Iron and Blood (15 page)

Cullan chuckled. “I really hadn’t thought about what they might look like taking off when I put them on the tops of the carriages. I threw the cloth over them to keep them away from prying eyes. But did you see how well they flew?”

“We saw,” Jake said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “And more importantly, they shot as well as they hovered.”

“Is it over?” Adam Farber peered out of the doorway to the half-finished pyramid. His glasses were askew and his hair looked as if it had been standing on end.

“Appears so,” Jake said, watching as Kovach’s men began seeing to the casualties. A few of their guards were limping, and one or two were noticeably bloodied, but most looked none the worse for wear, considering.

“Is this the new project you were telling me about?” Rick’s voice was awestruck as he stared at the crane above him.

A sly grin spread across Adam’s face. “Yep. Although I never thought I’d use it quite like this.” He sauntered down from the pyramid to join them, and let out a low whistle at the charred ground and incinerated bodies. “Wait until I tell Mr. Tesla about this.”

“Or not,” Jake said with a warning glance.

Adam frowned, then nodded. “Yeah. Or not.”

“Something you whipped up in your spare time at Tesla-Westinghouse?” Jake asked.

Adam looked a bit thunderstruck by his creation’s results. “Uh-huh. Cullan and Miska had asked if I could set up a distraction just in case anything went awry. It’s got other uses, but when I heard the gunfire, I thought I might put the fear of the Almighty into whoever was out here.” He paled. “I didn’t mean to kill anyone. It’s a prototype, fairly new, and we don’t have the kinks worked out yet.”

Jake clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a dangerous man, Adam. Remind me to watch your next invention from a safe distance—like several miles away.”

“Adam, that has serious potential. You and I need to talk when this is all over.” Rick eyed the wreckage, then turned to Jake. “Whoever did this, they had it all planned out. Want to bet the cemetery didn’t dig that grave?” he said with a nod toward the open hole where their would-be assassins had gathered.

“They didn’t try anything at the church service,” Jake mused. “Too public? Too many big fish?”

“They probably bet it would only be close family here at the grave,” Cullan said, his expression grim. “You, George, and Rick—which would have buried Brand and Desmet along with your father.”

Jake let Cullan’s statement sink in as his gaze followed the return of Kovach and his fighters. Kovach’s anger was apparent in his brisk stride, and in the curses that carried in the still air.

“The rest got away from us,” Kovach said. “They had a carriage waiting over the next ridge. We couldn’t pursue them on foot.”

“Any idea who they were?” Now that mortal fear had subsided, Jake’s anger outweighed his grief for a moment.

“Offhand, I’d say they were someone who didn’t like you much,” Kovach said, running a hand back through his dark hair. “Otherwise, no idea—yet—about who hired them.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, they weren’t amateurs.”

“Nothing on the remaining bodies or hearse to give us a clue. But maybe your men will find something.” Fletcher said as he joined them.

“Want to bet it’s the same people who gave us a going-away party in London?” Rick asked.

“The question in both cases is, why?” Jake mused.

“Hello?” A faint voice quavered across the foggy air. “Is there anyone out there? Don’t shoot—I’m a man of the cloth.”

Reverend McDonald peered from the lip of Thomas Desmet’s grave. Fresh dirt streaked his face and clumped in his hair, and his clerical collar was muddy and hanging at an odd angle.

“Oh, dear Lord, we left the reverend in the hole,” Rick murmured as he and Jake headed at a run toward the befuddled and frightened cleric.

“You’re the one who pushed him in,” Jake muttered under his breath.

“Does it count against my immortal soul, do you think?”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Worse. He’s likely to tell Mother.”

N
ICKI
L
E
C
LERCQ MOVED
as silently down the servants’ stairway as her bustle would allow. She had intentionally chosen a time when the help would be busy cleaning up after breakfast, and her aunt would have retired to her room.

If she were caught, it would cause a scandal, she thought, and shivered.
Then I simply must not be caught
.

Her boots had the softest soles of any she owned, and she padded down the steps carefully, wincing at every creak and groan from the old stair treads. She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the bottom.

