Phoenix Rising (12 page)

“Touché, Welly. But the point still stands: we hardly know each other. Let's at least make an effort to understand how one another ticks.” She leaned back in her chair, fully aware that the firelight and shadows played across her corseted breasts, making them unavoidable to him. “In my spare time I like to read the Romantic poets. By candlelight with a glass of wine.

“Now, your turn.” Deliberately Eliza raised her pint, and didn't put it down until it was completely empty.
Beat that
, she thought with deep colonial satisfaction.

“I . . .” Wellington paused, fidgeted with his pint a moment, took a measured sip of his drink, and then replied. “I collect and collate tropical beetle species.”

Not his first choice of revelations.

“When I find the need to relax,” Eliza began, “I enjoy weekends in the country alone. Just me and the Great Outdoors.” Her smile widened. “And nothing else.”

Strangely, he didn't comment on that.

Again, he searched and blurted, “I take great pride in my work.”

Eliza groaned, “Oh for God's sake, Welly, I know that! Whatever is the matter? Are you not having fun?”

“Oh, I suppose in some cultures this might be considered fun. Unfortunately I do not reside in those cultures.” Through his glasses, his hazel eyes were stern.

He had already confided in her earlier that for the choices he made he took full responsibility, and now this was his choice.
Very well then, keep your secrets.
She had come here with more than chipping away at Wellington Books, Esquire, as her goal. Her gaze fixed on the publican. With a foot, she kicked a spare chair out and gestured him over.

While Books watched, the man blew out through his moustache, glanced around, and then came over, a fresh pint in his grasp. After presenting it to her, he took a seat with some reluctance, looking between the two of them.

Eliza leaned forward, her eyes locked on him. “Tell me barkeep, why did you direct us to this particular table?”

He shrugged, and as she expected pointed to the locket. “You're one of them.”

“Them?” Books looked curious now, despite himself. “To whom are you referring?”

The publican looked around him for a moment and taking the hint, Eliza slid a few coins across the table to him. He smiled warmly, while the money disappeared into his pocket. “They paid upfront for a whole year just to make sure I kept this table free, with a set of cards always available.”

Eliza gestured him on, knowing the amount she'd just paid deserved the whole story. Books shifted in his seat and leaned forward.

“They'd come in most weeks, different people, men and women. All of them would have that there thing worn as a locket or a pin, so I knew who to bring to the table. But no one has been in for months.”

The fluttering feeling in her stomach told Eliza she was close to finding what Harry wanted her to find. She tried to sound casual. “How many months ago—as near as you can reckon?”

The man pursed his lips, and stared up at the ceiling. “Oh I would say maybe eight months. It was winter I think.”

Books watched her like a hawk, but Eliza couldn't afford to worry about that now. Harry had gone missing at the end of last winter. In small increments she felt the reins of Harry's obsession slowly drawing her in. “Do you remember anything strange about the last time they played?”

“Not really. All as I recall is one of the younger men turned up, thought there was a game on, but none of the others did. I do remember that, 'cos he pulls out of his pocket a trinket like yours, miss, and gave it to me.”

“Gave it to you?” Eliza could almost see Harry standing there by the fire. But a living person couldn't have a ghost, could they?

“Well, gave it to me to send to some shop down by the river.”

The agents shared a look like lightning. Even the Archivist was getting intrigued.

“Do you,” Books cleared his throat, “do you recall the name of the business, my good man?”

The publican shrugged, “Some woman running some warehouse down there I think.”

Eliza swallowed. “Thank you. That's all we needed to know.”

Once the barkeep was well out of earshot, Wellington slumped back in his chair, taking a long, lingering drink as he mulled over the story. “Well, at least we know how the locket ended up in the Ministry. Harry himself sent the locket.”

“It proves he was onto something.” She knocked back the last of her pint.

“Hardly,” Books swirled the remains of his own drink. “One strange locket and the testimony of a publican barely prove anything.”

Had he no imagination? The man was infuriating. He couldn't for a moment think it was coincidence that shortly after Harry, who had shown no signs of mental illness until that point, had been found a gibbering wreck?

