His Clockwork Canary (30 page)

With his hand at the small of her back, Simon guided Willie into Java Jupiter, surprised
at how crowded the coffeehouse was for this relatively early hour. The intimate room
was packed with men and women alike. Half dressed in traditional Vic clothing, whereas
the other half leaned toward moderate to extreme ModVic with a few costumed oddities
thrown into the mix. The
bitchin’ band
was but a trio, although their musical equipment took up a good portion of the raised
stage. A small area had been cleared in front of the stage and a few ModVics engaged
in free-form dancing, jerking and gyrating in scandalous manners that would shock
Her Majesty the Queen into heart palpitations.

“Have you ever danced like that?” Willie shouted over the musical chaos.

“I was roaring drunk at the time, but yes.”

“Was it fun?”

Simon smiled down at her. “Yes.”

She smiled back as they wove through the crowd, finally locating an empty table close
to the stage.

Phin swept off his bowler and stuffed a ripped paper serviette into his ears.

Simon didn’t blame him—the volume of the music was deafening—but he refrained from
making a visual spectacle of himself. He offered to help Willie off with her coat,
but she politely refused. Nor did she remove her decorative derby. He knew her mind.
She was anxious to be off to the Vulcan Grogshop. He preferred she wait here, with
him, until closer to the appointed meeting time with Rollins.

“Coffee, please,” Willie said when their server appeared.

“Side of weed?” the young woman asked. “Absinthe? Opium-laced cigarette?

“Just coffee.”

“Same here,” Simon said.

“Make that three,” Phin shouted.

“You’d enjoy the music more if you accentuated your bean juice with a mind-bending
substance.”

“Enjoying the music just fine,” Simon said. He’d indulged in the past, along with
a rather rowdy pack of friends. The effects were not displeasing; they were, however,
compromising. A state he could ill afford this night. Or any other, now that he had
a wife to look after.

“Squaresville, but whatever.” Dressed in a gauzy shapeless dress, the doe-eyed girl
disappeared into the crowd.

The rock trio segued into a ballad, a beautifully haunting piece, and the bodies on
the dance floor doubled.

“I say,” Phin shouted over the drone of the bass guitar and the screeching organ.
“That young chit looks exactly like Amelia.”

Simon looked to where Phin pointed. Short in stature, her normally coiled blond curls
cascading down her back, a corseted tail-vest worn over trousers . . . By God, it
was
Amelia. In the middle of the dance floor canoodling with some man. Simon’s temper
flared as the cheeky bloke smoothed a hand down her back, his palm resting a scant
inch from her backside.

“Bloody hell!” Enraged, Simon catapulted out of his chair and, in the blur of a second,
separated the pair, slamming his fist into the lecher’s hard jaw.

The stranger plowed into a slew of hippie impersonators and landed on his arse.

Amelia screamed.

The music faltered.

And Simon was instantly surrounded by several men pointing nasty-looking weapons in
his personal direction. Drawing his
peashooter
in retaliation seemed absurd. Hopefully Phin had his back.

“Simon?”
Amelia gawked at him, her eyes wide in shock and sparking with, of all things,
indignity
. “What’s
wrong
with you?”

“You know this scalawag, Flygirl?” This from the stranger rising from the floor and
working his offended jaw.

“My brother,” she huffed, cheeks blazing. “Simon Darcy.”

“In that case,” the man said, his American accent grating, “holster your weapons,
boys.”

“Who the devil is this man?” Simon asked his sister.

“My husband.”

Simon’s blood boiled. “Since when? I don’t even know this bloke. For Christ’s sake,
Amelia!”

“Don’t be swearin’ at Mrs. Gentry.” This from a broad-shouldered, ill-tempered-looking
man with a cigar clamped between his teeth. A man who’d yet to lower his enormous
gun.

“Gentry?”
Simon’s stomach knotted as he took a second look at the man he’d coldcocked. The
American accent. The Western boots and the cowboy hat. “Oh, hell, no, Amelia.”

“I warned you, fancy pants,” cigar-man said.

Out of nowhere Willie moved in, rainbow eyes swirling with fury. “Step off, you overbearing
sod.”

“And if I don’t?”

Willie clipped him with her stun cuff and the big man wilted like a rain-deprived
flower.

Amelia squealed, outraged. “What the . . . who the devil are
you
?”

Willie squared her shoulders. “Your brother’s wife.”

Simon appreciated Willie’s staunch proclamation, although her penchant to save him
in risky circumstances battered his male pride.

