The Golden Spider (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 1)

by Anne Renwick

  Her face fell. “Building another will take months.”

  “We don’t have months,” he said. “We may only have days before he chooses another victim upon which to experiment.” God forbid the murderer succeed in his efforts before they could locate him.

  Lady Amanda’s eyes grew large. “We? I’d…‌ I’d need resources. Assistance.”

  “You’ll have them,” Thornton promised, climbing into the ascension chamber, pressing one hand against the doors to hold them open as the women stepped inside. “As the newest member of my laboratory.”

  Somehow he’d keep his distance.

  Chapter Seven

  AMANDA CLUTCHED HER leather satchel, her skin pricking with excitement as she stood before the enormous iron door. Mr. Black stood beside her, providing her with detailed instructions as to how she must enter and exit.

  Two long days it had taken for this moment to arrive; time they didn’t have. She’d done her best to gather what supplies she could to rebuild her spider, even starting on some of the simpler mechanisms in her laboratory under the watchful eyes of Rufus. She’d befriended a small gypsy boy, promising him unlimited clotted cream and scones in her kitchens if he could find Emily and deliver Amanda’s letter.

  “Now, slide your right index finger in that slot.” The sound of Mr. Black’s voice jolted her back to the present.

  Amanda lifted her hand hesitantly. “It doesn’t use blood as an identifier?”

  Mr. Black said, “No. Only the epidermal ridges of your finger.”

  She complied, cringing as a soft, gelatinous substance oozed forth from several small pores in the metal cylinder surrounding her finger. There was a tiny jolt of electricity‌—‌enough to make her inhale sharply‌—‌and it was done.

  “Oops.” He smirked, passing her a handkerchief. “And galvanic skin conductance.”

  “You nasty man.” She laughed. “You only wanted to see me jump.”

  “Caught,” Mr. Black admitted.

  She wiped her finger clean and entered the code he’d had her memorize earlier.

  The screecher flashed green, and gears the size of dinner plates began to turn. With a click, a hiss and the sound of rushing air, the lock disengaged.

  “Shall I set aside my paltry manners and allow you to open it yourself?” Mr. Black asked.

  He was suppressing a grin. Laughing silently at her awe. Was her excitement that obvious? She supposed it was. She nodded, reaching for the bold, brass handle. The well-balanced door swung open with her slightest touch. Not a creak or a groan issued forth from its hinges.

  The smell of acetic acid and neuroglycerol met her nose as Amanda stepped into the room‌—‌the best-equipped laboratory ever. Yet her eyes were immediately drawn to Thornton himself.

  A protective leather apron covered his shirtsleeves. Thick gloves and brass goggles protected his hands and eyes. He stood before a long bench, amid shelves of glassware and tubing, flasks and beakers filled with various liquids. A rack held vials containing an array of powders. His head was bent over the bench as he and another similarly dressed man manipulated an oddly shaped device beneath a high-powered microscope.

  She would not gawk at Lord Thornton like a lovesick debutant, no matter that his very presence made her heart beat faster. She pulled her gaze away and examined the rest of the laboratory.

  Windowless walls were covered in shelves from floor to ceiling. One wall held a variety of instruments. The usual balances. A tritrometer. A fuge. A large incubator in the corner. But the function of many was a mystery to her.

  Two other technicians hurried about, one mixing solutions, and the other bent close over his own work. A scurrying, scratching sound and a distinctive scent drew her forward, and as she stepped about the bend in the L-shaped facility, a wall of wire cages met her eyes.

  She estimated fifty-two. Inside each one was a rat. Rattus norvegicus. Though with all the wires and tubes and gauges sprouting forth from their heads and bodies, a novice might be forgiven for thinking them an altogether new species. Larger than mice, rats made better medical test subjects, but they were‌—‌thankfully‌—‌harder to find near her chicken coop. Known to hold grudges, they were also known for a tendency to bite. Hard.

  Stepping closer, Amanda peered into the nearest cage. The rat lifted its hardware-laden head from its nest and peered back. A twist of fine wire coiled about its left ear. Enhanced hearing?