“I need whiskey,” she growled. This time, Books was not so dense as to miss his cue.

Alone for the moment, Eliza snapped out of her casual demeanor and swiftly took her chance to examine the table. Harry had been a world-class trickster. Always hiding little notes in her desk or even while they were on assignment. The remembrance of one saucy epistle she had found hidden in the office of Thaddeus Morne, while they had been ransacking it no less, made her smile even now.

She traced the corners of the table, and then slid her fingers around the underneath, searching every crevice. And there she was: the Queen of Hearts, jammed between the leg and the top of the table. Eliza only had a moment before Wellington came back, only an instant to glance at it. She recognised Harry's precise writing, and her pulse began to race. Quickly she tucked the playing card inside her corset, against her own heart. Very appropriate.

Now she had her answer.

With the memory of Harrison Thorne biting deep, she took the glass Wellington handed her and quickly downed it.

When his eyes went wide, she laughed. “Now let me show you how we colonials drink.”

CHAPTER NINE
Wherein Wellington Books Acts
a Perfect Gentleman, but Is Not Above
a Little Skullduggery Too

“A
aaaaaaaaaaand it's NO—NAY—Nev'rrrrrrrrr . . . no nay never NO MOOOOOOOORRRRE . . . will I plaaaaay the Wild Rover. No nev'rrrrrr no mooooooooooorrrrre . . .”

The woman's caterwauling was potent enough to wake the dead. In the Americas.

He stopped at the landing, hefting the woman slumped over his shoulder a touch higher before she ended up slipping off him entirely. This action made her giggle in a most unladylike fashion. Wellington took a long breath and cast his gaze upward. One more flight. His feet scuffed hard against the steps of Eliza Braun's building. Yes, there had been some effort on her part to climb them, but it had been more hindrance than help. There was no denying that the woman could drink. It was truly a miracle of God in Heaven Above that she had possessed the wherewithal to stand, gather her shawl, and tip her hat to the few remaining opponents of their long, surreal evening at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.

“You held your own, mate,” Braun slurred.

The combination of scotch and beer wafting from her mouth was very off-putting. With any luck, her stomach was as strong as her constitution. “Well,” he replied as evenly as possible, “I was most fortunate to place myself in your capable care once again, Miss Braun.” He had thought there were fewer steps to climb when looking from the bottom, but they seemed to go on without an end in sight.

“Eliza! Me bleedin' name's Eliza!” she insisted. “Come off it, Welly. We're getting to know each other a bit better, 'ey mate?” She gave a quick snort. “Fancy a ding-dong?”

“It is a bit late, Miss—”

“
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAND it's all for me grog, me jolly jolly grog . . .”
Her voice echoed in the stairwell as they reached the top floor, the only apartment there. “
IT'S ALL FOR ME BEER AND TOBACCOOOOOO!!!
”

He fumbled in his vest pocket for the key and managed to get the door to Braun's apartments opened just before the chorus had finished.

“
. . . And across the Western Ocean I must WAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNDEEEEEERRRRRRRRR!
”

“Yes, yes, yes, Miss Braun, I do believe your building would prefer you were across the Western Ocean as we speak. Now there's a good lass, come on,” he said, hefting her once more across his shoulders.

Her laughter disappeared, and the silence felt wrong.

“Miss Braun?” Wellington asked.

Her sobs were hard to hear at first, but on catching her breath, Eliza let out a soft, pathetic wail. “The Western Ocean,” she blubbered.

“Miss Braun,” Wellington stammered, “are you ill?!”

“The Western Ocean . . . the Western Ocean . . .” She then sniffled and said, “I want to go home.”

“But you are home.”

“I want to go home,” she sobbed, “to New Zealand.”

“Miss Braun, do remember, wherever you go, New Zealand is there. Besides,” he grunted, guiding her through the near darkness, “I don't believe an airship will be leaving for your home shores at this ungodly hour.”