Amelia whirled and nailed Simon with a look of astonishment.

Gentry studied Willie, then rubbed his jaw whilst peering down at his odious cohort.
“Zapped by a Freak. Axel’s gonna be fit to be tied when he rouses.”

“In that case,” Phin said, calmly stepping in, “perhaps we should sort this out in
private.”

Amelia whirled again. “Phin?”

Gentry’s eyes narrowed. “Phineas Bourdain?”

Phin raised one brow. “You know of me?”

Gentry responded by knocking Phin off his feet with a wicked roundhouse.

“Bloody hell,” Simon said to his sister. “You told your husband Phin stole a kiss?”

She gave an innocent shrug. “He wasn’t my husband at the time.”

After much hullabaloo, the proprietor of Java Jupiter had shown the vexatious rabble-rousers,
as he called them, to a private salon at the rear of the small coffeehouse. Though
Willie longed to sort through this family mess, she was immensely concerned with the
time. According to her time cuff it was half past eight. Shouldn’t she be making her
way to the USS
Enterprise
?

Tucker Gentry’s crew—StarMan, Eli Boone, and Birdman Chang—had remained in the main
room trying to rouse their boneheaded mate, the ship’s engineer, Axel O’Donnell. Phin
had been shut out of this meeting as well and was currently nursing his bruised jaw
and pride with a shot of whiskey.

Seated across from Amelia in an upholstered booth, Willie tried to focus on her sister-in-law’s
(good God, she had never thought to have a
sister
) animated rambling regarding her exploits over the last two weeks. Against her brothers’
wishes she had joined the Triple R Tourney, taking off on something called a kitecycle
and nearly crashing into the
Maverick
midair. She’d lassoed the Sky Cowboy into her search for a legendary invention, their
adventure had taken them to France, then on to Italy and then, following an international
incident
, back to England—their penance doled out by none other than Queen Victoria.

“And that is how we came to be wed,” Amelia said matter-of-factly.

“By royal decree.” Simon drummed his fingers on the table, his expression somewhere
between astounded and explosive.

“She would have married me regardless, Darcy. Eventually,” Gentry said. “We’re very
much in love.”

“Astonishing, but true,” Amelia said with a smitten smile. She leaned into her husband
and the handsome crack aviator wrapped his arm about her in a possessive manner that
warmed Willie’s heart.

Simon, on the other hand, looked as if he wanted to strangle the both of them. Bad
enough his little sister had married a notorious rake and purported outlaw, but they’d
embarked on a spectacular adventure that dazzled and shocked far more than anything
Simon and Willie had experienced in their venture thus far. At least in Willie’s eyes.
It was just the kind of story that would rivet the readers of the
Informer
,
and indeed, Willie was considering asking the Gentrys’ permission to weave their adventure
into her chronicled serial. Although she’d probably opt to temper the portion about
the
Maverick
’s physician, a Freak named Doc Blue, who’d betrayed them in support of his brother,
a volatile Freak Fighter. As if the Freaks needed more bad press.

She glanced at her time cuff, deeming the serial a subject best approached later.
She shifted in her seat, eyed the door.

“Are we keeping you from something?” Amelia asked, brow raised.

“As it happens, I have an appointment.”

Simon consulted his own watch. “Willie’s right. We should go.”

Amelia gawked. “Surely you jest! I explained my circumstances and now you think to
leave me dangling regarding yours? You claim to be married, yet how can this be, Simon?
Marriage between Vics and Freaks is forbidden!”

“Yes, well, sometimes one is inclined to thwart the law,” he said, looking directly
at Gentry.

“I told you,” Amelia said. “Tucker is innocent. Queen Victoria believes him.”

“As do I,” Willie said as she slid from her seat.

“You seem familiar to me, Mrs. Darcy,” Gentry said as he, too, stood. “Have we met
before?”

“Please call me Willie. And, aye, we have met. I interviewed you once.” Her cheeks
burned with the past deception. Her male guise, her probing of the cowboy’s memories
without his permission. “You knew me as the Clockwork Canary.”

Gentry merely angled his head as though absorbing and reconciling the Freak woman
he saw before him with the so-called Vic male who’d written a story about him months
before.

Amelia, however, took a menacing step forward, fists balled at her side. “
The
Clockwork Canary? Lead journalist for the
Informer
? The insensitive sensationalist who maligned my
father
?”

“I can explain.”

Amelia launched forward like a human cannonball.

