Infinity Bell: A House Immortal Novel (17 page)

“I cheated.” Welton shrugged. “I watched you while you researched. Paid moderate attention to the texts you were going through.”

“I took no notes,” Quinten said. “I never take notes for just this reason.”

“I might have also analyzed your eye movements, body temperatures, pulse rates.” Welton pulled his fingers back through his hair, and it slipped back into place like a silk curtain. “Recorded the pages you read,
acquired said pages, went through them myself, paying attention to the pages you reacted to. I didn’t say it was easy, but, then . . . I do like a good puzzle.”

“From that you extrapolated I was looking for the mending point in time?” Quinten asked.

“No. From that I extrapolated you were trying to isolate
a
point in time. So, this does have something to do with the Wings of Mercury experiment?”

“You’ve been watching me for years, haven’t you?” Quinten asked.

“I do admit you’re a very interesting person, Mr. Case,” Welton said. “Your meteoric rise to the head of House Brown—”

“I’m not the head. House Brown has no official leader.”

“But if they had one person they all looked to in times of trouble, it was you, and your remarkable sister, wouldn’t you say?”

Quinten just nodded.

“I wasn’t the only head of House who was interested in your family. Certainly Reeves Silver had his thumb on you and people in place to watch your moves.” He gave Neds a look.

“They know,” Right Ned said. “But I’m not working for him anymore.”

“I know. He is very unhappy about that.”

“Don’t it just break my heart?” Left Ned drawled.

“How much do you know about the Wings of Mercury?” Quinten asked. “Any detail may help.”

“Rumors, stories, theories? Plenty.” Welton sighed. “Hard data? There is very little of that to be found. But
I assume you have your grandmother’s journal stashed away somewhere?”

Quinten shook his head. “It was taken with our father’s research.” He said it in such a way that anyone else might not notice how he clipped off the rest of the facts behind that event. That our parents had been killed, their research stolen. That it had been done by the heads of House Black, Defense, and House White, Medical.

“You know which Houses were behind that, don’t you?” Welton asked.

Quinten just spread his hand in a motion for Welton to tell him.

“The vehicles and people were wearing black and white,” Welton said. “Since your father worked for House White for many years, I never questioned that House Medical would bring House Defense with them to gather research they must have considered theirs to own.

“But Medical doesn’t usually resort to killing people to shut them up. Kiana White prefers a much subtler approach and liked to keep sharp scientists in House, or at least owing to her House. It didn’t make sense that she would have your father and mother killed.

“I was curious,” Welton said, “so I looked into it.”

“You’re always curious, Welly,” Abraham said, finally sitting in a chair next to me, his gaze fixed on the news feed rolling across the wall.

“What did you find?” I asked.

“Several levels of boring backstabbings and substandard bribes,” Welton said. “But the interesting bit is, the order to take out your father and mother came from
House Silver and was challenged by House Orange. Reeves Silver wanted your parents dead, possibly for no other reason than Slater Orange wanted them alive.”

“The vans were black,” I said.

“Colors are easy to wear, even if you don’t belong to that House,” Welton said, not unkindly.

I always knew that could be a possibility. I’d worn green or blue, or really any color I wanted, when out on the farm, where I knew no one would see me.

All these years I had thought it was House Black and House White that had killed my parents. And if Welton was right, it was actually House Silver.

Or, more specifically, Reeves Silver. The man who had made a deal with me to return my brother, but had also gotten my agreement to stand aside while he went through with his plans at the gathering. Plans I had not known would kill Oscar Gray.

“Are they still working together?” Right Ned asked.

“Who?” Welton asked.

“Reeves Silver and Slater-in-Robert Orange there.” Right Ned nodded toward the screen. “Did they both want Slater in a galvanized body? Did they both want Helen Eleventh to kill Oscar Gray? Were they both behind blaming Abraham for Slater’s murder?”

“Last part doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Unless Reeves Silver double-crossed Slater Orange by telling Helen Eleventh to shoot Oscar. Since Slater is now in a galvanized body, it was possible he would be thrown in prison with the rest of the galvanized.”

“Would he do that?” Gloria asked. “Is Reeves Silver the sort of man who would double-cross his partner in crime?”

“Yes,” both Welton and Abraham said.

“Swell,” I said.

