meyers
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Nellh="rittspan>
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3132-1
First Electronic Edition: January 2013
Published in the United States of America
The Inventor (The Legend Chronicles) Page 8