Willie swore she felt the brush of the woman’s knuckles as her fist swung past her
nose. The only reason the blow didn’t land was that Gentry had caught her by the waist
and hauled her back in the nick of time.

“Easy, Flygirl.”

“Dammit, Amelia.” Finessing Willie behind him, Simon dragged his hands through his
already disheveled hair. “I can explain.
We
can explain all of this. But not now. Willie has an appointment with a man who’s
going to relay the location of the clockwork propulsion engine.”

Still holding tight to his wife, Gentry tipped back his hat. “The time-traveling engine
from the Briscoe Bus? It was destroyed—”

“No, it wasn’t,” Willie said. “That was a ruse concocted by a renegade trio of Peace
Rebels. One of them being my mother. As Simon said, we can explain, but . . .” She
glanced at her time cuff.

Simon checked the safety mechanism on his derringer.

Amelia palmed her forehead. “What in the devil are you doing with a Disrupter 29?”

“Making a point if need be,” Simon said.

“But that’s an advanced weapon and you’ve never even used a slingshot!”

“Aim. Fire. Think I can handle it.”

“Why do you need a gun?” Gentry asked as Simon pocketed the pistol.

“Because twelve days ago the people we’re dealing with didn’t think twice about o’blasterating
my wife. Willie was severely wounded trying to protect me,” Simon said specifically
to his sister. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone harm her again.”

Amelia blinked at Willie with shock and perhaps a smidgen of gratitude.

“I promise, we’ll explain at length later,” Willie said, pushing out of the salon
and into the crush of the rollicking coffeehouse.

“Where are you meeting this yahoo?” Gentry asked.

“USS
Enterprise
,” Simon said. “The Vulcan Grogshop. The contact is wary of me, so I can’t be seen.
Phin’s going inside with Willie. That’s if his wits are about him.”

Phin pushed away from the bar and a bottle of whiskey. “My jaw’s sore,” Phin said,
whilst scowling at Gentry. “But my wits are fine.” He checked his holstered weapon.
“Let’s do this.”

“I know the
Enterprise
and the Vulcan,” Gentry said over the ear-blistering music. “I’ll come with you.”

Amelia pushed forward. “Me too.”

“Like hell,” Gentry said. “Stay here with Eli. Get Axel back on his feet and talk
him down from his all-fired fury. StarMan, Chang, you’re with me.”

Willie’s nerves jangled. “Too many people.”

“He won’t even know we’re there,” Gentry said, then doubled back to kiss his wife
and whisper something in her ear. She didn’t look happy, but she didn’t follow.

“I don’t want Amelia to come,” Simon said as Gentry rejoined them. “But I don’t want
to leave her here.”

“Eli will kick the ass of any man who looks sideways at her. Axel will do worse. That’s
if he regains consciousness anytime soon. You pack a hell of a wallop, Mrs. Darcy.”

“Stun cuff,” Willie said, flashing her wrist as they hit topside. “Phin’s idea.”

Gentry nodded. “Long as Mr. Bourdain keeps his hands and lips off Amelia, guess we’ll
get along just fine.”

Simon shot his new brother-in-law a look as they crossed over to the next dig. “I
could say the same thing about you, cowboy.”

•   •   •

The Vulcan Grogshop was twice the size of Java Jupiter and easily as crowded. A blessing,
as it meant Phin, Gentry, StarMan, and Chang were difficult to spot. Even Willie was
unsure as to the exact location of each man. As discussed on the walk over, they’d
entered in intervals, dispersing to different areas of the smoky, chaotic pub.

There were several raucous gaming tables and the stage at the far end featured a burlesque
show of sorts. Lively music and boisterous conversation filled the air, as did the
clinking of glasses and the hissing and clanking of steam-powered metallic robots
serving up smokes and snacks.

Willie was not the only woman in attendance, but she was certainly in the minority.
She felt a twinge of unease as a few men at the bar looked her way. She wished Simon
were with her, even though he couldn’t be. She wished Rollins would have declared
a more specific place to meet. She glanced at her time cuff. Nine p.m. sharp.

“Miss Goodenough.” Rollins stepped in beside her. “You’re alone?”

“Not precisely. Skytowns are notoriously wild. I thought it best to have an escort.”
She did not wish him to think her foolhardy or vulnerable. She did not fully trust
the man. He had, after all, ratted out his own people in a bid for personal peace.
“He’s waiting outside whilst we conduct our business, so you need not worry.”

“Do I look worried?”