In the back of his mind, Wellington's Basic Training stirred. It was not wise for an agent to enter any darkened room, even if it was one as intimate as their own dwellings. The possibility remained that someone nefarious could take refuge in the shadows, merely waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

Eliza's crooning, he mused, could serve as a deterrent—if not a repellant—for a small army of ne'er-do-wells:

“God of nations at Thy feet

In the bonds of love we meet,

Hear our voices, we entreat.”

With a quick prayer that the lights would not reveal any surprises waiting in the parlor or the corridor leading to the bedroom, he reached for the closest lamp and turned the nozzle to illuminate where they stood.

“My Lord!” Wellington whispered.

His colleague fell to the floor with a loud thump.

The apartments of Eliza D. Braun, field agent of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, were stunning to say the least. The decor showed a refinement, an eye for detail and a care for what it said about its occupant. There were small statuettes and woodworkings from all over the world, and two chaise longues of the richest colours and comforts sat on either side of the window. This could have easily been the apartments of minor nobility or someone of his family's wealth and history. It was stepping back to his origins, to when he had been to the manor born.

She groaned as her face turned to press against the rosewood floor. “Welly, remind me to order a better mattress for my bed. This one is far too firm.”

“Oh, Eliza,” Wellington gasped, now remembering why he was in these lush surroundings. “No broken nose, I hope.”

“S'all right,” Braun slurred. Her voice dropped to a whisper, “My ample bosom broke my fall.” She broke out into a cackle as she threw her arm around Books' neck. “And this—” she chortled, rapping her knuckles against her corset. “Standard issue for female agents. It's bulletproof.”

No wonder she is so heavy!
“Ah, good show.” Wellington heaved, lifting the agent back on her feet. “I'll know what to hide behind if we are attacked by a gun-welding chamber choir.”

Braun found his comment hilarious. “Good one, Welly! Now . . . where was I? Oh yes . . .”

And her song started once again.

“From dishonour and from shame

Guard our country's spotless name

Crown her with immortal fame

God defend New Zealand . . .”

“See? Your patriotism, Miss Braun, assures you that whilst you're away, New Zealand remains safe and secure,” he gasped, her feet now dragging across the floor, “within your most ample bosom.”

Her nation's anthem paused yet again for her hysterical laugher. “You're a good bloke, Welly, you are! I knew that on first sight of you, back in Anttara . . . Antana . . . Arcani . . .”

“Antarctica.”

“There. You were in that rather unpleasant-looking contraption, and your eyes—aww, Welly, I've never had anyone look at me quite that way.” Her voice went up in pitch, as if she were talking to a newborn in a bassinet. “It was so bloody
adorable
! Like a puppy!”

“Provided the puppy is chained up and prepped for interrogation,” he added, manoeuvring them both to where he was guessing would be the master bedroom. “But very kind of you to say.”

“I like puppies.”

His foot kicked open the double doors, revealing a very charming, very cozy boudoir, a vanity neatly arranged for a morning's routine and a large canopy bed taking up the center of the room. Wellington swallowed hard, hoping that the hangover cure he intended to quaff would erase the memory of these most intimate surroundings of his brash partner from the colonies. The contradictions were making him curiously nervous. It was easier to regard her as abrasive, not refined.

What other secrets did she harbour?

Braun flopped across the bed, the air rushing out of her body. All was still for a moment, and Wellington felt a small panic swell within him. Then she gave a tiny snore.

“Right then, Miss Braun,” he said, allowing himself pride in a job well done. He had gotten one of the Ministry's own home from a night of revels. “I bid you goodnight. Remember—at the hour of eight—at your desk. Good—er, good morning, Miss Braun.”

He had not made it three steps before “Welly . . .” the voice implored, “Welly, I . . . I have . . . a problem.”

The Archivist turned to see her hands fumbling around her waist, scrambling across the outer bodice and bulletproof corset. Oh, for the love of God, she was not serious!

“I need a liiiiiiiiiiiittle bit of help here, mate.”

Clearing his throat, Wellington returned to her side. “Um, Miss—”

“Seeing as you're about to get
very familiar
with me, I'd appreciate it if you started calling me Eliza.”

