Phoenix Rising (38 page)

“You are a perceptive man, Mister Books. May I call you Wellington?”

One body had been gutted, or perhaps a more accurate description in Harrison Thorne's casebook was that most of the muscular system had been removed. Another corpse was completely drained of blood.

“Human tissue?”

“More muscle and sinew, Wellington. Consider it for a moment—a renewable source of elasticity, durable, and impressive in the amount of weight and tension it can stand. Granted, you have to lubricate it with the appropriate substance, maintain a constant temperature for said substance which the Mechamen can do quite aptly . . .”

Wellington cleared his throat. “So,” his voice trembled, “the bones?”

“A failed experiment, I am afraid,” Havelock said, his voice sounding as if he had just dropped an egg on to the kitchen floor. “It stood to reason that if the muscles and blood were the missing key, what could we accomplish employing a true skeletal frame to the Mark I?” He turned off the motor, and placed his hand on the clockwork heart, lightly thrumming his fingers on top of it. “I had no idea bones were so fragile.”

What Wellington had begun to think of as ingenuity was now revealed as an abomination. A strange dizziness threatened to overtake him when Havelock snapped him to a terrifying state of sobriety.

“And considering the amount of undesirables cluttering the streets of London, our supply of raw materials is virtually inexhaustible—and the much cheaper option.”

Wellington took in a deep breath. He knew he was not just noticing a strange scent that faintly reminded him of a crematorium. That would have been too coincidental. He gave a slight nod and then tore his gaze away from one of the heart's belts and fixed it instead on Havelock. It appeared the doctor had been staring at him for some time.

“Perhaps I am unorthodox in my research. Perhaps my ends are so abhorrent that they cannot justify their means. While the Society knows what I am capable of, you, Wellington,
appreciate
what I do. I have spent so long looking for a like mind.”

“I see,” he said, the sweat now lightly tickling the back of his neck.

Havelock grinned. “This use of undesirables as spare parts may seem a bit barbarous to an outsider, I must concur, but this bold move was essential to advance the project as well as continue the ideals of the Society. We are dedicated to the betterment and preservation of the Empire. This would mean dramatic measures to keep its numbers in check.

“And this is where you are needed, Wellington. A mind such as yours is not only a benefit to the Society, but a treasure to me. Currently, my confidant is, as I'm sure you have surmised, Lord Devane.”

“I was uncertain if—”

Wellington was going to politely insinuate that Devane was merely the sycophant found in every group, but Havelock cut him off with, “The man is a complete and utter dolt. Yes, he serves me well. Yes, he has some influence in the right circles. But he is a complete bombast. He understands the spoils of war, but that is not what I need. I need a confidant that understands what goes into the preparation for battle. You, as an Archivist with a passion for logistics, respect this kind of preparation.”

He cleared his throat. “I suppose I do.”

“That is why you have caught my attentions, young Wellington Books. This is a very good thing for you. While I do admire your tenacity for whatever clandestine organisation you serve, please remember—as long as I remain interested in you, you and Miss Braun remain alive. Regard that as incentive in your joining our Society.”

“But from what it seems, Doctor Havelock, I have a place in your order. My partner, Miss Braun, does not.”

“Oh I'm sure we'll find a place for her, somewhere.” He chuckled and said with a wry smile, “There's always tending to the needs of our Brethren. A few restraints, and she will serve us quite admirably.”

“Doctor Havelock,” Wellington began, “what you have shared with me in confidence is most . . .”
Terrifying? Monstrous? Delusional?
Instead, he chose “. . . impressive—I will not deny that. But if I fully comprehend what you are asking of me, I am going to have to decline your most gracious offer. You would have me betray that which I have sworn an oath to. Simply swearing another to the Phoenix Society would carry little merit—how would you ever believe me?”

Havelock's face darkened, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of respect. The kind, Wellington surmised, bestowed on an opponent, just before the first pawn moves.

“A pity,” he sighed. “I had high hopes.”