Nicki peeked around the corner and saw no one in the back corridor, so she tiptoed to the servants’ entrance. She had exchanged her deep mourning for a charcoal gray traveling suit that might have been acceptable for second mourning, but would cause a stir were she recognized as a close relative to the deceased. Yet it was worth the risk to gain information, news that would be all the more difficult for Rick or Jake to acquire given their sudden, unwelcome prominence.

“You’ll be needing this.” Wilfred’s voice made Nicki jump and she gave a squeak. The butler stood just inside the vestibule. He held out an umbrella in a decorous shade of dove gray. “Madam said to remind you that the gentlemen will likely be home by noon, so you’ll want to return before then.”

“She knows?” Nicki’s eyes widened.

The barest hint of a smile touched Wilfred’s lips. “She strongly suspects.”

“Is she… upset?”

“She said she’d have gone herself if she could have possibly arranged it.”

Catherine Desmet’s movements would be curtailed by social convention for the next year, as befitted her station and bereavement. Nicki, however, was neither as close to the deceased nor as well-known in New Pittsburgh.

Nicki gave Wilfred a broad grin. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll keep a low profile.”

The look in Wilfred’s eye was skeptical.

Nicki let herself out the servants’ door, glancing both ways before stepping into the back street. She made her way the length of the block before emerging onto Shadyside Avenue, where she caught the Squirrel Hill streetcar.

Nicki kept her head down until the streetcar was out of Shadyside, fearing she might run into one of the Desmets’ neighbors. Rain kept many people indoors; all the better for her to move about unnoticed.

At the Squirrel Hill stop, Nicki alighted and glanced up and down Murray Avenue. Two other women and a man also got off the streetcar, but Nicki was relieved to see that none of them looked familiar. She drew her shawl around her shoulders against the cool wind, and hastened the few blocks it took to reach Woodland Road. It had become quite a popular address with many of New Pittsburgh’s elite after the Civil War. Several grand mansions graced the street, but Nicki was looking for a smaller home tucked between two of its opulent neighbors.

The brick, neo-Renaissance house looked modest and circumspect in comparison, though Nicki knew property in this neighborhood was highly desirable and priced to match demand. She took another look around as she ascended the steps from the street and spotted a man farther down the block lighting a pipe. It was difficult to tell from the angle, but she was almost certain he had been on the streetcar with her.

The door opened at her first knock. A plump maid looked at Nicki with a bored expression. “May I help you?” she asked, her German accent unmistakable.

“I’m here to see Renate Thalberg,” Nicki said, withdrawing a calling card from a silver case in her purse. She was careful to hold her purse so the maid would not glimpse the small derringer next to the card case.

“She’s quite busy,” the maid replied, glancing at the card. “Perhaps if you’ll come back another day—”

“Priscilla? Who is it?” A woman’s voice called out from down the hallway.

“A Miss Veronique LeClercq has come to call,” Priscilla replied. “Are you—”

“Nicki!” A moment later, a slender young woman appeared in the hallway. Renate Thalberg was in her late twenties, slightly-built, with an ethereal appearance that even the bustles and mutton-leg sleeves of current fashion could not weigh down. Light brown hair in a loose chignon framed intelligent brown eyes and fine features just a bit too sharp to be conventionally pretty. “Priscilla, please see her in and bring us tea.”

“Right away, ma’am.” Priscilla eyed Nicki as if she did not relish the new assignment before stepping away to do as she was bid.

“It’s so good to see you,” Renate said, giving Nicki a hug and taking her by the arm to lead her to the sitting room. “I’m so sorry it’s under such sad circumstances.”

Nicki removed her shawl and sat in a wing-backed chair beside a small tea table across from Renate. For a few moments, until Priscilla returned with tea and a plate of shortbreads, they spoke of the weather and mutual acquaintances. When Priscilla drew the door shut behind her, Renate fixed Nicki with an inquisitive look.

