Dawn's Early Light (4 page)

Eliza shrugged. “Everyone needs a signature style, I suppose.”

As they walked farther in, she noticed a slight girl seated at a table at the rear of the pub. It was not just her purple petticoats and stripes that made her stand out, but also her tidiness, etiquette, and carriage. Eliza hated stripes—though they were all the fashion. Their contact also had a pair of sun spectacles balanced on the tip of her nose. Eliza could only surmise that was her notion of blending in.

“I think we found our contact,” Eliza whispered to Wellington.

She made to walk to the table when the archivist caught her arm. “We are supposed to meet at the bar,” he hissed.

He wasn't serious. Was he?

It's like dealing with a child,
Eliza thought, but she knew she had to pick and choose her battles. She forced a tight grin as she followed Wellington to the bar. He leaned against its weathered wood and motioned for the publican. The barkeep appeared, and his brow knotted as he looked the new arrivals over.

Eliza realised that they stood out nearly as much as the woman in purple.

“Sir, a whiskey, if you please,” Wellington ordered in a tone far too loud and purposeful.

“Welly,” Eliza whispered tersely, “perhaps you should just order a beer? Same effect.” She cast a wary glance at the woman who was trying, but failing, to blend in with her surroundings. So far she had pushed her sun spectacles up to the bridge of her nose, smoothed out her skirts, and then looked at the two of them, placing a hand upon her chest, as if noticing them for the first time.

Bloody hell,
Eliza thought, burying her face in her hand.
It's Amateur Night at the Alhambra.

Through his clenched teeth, he replied, “All part of protocol. Just play along.” The shot glass was placed in front of him, which immediately went up in the air as Wellington toasted those assembled. “God save the Queen,” he proclaimed, “and God bless America.”

The amber dram disappeared from its glass, and Eliza crossed her arms in front of her as Wellington struggled for air. His free hand caught the bar as the other gripped the shot glass tightly.
How,
she marvelled,
could this man have been such a master of deception during their time with the Phoenix Society and yet here be about as convincing as a street urchin running for a seat in Parliament?

“Not quite the quality you're used to?” Eliza asked sweetly.

Wellington coughed in reply. At least he was still breathing—and standing.

The waif had now gathered up enough courage and was standing before them. She looked between Eliza and Wellington quickly and then leaned forwards. “At midnight, the lion roars.”

Oh for God's sake.
Eliza found herself frozen in disgust.

“But at dawn,” her partner wheezed, his voice creeping back to its normal baritone, “the eagle's cry will be heard.”

“Subtle,” Eliza stated wryly.

She thrust out a gloved hand, shaking theirs in an enthusiastic greeting. “Felicity Lovelace. Welcome to the United States of America. Would you care for something to drink?”

“Another whiskey, Wellington?” Eliza asked with a sly grin.

“I think not,” he answered quickly. “Perhaps something less . . .”

“Potent?”

“Volatile.”

“I've read your particulars, Miss Braun,” Felicity returned quickly, and then spoke in what sounded like a baited breath. “A white wine for the gentleman, a beer for the lady, and I'll have another . . .” She paused. “Well, I'll have another.”

“Right then,” the barkeep said, looking at the three of them. “Wine, beer.” And his eyes twinkled a bit as he said, “And a Coca-Cola.”

Eliza and Wellington looked at Felicity askance. “It helps calm my nerves,” she said with a shrug, her speech getting a little faster the more she spoke.

Calm her nerves?
Then it dawned on her when the beer reached her hands.
Ye gods, you must be joking.
“This is your first assignment, isn't it?”

“No, actually, this is my tenth,” the American returned, but the tremble in her posture hardly reassured Eliza. When the woman's bubbling tonic arrived, she took a long sip from it before adding, “I'm not necessarily
in the field
is all. I'm usually working on logistics, but this time the director agreed to let me accompany my partner.”

“I see.” Eliza smiled, nodding slowly. “Doctor Sound did say we were working with our counterparts. You're the archivist then?”

“Librarian,” Felicity corrected.

“There's a difference,” Wellington contributed, “if you'd care—”

Eliza's eyebrows raised slightly, and he stopped mid-sentence. He was learning. “So,” the New Zealander continued sweetly, “why exactly have you reached out to the British Empire for help, Miss Lovelace?”

“Please, call me Felicity—everyone does.”

Eliza raised her beer at her. “Eliza.” She motioned to Wellington. “Welly.”

