Phoenix Rising (14 page)

She turned back to the doctor's office. Something felt off.

“Right then, Welly,” she resigned before taking him by the arm. “Keep a sharp eye.”

“One moment, Miss Braun.” He tugged back, halting her on the first step. “Now, remember we are here on a very tenuous clue. It is a stretch to imagine that any of this will lead anywhere at all.”

She glared at him, feeling her blood beginning to rise. “Well, I can see you are going to be difficult.”

“I am just cautioning restraint. You are probably feeling a little more . . .” Wellington stopped, taking a moment to consider his words carefully. “. . . aggressive than usual. A rather frightening thought, I must admit, but please bear in mind that is also one of the side effects of the Mayan cure.”

Eliza tilted her head, pausing for a moment of self-reflection. “I don't feel any different, but if you say so. I will try it your way.” She took another moment, and then added, “For a bit.”

They had just stepped off the curb when a giant invisible hand picked them up and threw them to the ground. Glass from the top floor windows showered the street as Eliza and Wellington were tossed backwards like flowers in a storm, back to the curb where they started. Being slightly ahead, she took the full force of the concussion and actually landed atop him.

It took a moment for Eliza's mind to recognise the sensation. An explosion. A
big
one.

The concussion was enough to rattle panes on the opposite side of the street but not shutter them. Screams and wails of pedestrians were now joining the clatter of wood and stone, the fire coming from the house providing a low drone like that in the Archives. Eliza rolled over and covered Wellington as a second wave of flame and debris shot out of the house.

She held down the stunned Wellington until she was sure the munitions and gas had done their initial work. From a professional position—which, at present, was covering the Archivist with her body—it had been a very well-placed charge: enough to wipe out the doctor's surgery and trigger the gas mains within the accompanying apartments, but not enough to destroy anything else. That kind of precision and detail spoke of someone who had experience—someone like her.

When Eliza finally rolled off him, Wellington was pale but remarkably calm. Luckily it was not his first explosion, so she did not have to deal with any screaming from him. She hated the screaming, and there was now plenty of that from the injured and dying on the street. Since Charing Cross was not known for such things, general panic seemed to be ensuing. Traffic stopped. People gaped in horror. Soon enough the fire brigade would arrive. Police, as well. This kind of distraction meant Eliza could check herself and Books for any injuries which, thankfully, appeared to be none, although she knew they would feel the bruising on the following morning.

“So, Welly,” Eliza asked, “still think this lead is a bit of a stretch?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
In Which Our Daring Duo Indulge in a
Dashing Chase Through London, and Mr. Books
Finds a New Guardian Angel with
a Most Jealous Disposition

A
nother billowing cloud of flame and smoke erupted from the remains of the Charing Cross practice. Wellington took stock of the gathering onlookers, some of the ladies swooning at the sight of destruction while gentlemen called out and cried in alarm. No journalists had appeared yet, a blessing as they were prone to do at moments of calamity. In the distance, mingling with the shrill whistles of the police, came the rapid ringing of the fire brigade.

He was about to turn back to Eliza and recommend they slip away when he felt her hand grip his arm tightly, just as the sound of a horse's cry reached his ears.

“I think we found the good doctor's previous appointment,” Eliza said, pulling him back to his feet.

The onyx Concord coach was shaking—not from a nervous steed protesting at small explosions, but from its lone occupant dressed in what appeared to be black skirts that vanished as the cab's door slammed shut. Even over the fire, Wellington heard the snap of the driver's whip and the horses' shoes rattling against the cobblestone streets.

“Come on, Wellington!”

It was not that he had any choice in the matter as Eliza was pulling him towards one of the hansoms that had stopped to gawk at the fire.

Wellington pulled himself into the cab, shouting through the hatch above his head. “Driver—”

The cab lurched, throwing him to the other side of the seat. From the driver's perch, he heard Eliza. “We need to borrow your cab. Do you mind? That's a good chap!” And with a cry and snap of the whip, the hansom launched into the streets of London.

Wellington popped open the small hatch to see holding the reins, “Miss Braun?!” The effects of his hangover remedy were doing very little to calm his nerves.

“Have a care, Welly!” The Mayan cure, it appeared, was also having quite an influence on Eliza. “We got some ground to make up!”

Buildings and pedestrians were shuddering, blurry things as their ride shot through the streets of Charing Cross. Wellington wondered just how low key they were being, between the clatter of the hansom, Eliza calling out to the horse, and the crack of the whip. He pressed harder against the walls of the cab, its vibrations rattling him hard. He could feel their speed, and with each city block their horse continued to pick up its pace.