“So, now that we are caught up on the current state of your imminent death or capture by the rest of the world,” Welton said. “What can you tell me about the Wings of Mercury event?”

“Well, for one thing,” Quinten said, “if we can’t get back to our farm in less than eight hours, Abraham, Matilda, and Foster will die. So will all the other galvanized.”

Welton went very still and silent. Gone was the catlike smugness, the lazy nonchalance, the humor.

“All the galvanized will die?” Welton asked softly. “No. That is an unacceptable outcome. We are not going to let that happen.”

“No,” Quinten said. “We are not. Although changing this fate won’t be easy.”

“Anything I have is yours,” Welton said.

“Good,” Quinten said. “Bring up a map of our farm. We need to find the fastest way to my equipment in the basement.”

Things have been quiet. Maybe there will be peace.

—from the diary of E. N. D.

“T
hat doesn’t look good.” I studied the frighteningly detailed view of the property I’d always thought was far enough off grid there weren’t images of it to be found outside of the original surveyor’s map.

It wasn’t the images of the farm that worried me. It was our property boundary, which was patrolled by at least fifty men—we were pretty sure they were Reeves Silver’s men—and the thirty or more guards who surrounded the house itself. Even more forces were on the ground, moving between the pastures and fields that held our stitched beasts.

I was surprised to see that the pony and Lizard appeared unharmed, though Lizard was shifting about in its enclosure like it hadn’t been fed in a while. A restless lizard the size of a barn was a dangerous lizard.

The other beasts were too small to see on the spy device Welton had pulled out of a briefcase. But I assumed
the cockatrice were holed up in the barn, and the tiny, land-jumping octopus leapers were either in the trees or content in their apple-filled pond.

We couldn’t get a good look inside the house because of those great scramblers we’d installed. I didn’t know if Grandma was alive or not. I didn’t know if she was tied up, shot, hurt. I didn’t know if Boston Sue was still in the House with her.

All of which just made me mad.

“Anyone up for grabbing all the guns we can carry and blasting our way in?” I asked.

Neds lifted their hands as if to volunteer, but Quinten just rolled his eyes at me.

We’d all taken the time to shower, and the place was well enough stocked, there was a change of serviceable clothing for everyone.

“Useful suggestions only, please, Matilda,” he said, scanning—for the hundredth time—through a list of supplies and tech we had at hand.

We’d been here for an hour. That meant we had seven left before our time ran out.

“We don’t have the manpower to take them out,” I said. “We don’t have the technology to take them out. We don’t have the resources to call them off or pull them away. I think driving straight at the problem and shooting at it until it’s done
is
a useful suggestion. Abraham, Foster, and I can take a few bullets.”

“No,” Welton and Quinten said at the same time. “You are more valuable to this mission conscious,” Quinten added. “Don’t so quickly put your life on the line.”

“I thought
quickly
was sort of at the heart of this matter.”

“It is,” Quinten said. “Just give us a few minutes more.”

That was Brother Code for “I’m going to work on this as long as I want, and you’re only getting in the way.”

Fine.
I needed to walk off some restless energy anyway.

I left Quinten and Welton and Neds in the living room. Gloria had said she was going to check the storeroom for better medical supplies, and I thought maybe Abraham had gone with her.

But I found Abraham and Foster in the kitchen, sitting quietly at the old-fashioned blue linoleum table, playing a game of cards.

It was an odd moment to come in on. Then again, this was far from the first battle either of them had fought. They’d originally been designed to be the ultimate fighters in wars, and had served that purpose many times. Taking over a small piece of land under impossible circumstances probably wasn’t the most dangerous mission they’d been sent on.

It occurred to me we were leaving the planning of the attack to the wrong people.

“Have they made a decision?” Abraham asked.

“No.” I walked around the small kitchen, dragging my fingertips across the counter, then leaned against one wall, my arms crossed. My wounds were feeling better, and I knew I was healing at an accelerated pace. But I wasn’t sure how much range I’d get out of my bad arm by morning.

“They will have to decide. Hopefully by sunrise,” Abraham said. “Knowing the two of them, they’ll work until the last minute. Maybe you should get some sleep.”

“I’m restless, not tired.”

He nodded, picked up a card, discarded. The two of
them were the vision of calm and patience, while I felt like ants were eating me from the inside out.

