The balding one returned the chuckle. “The Dangerous Detweilers of Dayton. Their mishaps alone could fund three launches.”
True to form of socially inept schlockworkers, neither of them were going to notice her anytime soon—a situation Sophia was not accustomed to. There was simply nothing for it, but to state the obvious. “A very interesting-looking contraption,” she said with what she had been told was her most disarming smile.
The men spun around as if she had already stuck a knife in their backs. She must have made quite an appearance because their mouths literally dropped open. Now, she held their undivided attention. Perhaps they were not used to a woman carrying a rifle, or perhaps they just had very ugly women in this part of the world. She would not have been surprised. The number of American men on the Continent seemed to indicate to her that their women were not worth staying home for.
“Our apologies, ma’am,” the moustached one began, “we didn’t notice you.”
“And that’s saying something,” the balding one added, his smile unexpectedly alluring.
Charming as the bald one was, she opened her pocket watch and was reminded of what little time she had remaining. It had to be now. Sophia waved her hand at the device. “Intriguing as your experiment here is, gentlemen, you must give this area of shore to me. Now.”
The two men wiped their hands on their pants and straightened, seeming to work together as one machine. Their once separate demeanours—the balding one being a touch flirtatious, the moustached man actually blushing ever so slightly—slipped away before her eyes, replaced with hard, stern looks.
How precious.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the balding one said, “but I believe we were here first. If you were looking for some peace and quiet, Kitty Hawk offers plenty of spots to choose from other than this one.”
“But this is the spot I desire,” Sophia replied, her fingers splaying slowly around the shoulder strap of her Lee-Metford-Tesla.
Sophia could almost hear their outrage warring with their good manners. Then, after standing in this awkward silence, the balding one spoke again. “Look, you’re just going to have to wait. We have a launch to tend to, barring any catastrophic failures.”
Flicking into sight like a serpent’s tongue, a concealed blade sliced through the tight space between the men. A loud clang ran through the air, immediately followed by the angry hiss of half a dozen slashed lines coiled around the device. The men leapt back, yelping in horror as various fluids, many of them either catching fire on contact with one another or creating more of the heavier-than-air mist, spewed in every direction.
“You mean, like that?” Sophia asked. When she brought up her throwing arm a second time, another blade appeared, catching the sun as she slowly turned it in her hand.
They looked upon her anew in that moment, as if she had only just appeared. Their eyes bore into her with the same intensity they had devoted to their now-bleeding experiment, and the silence, once feeling awkward, had now turned ominous, marred only by the occasional fizz or crackle from the damaged machine. Sophia used this moment to look for vulnerabilities she could exploit. She’d rather not waste precious time, but you could never tell with men. Sometimes intellect would surrender to masculine pride, driving the male of the species to foolish acts.
These men however seemed to be exceptional.
The bald one used his hands, now encased by heavy gloves, to tip one end of the device’s cradle up. The moustached gentleman immediately ran to its falling tip and caught the device before it hit the ground. “Come on, Orville,” he snapped, the leaking cylinder now suspended between them like a bleeding soldier suspended on a stretcher. “Wind’s too strong for an accurate altitude test, anyway. Let’s get back to camp, and leave this lady to her thoughts. And herself!”
Sophia allowed the man his slight. It was evident their flight of fancy had been toiled over for some time, only to be ruined in seconds by her. If these “Dangerous Detweilers of Dayton” were as profitable as the men had insinuated, perhaps they could return with a repaired model. She waited until both men had disappeared over a sand dune before unslinging the rifle and haversack. The long, heavy string of contacts she withdrew resembled a necklace of diamonds, cut emerald style, their flat silver surface smooth and slick under Sophia’s fingers as she adjusted them into a wide circle perhaps ten feet in diameter. She paused in her arrangement of this array only to check the time. It would be close, but she would be ready.
The last item from her pack introduced to this apparatus was the flickering power source snatched from the Culpepper airship just before its fatal descent over Essex. The device would have passed for a deck prism as the power source was secured on a flat circular base and surrounded by triangular planes. On closer inspection, though, it was not reflecting light, so much as creating it.
The Culpepper twins had been quite clever in the power source’s development, but they were nowhere near the true application of their electroporter.
Sophia went to the centre of the circle created by the leads and secured the power source on its stand. Once connected to the array, the prism began to hum, growing louder and brighter as it did. Even after she cleared the circle, she continued to step back. The noise—more of a vibration from the array that she felt in her very skull—turned Sophia’s steps into a graceful backwards jig. Her hands pressed against her ears but could not cease the thrumming in her head. Instead of collapsing into a ball, she screamed against the assault, determined to watch the sky and see this incredible creation of science do its work.
The thunderclap drowned her scream out as the circle of silver threw brilliant whips of immense energy upwards into the sky, scattering crying seagulls in all directions. A few of the more curious beach birds found themselves trapped by these tendrils, falling dead from the sky once released. She knew this power intimately, having seen and experienced it while the machine had been under the control of the Culpeppers.
Now this control of light, space, and time belonged to the Maestro—just as had always been his plan.
