“So he hightails it to Detroit after the Outer Banks, and then heads to Flagstaff.” Bill scratched his beard, mulling over the notes shared. “Guess the original plan was head on out to Chicago, do the dog-and-pony show, meander over to his base in Detroit, pick up the dynamo. Remind me what we found at Currituck again?”
Felicity motioned to Wellington, and flipped a few pages back in his journal. “It was the prototype targeting system. As Edison left it behind so callously, we can only assume that it was more of a proof of concept. They just wanted to see if it could be built . . .”
Felicity’s words faded as Eliza’s attention turned to the fact that Felicity was reading from Wellington’s private journal. She flipped through it as if she knew it intimately.
“Lizzie?”
Someone asked Eliza if she was dizzy. She was feeling a little lightheaded now that she thought about it . . .
“Eliza?”
It was Wellington. What the hell did he want?
“Eliza, are you well?” he asked.
There was . . . real concern in his voice?
“I beg your pardon?” she asked.
“Bill asked what your thoughts were on why Edison would be going to Flagstaff. He went to a variety of coastal cities to read variables affecting firing solutions. Then he went to the Outer Banks to perfect a targeting device. Detroit was where Edison procured a power source. What does he need from Flagstaff? A desert town, yes?”
“The A.T. is beautiful country, but Flagstaff seems a bit out of the way, even for A.T. standards,” Bill said. “It’s a far cry from Phoenix, but it’s not Glenwood Springs, Colorado, either.”
“So,” Wellington said, pressing his fingers to his lips, his eyes still studying his Currituck sketch. “What do we do now?”
Eliza closed her eyes for a moment. She needed to clear her mind. She needed to stay focused.
She so desperately wanted to kiss Wellington. Bill was a mistake. She knew that now.
Bill tipped his head to one side. He looked at Wellington as if he’d suddenly sprouted a third arm out of his forehead and was offering to pour Bill a coffee with it. “Well, how about we take this train to Flagstaff, find Edison, and stop him?”
“The four of us?” Wellington asked.
“Naw, I was thinkin’ just Lizzie and me. You and Felicity can watch.”
“Bill,” Felicity chided, “is there a problem?”
“Yes, there is. I don’t appreciate Johnny Shakespeare here telling me that we can’t do our job.”
“That’s not what he’s doing, Bill.” Eliza could feel tensions of all kinds rise suddenly; and with everything that had unfolded since their meeting in Norfolk, they all needed to be working together. Even with her differences, she knew that. “Wellington is simply—”
“Too cautious for this line of work,” Bill bit back.
“Mr. Wheatley,” Wellington said, giving a curt nod and returning to the ham and eggs remaining on his plate, “have you ever faced the House of Usher?”
“The OSM ain’t no stranger to these Ushers.”
“I’m not asking OSM. I’m asking you.” His eyes were still on his breakfast as he said again in an affected drawl, “Jus’ little ol’ you, pardner.”
Looking up from his plate, Wellington held his gaze with Bill for what seemed like a small eternity. Felicity looked back and forth between them nervously while Eliza fought the urge to reach underneath the table and touch his leg. Wellington was apparently pushing back. Hard.
He finished the last bite of ham and with a small piece of bread began mopping up the remains of yolk on his plate. “So I thought,” he said.
Wellington shot a look at Eliza. She was still trying to clear her own head, so that she could offer some help. Where was this sudden venom coming from?
Of course. He had seen them kiss.
The archivist gave her a pained look before turning his focus back to Bill. “The House of Usher is an organisation not to be taken lightly in any way. Their resources appear limitless, and from what we can tell, their reach is everywhere.”
“Not everywhere,” Eliza said, giving Wellington a playful nudge. “They are not in Antarctica. Not anymore.”
Wellington chuckled, and Eliza suddenly realised how long it had been since she had made him smile.
