Dawn's Early Light (30 page)

“Ten,” Edison counted, “nine . . . eight . . .”

And I was just getting the hang of this,
Wellington thought sadly.

Eliza's eyes softened, and the touch of her skin against his cheek made him shudder. “Wellington . . .”

So this was how it was going to end? Fine.

He pulled her close and kissed her, his embrace tightening with every second that Edison counted down. She moaned softly, and that was what he wanted to hear. Not Edison's blasted voice counting down the final seconds of life. He wanted Eliza to know what he hadn't the time to tell her. He wanted to grant her just a touch of pleasure, a final passion before shuffling off this mortal coil.

And he would, with this final kiss, this final embrace.

Her fingers raking through his hair felt exquisite. Her lips were soft, warm. Her kiss tasted sweet, and he caught the whiff of roses and tea in her skin. She was not close enough. He wished to see her naked; and he along with her, intertwined like ivy, losing sense of time and space, descending deeper into their . . .

Hold on.

Wellington pulled away, drawing in a deep breath. From the bomb there came a soft, steady hiss. The hiss wasn't from the bomb but from the phonograph that had, as far as he could tell, finished its countdown. Several seconds ago. His eyes jumped back to Eliza, who was still standing there, her lips parted slightly and bending into a very contented smile. When her eyes flicked open, she looked around, trying to gather herself.

“Well, very good then,” Eliza said, stumbling back a step as she touched her hair to make certain it was still secure and in place. “Most impressive, Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire.” Her eyes fluttered, and then she brought a hand to her chest that, try as she might, would not stop heaving. “I say, old chap, what do you use to practise kissing? I remember in my youth my friends and I using a broom—”

“Eliza,” Wellington said, pleased he still had a voice with which to speak, “what—” and then he motioned to the bomb, “what—?”

“Oh yes, the bomb.” Eliza's smile widened, and she motioned to the Jack Frost, a faint wisp of frost reaching up from its muzzle. “I froze the detonator's battery, essentially crippling the bomb.”

“And you did this—”

“I actually took care of this while you were breaking down the door.” She took in another deep breath, her eyelids fluttering as she said, “So, now that we've cleared the air, shall we go?”

Eliza took up the Jack Frost and handed it to Wellington as she passed by him. He watched her leave, and then looked over at the bomb that was smoking ever so slightly.
No,
he thought,
the vapour isn't rising. It's heavier than air. Perhaps . . .
And then he lifted the Jack Frost up to his eyes. The vial he was told not to break was nearly empty.
Liquid nitrogen perhaps, or the other breakthrough of Olszewski's that he knew more intimately . . .

“Coming, Welly?” called a voice at the bottom of the steps.

With a nod to no one in particular, Wellington holstered the exciter and proceeded downstairs to where Eliza awaited him.

“Do we exit from the front or back?” he managed to ask without bursting into a fury.

“Wellington,” Eliza spoke gently, and he knew in her tone that whatever she would say to him presently, he was not going to like it. “Thank you. I know what you said up there was not easy.”

“Not easy?” Wellington shook his head. “Front, it shall be then.” He walked by her and spoke over his shoulder. “Miss Braun, obtaining the girdle of Queen Hippolyta, retrieving the Holy Grail, or perhaps—”

“Stealing Thor's hammer?” she offered.

“—would all have been far easier for me than what happened upstairs, if you must know.” He stopped at the door and turned to face her. “And before you ask—Case 18740614NOHT. The bloody hammer weighs a ton.”

Eliza blinked. “Really? I'd love to read that file . . .”

Wellington felt his jaw twitch. This was not how he had envisioned professing his true intentions for Eliza to be. Not in the Americas. Certainly not on assignment. He screwed his eyes shut and counted silently to himself. “Please, Eliza . . .”

“No, really, Wellington,” she said gently, “I understand, and yes, perhaps my timing was . . .” Her words trailed off.

“Terrible?” Wellington asked.

“Awkward?”

“Inappropriate?” he ventured.

She shrugged. “All right, I will grant you that one.”

He nodded, opening the door. “Well, let's see what other surprises await us out of doors.”

Wellington turned, and stood eye level with a pair of pistol barrels. Smith & Wesson Revolver, .38 Calibre. The dark metal still managed to gleam in the sunlight, showing a good deal of maintenance and—without mistake—love. He dared not move, even when Eliza brandished her own Derringer and drew as clean a shot as she could from behind him. Wellington felt his brow crease as he contemplated what dumbstruck him harder—the two pistols only scant inches away from him, or the fact that their owner was a priest.

“Wellington Thornhill Books,” the woman spoke coolly. “You are one hard man to catch up with.”

E
liza now knew beyond any doubt that if she were given the choice between America and Australia to establish residence, she would choose Australia. Americans were mad. All of them. It was the only rational explanation for the tableau now before her.

On the other side of Wellington was a priest—at present, denomination unknown. This priest, however, brandished a pair of .38 Smith & Wesson pistols, pointed at the forehead of her partner, Wellington Thornhill Books. The metal was a polished black and the visible handle of the firearm was a lovely, dark wood. These were exquisite firearms, to be sure. They were sidearms she would proudly add to her private arsenal, second only to her own pounamu pistols. Eliza would have appreciated these pieces far more if they were in her own hands instead of in the hands of a priest who apparently knew Wellington. At least by sight.

