Grey Griffins: The Clockwork Chronicles #2: The Relic Hunters

by Derek Benz; J. S. Lewis

  “Was I that obvious?”

  “You weren’t exactly smooth.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Max paused as he looked to make sure nobody was listening. “It’s just that… w-w-well…”

  “When did you get a stuttering problem?”

  “Knock it off,” Max said as a grin spread across Harley’s lips. “Do you think Brooke is mad at me?”

  “Why would she be?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering,” Max said. “I mean, she hasn’t said a word to me in, I don’t know, months. Did I do something wrong?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  Max stopped at the glass door that opened out onto the wet lawn. He felt Sprig lick his hand as a streak of lightning shot across the sky. It didn’t look like the rain was going to let up. “If we want to catch the next train to Avalon, we should get going.”

  “Can you turn into an umbrella?” Harley asked Sprig. She growled her disapproval as Harley pushed the door open and walked out into the storm.

  Max followed, grasping the neck of his jacket to keep the water from seeping in. Sprig decided to morph into a mallard. Water beaded on her feathers as she flew across the lawn and into the entryway of the subway depot.

  By the time the boys reached her, they looked like they had jumped into a shower with their clothes on. Harley peeled off his sweatshirt and wrung it out as Max shook some of the water from his hair. Then Sprig jumped into his arms, nestling in for warmth as Max stroked the back of her neck.

  “I guess it wouldn’t bug me if she wasn’t hanging out with Natalia all the time,” Max said as they went down the escalator.

  “Are we talking about Brooke again?” Harley asked.

  “She’s not talking to me. Neither is Ernie. And when was the last time Natalia blew us off?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Never.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “I don’t know…. It kind of feels like the Grey Griffins are falling apart.”

  “Why?” Harley said. “Because Ernie’s acting like a twit and the girls are hanging out together?”

  “So you don’t think—”

  “No, I don’t,” Harley interrupted.

  The boys rode in relative silence as the gears beneath the escalator churned. Sprig snored in Max’s arms.

  “Hey, is that Logan?” Harley asked, pointing to a man leaning against a brick pillar below.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s your bodyguard, not mine,” Harley said.

  “Good afternoon, fellas,” Logan said as the boys stepped off the escalator.

  “Are we in trouble or something?” Max asked, deciding to get to the point.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’ve never met us here before.”

  “I was thinking about taking you blokes for a bit of a diversion, but if you don’t have the time…”

  “We were just going to go to the Spider’s Web,” Max said, “but I guess we could hang out with you instead.”

  Harley shrugged.

  “Who could pass up enthusiasm like that?” Logan said. He put one hand on Max’s shoulder and another on Harley’s.

  “Can Sprig come?” Max asked.

  Logan looked down at the faerie in Max’s arms. “It doesn’t bother me, but I don’t think she’ll like it. There’ll be iron, and lots of it.”

  “Did you hear that?” Max asked Sprig.

  “Yes, we heard,” Sprig said. Like most faeries, spriggans were allergic to iron. She didn’t bother to open her eyes.

  “So what do you want to do?”

  Sprig jumped out of his arms. Then, without a word, she turned back into a white tiger before prowling up the escalator and onto the front lawn.

  The ground started to rumble as a stream of light flared out from the tunnel in the distance. Moments later the Zephyr appeared. Its brakes echoed against the brick walls long after it came to a stop.

  “Where are we headed?” Max asked as the boys followed Logan into one of the cars.

  “If I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

  A STRANGE THEORY

  The Zephyr pulled into the Farringdon Street station. Logan led the boys out the door and up the steps into the bustling heart of New Victoria. “Stay close,” he said as they wound through foggy streets filled with sounds of clanging steel, whirring motors, and peddlers selling everything from fresh fish to miracle cures.

  “Are we going to Monti’s lab?” Max asked as they crossed over to Walpole Road.

  “It’s hard to slip one past you,” Logan said.

  Monti’s lab was in the warehouse district, an older part of the city that sometimes got dangerous after nightfall. The massive lab was made of brick, steel girders, and glass. Clouds of steam poured out of Monti’s chimneys as Max, Harley, and Logan walked to the loading dock in the back.

  Logan knocked on the door. Moments later, a horizontal slat snapped open to reveal a set of amber eyes that glowed in the murk. “So good of you to come by, sir,” a mechanical voice said.

  “I brought the munchkins,” Logan said.

  “The master will be pleased.”

  The slat shut. It was followed by the sound of bolts being unlocked from the inside. The door swung open to reveal a clockwork that would have almost looked human if it weren’t wrapped in brass casing.

  “This way, if you please,” it said before shuffling across the floor of a room that could have fit three gymnasiums side by side.

  An entire wall was covered with a network of pipes, gauges, and wheels. There were hoists and welding machines, cranes, and carts rolling over tracks. Overhead, catwalks crisscrossed beneath a ceiling that was constructed of interlocking steel girders filled with giant panes of glass. They were beaded with raindrops, but Max could still see the silhouettes of zeppelins flying lazily through the dark sky.