He gathered himself by taking a sip of tea and continuing, “With the exception of Antarctica, they have a global reach, and their goal is to plunge the world into an unholy chaos. We still don’t know if they intend to place themselves into power or if they are simply a living contradiction as organised anarchists.”
Felicity laughed this time, but as no one else found Wellington’s words amusing, she coughed and busied herself folding her napkin on the table. The rosy blush on her cheeks was far too fetching in Eliza’s estimation.
“Whoever they are, they’re damn crazy,” Bill growled. “Who would want the whole world turned into hell?”
“Some look forward to a world lost in fire and madness.” Wellington waxed, stirring his tea, staring into its depths. “They picture a bigger, better world, rebuilt from the ashes. This, Mr. Wheatley, is what makes Usher far different from other secret societies.”
“How so, Johnny Shakespeare?”
“They have no vision of a better world, or even a Utopia. Their Nirvana is seeded with wild mania.” Wellington looked across at Eliza, and she felt as if the words were meant for her alone. His hazel eyes were the most serious she had ever seen them, and that chilled her. “The House of Usher simply have nothing to lose.”
Bill finished off his coffee, and then looked at Wellington. “All the more reason we need to move on Edison the minute we get into Flagstaff.”
“But we still have no idea what his endgame is, Bill,” Felicity spoke suddenly. She was, apparently, on the side of the Ministry. “Even if we get him back to Washington to stand trial for his crimes, that still doesn’t take into account his political connections. He is a man of influence, as you well know.”
Bill didn’t look at her, but Eliza saw him tense up on that. “I most certainly do.”
“We can’t play our hand so quickly,” Felicity replied softly but firmly. “We need to find out why he is doing all this.”
“Perhaps,” Eliza began, “this would be a good time for reinforcements.”
Bill’s eyes darted up to hers. “You calling in the Calvary, Lizzie? How’s that not playing our hand?”
“Before we pull into Flagstaff,” she said, now looking over to her partner, “I think we can send an æthernet to the Ministry. We’re going to need additional logistics.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Wellington pushed his spectacles higher up his nose, cleared his throat, and gave a tiny sigh. “Thank you for the warning.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Bill said, rising from his own chair, “but if Edison gives me a reason, I will not hesitate to bring him in—with whatever force is necessary.”
“Agreed,” Felicity replied.
“Just give us until meeting our reinforcements before you do anything rash,” Eliza said, batting her eyelashes just a fraction and angling her chest appropriately. “Please.”
He pressed his lips together and squeezed out an, “All right then.” Bill put his hat back on, tipped it to the ladies with a wicked little smile to Eliza, before shouldering his bag, and leaving the table without another word.
Wellington rose from his seat as well. “I believe I will see to my own appearance. Miss Lovelace here makes me feel quite in the shade. Ladies, if you will excuse me.” He closed the journal and, after locking it, made for the exit.
“You are most fortunate, Miss Braun,” Felicity said, watching him leave with a little gleam in her eye. “He really is such a charming individual.” She pushed her plate forwards slightly and said, “Well then, I suppose I should get ready for Flagstaff.”
<
br /> “We have some time,” Eliza said, quite impressed her own tone was so pleasant. “I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”
“Oh?” Felicity asked, “About our case?”
“It pertains to our case. In a manner of speaking.”
Eliza placed her hand in her lap and fixed her gaze on Felicity’s. She was quite beautiful, quite pleasant to the eye, and rather sweet. This acknowledgement left Eliza with two options: a right hook to her jaw or just blurting out what was on her mind.
“I am a bit concerned of your intentions concerning my partner, Wellington Books.”
Felicity blinked a few times, then made a quiet “Oh . . .” as she sat back in her seat, glancing down. Her cheeks grew slightly red and her posture deflated as if she wanted to sink into the floor. She appeared most embarrassed.
“Come, come, Felicity. No need to play the blushing maid with me. It’s just us girls, after all.”
The blush then, as quickly as it arrived, disappeared. Her eyes grew slightly darker, and suddenly the librarian was a statue of cold civility.