I’d checked on the data we’d dug out of Robert’s records so far, and Grandma’s journal hadn’t turned up yet. I didn’t want to admit I’d failed, but it had been a long shot anyway.

Just in case something did sort out of all that information, Welton had given me a wrist screen to wear. It was rigged to set off an alarm if by some miracle the data was uncovered.

“I suggested a direct approach to them,” I said.

“I heard. Quinten didn’t approve?”

“He hasn’t had a chance to cross every T and dot every I in the universe. I just want to . . . end this. Get my grandmother out of that house and out of danger, and get Quinten to the basement equipment he needs to try to fix the time thing so none of us die. But standing here, while minutes tick away . . . I’m not built for this kind of waiting.”

“Gin,” Foster said, laying down his cards.

Abraham smiled. “Are you sure Welton didn’t do something to your settings? Maybe a card-counting application or X-ray vision?”

Foster gave him the crooked smile. “You are bad at cards, Abraham. You always have been.”

Abraham just shuffled and dealt again.

“Don’t you think approaching right now, while it’s still dark, might be a better tactic?” I asked.

“Darkness won’t hide us,” Abraham said, spreading out the cards in his hand, then sorting them. “The men left behind to guard the property and your grandmother will have the equipment to look for us.”

Which brought my restless mind around to other thoughts. “No slight intended, Foster,” I said, “but you think Welton would turn us in? Maybe if it meant he could save you?”

“He is my friend,” Foster said. “A good young man.”

“Lots of good young men do the wrong thing when all hell’s coming down.”

Foster picked up a card from the deck and discarded.

Abraham picked that card up, slid it in with his cards, and discarded.

“Welton thinks of Foster as family,” Abraham said. “He was given into Foster’s care at a very early age.” Abraham glanced away from his cards to me. “At a very early age, Welton developed a problem with his lungs. He was sick for many years. Foster was his constant companion, refusing to serve the head of House Yellow in any other way than looking after Welton.”

Oh. They weren’t only friends; they were much closer than that. Foster and Welton were family without the blood bond.

“If we don’t stop the time event,” Abraham said, “Foster dies. So I’d say Welton is completely on our side.”

Finally, Foster spoke. “I told him it is my time. A long life. So many have died before me. The child will not listen.”

“Love clouds our eyes and fills our ears,” Abraham said. “There is no cure for it.”

“Yes,” Foster breathed. “Yes.”

It sounded like something quoted from a poem, or something they had said to each other over their long years together.

“Foster,” I asked. “Do you remember anything about
that day when the Wings of Mercury experiment happened?”

The two men continued with their game in silence. I thought maybe Foster was done talking. Conversation was hard for him, and, frankly, I was surprised he had been talking so much.

“It was raining,” Foster said haltingly. “Cold. Dark. I was at their graves.”

He paused for a long time, and cards were lifted, placed, discarded with plastic-edged
snick
s
.

I took a cue from Abraham and waited patiently.

“My wife. My children. Buried,” Foster said. “Blisters on my hands. Shovelfuls of earth.”

Snick, snick, snick.

“A girl was crying. Afraid of the tower. The angel. The voice. Afraid of the bell. She ran. She ran. And then the world ended.”

“You heard the bell too?” I asked.

Foster nodded. “You were there, child.”

That was the thing. I hadn’t been there. But this body, this girl my brother had pulled out of cold storage with no memories left in her, no thoughts or personality left in her, had been there.

“I don’t remember,” I said.

“Gin.” Foster placed his cards down in a careful row.

Abraham sighed. “Good. My strategy to lure you into a false sense of security is working. Up for another hand?”

Foster nodded, and Abraham shuffled and dealt.

“We have a few hours yet, Matilda,” Abraham said, sorting through his hand. “Rest. Make your peace with your life, with your death. You’ll want a clear head.”

“Please don’t tell me that was your pep talk,” I said. “Because if it was, you should stay out of coaching.”

He smiled. “How about: ‘Worrying won’t change anything’?”

“So, your plan is to just sit here and play cards?”

“My plan is to let those two geniuses out there work out a plan. If they haven’t come up with anything by daylight, we’ll chose the best route using the equipment and resources we have, and get your brother into that house’s basement one way or another.”

Right. That was the plan. Get Quinten in so he could activate the countermeasures to try to travel back in time. Then he would try to talk our ever-great-grandfather into adjusting the hammer on his time-smashing machine so none of this happened.