“Lean!” he heard Eliza shout over the cacophony of wheels and hoofbeats against stone.

The cab took a sharp turn, and Books felt his world begin to teeter.

“Dammit, Books,” Eliza bellowed, “get on the
other
side!”

He pushed hard against the grounded portion of the cab, shifting his weight and pressing as hard as he could. He could hear the wood creak, but the cab was returning to a more level perspective. The bounce kicked him off the seat for an instant, knocking his spectacles clear of his face. Wellington wanted to scream, but it would accomplish absolutely nothing.

He did so anyway. It felt quite good.

“That will do, Welly!” came the voice from the driver's seat.

Wellington opened his eyes to a world lacking focus, and for a moment he was horrified.
My God
, he exclaimed in his head,
I'm blind!

Then he recalled that his glasses were somewhere on the floor of the hansom.

Leaning forward he tried to keep his balance while the cab lurched this way and that. His fingertips bounced lightly against the floorboards until finally brushing against the delicate rims of spectacles. Another shock to the hansom sent the top of his head forward into the cab's frame. Wellington would have been surprised if Eliza had not heard that impact.

The crack of the whip. Their horse cried out. They were going faster.

He pushed his spectacles back to the top of his nose and looked up to see the distance between the ebony carriage and their own disappearing.

“Hold on!” was the only warning he got before the hansom popped up in the air, lifting him out of his seat and sending him back into the tiny floor of the cab.

Wellington pulled himself up to see the black carriage in detail, their own pace now matching it. Standing out in the door was a fist-sized crest centered just underneath the cab's window. He held his glasses steady in order to get a better look at the design of inlaid gold; but as he deciphered the Latin banner running underneath it, the carriage's tinted window slid down.

From its shadowed interior extended a rifle barrel.

Wellington ducked back into his cab's floor just as the bullet shattered one of his windows.

“Would you like a gun now, Welly?” he heard Eliza shout.

“Just drive the bloody cab!” he screamed as a second gunshot ripped through the air.

Their cab swerved away from the carriage, giving it a momentary lead. He heard two whip cracks and, once more, the gap between them closed. Wellington could see the rifle barrel—once again—sliding from the shadows and drawing aim on him.

“
Wellington!
” he heard Eliza cry out as his world went dark.

The gunshot caused his heart to seize up, but when he opened his eyes he saw no telltale mortal wound upon his person. He looked out of his window to see the rifle faltering for a moment, and then attempting to come around again. Sparks flew off the weapon as the second bullet struck, this time knocking it free of the unseen assailant. He watched the rifle topple from the window, and both hansom and carriage bounced as their respective wheels ran over it.

Wellington rapped against the roof of his hansom and shouted, “Lovely shooting, Eliza!”

“I agree,” she replied. “Pity it wasn't me!”

With the black carriage pulling ahead, Wellington dared to peer behind them. His saviour had been a lone rider, also dressed in black, and brandishing a single pistol that he now holstered. This new ally spurred his ride, quickly drawing closer and closer to their own hansom.

The closer this friendly masked rider drew, the less comforted Wellington felt.

He never got a chance to note anything unique about the unknown rider's saddle, attire, or even his horse. The steed, unhindered by an attached coach or multiple fares, slipped through the space between it and the hansom, and then matched pace with Wellington. The fist suddenly shot out of the rider's cloak, striking Wellington's nose hard enough to disorient him and send his glasses once again to the floor. This jab had also shaken him enough that he couldn't slap free of the sudden grip this rider got on his coat.

“Bugger me!” Wellington heard through a haze, and the hansom lurched violently again.

His feet shot out in opposite directions while his hand grabbed hold of a strap meant for fares that preferred assurance when taking corners at a jaunty pace. This left Wellington one hand free to grab the rider's wrist. His body jerked forward and now he felt the air on his face and could see the stones and dirt of the road below passing underneath him in a blur.

The first tug he made against the cab's strap did nothing, but the second one pulled the rider in his saddle enough to loosen his grip. Wellington, his senses now lost in confusion save for one overwhelming desire for preservation, pulled and pushed with all his effort. The rush of air ceased, and the chaos around him abated slightly. He was now lying flat on his back across the hansom's seat.

Something shifted above his head once more, the cab shook, and Wellington looked up to see the black rider by his window, his face completely concealed by a black kerchief save for his eyes. Those eyes studied him as would an owl on catching sight of a lone field mouse.