“You are quite right,” Felicity said, leaning forwards into a far more assertive posture. “Miss Braun, my intentions are only of interest to myself and Mr. Books, and should hardly be of concern to you.”
Eliza could now easily see her behind a fine oak desk, tomes stacked high on either side of her, demanding payment for late returns with the same stare that bore into her now. It was fortunate that Felicity’s dark eyes were not daggers for Eliza would have thought herself in imminent peril. This librarian, perhaps a novice in the tactics of spycraft, had been hiding this particular spine of steel beneath all that charm, demureness, and benevolence. It was one of the few times that Eliza had misjudged a person. An error she would not make twice.
Perhaps she herself was not as educated as a librarian or even an archivist, but she had just as much pepper in her personality. She leaned forwards on her elbows, her own eyes narrowing. “Oh, but they are, make no mistake. I am very solicitous of Mr. Books’ feelings and his well-being. If his confidence or trust is compromised in the field, then our partnership is working at only half-strength. We cannot afford such a risk when dealing with the House of Usher. I assume you cross-referenced that much just now.”
Felicity crooked an eyebrow. “We’re still talking about Wellington, correct? Because it sounds as if you are referring to yourself.”
Eliza tipped her head a bit lower. “If you want to play hard, then I can play hard. What’s your real game?”
“My game, Miss Braun?” Her expression remained composed, but Eliza noted the librarian’s hands were turning white as they clenched on each other.
“Oh, dearie, you really have no idea who you are facing presently, do you?”
“If this is a battle of wits, Miss Braun, then I would say, for the first time, you may be outgunned.”
“But this is a problem with you and I competing for the same man. Only one of us is aware of the competition.” She would not lose her temper on this ninny of a girl. At least, not yet. “Stay away from Wellington. He is not for you. Not now, not ever.”
Felicity’s lips pursed. “Is that a fact?” She unlaced her fingers from each other, and made a steeple with them as she asked, “And you know this from the close company you two have been keeping?”
“We’ve been through a lot together.” Eliza’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve known Wellington a bit longer than you.”
“So then if he knows you so well, he expected you to enjoy Bill’s affections back in Detroit, yes?”
Eliza remained stock still. That mistake was now costing her.
“I find it very sweet that you are so protective of your partner.” Felicity leaned back in her chair, the morning sun lighting her face up like an angel’s. “It is quite a surprise, I must admit, seeing as how you talk to him as if he were a petulant child.”
“I do nothing of the sort!” Eliza snapped.
“So you did compliment him on that amazing motorcar of his, didn’t you? Or for his investigative work in Currituck? And what of his rescue of Henry Ford? How did you address him when we arrived in Michigan? ‘Just check us into the hotel and pick us up later tonight, there’s a good chap.’ Spoken like a true lady of the manor, yes?” Felicity’s smile had no mirth or well-being behind it. “Your words. Not mine.”
Eliza’s mouth opened to reply, but she had nothing to fling back. Her mind raced to recall exactly when the last time it was that she had said anything nice to Wellington since arriving in the Americas. A compliment, a kind word, anything . . .
“So Mr. Books really has not expressed an interest in you in a romantic way, Miss Braun, since our first meeting in Virginia. This, I would say, makes him fair game. I find his deportment, his wit, and his intellect most appealing.” She smirked, and then added, “His backsides are quite nice as well. I presume you’ve noticed?”
Felicity could not have rocked Eliza back more convincingly if it had been her delivering the right hook.
“The final decision as to where Mr. Books casts his attentions resides with Mr. Books. Not his partner in the field. And as I am in the field and charged with making notes of this case, upon my word as a fr . . .”—she was going to say “friend” but thought better of it—“colleague, I will not make any record of this conversation, unless you are concerned about the security of this mission. Are you?”
“No,” Eliza replied drily.