“Wellington,” he muttered, taking a sip of his wine. “This joint operation is hardly a new venture. If memory serves, your agents have worked alongside ours before, yes?”

“Before my time, and in light of that mission, there was some opposition in reaching out to you for help.”

Eliza crooked an eyebrow. “Some?”

“All right,” Felicity said, her fingers tapping rapidly against her glass, “there was a good amount of opposition, but I knew you had something we lack.” She looked at them for a moment, and then said bluntly, “Experience. OSM is still a relatively new department.”

Eliza darted a quick look at Wellington. It looked like admitting that was hard, but there it was. America was a country still on the mend, yet this was a proud nation preferring to handle its own affairs alone.

“What's the game then?” Eliza asked.

Their counterpart went for her coat pocket, but froze at the sound of the tavern door being flung open.

Under a wide-brimmed Stetson, a man who was in desperate need of a shave surveyed the Artifice Club. His gaze was cold, hard, and sized up everyone in the pub in an instant. He was broad shouldered and trim, the kind of build that would have given Campbell a moment's pause before engaging in fisticuffs. This newcomer almost faded into the intermittent shadows, dressed in dark colours of denim and leather. When he turned to where they sat, his mouth bent into a wry grin. It made his face shift from stern to quite handsome. He pushed back the brim of his hat and gave Felicity a nod.

“Thank goodness we're working covertly,” Felicity said, shaking her head ruefully. “Otherwise, he would stand out.”

Eliza got to her feet, feeling an equal smile form on her face. “I don't think a man like that could possibly do anything but stand out.” She felt, rather than saw, Wellington stiffen at her side.

She took her time walking around the table, closing the distance between them in long, slow strides. Eliza stopped just as the hem of her dress brushed the newcomer's soiled, worn pants, and looked up at him. He hooked his thumbs in his belt, took in Eliza from head to toe, and nodded while his lips widened to show a smile that threatened to catch her breath and claim it for his own. Clearly, this cowboy liked what he saw.

Good for him,
she thought.

That was when Eliza's right hook sent him sprawling to the floor.

“B
een a while, hasn't it, mate?”

She could hear Wellington and Felicity scrambling out of their chairs, but her eyes remained fixed to the man on the floor. True, there had been a time when having this ruggedly handsome man at her feet would have been quite satisfactory, in an entirely different situation.

“Do we know each other,” the man said with a slight laugh while rubbing his jaw, “or is this how you all in jolly ol' England say ‘Howdy'?”

“Ninety-three. San Francisco,” she hissed leaning over him.

His brow furrowed momentarily, but then his eyes sparkled. He managed a throaty laugh.

“The Rum Runner,” he said. “I remember now—that was a good time.”

“My partner and I were nearly killed in that brawl!” Eliza was abruptly aware that her hands were once more balled into tight fists. She could feel the urge to clock him again swell. “And for the life of us, we couldn't figure out why you set those thugs on us.”

“I needed an exit, and you two seemed like you could handle yourselves.” He looked her over as if she were a prize side of beef hanging in a butcher's window. “You're still looking like a nice filly ready to ride.”

“I was in hospital—an
American
hospital—for a week.” She shook her head. “Bloody chamber of horrors, that was!”

“Good Lord, Eliza!” Wellington looked between the fallen American and her. “Are you looking to start another war between the Empire and the United States?”

“We whipped your ass once before,” the American grumbled, now sitting up. “We can do it again.”

“Says the man on the floor following one punch,” Eliza bit back.

“I would prefer there be no more arse-whipping, if you please.” Wellington actually stood between them, and reminded her, “We are here as a professional courtesy.”

“You're here because our boss wanted to put on a dog-and-pony show for those Capitol Hill types,” the American cowboy retorted.

“Oh for Pete's sake, Bill,” Felicity chimed in, her sharp tone making all three of them start, “would you please shut up.”

“She hit me first!” Bill protested like a child caught at playground hijinks.

“You probably had it coming,” Felicity replied with a tilt of her head. Bill went to protest but the librarian held up a single finger. Apparently, that was enough to keep him quiet. “Mr. Books, Miss Braun, this is my partner, William Wheatley.”

Eliza blinked. “William Wheatley?
Wild Bill
Wheatley? Is your
partner
?”

He tipped his hat to her. “Nice to know my name gets around even in Her Majesty's Empire.”

“Can I hit him again, Welly?”

