by Beth Ciotta
For the life of him Simon could not determine the beliefs, motivations, and goals of this enterprising woman. Old Worlder? New Worlder? Certainly not a Flatliner. Though she claimed not to trust mankind, she exhibited passion regarding the fate of the world. Did she support advanced technology like Simon’s fuel-efficient monorail, or like Queen Victoria and other blinkered conservatives, did she shun anachronistic marvels?
Crossing the threshold, Simon battled those troubling musings and focused on their present task. He removed his derby and pocketed his gloves whilst the Canary pulled off her cap and glanced about the tavern. He knew without asking that she was assessing the eerie ambience much as he had the night before. Mostly Spirits & Tales resembled any common pub. Cramped confines, crowded seating, dark-paneled walls and floors. An enormous bar overwhelmed the small room and a mirrored backbar displayed shelves of various liquor bottles and filmy glasses.
Unlike most pubs, it did not possess a warm and cheery atmosphere. The dim lighting cast the room in a sickly shade of green instead of a warm golden glow. The paintings on the walls depicted scary, even downright ghastly scenes, and the floorboards creaked with every step. The only difference between last night and now was the quiet. Two, not twenty, people sat at the bar and there was plenty of seating elsewhere. Simon did not recognize the broad-shouldered, older man behind the bar, but it had to be Filmore, aka Flash. He sensed it in Willie’s demeanor. Yet instead of sitting at the bar, she moved toward a table near the raging hearth.
“It will take more than a hot cup of tea to relieve the chill I sustained whilst poking around Mary King’s Close,” she said in a grumpy tone. “I could use a whiskey, although I suppose you’ve yet to recover from last night’s bender.”
“Your hostility wears thin, Canary.”
“As does your impropriety.”
He glanced to where she looked and realized he was holding the chair out, waiting for her to sit first—a gentlemanly consideration for a woman. Except she pretended to be a man. Still. His patience on the matter was spent. “Listen, Willie, I—”
“Stay here,” she said, barking the order much as she had back at Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. Of all the bleeding cheek, Simon thought as she strode to the bar in her gangly, boyish manner. Fine. Let her buy the drinks. Let her have first crack at the Houdinian. He wanted to make haste with this expedition, and if the Canary could advance their efforts with her extraordinary interviewing skills, Simon would gladly take advantage.
Restless, he eased down in a rickety chair and pretended interest in a menu whilst surreptitiously watching the scene unfold.
The Canary nodded in greeting to the other two patrons, then climbed onto a barstool and motioned to the barkeep. The physically fit, silver-haired man appeared between midfifty and sixty years of age, the average age of most living Mods. Other than that, Simon had no way of knowing if the man was indeed Jefferson Filmore. Mods looked like any other Vic. They were wholly normal and human, just from another time. Even so, Simon suspected the man had introduced himself as Jim Flash, since Willie engaged him in animated conversation whilst the man poured two whiskies.
The Canary checked her time cuff as she pulled cash from her ratty wallet. There was something about her posture, her expression. Intense. No, attentive. Focused. As if whatever Filmore was saying was of enormous and impressive interest. Was that her trick? Encouraging someone to talk freely by intimating that they were unusually fascinating?
The exchange of payment was quick, and Simon watched as the two shook hands in a friendly farewell gesture. He thought he saw the Canary wince as Filmore pulled back. She checked her time cuff, then a pocket watch. She jammed her hand through her hair, looking somewhat rattled, then downed one of the whiskies.
What the devil?
She ordered another and once again engaged Filmore in talk. Simon could not make out specifics and this moment the Canary lowered her voice even more, causing Filmore to brace his elbows on the bar and lean in as if whatever she was saying was now the source of fascination. Simon leaned forward as well, but he couldn’t hear a damned thing. He itched to join the Canary at the bar, but by God, she looked to be making some sort of progress.
She checked the time—again. Why did she keep doing that? Then she grasped Filmore’s beefy forearm as if saying something of dire importance. Filmore was all ears.