“I am a realist,” Wellington cleared his throat. “I was dead the moment you brought me down here.” The doctor's head tipped to one side, but Wellington shook his own as if contradicting an unsaid compliment. “You knew my name, of course, from the lovely
signora
—but my partner's name? I can only assume you've read my journal.”

“There is only so much you can read in a half hour's time.”

“Naturally,” Wellington said with a slight nod. “But you've read enough to know my character.”

Havelock nodded. “Perhaps I was hoping to appeal to your curiousity, but it seems I overestimated your intellect.”

“No,” Wellington returned gently. “You underestimated my ethics.” He extended his hand. “Thank you, again, Doctor Havelock. I would now very much like to return to my cell. I left my partner with a right bastard.”

“Pearson,” Havelock called over Wellington's shoulder. He glanced at the extended hand and turned away from it, replacing his thick work gloves. “Rather charming—your sense of nobility for a common strumpet.”

Wellington's jaw clenched at such a label, but he managed to speak relatively calmly. “Oh, it's not Miss Braun I am concerned about,” he said, turning to face the gun-wielding butler. They had just reached the gangway leading back to the detention block when he stopped and faced Havelock again. “And I would recommend jumping to the final few entries of my journal. Eliza D. Braun may be a host of many things, but ‘common' she is not.”

Wellington placed his hands in his pockets, turned, and resumed the walk back to his cell, whispering to himself the best countdown he could estimate.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In Which Miss Braun Displays Her Skills
and Mr. Books' Journal Comes in Handy

D
evane's smile was that of a shark, and whatever was to come Eliza was glad that Wellington would not be there to see it.

In too many nations, in too many hairy situations, Eliza had felt that particular predatory look directed at her. It would have been too much to hope for a clean death.

He pulled up a stool and looked at her hard—drawing out the moment he had promised her. Devane's eyes raked over her, the kind of examination Columbus might have leveled upon America—sizing up what he could get out of it.

“I am so glad you are not, in fact, silent.” His voice was low and conversational, while his eyes remained fixed. “I prefer my women at least to be able to scream.”

Eliza tilted her head and returned the same smile, “I doubt that anything you could do to me would make me scream. Amuse, perhaps. Laugh? Most likely.”

That slight won her a raised eyebrow. “Oh, I am going to enjoy this. It has been a very long time since I have found a little kitty with some fight in her.”

“You really must visit New Zealand then—we have suffragists there that would love to be alone in a room with you.” Her survival instinct was kicking in, telling her to keep him talking, while she examined the room for something to give her advantage. The image of what the two Kates would do to this foul creature, though, provided some comfort.

“The colonies?” Devane made a face as if he'd just smelt something rancid under his nose. “Damned if I would do any such thing!”

“Oh, come along now, Barty,” she taunted, her voice dipping into its lower register as she let Wellington's coat fall to the cell floor, “are you, presumably one of the finest examples of British breeding, afraid of us wee savages?” Eliza then nodded, experiencing a revelation. “Or are you afraid of not measuring up to the colonials—brave enough, bold enough, and possessing far bigger balls than you—who did what you were incapable of doing: dare the unknown.”

The smile faded.

“Ah well then.” She sighed, shaking her head ruefully, “A shame you cannot measure up to New Zealand's standards. Must be why that striking wife of yours is as skittish as a frightened kitten. She's afraid people will find out about your shortcomings.”

The stool clattered behind him as he bolted to his feet, his face scarlet, the muscles tightening in his neck. The speed at which he had snatched up the scalpel was impressive. He now pointed the instrument at her, and in the cell's dim light it still managed to glint.

“I am too much of a man for her,” he hissed. “I am a man of many appetites.”

“Really, Barty?” she sneered. “I'm sure all the East End whores tell you that, provided you slip them an extra ha'penny or two?” All she needed was for him to take another step closer or even throw the scalpel at her. “I wonder how much of a bawdy jest is made at your expense at the pubs of London?”

She could see his face twitch slightly. He was almost hers.

“Holding back on New Zealand, Barty?” Eliza purred, undoing one of the ties between her breasts.