As for herself, she was not fully prepared for this outing. Her own signature sidearms were stowed safely back at the hotel where their American counterparts agreed to meet them later in the afternoon. They were on their own, and as Wellington had only the Jack Frost on him, this meant she had three shots from her Remington-Elliot for this standoff. Three bullets, and Wellington Books presently in the line of fire.

As the priest reminded her. “You have three, my child. I have six. You look like an educated sort.” Her eyes shifted back to Wellington. “Do the math.”

“Wellington . . .”

Her urging went unanswered. “Eliza, I have a better vantage point here, and I can assure you, with her vestment robes, I have no clue if there is another weapon under there. I am also getting a good look into this woman's eyes. Quite frankly, I could very well find a bullet in my brain if I so much as flare my nostrils impolitely.”

“I really don't want to make this already awkward setting worse, but I have the strictest orders for you to come back with me alive, no exceptions.” One pistol retracted back into her robes while the remaining one pressed into Wellington's arm. “That means I can apply my grasp of anatomy and physics to make sure my bullet goes through you in order to get to her. You'll be bandaged, but still alive when I hand you over.”

Eliza's grip tightened on her pistol. “What kind of a priest are you?”

“Episcopal,” she replied. “God works in mysterious ways, especially when it comes to the sciences. We get that.”

She placed her own elbow on Wellington's shoulder, steadying her aim on the priest. “Even if your Smith and Wesson goes through his arm like a hot knife through warm butter, what makes you think I couldn't squeeze off at least one round before hitting the ground?”

The priest gave Eliza a cocked grin. “Do you really think you're going to be able to hit me when my shot sends you down the hallway?”

“While you ladies argue the finer points in outbluffing one another,” Wellington quipped, “might I remind you both that I'm standing right bloody here?”

The priest crooked an eyebrow. “So much for manners.”

“Promise me you will not harm her,” he spoke quickly, “and I will go with you. Without argument.”

Eliza did not take her eyes off the priest, but oh did she want to. “Wellington, what the hell are you doing?”

“Negotiating, Miss Braun, with an Episcopal priest armed with a Smith & Wesson .38 calibre pistol, or are you not paying attention?” Wellington licked his lips and said, “And would you be so kind as to give me five minutes with my partner here?”

“Look,” the priest began, “my business does not take into consideration tearful good-byes. We got places to be.”

“I just need a moment.” Wellington then tipped his head and said pointedly, “Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil.”

The priest's eyes widened, but her mouth bent into a pronounced frown. She then stepped back a half step, her gun still pointing at him. “I'm giving you two minutes.” The priest held up a finger to each of them. “Right here. In the doorway.”

Wellington tipped his hat. “Thank you.”

“Step out of the way, Welling—”

His hands had slipped around Eliza's wrists and brought the Derringer up and away from the priest. She felt her trigger finger squeeze, but it only felt air now. Her partner of many secret skills had effectively and effortlessly disarmed her.

“I have two minutes,” he said, handing the small pistol back to her, handle first. “I intend to make the most of it.”

“What are you doing?”

“This woman is hardly a master assassin or we would be dead, now wouldn't we?” he asked. “If she is taking me alive, whom do you think she serves?”

Eliza gave him a shove. “Come off it, Wellington, this is not proper procedure.”

“No, it isn't, but it is buying you time.” Wellington glanced over his shoulder and then turned back to her. “Eliza, I just confessed my heart's desire to you, and part of that desire was to assure that no harm befell upon you. This woman is exactly what I speak of.”

“One minute,” the priest spoke.

“You will make sure you stop him. Stop Edison from reaching San Francisco at all costs. What he is planning cannot bode well.”

Whatever was he on about? “San Francisco?”

“Just promise me that you will do this and then, when you find a moment,” he said, smiling quite sincerely, “come fetch me.”

“Wellington—”

His lips were on her again. Second time in one day, in rather close proximity of the previous engagement, and Eliza found she preferred it to the waiting she had done earlier. She wanted Wellington to say something clever or perhaps slip her a clue as to where he suspected the House of Usher was whisking him off to, but he had said to her that Edison was heading to San Francisco. How did he know this?

When he parted from her, his eyes danced with the bits of light coming from outside. She got a good, long look at his eyes. She wasn't committing them to memory. She would see them again. Hazel was a colour that truly suited him, suited his nature—ever changing, chaotic, and yet sincere and reliable.

“You ready to go?” the priest asked. “The minute was up a few seconds ago.”

“Coming to your rescue is threatening to become a habit,” Eliza said. “Are you ready?”

“I am,” he spoke, loud enough for both of them to hear.

Wellington straightened up to his full height, gave his vest a slight tug, and adjusted his bowler. “I will lead. Shall I? Train depot.”

The priest lowered her pistol, concealing it in her robes. “If you make a scene, I'll put you down, you hear me?”

“You don't want her. You want her masters,” Wellington reminded Eliza. “Remember that.”