  Suddenly, Mr. Black was at her elbow, clucking his tongue. “Not functioning so well, the acousticocepts, though the transmitter works fine once the patient recovers. Thornton keeps muttering something about needles not tracking right, but every time he fixes them, they go wonky again.”

  “Wonky?” She smiled. If there was a receiver, there must be a transmitter. She looked along the rack of cages, searching for the rat to which this one was paired.

  “That’s the scientific term.” Mr. Black leaned against the wall. “That’s what they’re busy with over there.” He jerked his head toward Thornton. “The sooner they fix the problem, the better.”

  “Thornton’s invented an artificial ear that transmits sound?” She heard her own voice rise in excitement.

  “Quick study, aren’t you?” Mr. Black affected a leer. “Omitting the ‘Lord’ already, Lady Amanda?”

  Her cheeks grew warm, but attributed it to the heavy jacket she still wore. She busied herself by pulling it from her shoulders and draping it over a nearby stool.

  But Mr. Black wouldn’t let it go. “His first name is Sebastian.” His voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial level.

  She cleared her throat, gathering what she could of her dignity. “Lord Sebastian Talbot, Earl of Thornton. I am aware of his name and status. I only thought to address him as Lady Huntley does. I had no intention of taking…‌ liberties.” She risked a glance in Thornton’s direction as doubt crept in. “Should I not address him so? Are he and Lady Huntley…‌?”

  Mr. Black threw his head back and laughed as if the very idea were absurd, but Lady Huntley was young and beautiful and perfectly suited to become the wife of an earl.

  “No. No they aren’t,” he answered after he’d caught his breath. Laughter still danced in his eyes. “Lord Huntley was Thornton’s closest friend. To court his widow…‌” Mr. Black shook his head. “No, Thornton’s interests lie…‌ elsewhere. Please accept my apologies, Lady Amanda. I only meant to tease. By all means, call him Thornton. Everyone who works in the laboratory does indeed do so. And, please, call me Black.”

  An interest elsewhere? She wondered what lucky woman had won his regard.

  She nodded. “Very well.”

  “That should do it,” Thornton said to his assistant. “Once the chamber fills with plasma, the perilymph helix should take care of the rest.” He stepped back, pulling off his gloves and dropping them to the bench top. He pushed his goggles onto his forehead, the India rubber band twisting locks of hair in every direction. He looked every bit the brilliant, but mad, scientist. Quite the contrast from the proper gentleman who lectured on anatomy with hair carefully combed.

  Passionate scientist or rigid gentleman? Or perhaps both? Each had their appeal. She pressed her lips together. Either way, it was not she who would win the chance to peel back the layers and discover the truth.

  “Thornton,” Black called. “Your newest assistant has security clearance.”

  Both men turned in her direction.

  Thornton yanked off his goggles and ran a hand through his hair. “Lady Amanda Ravensdale, may I present my assistant Mr. Henri LaFevre. Mr. LaFevre, Lady Amanda, my newest student.”

  The blond man sketched a bow. “Henri, please,” he said, his accent French. “This laboratory is most…‌ informal.” Henri’s pale skin and red-rimmed eyes suggested long hours spent in the laboratory, but his light blue eyes were alive with keen intelligence. Thornton would work with no less.

  “Then you must call me Amanda.” She inclined her head politely.

  “I’l
l leave you to your introductions,” Black interjected. “As much as I wish to stay, duty calls.” With a last wink, he strolled out the door.

  “Lady Amanda brings a new project to our lab,” Thornton said. “She will be indirectly involved with the acoustico work. Her original prototype, a clockwork spider designed to spin gold fibers to replace a nerve for an individual myomere, showed promise. Regrettably, it…‌” Thornton trailed off.

  Was stolen?

  Was used to commit a crime?

  She jumped in. “It fails to maintain a connection with the individual muscle fibers. I’m convinced that with the right rare earth metal‌—‌”

  “You can convert neurility into electricity and establish a tighter bond,” Henri finished, a wide grin on his face. “Brilliant!”