“What brings you here on the day of the funeral, when you should be home in mourning?” Renate resembled Andreas enough to pass as his sister, but Nicki knew she was really his great-granddaughter.

Nicki sipped her tea and cringed. “I know it’s not proper, but Jake and Rick will be too constrained, what with mourning and all, to make discreet inquiries, and I may be forgiven a little more freedom of movement since I’m not in the immediate family.”

Renate gave a sharp laugh. “Discretion isn’t usually your hallmark, Nicki. But Andreas told me you might call. I understand you had a bit of trouble bringing back his urn.”

Nicki wrinkled her nose. “We were shot at, chased, pursued by an airship and shot at some more.” She paused and sipped her tea. “Jake says Andreas doesn’t think it was because of the urn.”

Renate shook her head. “It wasn’t.”

“Why? If Andreas wanted the urn, maybe other people did, too. Maybe it’s more valuable than he thought.”

Renate sighed. “The urn itself is nice, but hardly a museum piece. Andreas wanted the urn because it contains the ashes of his fourth wife.”

Nicki struggled to avoid choking on her tea. “Truly?”

Renate grimaced. “Truly. One of the prices of immortality is how frequently you outlive the mortals around you. Andreas is several centuries old. He outlived four wives before he decided to pull back from mortals. But the fourth wife, Elizabeth, was his favorite.”

Nicki set her tea down and fixed Renate with a glare. “You mean to tell me we were nearly killed—several times—for ashes?”

Renate’s eyes had a far-away look to them, and she frowned. “No,” she said quietly, as if listening hard for a whisper Nicki could not hear. “Not the ashes. The danger comes from elsewhere. Not Jake… Thomas…” She seemed to come back to herself and shook her head as if to clear it. “Sorry.”

“No, your visions are exactly why I’ve come,” Nicki said. “Thomas Desmet was killed by magic; at least, that’s what Andreas told Jake. Someone is trying very hard to use non-magical ways to kill Jake, and maybe Rick too. We’ve been lucky so far, but sooner or later luck runs out. We don’t even know what the assassins are after.” She took Renate’s hand and met her gaze. “Please, will you do a seeing for me?”

Renate gave a faint smile. “I assumed that was what you came for. I’ve already set out everything I need.”

Renate stood and crossed to a tea cart on which stood an absinthe fountain filled with ice water, a bottle of absinthe, a crystal reservoir glass, a silver plate with a pile of sugar cubes and an ornate silver absinthe spoon.

“It’s quite the rage on the Continent,” Nicki observed. “Especially with the poets and artists.” She eyed the green liquor. “Do you think they glimpse what you see?”

Renate’s smile was sad. “Not unless they possess magic like mine.” Her hand touched the silver spoon gently. “This spoon has been in my family for many years. My mother and my grandmother were both absinthe witches like me. Both had the Sight, and both received their strongest visions with the aid of the ‘green fairy’.”

“What happens now?” Nicki asked, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. While she had heard Jake speak of Renate’s ability, she had never witnessed a vision herself.

“Do you want to take the journey with me?” Renate’s eyes sparkled.

“Can I?”

Renate reached for another glass and held it out to Nicki. “I can pull you in with me. You’ll see what I see, but you won’t be able to do anything—you’ll just be an observer.”

“How does it work?” Nicki was intrigued, but hesitant. “I’ve had absinthe many times, and I never saw visions—well, none that weren’t accounted for by the absinthe itself!”

Renate chuckled. “That’s how it is for most people. Different things trigger power for different witches. For me, it’s absinthe and gemstones.” She paused, then gestured to the room’s couch. “We’ll drink the absinthe, sit back on the couch, and the magic will show us what it shows us.” She met Nicki’s gaze. “No matter what happens, don’t interrupt. My magic is strong enough to protect us in the world of the vision.”

“Protect us from what?”

“Danger,” Renate replied matter-of-factly. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, it seemed to Nicki that Renate did not look quite herself. Motioning for Nicki to stay quiet, Renate began to chant, moving counter-clockwise along the edge of the round, braided rug beneath their feet.