Then the queerest thing happened.
Willie froze.
Literally.
She stopped talking, stopped moving, although she retained a death grip on Filmore. The awkward moment stretched on, and after snapping his fingers in front of her face, Filmore wrenched away his arm and Willie slumped forward on the bar.
Simon pushed to his feet and moved swiftly to the bar. He grasped Willie’s shoulder, pulling her upright. Her eyes were open, but unfocused.
“What the hell?” Filmore asked. “We were swapping ghost tales and the kid faded off.”
“Afraid my friend’s in his cups,” Simon said, gesturing at the whiskey. “We’ve been at it all night. A celebration of sorts. I best see him home.”
Unsure as to what was going on and not wanting to raise the Houdinian’s suspicions, Simon hoisted Willie over his shoulder like a sack of grain, mumbled an amusing apology to the barkeep and patrons, then whisked the Canary outdoors and into an alley.
“Put me down,” she ordered weakly, with an ineffectual punch to Simon’s back.
He propped her against a cold brick wall. Held her upright by her shoulders. “What happened in there?”
“What time is it?”
Simon looked on as Willie squinted at her time cuff, then fumbled for her pocket watch.
“That can’t be right,” she mumbled, sounding more British this moment than Scottish and looking somewhat delirious. “I’ve never been gone that long.”
“Gone where? What are you talking about and why do you keep checking your timepieces?”
She shrugged off his grip, gave herself a shake, then tugged on her cap. “We must hurry. I fear I may have tipped my hand,” she said whilst taking off down the alley on shaky legs. “I lingered and meddled. I’ve never done that before, but when I saw her . . .”
“Her, who?” Simon asked, taking a firm hold of the Canary’s elbow. Had she gone temporarily bonkers? Had one shot of whiskey addled her mind? “There were two male patrons at the bar, myself, and Filmore—if that was Filmore.”
Willie nodded. “It was.”
“No woman present,” Simon said, “other than you.”
She cast him a dazed, angry look.
“Keep pretending if you want to,” Simon said, “but know that the effort is wasted on me.” Vulnerable as she was this moment, he half expected her to throw up her arms, to cry defeat, to admit her true identity and spout some sort of fantastic tale related to her ruse. Wishful thinking on his part. Instead, she bolstered her shoulders and put more starch in her step.
“It’s in a vault,” she said, leaving the alley and taking a hard left onto a narrow street. “A coffinlike vault with some sort of intricate locking system. I know not the code, but maybe you can crack it. You’re good with numbers, right?”
Simon’s mind whirled. “Thimblethumper said the Houdinians would kill to protect an object of value, yet Filmore willingly told you the engine is hidden in a locked vault?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I suppose he gave up the precise location as well.”
“He did.”
“He said you were swapping ghost stories.”
“We were.”
Simon tugged his derby down, cursing the frosty wind and this convoluted discussion. He thought back to the interrogation, the way she’d focused intently on her subject, the way she’d gripped Filmore’s arm and the way she had frozen.
The kid drifted off.
Indeed, when Simon had pulled her limp body from the bar, she’d looked as though she was in a trance. There was but one explanation. She’d pri
ed into Thimblethumper’s and Filmore’s thoughts. It would also explain much about her often shocking and candid interviews.
“You lied to me,” Simon said as they moved under an arch and then down several stone steps. “You’re psychic. Some sort of mind reader.”
“Not exactly,” she said whilst moving into a musty, darkened corridor.
“What exactly?” Simon persisted.
“I’m a Time Tracer.”
CHAPTER 9
Willie had never confessed her supernatural skill aloud. At least not to a Vic. Her mother and father had known of her time-tracing gift—albeit in its infancy. And of course Wesley knew, although since they’d never been close and did not, in fact, converse on a regular basis, he did not know how far her supernatural skills had advanced. Just as she was in the dark as to the progression of his gift.