  A hacking sound bellowed above the noise.

  “What was that?” Max asked.

  “Monti,” Harley said.

  As they followed the clockwork around a partition, they found Monti coughing. The clockwork fetched a bottle of water and handed it to Monti, who took a few sips and closed his eyes.

  “You still haven’t gone to the doctor, have you?” Harley asked.

  “I thought I’d be better by now,” Monti said. He was wearing a white lab coat covered by a leather apron, with thick boots, his horn-rimmed glasses, and a pair of brass goggles pushed up over his thinning hair.

  “You’re a bit off-color,” Logan said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, pale as a ghost.”

  “Ah,” Monti said, finally understanding. “I’m not surprised. I haven’t been out to see the sun in weeks.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Logan said. “You don’t look right.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Monti said before taking another swig of water. “By the way, where’s Agent Thunderbolt?”

  “Probably off with his Agents of Justice,” Max said.

  “You don’t really think he’s caught up in that mess, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” Max said.

  “It seems our Agent Thunderbolt has taken to spending his time with other changelings,” Logan said. “It’s a bit of a sore subject.”

  “I see,” Monti said. “Does that go for Natalia as well?”

  “She’s studying with Brooke and Raven,” Harley said.

  “Girl power, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I was thinking that you could show the boys your new toy,” Logan said.

  “The Mark Four armor?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, then,” Monti said after another coughing fit, “right this way.”

  Though it was cold outside, it was hot and humid in the lab. Max took off his jacket before tying it around his waist. He wa
s still uncomfortably warm. Clouds of steam rolled across the floor like fog as clockwork servants moved about the space. They were carrying various components that belonged to any number of the dozens of projects that Monti was working on.

  Monti led them through a set of double doors and into one of his test facilities. He flipped a series of switches. The lights hummed to life, revealing an iron monster. “I present to you the Mark Four battle armor.”

  Standing against the wall and covered in scaffolding was an enormous suit of mechanized armor. It looked a bit like a clockwork, but the chest was actually a cockpit. It was covered in thick armor with rivets popping out near the edges of the iron plating. The arms were thick with hydraulics and rotating gears, all lathered in grease.

  “Where did you get it?” Harley asked.

  “I picked it up at a salvage station,” Monti said. “She’s the last of her kind, unless you count the model at the Templar Library, but that’s just a replica.”

  “Have you taken it out?”

  “Not yet,” Monti said. “I still have to run some diagnostics. Why don’t you crawl up there and take a look?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course.”

  Harley scrambled up the ladder before lowering himself into the cockpit. He sat in the seat and placed his feet on two pedals. A set of mechanical arms hung from the ceiling. Harley slid his own arms on top before grabbing what amounted to a joystick.

  “Be careful with the firing mechanism,” Monti said. “There’s live ammo in some of the chambers.”

  “Live ammo?” Logan asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “I wasn’t expecting visitors,” Monti said.

  “What about the other thing?” Logan asked.

  “You mean the portal scanner?”

  “How’s it coming?”

  “Slower than I’d like.”

  “Come on down from there,” Logan called up to Harley. “There’s more to see.”

  Harley slipped out of the armor’s restraints and climbed down the ladder.

  Monti led them back into the lab, past rows of metal shelves full of labeled boxes. Each was filled with a variety of components ranging from gears and pinions to wires and bolts.

  “Is that a shooting range?” Max asked.

  “Yeah,” Monti said. “We’re working on developing a freeze ray.”

  They stopped to watch a clockwork take aim at a mannequin. A spray of what looked like condensed sleet shot out of the barrel of a large gun. It slammed into the mannequin before encasing it in a thick sheet of ice.

  “What’s that for?” Logan asked.

  “Zombies,” Monti said. “They don’t do well in cold climates. The water in their tissue freezes and they can’t move, so I figured a freeze ray would be the best way to stop them.”

  “What’s this about zombies?” Logan asked.

  “Obadiah gave me a book about the zombie infestation of 1645,” Monti said. “There was some kind of viral outbreak that turned people into the walking dead.”

  “I see,” Logan said.

  “There was a report in the Chronicle this morning,” Max said. “People have been claiming that zombies are walking through the streets.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” Monti said. “I mean, it’s not like I’m worried about a zombie uprising or anything. I just like those old zombie movies, that’s all.” Monti walked over to a workbench that was tucked in a corner. He sat on the stool and picked up a small device with wires hanging out of it.

  “So that’s it, then?” Logan asked.

  “I know it doesn’t look like much, but yes,” Monti said.

  “Why would you need a portal scanner?” Max asked.

  “That’s a good question,” Monti said. “Why don’t you ask your bodyguard?”

  “Because Von Strife is trying to build another portal to reach his daughter,” Logan said.

  “Wait,” Harley said. “Didn’t we already blow up the only gateway to the Shadowlands?”

  Monti removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Obadiah thinks that Von Strife is trying to build something called a Paragon Engine.”

  Monti opened up a notebook to show the boys sketches of a massive iron ring that was attached to its base by steel girders. Max stared at it for a moment, wondering where he had seen those drawings before.