Why, oh why, did Wellington have to be right? “The mission first, then I come find you.”

“Let's go,” the priest said, slapping a hand on Wellington's shoulder and guiding him down from the stoop of the Edison Illuminating Company.

Eliza followed them out, determined to watch them for as long as possible. Wellington's logic was sound—the mission had to come first. If she found him in Antarctica, there was no place on God's Earth the House of Usher could hide him from her. Eliza would find him again, but every hour—every moment—away from him was an advantage for the secret society. There was also the possibility that Doctor Sound would sequester her from any kind of rescue mission and carry out with another agent his original orders to eliminate Wellington Thornhill Books on sight.

The mission had to come first, though. He was right in that. Regardless of the House of Usher making this personal, the mission—apparently now taking her to San Francisco—had to come first. Then, once the job was done, she could take a leave of absence, starting straightaway.

Dammit, she should have risked the shot. Eliza should have worked harder to get the priest inside the building. Once in here she could have figured out how to distract her, how to disarm her, or how to turn Wellington's disadvantage into a strength.

Perhaps the madness of America was rubbing off on her. She needed to get home.

Home suddenly flew from her thoughts as a board creaked from behind her. She turned around to be face-to-face with the man sneaking up behind her, the garrotte constricting around her neck as he pulled his crossed fists in opposite directions. Her head reeled in a queer sensation, as she could not draw a breath, could not scream. She could feel her own hands on the man's wrists, but it took all of her strength just to do that. Eliza should have been able to kick at the very least. Something was turning her feet into lead weights. What was happening to her?

I'm dying. Slowly,
she assured herself when she tightened her grip on the killer's wrists,
but I am dying.

The harder she tried to take a breath, the more her head swam. His face was blurring now, and she could hear his grunts and her own pathetic whimpers, and she had a vice grip on his wrists. She knew where the man's crotch was. Why didn't she kick? Why couldn't she kick?

The stinging in her neck was finally subsiding. At least that was some cold comfort.

Coming to your rescue is threatening to become a habit,
she had said to him.
Are you ready?

I am,
he had replied. Wellington had shown such bravery. He was ready to face his fate, sacrificing himself for Queen and Country. For her. Such courage. Such . . .

Eliza pulled against the man's wrists, and when her head drove into the man's nose, she felt something give.

That wasn't good enough. Not for her. Which is why she did it again.

He let go, and Eliza felt the floor. She pulled the rope free of her neck, coughing and wheezing as she did. Eliza was also finding her balance again, shaking her head as she brought herself back to her feet. Whoever this cad was, he was kneeling away from her, trying to fix his nose as best as he could. Eliza buried her hand into the man's scraggly hair and drove his face into the closest wall, smearing it with a streak of fresh blood. If there were any teeth in her human brush stroke, she didn't bother to look. When she released him, he collapsed in front of her on the floor.

There was his crotch.

Her kick sat him bolt upright and that was when she delivered a sidekick to his blood-covered face.

Eliza took a few more deep breaths, watching the man for a moment, noting the right foot twitching slightly. That being the only movement on his person, she looked over his clothes.

When she flipped the lapel, the badge caught sunlight.

He had been keeping watch from the lower right window on the first floor. She recognised the blue bandanna wrapped around his wrist. Her eyes narrowed on the Pinkerton shield before tossing the lapel aside and relieving the man of his pistol. A fully loaded cylinder. Good omen.

With one deeper draw of the dry desert air, Eliza stormed out of Edison's workshop, fumbling for her sun specs.

Her strides were wide as she made her way down the centre of Flagstaff. A cart and rider saw her from a distance and wisely veered out of her way as her gaze jumped from her right to her left. They could not have gotten far.

Two buildings ahead of her she saw them. Eliza lowered the ocular magnifiers still attached to her sun specs, bringing them both closer to her. Wellington's second shadow, the priest, walked barely two paces behind him, a Holy Bible in her grasp covering her mid-section. No one could get between them, barring any break for freedom Wellington could make. Eliza focused on the Bible. It was bowed slightly. A weapon of some kind had to be behind that book.

Now how could she convince the priest that she, Eliza Braun, was
not
the problem.

She now looked ahead of them, then across the street, the distant windows and rooftops jostling back and forth alarmingly close in one eye. A dizziness threatened to knock her off balance, but she focused, the dry warmth of the Arizona Territories reminding her of where she was, what her priority was. One for her, so there had to be someone for Wellington. There had to be. Her eyes went to the higher windows of surrounding buildings and rooftops.

And there he was. One building down, from a rooftop vantage point, a marksman was lining up his shot.

Then came the shot. Apparently, the sniper had his target.

Wellington toppled back into the priest. They hit the ground as people around them screamed, and another bullet shattered a window where Wellington and the priest had once stood. Couples walking in their direction now ran in the opposite one. A mother walking with her children behind the priest scooped up her crying daughter and shielded her in a crouch before the storefront.

“Move for the alley!” Eliza shouted to the priest as she grabbed hold of Wellington's limp arm. Ye gods, he weighed far more than she'd realised. “We have to get to cover. Now!”