  “Yes, exactly.” Amanda grinned back. After years of solitary work‌—‌well, with only the company of Rufus and his hens‌—‌she at last had a colleague. Someone with the knowledge and experience to help her evaluate the rush of ideas that sprang to mind.

  “Establishing a lasting connection to the myomere is only one of several problems to overcome,” Thornton instructed Henri, all business. “The new spider must be able to connect to the cranial nerves, not just the peripheral nerves. Additionally, Lady Amanda has knowledge of a new nerve agent, one which quiets a nerve without numbing it.”

  “If I can obtain the formula,” Amanda reminded him.

  Henri clapped his hands together. “Most excellent. That would save our agents much agony and suffering when the acousticotransmitter is installed.”

  “The acousticotransmitter is implanted directly into an agent’s ear?” she asked. To drill into the skull…‌ Her stomach flipped. General anesthesia followed by effective pain management would be essential.

  Henri nodded. “An artificial ear of sorts, one undetectable to the enemy, that both enhances the range of human hearing and can transmit sound to a receiver, allowing a second agent to listen.”

  “I’m afraid I must impose upon you, Henri,” Thornton said, preventing Amanda from asking further questions.

  “Oui?”

  “While the acoustico work must continue apace, Lady Amanda’s project must take equal priority. Please orient her to the laboratory and its resources. Introduce her to our technicians, Samuel and Robert.”

  Thornton didn’t look at her as he spoke. He barely acknowledged her physical presence. From the way he shifted away, it was clear he wished to be elsewhere.

  Despite his earlier compliments, disappointment and self-doubt flooded her. She’d been under the impression that Thornton himself would mentor her, assist her in redesigning the neurachnid. Instead, he was foisting her upon another, interested only in her ability to help solve the mystery of the tortured and executed gypsies, a goal to which she felt equal commitment. It seemed she was nothing more to him than a tool to accomplish that end.

  Henri smiled at her. “It will be a pleasure and an inspiration.”

  “Well, then.” Thornton nodded, not meeting her eyes. “I’ll leave you to it.” He turned and limped to a door in the far wall. Amanda watched as he pressed his entire hand into a depression, and the door swung open.

  “Another laboratory?” she asked, attempting to hide her disappointment.

  “Oui. One that only he and Lady Huntley may enter. A top-level clearance research project that is, of late, making Thornton rather…‌ tense.”

  Did the research conducted within have any particular connection to the recent gypsy deaths? Or perhaps the tension in his shoulders came from the sheer number of demands upon his time. Multiple research projects, teaching, a new student research assistant and, of course, the pressure brought by the Queen to assist in solving the gypsy murders.

  Not to mention his pronounced limp.

  “It seems his leg causes him considerable pain.” She was careful not to phrase it as a question. “I understand airship pirates were involved.” Would Henri tell the story to a new laboratory member?

  Henri sighed. “A tale of bravery and heroism. Exciting and thrilling but for Lord Huntley’s resulting death.”

  “Will you‌—‌can you tell it?”

  “Truthfully, there is not much to tell. Thornton and Lord Huntley were traveling to a neurotech conference in Brussels via airship. Ropes appeared, seemingly from the clouds, and pirates dropped onto the deck.” Henri glanced at the door behind which Thornton had disappeared. “The two men were caught in the middle of the attack. They attempted to escape, but as they jumped onto an evacuation glider, a cutlass caught Thornton’s leg and Lord Huntley’s throat. By the time they touched down, it was too late for Lord Huntley.”

  With the slice of a blade, Lady Huntley became a widow.

  A moment of silence hung between them as Henri allowed the information to sink in. He continued, “This is how I met Thornton. They brought him to me, the only doctor able to concoct a potion to counteract the poison coating the pirate’s cutlass. He was grateful and brought me here, a foreign physician, to work in this great laboratory.” Henri began to clear the surface of a workbench. “I am most fortunate.”

  Poison-coated cutlasses? Amanda’s eyes were wide. She wanted to pry, to inquire about the specifics of Thornton’s injury, but she’d already overstepped her place. His leg was not her affair. If she wished to help, focusing on her assigned task was the best route. She would work, as assigned, to make her neurachnid establish connections with cranial nerves and to locate her sister and the formula for the nerve agent. Perhaps it might ease his pain.