The muslin parted slightly, revealing their curves to him. Merely shifting her stance, she knew, would give him a delightful glimpse of what her chemise concealed. Her new stance would also provide her more solid footing.

Her whisper seemed to fill the entire detention area. “What are you waiting for?”

His laughter robbed Eliza of her own smile. Devane might be a shark, but he was not a stupid one. “I have heard about your peculiar talents, you little minx—so I think I will have to decline your offer.”

He had something else planned and Eliza was fairly sure it involved the scalpel and other assorted instruments on the tray now in front of him.

Devane unwrapped a bundle lying next to the other devices. Her other
pounamu
pistol, various knives, and lock picks were spread out before her, like accoutrements for surgery.

“Quite an arsenal for a well-bred lady of”—he let out a little sneering laugh—“New Zealand.”

“I like to keep ahead of fashion,” Eliza replied, aching to have her hand wrapped around just one of those items. “If you are confused as to how they work I would be so pleased to give you a demonstration.”

Devane grinned. “Oh, I am sure you would, but again I must decline the offer, with regret.”

Eliza could feel her cocksure, devil-may-care front begin to slip as inside she trembled at a memory. She had spent some nightmarish weeks in the Kaiser's cells, the pet project of the dungeon's interrogator. They had not broken her, but it was not an experience she wished to revisit. Devane's perusal of his implements, though, brought those fears back with haunting clarity.

Devane, however, was not a professional like the Kaiser's man.
This is personal, Eliza
, she assured herself. “So am I to assume it will be this, then—torture, then a bit of necrophilia, just so I don't reveal your problems—”

Her insult stopped short when she caught the flare in his eyes, not of anger but of wanton desire. Her gaze traveled down and she realised that the movement in his trousers had only grown as they talked. “By the gods,” she snapped, “You're
enjoying
this—you
want
me to insult you?”

Devane let out a little strangled sigh, as if he had been found out.

Eliza suddenly found herself at the end of a rather troublesome conundrum: if she surrendered, he would just help himself, but he would get his jollies if she struggled.
Bloody wonderful
, she thought.

No, her mother had not bred a shrinking violet; and with this perverted pom the pride and the honor of New Zealand and its women were Eliza's to defend—none of these known for their meekness. She would not be a victim, and neither would she grant her opposition's fantasies. One man would not get the better of her.

Devane must have caught that flash in her own eyes. He took up the remaining
pounamu
pistol of hers, and lost himself in its detail.

Even at this moment Eliza still cherished those gifts. She would be damned if she were to take a bullet from her own guns.

Her captor's hand tightened on the pistol. “I don't doubt if you were to reach any of these quaint contraptions, you would dispatch me with all speed. That is why, to get to them, you will need to get past me.”

The morning's hunt had revealed Devane as a crack shot. She could never close the current distance without Devane stopping her. Two steps closer and she would have a better chance. Three steps and he was hers.

His free hand reached across to the tray and hooked a pair of cuffs. With a light clatter, he tossed them at her feet. “A little insurance.” He tucked the keys into his pocket, “I like a challenge but not that much. A chap must learn to protect himself.”

Eliza looked at the restraints at her feet with careful consideration. Then she looked up, “You know, a lady prefers diamonds . . .”

That, he found funny. “As if
you
are a lady?” He aimed the pistol down a little. “I could just shoot you in the gut. It's a painful way to die, but you'd be alive long enough to enjoy my attentions.”

Devane would do it too. Considering what she knew of him, blood was probably just one more in an expansive list of perversions.

Taking her time, Eliza picked up the cuffs and snapped them shut on each of her wrists as he instructed. She quickly ran through her memory of what the Kates had taught her, the different scenarios they had run through. The elder Kate, her hair neatly coiffed, instructed her in three different ways to incapacitate a man while hands were tied. None of the situations practiced back home had ever resembled one like this. Eliza glanced at the bench out of the corner of her eye. He was unlikely to let her get close enough.