Sophia threw her hand over her eyes as the light grew too bright for her to bear. She was no longer screaming as the thrumming vibrations had now transformed into a rumble, a rumble that split the air suddenly with an almighty crash.
When Sophia finally tasted the salt air and returned to reasonable thought, she found herself on her back, pushed into the dunes from the amplified electroporter’s concussive force. She now looked into the sky at the wonder hovering above her.
Though she knew this would have been, provided the device was a success, the sight of the Titan overhead made her breath catch. Its droning propeller rose above the sound of the waves pounding on the sandbanks; and while the envelope itself was storm cloud grey, sunlight managed to catch the hanging gun positions. All in all, the Maestro’s yacht was a thickset, pugnacious-looking airship, prepared to deal the world a bruising.
Sophia smiled as the Titan turned to port and then lowered to disembarkation level. Her heart began to race as she saw the hatch in the belly of the airship slide open.
A ladder unfurled and, on the lower rungs striking the ground, a tall form climbed down it double-time. It was Pearson, the valet. As he dropped to the sand, Sophia felt a little niggle of disappointment. No smile greeted her from the valet’s stern, drawn face; no sign at all that she had even done a passable job.
Still, it was not Pearson’s goodwill she desired. She waited impatiently as he guided the massive airship lower until, with a single swipe of Pearson’s hand, the Titan’s multiple anchors dropped, burying themselves deep into the Carolina sand. From where the rope ladder had dropped, a gangplank extended as the leviathan of the air continued its slow, controlled descent.
She strode past Pearson with a word, and they entered the airship’s belly. As they went deeper into the gondola it got warmer and warmer, returning to a more comfortable
temperature once beyond the engine room. A handful of guards, dressed in steel grey uniforms bearing, just above their right breast, the insignia of the Titan, acknowledged Sophia with a little bow. Beneath her notice or concern, she did not return the salute but fixated on the path ahead.
Pearson opened a final bulkhead door and ushered her in. It was dark. The Maestro always preferred shadow, but then so did she.
“Signora del Morte,” his voice wheezed, accompanied by occasional bursts of steam escaping from his breathing apparatus. “You have done excellent work this day.”
Compliments from him were few and far between, and Sophia took what he offered with both hands. It was like rain on a parched garden. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I am honoured to serve as herald to your arrival in the Americas.”
“An office you fulfilled admirably,” he wheezed. “This final test of the electroporter, I would safely say”—and he motioned with his metallic encased hand—“was a rousing success. We are now able to proceed to the next stage: recruiting our latest candidate to come work for me, once he leaves his current position, that is.” She heard the machine move, a subtle creak and rattle of gears. “And, of course, your next task.”
Sophia felt a bitterness form in her mouth. “I will not be here to work alongside you?”
“You, my dear Angel of Death, shall use the electroporter to journey to San Francisco.”
Her mouth immediately dried up as the horrific image of Chandi Culpepper emerging from the prototype came to mind. There was the flash of unnaturally bright light, then the scream accompanied by the malformed and distorted madwoman . . .
“Is there a problem?” the Maestro asked.
“No, Maestro,” she lied.
His good hand reached from the shadows with a leather folio. “Your orders.”
“And what will you do here?” she asked as she took the attaché from him.
A few seconds had passed before Sophia realised what had made the Maestro mute. She knew the question had been a mistake even before he spoke. “This is your business because—?”
She searched for an answer, but all Sophia could be certain of was the sweat breaking out on her skin. She opened her mouth. No words came. At first. “I . . . I simply wish to understand my service to you, Maestro. To make certain my objectives are clear.”
“Understand my service”—and he motioned to the billfold she tightly grasped in her hands—“by understanding your orders.”
“Yes, Maestro,” she said without blinking or hesitation, her face completely devoid of any emotion.
“Come closer, Signora,” the Maestro wheezed suddenly, a pair of malevolent crimson eyes glowing softly from the shadows.
She felt the folio’s leather dig underneath her nails, her memory of when she was last within the Maestro’s reach—and consequentially, in his grasp—still very vivid.
The brass-and-leather fingers reached for her, slowly and languidly. “If there are any problems here in the Carolinas . . .” The Maestro’s voice was accompanied by assorted hisses and creaks, as if bellows within his suit were working hard. But why? Was he trying to keep his own emotions under control as well? “. . . I will call for you.” Those final words were punctuated with his fingertips brushing her cheek ever so gently.
Sophia was having a hard time breathing, particularly when feeling his cold, metallic caress. Fear and desire mixed together in the pit of her stomach. “Of course, Maestro.”
His fingers stopped their forward progress just underneath her chin where they lingered for an instant longer, the red points of light seeming to flare brighter now that she was close.
“Arm yourself, my Angel of Death,” the Maestro whispered to her. “This foreign soil is not without its protectors.”
Sophia nodded. “Yes, the House of Usher have dealt with OSM before. I can take care of anyone they have in their employment.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
Sophia motioned to the folio in her hands. “I am certain it is in here, Maestro, but will I be able to recognise my target in San Francisco?”