In a moment of weakness, Willie had once described her powers to a trio of Freaks—fellow members of the Freak Fighters. She was hoping one of them shared the same skill, was hoping to garner some insight or advice and to feel a little less alone. Being one of a kind amongst a minority made her feel even more the outcast rather than special. Amongst her kind she had heard rumors of telepaths and accelerated healers. Of those who could teleport and those with enhanced strength. She had also heard of someone in America who had a modicum of control over the four elements—earth, water, air, and fire. A skill that mirrored her brother’s. But to her knowledge, Willie was the only Freak born with the unique skill of reliving other people’s memories.
In recent years there had been random abductions, where nefarious agencies had forced Freaks to use their gifts for the agency’s greater good, which was ultimately wicked in nature. Some Freaks had gone rogue, offering their services for hefty sums. The majority of Freaks, like Willie, simply longed to integrate their special skills into a normal life and daily job. But unfortunately, until the day they won certain rights, they were forced to live a lie.
Willie had never felt more alone or lost than the moment she’d connected with Filmore. Not once in all the instances where she had traced, and there had been many, had she ever bobbled her objective. In and out. She never lingered. She never interacted. She was the proverbial fly on the wall. Only this time she’d seen something that had caused her to connect with Filmore a second time. Something that had caused her to linger and search. She had seen her mother.
“Bloody hell, woman. Slow down. It’s black as night in this corridor. You could walk into wall or fall into a well.”
“I see fine.”
“How is that possible?” Simon asked. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”
“Enhanced night vision.”
“A Time Tracer, whatever that is, with enhanced night vision. Are you pished or delusional?”
“You know what I am, dammit. It was in the letter.” Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears and a little too loud, bouncing off the ancient stone walls. Why had her mother been part of Filmore’s memories? Why had they been arguing over whether to hide in the west, north, or south? Willie stopped cold at the junction of two corridors. They looked exactly the same. In his memory, had Filmore gone left or right? Willie had looked away, searching for her mother. She’d even called out her name and in doing so had summoned a whirlwind of memories from another time. Futuristic images from the 1960s, from her mother’s past. Filmore’s past. Willie had seen them embrace. Had seen them plotting. She’d sensed a deep bond and a strong attraction on Filmore’s part. Had Michelle Goodenough had an affair with Jefferson Filmore? Had she been in league with the Houdinians? Had she lied to her family all those years regarding the destruction of the clockwork propulsion engine? If so, how else had she deceived them?
Simon grasped Willie’s elbow, startling her out of her musing. “What letter?” he asked in a tight voice.
She whirled, her facade forgotten as years of angst welled and spewed. “The letter I wrote explaining why I couldn’t come. The letter stained with my tears in which I begged you to understand, which apparently you did not. Because instead of meeting me a month later as I asked, you stayed away! Now can we just get the bloody rebel engine and get out of here?”
“Jesus. Mina? I thought it was you. I sensed . . . Dammit, I can’t see you.”
But she could see him perfectly. His handsome face contorted in confusion and anger. And she could see the bulk of a man slipping out through a crevice and aiming a weapon directly at Simon’s back.
“No!” Willie shoved Simon with all her might, knocking him aside just as something sharp and hot slammed into her shoulder, propelling her backward. The back of her head hit stone and she cried out, pain shooting through her skull and blossoming throughout her shoulder and chest.
“Shite!” Simon scrambled and covered her body with his own just as another shot ricocheted off the walls, inciting sparks and a noxious smell.
Loud voices echoed down the hall and Willie heard their attacker fleeing. “Some sort of gas,” she said in a weak voice. “Get out, Simon.”
“Not without you.”
“Can’t move. Can’t . . .” Her words trailed off as Simon scooped her off the floor and into his arms.
“Who goes there?” someone yelled. “Police!”
“What’s that smell?” another called out. “Look! Smoke!”
Willie coughed as plumes of noxious fog welled.
“Eyes tearing,” Simon choked out, “and I’m blind as a bat in this dark. Moving toward the voices—”
“No. No, coppers.” She spied a distant splash of light and pointed down a corridor. “That way. Turn left. Walk. Keep walking.”