  If, in her limited spare time, she managed to recreate the original spider’s ability to repair peripheral somatic nerves, she would press Henri for details, and then, if warranted, broach the possibility of repairing Thornton’s leg as well as her brother’s.

  She focused on the task at hand, lifting her satchel, unbuckling it, and drawing out its contents. “Along with what parts I could procure, I brought a copy of the original design sketches and all my notes.” She spread out her sketches and waited as Henri fitted a monocle to one eye, lowered himself onto a laboratory stool, and bent close. Amanda held her breath. This was the first time anyone besides Ned had examined her clockwork mechanism.

  “Clever, most clever,” Henri murmured, scanning the pages, his finger marking his progress. Then, he abruptly stood and tucked his monocle into a waistcoat pocket.

  “Did you notice any improvements I must make? Alterations?”

  “Ah. Yes. A few. Come. We will discuss them as we walk.” He crossed the room, tossing aside his leather apron. He pulled on a coat and set a bowler hat atop his head. “A beautiful fall day. The sun shines. We must not waste it. Too many days I have not felt the sun on my face. England, the weather is so contrary.”

  “Where are we going?” Amanda pulled on her own jacket, her hat and, adjusting the bow beneath her chin, somewhat reluctantly followed Henri from the laboratory.

  “To begin, a visit to Clockwork Corridor is called for,” he announced. “These parts you have need of, they are not here. I take you to a favored horologist who has only gears of the highest quality. The gypsy Nicu will have what we need.”

  “Nicu Sindel?” Amanda asked in amazement, warming at the prospect of greeting an old mentor and friend.

  He paused, lifting an eyebrow. “You know this man?”

  “I do indeed.” She took a deep breath, but stopped herself. A lady did not publicly claim gypsies as relatives. At least, not when she’d promised her father she wouldn’t. Announcing that Nicu Sindel was none other than grandfather to her brother-in-law would generate more questions than Amanda was prepared to answer. “Years ago, his family camped on our estate. Nicu gave me‌—‌and my brother and sisters‌—‌our first lessons in clockwork.”

  “Ah, the inspiration for your spider.” Henri nodded. “I take you then, to a reunion of great minds.”

  Chapter Eight

  “MORE ANESTHESIA,” Thornton instructed when the rat’s foot twitche
d.

  “Informality does not preclude basic manners,” Lady Huntley stated.

  She reminded him of his mother. He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Please.”

  With practiced movement, Lady Huntley placed the small rubber mask over nose and whiskers and turned a knob. With a hiss, the machine delivered a measured dose of chloroform. Enough to keep their small patient unconscious.

  There was a faint snick of a lock disengaging. Only one other person besides Lady Huntley and himself had unlimited access to this inner laboratory. About to insert the lens with microtweezers, Thornton paused, his hand hovering over the rat, and addressed Black. “Any leads?” Deftly placing the lens, he nodded to Lady Huntley. The surgery was complete. Tomorrow, they would test focus length and aperture. Thornton set down the tweezers and turned around on the stool, giving his fellow agent full attention.

  Black was their only hope of obtaining gypsy cooperation. With a gypsy mother, he had been raised in caravan, constantly on the move. While his heritage brought a variety of unusual skills to the agency, the ability to speak the Romani language and move about the gypsy camps with ease was why he had been tasked with solving these particular crimes.

  “I did manage to find the victim’s family. They’re Romanichal gypsies camping on Putney Heath for the moment, but I was able to obtain little more than the victim’s name,” Black said.

  “Which was?” Lady Huntley asked in a hushed voice.

  “Marko Blythe. His family will be by soon to collect his remains if you’ve no objection.”

  “None,” Thornton replied. “Perhaps his relatives will find some peace in their traditions.”

  British gypsies called themselves Romanichal. In the late fall, starting about this time of the year, various groups converged upon cities for the winter, many upon London’s outskirts, including Putney Heath.