The hand reached out once again, this time grabbing the side of their hansom.

His grip was fleeting as the hand wrenched back to where the coach whip wrapped around his neck and then went taut. The black rider's arms flail wildly as he plummeted from his saddle.

Wellington didn't hear the rider's neck snap, but the angle of his head on striking the street served as assurance. This saviour-turned-enemy was no longer a concern.

Wellington had just caught his breath when he was opposite of their original prize: the black Concord coach. This time, it was not a rifle barrel he saw, but a small, pearlescent puff of steam. A shrill whine immediately followed, and abruptly stopped when projectiles, small discs, just larger than his fist, their cogs filed to a razor's edge, bit into the wood just beside his head.

“Eliza!” he called through the roof hatch, his eyes not leaving these peculiar weapons.

“You know what would be just ducky right now?” she replied, snapping the reins and pulling
ahead
of the Concord. “A crack shot. You know, someone who would shoot while I drove the bloody hansom? That would just be lovely! I know you expect me to do everything, me being a woman and all . . .”

Then came a sound like Eliza's stiletto knife, only much louder. Wellington looked back at their closing quarry, noticed its new adornment, and swallowed hard. From its wheels' hub extended serrated blades that spun with the carriage's speed. From the glint off the blades, they could easily shred through their hansom.

“Bloody hell!” he spat.

“Welly,” Eliza shouted, “now would be an excellent time to hold on.”

They swerved suddenly towards the curb. Wellington braced himself, his teeth striking one another painfully as one side of their ride popped onto the sidewalk, sending pedestrians into the street. The death carriage continued pursuit, undaunted, much to the dismay of pedestrians caught by its lethal blades. At least two screams cut through the hansom's rumbling. Wellington attempted to turn, to see what damage that black coach reaped, when he was lifted from his seat once again. They had returned to the street, the Concord still behind them but seeming to position itself for one final attack.

Hooves pounded against stone. Wooden frames shuddered and clamored. The air filled with equestrian shrieks of fear, chaos, and anger, and then Wellington felt a surge forward. His grip tightened as their hansom swerved again, but this time skidded to a complete stop, their horse rearing back in protest, flailing its hooves in the air before returning to the ground.

The ebony Concord went rushing by them, its speed and greater weight preventing it from stopping as aptly as they did. Horses and carriage careened into a cart of produce, the Concord's driver launched from his seat with a scream that joined his fallen steeds'.

Wellington lowered himself out of the hansom and walked around to the sprung seat where Eliza remained perched. Behind her was the hansom's driver, looking very pale in contrast to the uniform of his office.

“Welly, pay the driver.” And without a glance behind her, Eliza dismounted. “Pay him well.”

Both their heads snapped to the Concord's wreckage as screams ripped through the street. Its sole fare, the woman they had only managed a glance of back at Doctor Smith's, had been freed from the cab. The gentleman who had apparently assisted her was now dead on the street, two fist-sized discs protruding from his chest. At point-blank range, the lethal gears that had missed Wellington had found their mark in this Samaritan without fail. Onlookers scattered in every direction providing enough cover and chaos for the mistress in black to slip away. Eliza, with Wellington close on her heels, ran into the fray, but her offensive was a futile one.

“Damn it all!” she spat, her eyes searching the alleyways.

“She's gone, Eliza,” Wellington said, his own eyes looking around them, “and we should follow suit.”

Giving a soft huff, Eliza turned to say something in reply, but instead rapped his arm and motioned to the wreckage. “Apparently, someone wasn't as deft.”

Three men stood motionless on the other side of the Concord's scarred, damaged husk. Wellington and Eliza manoeuvred through remaining onlookers to look down on the driver's twisted body, his neck visibly snapped. His arms showed a final effort to save himself, perhaps trying to catch something—anything—in order to avoid the gruesome death that had found him anyway.

Eliza bent down and started feeling inside the man's coat and vest, much to the disgust and disapproval of those watching.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” she began, her tone civil but still with warning, “I doubt if he will mind my searching his pockets. It's not as if he will complain about anything gone missing.”

Wellington heard her hand strike something in the driver's left inside pocket. She pulled from the dead man's coat a small journal, worn and well used. A quick peek inside revealed grids of times and places.

“Eliza,” Wellington whispered into her ear. “People are gathering. We
have
to go!”

With a final glance around them both Wellington and Eliza disappeared down a similar alleyway as the Concord's fatal fare. Behind them, policemen's whistles drowned out the curious queries and concerns of passersby.