“I see it.” He picked up speed, rushing toward a gust of cool air. Moving quickly toward the sliver of light.
“It’s a door,” Willie said, her vision fading, her voice weak. “Shove.”
“I see it, sweetheart. Hush.”
She felt him climbing steps and sucked in the fresh cold air even though it hurt like the devil to breathe. Her chest and head hurt and her eyes stung from the gas. Her corneatacts had been contaminated, making the throbbing worse.
Simon’s attention was riveted on the seemingly endless and steep stairwell.
Delirious with pain, Willie quickly removed the tinted lenses, letting them fall from her fingertips as she closed her eyes and dropped her head to Simon’s shoulder. Light exploded behind her closed lids as they breached the outdoors.
“St. Giles’,” he said. “We snaked around somehow. We’re at the cathedral.”
“Secret catacombs,” Willie managed.
She felt him opening her duster, heard him curse. “We need a doctor.”
“No doctor.”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Skytown.”
“What?”
“Get me to a skytown. Need special care.”
“Don’t be daft, Mina. There must be a hospital nearby.”
“Won’t treat my kind.” Barely conscious now, she looked up at Simon and for the first time in her life saw him in all his raw brilliance. “And if they do,” she whispered just before the brilliance faded to black, “they’ll botch it.”
• • •
It was as if his father had invented and gifted him with winged boots.
Simon fairly flew to the Squire’s Inn with the wounded Canary in his arms. A preposterous comparison, but he flashed back on the time his sister had brought home a hideously wounded falcon that had been shot from the sky. She’d believed their inventor father capable of anything and begged him to save the falcon. Indeed, Reginald Darcy had worked night and day and in tandem with a local veterinary to create and apply a false iron beak and talons to “Leo.” It had been a grand accomplishment, since the falcon had recovered and adjusted to his prosthetic attachments with astonishing skill. Yet no one, except Jules, Simon, and Amelia, who’d adopted Leo as her faithful companion, had applauded the miracle. Reginald Darcy had never been one to brag, and the world, including the woman in Simon’s
arms and the newspaper she worked for, had seemed determined to focus on the eccentric man’s failures.
As someone who’d suffered his own recent public humiliation, Simon marveled that his father had continually weathered the snub with such grace. Like Amelia, Simon had believed the best in Reginald Darcy, and were the man still alive, Simon would be tempted to enlist his advice concerning the injured and endangered Wilhelmina Goodenough. Instead Simon would have to rely upon his own wits as well as his brother’s resources.
Cradling Willie tight in his arms, Simon breezed past the scowling innkeeper. He ascended the stairwell and bypassed Willie’s room in favor of his own. He laid her upon his bed and proceeded to peel away the layers. Scarves, duster, sack coat, waistcoat. Blimey. Her white shirt was soaked through with crimson blood. Damn! He cursed his shaking hands as he gently peeled away the ruined fabric. Briefly he noted her bound breasts and the milky white skin of her stomach, three shades lighter than the ruddy complexion of her face and hands. For the moment, Simon concentrated on the messy wound. He grabbed one of his clean shirts—Fletcher had packed an abundance—and soaked it with water, washing away the blood to examine the severity of the wound. It did not look to be a bullet hole; rather, a goodly portion of her shoulder looked ravaged by several searing and deep cuts. He’d never seen anything like it. Shredding another shirt, Simon devised a compress and bandage. Thank God she was unconscious. He imagined the injury hurt like hell. An injury she’d sustained by shoving Simon from harm’s way.
His gut twisted with guilt as he fumbled for the communications device Jules had given him in case of an emergency. The tele-talkie felt like a block of ice in his clammy palm. Perhaps he should have left it in his room instead of carrying it about in the wintry cold. Praying it worked, he thumbed the appropriate button and moved across the small room, whilst composing his thoughts. Since the device operated on limited energy, he was especially cognizant of time.