Her apartments were feeling remarkably warm. “Eliza, I'm not quite sure if I can—”

“Lissen, mate, you can do this and I promise you that it's not going to go any further than a gentleman assisting a lady in a time of need.” She chuckled again. “Besides, if your hands did wind up anywhere I didn't want them—”

“Let me guess,” Wellington interjected. “I would lose the loss of that particular hand for a time, wouldn't I?”

“Eeeeeeeezzzactly!” she said, sprawling back across the bed.

“Right then.” He pulled his collar loose and placed his hands on either side of her waist, leaning in to inspect her bodice.

Braun giggled, and took a deep breath.

“Eliza,” Wellington warned, his head motioning to her breasts now falling slightly, “you're not helping.”

The laugh that came from her practically held a candle to the devil. “Who says I wanna be helpful?”

Undeterred, Wellington centred her as best as he could on the bed and started to cautiously feel up her bodice. He knew it had to be there.

Another giggle, and then, “Remember what I said about your haaaaands,” she sang.

“I've not forgooooteeeeennnnn,” Wellington chimed back.

He then gave a nod. It would have been foolish to think that Braun would have gone into that pub completely unarmed. From its concealed scabbard, the fine, smooth handle slid free and with a flip of a switch the knife's point snapped out.

The blade still managed to catch the light filtering in from outside. He looked down at the woman humming lightly, the smile on her face blissful and carefree. “Eliza, please, for once listen to me—remain very still.” He gripped the blade, breathing slow and deep as he counted, “And one . . . two . . . three.”

It was alarming how easily the stiletto sliced through the bodice. The fabric was apart in one graceful move, and Braun laughed so hard her breasts trembled lightly in the embrace of the bulletproof corset.

“Oh, Welly!” she sniggered. “I didn't know you had been on assignment in Singapore!”

Wellington sighed, retracting the blade back into its handle. He then began to undo the corset, one hook at a time. The body armor was impressive, and solid enough that he was convinced it would stop a bullet. As it was a corset, however, it would probably knock the wind out of her and leave a good bruise as a reminder of that brush with death.

When he reached the last hook, dangerously close to her bosom, he felt his heart quicken. “Eliza, about where my hands go . . .”

“It's the last button, Welly, and I know if you wanted to try anything you would have by now. So get me out of this bloody thing, there's a good lad.”

He undid the last hook with little effort and her body, including the impressive breasts he had been stealing glances at all night, were now free.

She smiled wide and sighed, “Thank you, Wellington. A gentleman, you are.” Another giggle, and then, “Give a kiss goodnight then. Go on. You've earned it.”

Wellington knew his imagination must have conjured that up. He had also been in his cups tonight.

“It's okay. A little peck on the lips won't hurt a soul. It's how we do it back home.” Eliza puckered her lips and made quick, kissing noises.

This situation had just gone from
entirely
inappropriate to a descent into madness. Just being in this situation with another agent of the Ministry was bad enough, but he would have been naïve to believe field agents didn't enjoy the more exotic fruits when on assignment. So, one agent helping another back to bed was, perhaps, standard operations. Seeing as the “mate he was helping out” was
female
did alter the parameters, just a bit.

Eliza pouted. “Now you're being a cad. I just wanna little kiss.” She scrunched up her face, making a gesture of something tiny between her fingers. “Jus'sa li'l one.”

Even in her current state his colleague was still a woman, and (the last time he checked) he was a man. He found her a beautiful sight back in Antarctica, although he tried to dismiss that later as just being relieved on being rescued. In that combative setting, she was strong, forthright, and brave, but still she maintained a strange elegance. Tonight there were no enemy operatives, no explosions, and no secret lairs. Tonight was just them.

And now she wanted a “quick kiss” to end what was a night out with a colleague. She had certainly taken joy complicating his life both in the Archives and now in her bedroom.

Then again . . . maybe she had been right about him. Maybe he was overdue for a little complication. He glanced around the bedroom, and then back to her.

Wellington's gaze locked with Eliza's blue one and he had the distinct impression she was sizing him up just as she did in Antarctica but with different intentions. His throat felt incredibly dry. Was it possible that she wasn't as drunk as she was letting on?