“Excellent. It would be terrible for you to be relieved from your duties on account of your judgement being clouded. That would leave Wellington to complete the mission alone.” Felicity leaned in and whispered, “You needn’t worry. I’d look after him.”
For a moment Eliza wondered why she didn’t sod manners, decorum, and international goodwill, and just throttle this bitch only scant inches from her?
Because the bitch was right.
It had been one kiss with Wellington. Glorious and delicious as it was, it had been only one kiss. She had no idea where she stood with him, and here she was, dismissing him as if he were a rookie agent fresh from training, and paying no mind whatsoever to what he had laboured over in their continental progress specifically for this mission and for her.
And the irony wasn’t lost on her. Another solitary kiss had now thrown all of this into turmoil.
Eliza took a deep breath, and then looked around her. Somehow, the dining car managed to clear of people without her noticing.
Losing time. What sort of field agent was she that she was letting this get in her way? Eliza rose from her seat, dusted crumbs from her trousers, and strode off towards her cabin. Maybe somewhere in there she could find the old Eliza D. Braun, the Eliza D. Braun in full control of herself.
INTERLUDE
Wherein Blackwell and Axelrod Become Quite Excited
Doctor Basil Sound stepped into the lift, tucking the æthernet missive from Agent Braun into his jacket pocket, and pushed the chadburn to Research. The lift rattled and banged its way there, but it was not the only noise to be heard. The doctor winced as the retorts shook the shaft. It sounded like more than small arms fire, perhaps shaped charges of some kind. Research and Design had been established in a strengthened portion of the building; but at such moments as these the director did wonder if builders had quite managed to get those specifications up to snuff.
Still, the lift lurched to a stop, and Sound stepped out—with a hint of genuine relief. The main hatchway vibrated as one more explosion sounded from behind it. For an instant the director thought on how Miss Braun loved visiting this particular division of the Ministry.
She was however one of the few hardy souls that did.
As Sound grasped the handle of the R&D cast iron blast hatch and began to spin it, he watched the light above carefully. The more he spun, the more the light above turned from red to green. He just hoped that those on the other sid
e noticed someone attempting access.
A final retort sounded—making him leap just a fraction—but the hatch had merely shuddered. The blast from the other side must have remained controlled. Or at least as controlled as R&D would make it.
Sound let out the breath he had been unconsciously holding, and levered the door open. It was a relief that there was no smoke to greet him when he stepped into the most peculiar of the Ministry’s various branches.
Bearing down on him from behind the blast wall that stood directly in front of the hatchway was none other than the incomparable Doctor Josepha Raven Blackwell. Several other researchers were just straightening up from the shield, but Blackwell was first out of the gate as per usual. Sound had dealt with all sorts of powerful women in his time at the Ministry, from the explosive Miss Braun to the sometimes unnecessarily combative Lady Caroline, but the head researcher of the development team was an entirely different sort of bird.
“Director,” she said, peering over her glasses at him as she removed the corks from her ears, “your timing is excellent. I was just about to head up to your office to demand an explanation. This shipment of blasting caps is far below an acceptable standard for my new project.”
Movement from behind the director brought him around to her colleague, Professor Hephaestus Axelrod. Apparently, he had been behind a blast shelter by the hatch. Currently, his mouth was opening and shutting, as if trying to find the right words but giving his face the resemblance of a fish. Sometimes there were no “right words” with these two.
At first it was impossible to tell what the researchers had been doing since there was a contained but dense cloud of smoke at the far end of the long room. As if sensing the query forming on his tongue, a battery of fans spun up to full speed and cleared the room. The hazy curtain suspended before the target of Blackwell and Axelrod’s research slowly rose, along with Sound’s eyebrows at the sight of man-sized, brass riveted armour.
“I take it this little creation,” he began, pushing back the lapels of his jacket as he looked the MechaMan from top to bottom, “is based on the designs we salvaged from the Phoenix Society?”
Dawn's Early Light Page 24