“No!” Wellington snapped. “For goodness' sake, what can you possibly have against Wheatley here?”

It was going to be embarrassing to bring up, but she was forced to now. Eliza glared at the grinning American. “Wellington, I cannot begin to run down some of the diplomatic disasters this wanker has left behind for my previous partner, Harry, and I to clean up. Ontario. The Bahamas. Newfoundland. We could always tell when ‘Wild Bill' had been in town. I mean, what kind of secret agent runs into an objective and chooses to blow it to kingdom come when leaving? Hardly
secret
operations.”

“Yes,” Wellington said evenly. “Hardly.”

Eliza held a gaze with her partner for a moment before returning it to the still-smiling cowboy. “But Harry and I officially ‘met' Bill here when returning from an assignment in Hong Kong. We found ourselves making a stop in San Francisco for a few hours, so we popped into the pub closest to the aeroport for a celebratory drink.”

“And that would be the Rum Runner?” Wellington asked.

“Before we finished the first round,” she continued, “a group of ruffians surrounded our table
and it is all this git's fault
.”

“Yeah, not one of my best days with the Office,” William began. “My cover had been blown . . .”

“Really?” Eliza interjected. “First time in the field with your ‘big boy' guns, then?”

Bill's eyes darkened. “Look, that contact of mine had been a reliable one . . .”

“Except for that one time,” Felicity sang softly.

“I was outbid. Found myself in a bad situation. Those varmints knew I had a meeting at the Rum Runner. So once the fire got hot under the skillet I looked for people that could pass for associates.”

Eliza was having none of his smooth talk. “So you chose the British gent, immaculate haircut, stylish bowler, and with his fair lady on one arm.”

“Exactly.”

Eliza remained flummoxed by his complete lack of logic. “I
am
going to hit him again!” she declared.

The American threw his hands up. “I'm just going to stay down here then til you get over that!”

“Eliza!” Wellington implored.

“Honestly, your other tell was the dress you were wearing.” Bill ruffled his dark hair. “Now I've known me a fine lady or three, but none that wore skirts with folds like yours. The way the fabric was layered didn't look right.”

“The way the fabric was layered?” Wellington asked, blinking incredulously.

Bill rested his arms on his knees and looked up to Wellington. “Partner, if'n you want to charm the ladies, it doesn't hurt to know a thing or two about the latest fashion and what the phillies are wearin'.”

Eliza pursed her lips. “So you knew I had access to a pair of garter pistols? Really, you expect me to believe that?”

“You didn't look like no dockside whore, so I took an educated guess.” He then looked around at everyone from where he sat. “So, can I get up now?”

“Of course,” Wellington said, reaching down to him.

The man bent down to pick up his hat, keeping his own intent stare on Eliza as he dusted it off.

“Partnered with ‘Wild Bill' Wheatley.” She sniffed, returning his gaze. “Thank God my corset's been reinforced.”

“Sounds like you got a problem with the American way of doing things,” Bill snapped. “I do what I do, and get results. I'm thorough.”

“Is that what you call it? Thorough?” Eliza began, planting her hands on her hips, knowing full well she was perilously close to looking like a fishwife.

“I hate to interrupt this—I believe you would call it in the Americas—Mexican standoff, but if I recall, Miss Lovelace was about to brief us on why we have been called here.” Wellington gave a nod to Bill. “Mr. Pot.” He then turned to Eliza. “Miss Kettle. Follow me, if you please?”

“Your partner there,” the American spoke right by her ear, “he's not quite right, is he?”

Eliza answered, but kept her eyes on Wellington. “In many ways, but he grows on you.”

“Nice punch there, Braun,” the American mumbled.

“Thank you,” she said, dropping him a little curtsey. “I have been working on it since San Francisco.”

He shot her a rueful glance and then swept a quite passable bow. “Then shall we join our partners, before they get restless?”

“Yes, let's.” She led the way to the table, where they both took seats with far less tension than on their initial meeting. The barkeep had already refreshed their drinks and even included a freshly pulled beer for Bill. Felicity was casting her eyes wildly from bartender to patron as her fingers nervously tapped a large envelope.

“Felicity, come on now, these boys don't really care about our business. Unless we got leads to a fishing spot or a sunken ironclad, we are just having drinks and looking at a map of the beach.” Bill took up the beer and winked. “I know this place.”

“As well as you knew that contact in San Francisco?” Felicity asked, her eyebrow arching slightly. Bill paused just as his beer was about to reach his lips, but she merely shrugged. “It's worth asking.”