The laugh that came echoed within the metal suit, making it seem as if more than one man was amused by the question she was posing. It was terrifying and wonderful all at the same time.
When the answer came it made her smile as well. “His name is Albert. As he is heir to the throne of England, he will be difficult to miss.”
FIVE
In Which Miss Braun Begins to Enjoy American Hospitality
“In America, we call this scoping the territory.” Bill grinned at Eliza and slid her a shot of a clear liquid across the table where they were seated. She glanced around the tiny bar and pressed her lips together, even as she wrapped her fingers around his offering. Apparently, they were the only ones taking this case seriously.
As a frown formed on her brow, she decided that part of her anger was related to the mounting suspicion that the other two, apparently cross-referencing previous Ministry investigations against open OSM cases, had the better end of the deal. This establishment smelt of fish, sea salt, and unwashed men, and was not the first place she would have picked as a night out on the town with a handsome foreign agent.
Not that she was going to tell Bill she thought he was handsome. She couldn’t imagine how arrogant he would get if she let that one slip.
Quagmire’s—the territory they were currently scoping—was a little building on the sand, with windows easily rattled by the whistling wind and a handful of bleak-looking locals enjoying a limited choice of spirits. A far cry from Swan’s Retreat.
Eliza picked up the glass and drained its contents in one motion. Whatever she had just knocked back down her gullet burned her throat and—she was most certain—the inside of her stomach, but she made sure not to let any hint of that cross her face. “Smooth,” she uttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “but I really don’t think the locals are quite used to women sharing their drinking space.”
Bill seemed, for the first time, to take notice of the attention they were drawing: the dirty looks of the inhabitants. “Well, I do believe that is because they have never seen such a beautiful woman in all their lives.”
Eliza raised both her eyebrows and sighed. They had dressed down for this little bit of infiltration; but the resident population of the Outer Banks was so small, they would have drawn notice no matter what they wore. Apart from the rich little country resort, the rest of these giant sandbanks’ inhabitants were better described as “salt of the earth.” Or perhaps, of the earth and sea, Eliza mused.
Her thumb brushed against her Ministry-issued signet ring and, ignoring the odd tingle the tracking device imparted, she lowered her voice as she leaned closer to her companion. “This lot don’t look like they have seen many women. Full stop.”
Bill let his gaze roam over their fellow drinkers and then nodded slowly as he refilled her tiny glass. “You have a point there, but think on them as toys in your experienced hands. We need information on the area, and these boys have what we need.”
Eliza looked him up and down, and replied tartly, “I’m not exactly sure how you do it here, but I am not about to sit on all of these blokes’ laps for information when we don’t even know exactly what it is we need to ask . . .”
The American’s laugh, for a moment, managed to drown out the roar of the wind. “What do you take me for, Miss Braun? I might not be no gentleman from England and all, but I’m not about to ask a lady to pass herself around like that!” He kicked back his own shot and then slapped a fistful of dollars on the table. “No, I believe in doing things the old-fashioned way.”
It took only an hour to change everyone’s perspective in the room. It was amazing the change that could be wrought with the application of cash. By the time Bill’s money was gone, they had made themselves a colourful collection of new friends in North Carolina. Eliza paced
herself with sips of the rotgut Quagmire’s palmed off as liquor, only wetting her lips.
Bill on the other hand was letting nothing go to waste.
With his bowie knife slicing through the air, Bill performed wild tricks ranging from juggling tosses to the always-popular parlour game of knife’s tip skipped between the spaces of his splayed hand. It was a miracle, on seeing Bill’s antics, that he still possessed all his fingers. After winning yet another round of this harrowing stunt of accuracy, Bill threw his knife at his own feet and broke into a dance to a tune the old man in the corner was belting out on his tin whistle. It was a jaunty little ditty, and Bill’s feet certainly flew.
A smile was forming on her mouth. Despite his brashness, arrogance, and the former incident in San Francisco, she was starting to see how Bill operated. He was a man’s man, and had so few pretensions that normal working folk didn’t feel as if he was talking down to them.
It reminded her of how she operated.
Bill ended his show with a flourish as the locals exploded in adulation. He stumbled through the flurry of back slaps and shoulder punches to flop in the seat before her. “They might be dirt farmers,” he said, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve, “but these folk sure can drink.”
“And that is the sum and total of what we’ve learned?” Eliza tilted her head and fixed him with a relatively sober gaze.
“Not quite,” Bill said with a grin. “I’ve been pepperin’ the talk with questions about anything that just wasn’t right. I kept hearin’ the same thing: talk to Merle. Accordin’ to the lore, he’s seen things.” He took a swig of his beer.
Eliza looked at her partner, and shrugged. “Merle is . . . ?”
He pointed to an older man huddled in the corner, nursing a glass of whiskey, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Eliza noticed immediately that there was something strange about the man’s legs. With a little more observation she discerned a prosthetic, just visible through long tears in the fabric. The fixtures she could only just see did not look well cared for, pitted and scarred by a life at sea. Much like the man it was strapped to.
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