That was, of course, if Quinten had guessed right about the calculations. Without Grandma’s journal and the original code, everything—all of this—was a guess.

“There are too many unknowns,” I said. “We don’t even know if he’ll survive the trip through time. And if he does and he fixes the experiment so it doesn’t break time, what happens to us? To you? Do we survive the adjusted experiment? Or will we just be mortals who live out a short life? What if Quinten’s adjustments make things worse?”

“Well, if he’s wrong, we’ll certainly die,” Abraham said. “If he’s right, we’ll probably die.” He put down his cards, pausing the game. “I thought you had worked that through by now. No matter how tomorrow ends, we won’t be here to see it.”

He said it so casually. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t joking. This was his end, our end. Something he must have
prepared for hundreds of years ago. Something I’d had only a couple days to get my head around.

And I supposed a clean death, a clear end, was much kinder than perpetual awareness and a bodiless life in a cage.

“You’re glad, aren’t you?”

He frowned.

“Maybe you aren’t excited about death,” I said, “but you want it. You want out of this life and this struggle. If I’d been through everything you have, maybe I’d want out too. But I haven’t lived three hundred years. If there is any action I can take, any sacrifice I can make, we are not going to die tomorrow. None of us. Just . . . no.”

Abraham stood and turned toward me. “You assume too much.”

Okay, now he was annoyed. Well, good. I’d rather have an angry Abraham going into a fight than a man who had already picked out the font on his headstone. It didn’t matter if he was angry at life, fate, Slater, or me.

“Oh?” I asked. “So you haven’t given up? Because this”—I waved at the cards—“looks like you’re saying good-bye. Permanently.”

“You can’t be more wrong.”

“It’s your last day on earth and you spend it playing cards with one of your oldest friends? Tell me another story, Vail. You’re cashing in your life chips.”

Foster watched us for a bit, then gathered up the cards and laid them out in a game of solitaire.

“I am not cashing anything in.” Abraham advanced, stopped just inches in front of me.

I was still leaning, one foot planted on the wall behind me, my arms crossed over my chest.

I tended to forget just how big a man he was. Until he was standing right up against me and I had to crane my neck just to get in a good glare.

“You’re telling me this isn’t last-day, fond-farewell behavior?” I said.

He clamped his jaw, nostrils flaring. Those hazel eyes of his still had some red in them, which meant he was still hurting. Also I’d just put a different kind of fire in them. He leaned in even closer, his palm flat on the kitchen wall next to my head, his arm blocking my peripheral vision so all I could see was him.

He smelled good. A mix of the eucalyptus soap from the shower and a deeper, warmer note that was all his own.

“No,” he said, low. “If I thought this was my last day on earth, I would be doing something
quite
different.”

“Sure. Like what?”

His exhalation came out in a soft growl, a sound of utmost frustration.

Oddly, I heard Foster chuckle.

Then Abraham caught the side of my face with his free hand, his thumb pressing on the edge of my mouth. I opened my lips on a gasp, suddenly realizing just what it was he would do on his last day.

Me.

He lowered his head, his mouth hungry, devouring mine. His lips tugged, his tongue stroked and teased, sending electrical zings through my already pounding blood. I slipped my arms up around his neck and pulled him closer.

This. Yes. This is what I wanted too.

We left the kitchen and found a bedroom with a door
that locked. I’d like to say I was calm and smooth and patient. But as soon as the door was locked behind us, I pulled him closer to me, not caring if he was hurting, not caring if I was hurting either.

He responded with another low sound in his chest, wanting that, wanting me. I stretched my body to press against his, so far up on my tiptoes, if he moved away, I’d collapse. His arm shifted to my back. He bent, his hand scooping under my butt, and lifted me up, bending me into him.

I wrapped my thighs around his hips, and he pressed me down into the soft bed, coming down with me. Everything in me came undone. I was liquid; I was warmth. Heat sparked and crackled in my bones and pulsed through me, stealing my breath.

I dragged his shirt up and over his head so I could stroke my palms across the muscles, ridges, and stitches of his back. Then I ran my fingers across his stomach and the hard line of his hip bones that plunged downward. The world swayed as if I’d drunk a bottle of booze.

He tugged on my pants and I waited, licking the taste of him off my swollen lips, staring at the wooden ceiling. I groaned in frustration.