“Just educate them, darlin',” he replied, before taking a long sip, “'cause that is what you do.”

Felicity pursed her lips for a moment before opening the envelope. She spread out a map of the United States' eastern seaboard before them, and tapped upon the state directly underneath Virginia. “Just south of us is a small strip of land connected to North Carolina that is comprised of several townships—Currituck, Nags Head, Kitty Hawk, Hatteras, Ocracoke, and so on. Collectively, this area is referred to as the Outer Banks.”

“And if memory serves, this area,” Wellington said, running his fingers along a stretch of ocean off the North Carolina coast, “carries the charming moniker of Graveyard of the Atlantic. Well over five hundred wrecks within these waters, yes?”

She looked up from the map in surprise. “You know about the Outer Banks?”

“I know that rather treacherous currents and particularly shallow sandbars have given this stretch of the Atlantic a rather dubious reputation.” Wellington tilted his head. “I also carefully read your rather thorough case summary.”

“You thought it was thorough?” Felicity asked, her cheeks reddening the longer she considered Wellington. “I did spend quite a bit of time on it.” Clearing her throat, she produced from an envelope a section of transparent cellulose with a variety of markings on it. A continuous line matched the jagged coastline of Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina. The overlay now displayed a variety of small boat-shaped marks dotting the area Wellington had indicated as the Graveyard of the Atlantic. “These are known shipwrecks of the past twenty years. Green signifies wrecks from 1875 to 1890. The yellow are markers from '90 to '95.” Felicity overlaid another piece of film over the first. “This is the activity grabbing our attention.”

These red marks were hardly the same number as the green and blue. What did intrigue Eliza was this concentration of shipwrecks seemed focused along three inland markers.

“Miss Lovelace, are these markers,” Wellington said, following them along the coast with a single finger, “Cape Henry, Currituck, and Bodie Island?”

“Yes, all these lighthouses have recently passed inspection so we know they are in full working order.”

“So how many years of shipwrecks are we looking at here, Felicity?” Eliza asked, passing a hand over the collection of red markers. “The past year? Past two years?”

“Not shipwrecks. Disappearances.” Felicity swallowed. “Just in the past
month
.”

“It gets worse,” Bill replied. “Look closer at the markers.”

Eliza and Wellington leaned in and noticed that of the twenty markers, five of them were marked as circles, not boats.

“Airships,” Felicity spoke, her tone grim. “That began happening two weeks ago.”

Wellington's fingertips traced the line of red markers. “You're saying these vessels have all disappeared?”

“If'n these ships did wreck, nothing—I mean nothing—ever made it to shore.” All eyes turned to Bill. “No corpses. No wreckage. It's as if the Atlantic just opened up and swallowed 'em whole.”

“Have you taken a closer look down there?” Eliza offered.

“With what?” Bill scoffed. “One of them fancy submarine things?”

Wellington's brow furrowed. “You mean, your organisation does not have access to one?”

Felicity and Bill cast a glance at each other.

“I'm just gonna sit here and drink my beer,” he grumbled.

“There are plenty of warning indicators along our coast, and the reputation of the Graveyard is secondhand knowledge to ship captains,” Felicity assured them both. “But why airships are disappearing we cannot make heads or tails of.”

Eliza followed the line of recent calamities, her index and pinkie finger measuring the distance between the two of them. “This looks to be about an area of roughly seventy miles. From this area of Virginia stretching to”—Eliza leaned in and read—“Kill Devil Hills. What a charming name!”

“While waiting for you two, Felicity and I have been watching the area like hawks on the hunt. So far, nothin' but boats and ships comin' in and out like clockwork. No missed schedules.”

Felicity gave a nod as she folded up the map and placed it along with her overlays back into their envelope. “Bill's plan was to start here and follow the trail of disappearances.”

“Just a moment,” Eliza spoke up, her brow furrowing, “this seems like a simple matter of investigation. You're calling on us for experience? What sort of experience do you need?”

“Told you we didn't need 'em,” Bill said, finishing off what little remained of his beer.

“Well, yes, this is a matter of investigation, but my own concern is that we lack experience concerning
æthergate
travel. That technology from Atlantis that you all commandeered from a nefarious organisation called the House of Usher could be behind these disappearances.” Even in light of Wellington's reaction, Felicity shrugged. “Then there is the matter of the Janus Affair.”