  “What’s wrong?” Monti asked.

  “Oh… nothing,” Max said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Anyway,” Monti said after another coughing fit, “if Von Strife can pull it off—and I doubt that he can—it would give him the power to create an artificial portal that’s not only strong enough to open another gateway into the Shadowlands, but it could give him the ability to travel through time.”

  “Why don’t you think he can do it?” Max asked.

  “According to legend, Lord Saxon destroyed the last Paragon Engine decades ago,” Monti said. “It would take years just to track down the parts, even if they still existed.”

  “Not if he had Saxon’s maps,” Max said.

  “We have all of those in Saxon’s diary,” Monti said. “Don’t get me wrong. If anybody can build a Paragon Engine, it’s Von Strife. The man is a certifiable genius. I mean, as much as I hate to say it, he’s kind of a hero of mine—at least when it comes to his work. But even with an intellect like Von Strife’s, the odds are stacked against him.”

  “So how much longer on the scanner?” Logan asked.

  “I was hoping to have it finished tomorrow,” Monti said. “I mean, portals are nothing but wormholes stabilized by negative energy, but there are still variances.”

  “Like what?” Harley asked.

  “For one, natural portals give off a different signature than the artificial kind.”

  “So you’re going to try to scan for any artificial portals that would match the signature of a Paragon Engine,” Harley said.

  “That’s the goal,” Monti said. “If Von Strife fires one up, we should be able to pinpoint his location. Then we send in the cavalry, arrest him, lock him up, and throw away the key. All I need to do is get this thing working.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Max asked, suddenly interested. After all, THOR agents had been trying to track Von Strife for months, and they hadn’t gotten very far.

  “That’s a good question,” Monti said as he flipped the device over. “The theory is pretty straightforward, but the build has been tricky.”

  “Is that an Intra-Cellanator?” Harley asked, pointing to one of the components.

  Monti opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a cough.

  “You should go see Doc Trimble,” Logan said.

  “Yeah,” Max said. “That cough sounds terrible.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just need some rest, that’s all,” Monti said. Then he turned back to Harley. “By the way, how do you know about Intra-Cellanators?”

  “I’m not sure. I must have read about it somewhere.” Harley shrugged. “Have you thought about using a copper coil instead?”

  “Well,” Monti said, mulling it over, “it’s a bit unorthodox, but I think you might be on to something.” He walked to a box on a nearby shelf, rummaged inside, and pulled out a sheathed copper coil. He returned to his workbench and handed Harley the coil. “You do it.”

  “I don’t want to mess it up.”

  “Right now, it’s nothing but a worthless piece of junk,” Monti said.

  “Before the two of you get sidetracked,” Logan said, “I was hoping you could show me the Jaguar.”

  “We just finished the conversion this morning.”

  “What conversion?” Max asked. “Did you add a nitrous system to it or something?”

  “It’s a bit more than that,” Logan said. “Have you ever ridden in a flying car?”

  THE AEROCAR

  “You’re serious?” Max asked.

  “A man should never joke about his car,” Logan said.r />
  “I’ve got to see this,” Max said as a clockwork with a square body and a tiny head zipped by on belted wheels. It was carrying what looked like a submachine gun.

  “What was that?” Harley asked.

  “An energy weapon,” Monti said. “That particular model fires plasma bolts, but it’s been jamming up. Maybe you could take a look at it later.”

  Harley lit up. “Okay.”

  “Only if I can help test them,” Max said.

  “I can arrange that,” Monti said.

  A piercing whistle came out of a pipe, followed by a cloud of steam.

  “It’s wicked hot in this place,” Logan said as he took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. “You can make a car fly, but you can’t install a decent air-conditioning system?”

  “I’m afraid the steam is an occupational hazard, but you get used to it,” Monti said.

  He entered a code into the keypad next to an oversized garage door, and it opened to reveal a sweeping view of the garage below. It was nearly as big as the workshop, with brick walls and a forest of steel beams that held up the vaulted ceiling.

  There was a tank hoisted on hydraulic lifts where clockwork repairmen worked on the undercarriages, while others worked on cars and motorcycles. Monti led everyone to a vehicle sitting on four stilts. It was covered by a tarp that fell away after a quick yank.

  “You’re looking at what used to be a 1948 Jaguar XK120,” he said. “It was a beautiful car, but now it’s special.”

  The sleek roadster had been retrofitted with wings mounted to the body. The doors had been welded shut, and what used to be a convertible top was now a glass and chrome canopy. It looked like something out of the past, but with a nod to the future.

  “So is she ready to fly?” Logan asked.

  “I had one of my clockwork test pilots take it out this morning.”

  Logan snatched the keys from Monti’s hand. He pressed a button on the remote, and the hatch opened. A clockwork pushed a set of portable steps over to the driver’s side.

  “I only have room for one passenger at a time,” Logan said as he climbed into the cockpit. “So who’s first?”

  “Go ahead,” Harley said, looking at Max.

  “Are you sure?” Max asked.