“Indeed you do, Mr. Thimblethumper.” The old man looked as if he’d aged ten years
in two days.

“My world draws to an end. It is . . . unsettling.”

“What do you mean—”

“I don’t have much time. Please.” He grasped her forearm and guided her to an empty
table in the thick of the crowd. “You must act quickly,” he said as they sat side
by side at a table littered with empty glasses and smoking butts. “Tonight. The engine
is unprotected this moment, but the mercenary will show for his shift sometime before
dawn.”

“Why is it unprotected?” Willie asked. “Where is Filmore?”

“The engine is hidden within a vault,” he plowed on in a brittle tone. “It is marked
H. Houdini
and you will find it the catacombs near Westminster Abbey.”

“Beneath the Abbey?” Willie scrunched her brow. She had pored over maps along with
Simon and Phin. She did not recall tunnels under Westminster.

“The tunnels are ancient and dangerous. You must not linger. Get the engine and get
out.” He shoved a piece of paper in her hand, then rattled off directions.

The collective noise was such that Willie found herself focusing intently on Rollins’s
every word and expression. His milky eyes were somewhat dazed behind his thick spectacles.
His wrinkled skin was ashen and clammy, his urgent manner troublesome.

“There is a lock on the vault,” he said. “A special lock. I’m providing you with the
code and entrusting you with the engine. Follow through for your mother. She was the
best of us. Protect the world from further mayhem, Wilhelmina. The Houdinians are
no more.”

“What do you mean? What about Filmore?” Willie grasped the old man’s hands when he
tried to leave. “Why are you spooked? What have you done?”

“What had to be done.”

“I knew you would come to your senses, Ollie,” Filmore said. “Although it took far
longer than I anticipated.”

“I had thought to live out my life in peace. But now a Freak rebellion is rising.
There was an incident over the Atlantic. Surely you read about it. Freaks are dangerous,
Jefferson, and they exist because of us. We must right our wrongs and save the world
from further mutation and destruction. Think of the atrocities those supernatural
beings could commit upon Vics if they all band together as we once did.”

“You are once again in league with my thinking. I’m encouraged by the timing. This
past week I had decided to take extreme measures. I’ve been researching engineers,
a man suited to my purpose. Ingenious, fearless, a fellow Utopian. And now here you
are. We must go back in time,” Filmore said as he paced amongst marble and granite
tombstones. “Perhaps to the day we first arrived. Before Mods mated with Vics. We
could alert the other Peace Rebels, caution them against having sex with anyone other
than another Mod. Mickey would help us to instill the importance of remaining faithful
to our fellow Peace Rebels.” He stopped and caressed the sculpted angel marking one
particular grave. “Mickey would still be alive.”

“Yes. Yes, she would, Jefferson.” Rollins latched on to the glazed look in Filmore’s
eyes. “And you and Mickey could be together again. But this time forever. I’ve already
begun the construction of a compatible vehicle for the clockwork propulsion engine.
We must make haste. This Race for Royal Rejuvenation has ignited interest in extraordinary
inventions. I worry the engine is at risk now more than ever.”

“It is. There was an incident, Ollie. A thwarted robbery.”

Filmore looked frazzled and Rollins moved in for the kill. “Where is the safe house,
Jefferson?”

“Where do you think?”

“You stuck to Mickey’s original plan?”

“Why would I deviate? The woman was brilliant.”

“Yes. Yes, she was.” Rollins swallowed bile. “I can safely say she would not have
advised repeating past mistakes.”

“What are you saying? What are you . . .” Filmore blanched as Rollins pulled a black-market
weapon, a modern weapon, and aimed it at Filmore’s heart. “Traitor!”

Rollins’s hand shook. “Yes. Yes, I am. A traitor to our fellow PRs who voted to destroy
the engine. A traitor to our century. We should have stayed and fought for peace in
our own time. We never should have played God. And yet you are willing to do it all
again. To wreck more havoc.”

Filmore lunged for the gun.

A loud blast.

A painful cry.

Filmore crumpled and blood pooled next to the grave marked
MICHELLE GOODENOUGH.

Rollins stumbled back.

Panic. Remorse. Exhilaration.

“What have you done?” Willie cried. She was a mere shadow. A fly on the wall. Even
so, Rollins flinched. The memory glitched, shifted, and suddenly she was catapulted
back to Rollins’s childhood. Back to the future where she was overwhelmed by foreign
innovations and bizarre references. She was out of her element. Out of her time.