Devane, on seeing her secured as she was, wasted no more time and closed the distance on her, slipping across the cell as silently as an owl would descend on a field mouse. He lifted her chin up with the
pounamu
pistol's muzzle, forcing her gaze into his. The cool kiss of Eliza's own gun against her jugular was not a pleasant sensation.

Using the short chain between the cuffs as a makeshift leash he tugged her over to the wall to take advantage of a “convenient” hook overhead. When he hoisted her by the cuffs with his free arm onto the hook, she felt her arms and sides stretch. Eliza would be forced to stand on tiptoes to take the tension off her shoulders.

At least she now had an idea of Devane's strength. To lift her like that and still keep her at gunpoint? Strong
and
coordinated
.
This just kept getting better and better.

Satisfied that she was helpless, her tormentor took a step back, tracing her jaw with the barrel of her gun as he spoke. “Now my sweet little morsel from the colonies,” he said shuddering lightly as he let the barrel of her gun slink down to trace the exposed curve of her left breast, “I'll give you an education in proper English manners.”

“I thought it was all about being a gentleman,” Eliza commented, covertly eyeing up if the bench was close enough for her to reach if she swung her legs out.

He drew closer, caressing her check with his breath. “I can be a gentleman when required.” Devane let his eyes rake over her as if she were a Christmas present and he a very naughty boy who had crept down to enjoy an early unwrapping. “But for a little savage like yourself I think something more primitive is called for.”

He pulled apart his shirt, his eyes remaining fixed on Eliza's neckline as he backed up to the tray. Taking his time, Devane set down her pistol and picked up the scalpel again.

She knew his sort—the kind that needed to see blood as well as inflict pain.

Suddenly, he was on her. His hand clamped around Eliza's neck, forcing her to keep eye contact. “I wonder if ladies of the colonies taste different from the ladies bred here.”

She felt the sting of the scalpel against her arm, and she felt a trickle of blood run down her arm. That didn't repulse her.

The feel of Devane's tongue against her skin did.

His tongue was lapping up the blood, and on reaching the small wound he suckled lightly. With him so close to her, Eliza could feel his erection pressing against her.

With a delighted gasp, he pulled away from her arm, grabbed Eliza's hair, and tugged hard. Her surprised wince was enough for Devane to shove his tongue into her mouth. She could taste traces of her blood on his tongue, smell the sweat on his skin, and he pressed himself even closer to her. The harder he pulled on her hair, the harder he kissed. His moans were sickening, even more sickening than the feel of his hand cupping her breast through the muslin of her undergarments, his forefinger and thumb teasing her nipple.

That was the mistake she was hoping for.

Devane had kept his eyes all weekend on Eliza's breasts, but his eyes should have been on other parts of her anatomy—her arms, in particular. Naturally modest gentlewomen of the Empire did not possess upper body strength worth noting, confining themselves to proper activities like embroidery and flower arranging. Eliza D. Braun considered herself blessed that she had never been modest nor proper. She had spent a great of time in the exercise facilities of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. And then there was her youth in New Zealand where the Maori had taught her to fight, not just to win, but to survive.

Eliza brought her teeth together, trapping Devane's thick tongue in her mouth. He screamed, louder still when she lifted herself by the arms. She bit down even harder, and Devane finally released her. That was when she trapped his neck between her calves, one across the nape, the other across his throat. With her legs locking him in a vise grip, she pulled him closer, using his frame as leverage to unhook herself from the wall. She held on to the hook with her hands and pushed him back with a hard, swift kick to the face.

Devane had just righted himself when a serviceable two-fisted uppercut lifted him off his feet. Eliza couldn't be sure, but it was quite possible she'd broken his nose. All for the good—the intense pain of it would hopefully keep him pliable for the next few minutes.

Her cuffed hands now looped around his throat, and—just to emphasise this spectacular turn of events—Eliza quickly snatched up another blade from Devane's tray and pressed its sharp point tight against his jugular.

“One move,” she hissed into his ear, “and I'll give you another mouth to leer out of.”

When he made to reply Eliza jerked the chain around his neck tight. “Did I say I wanted you to speak? Shut it!”

The clatter of the corridor's hatch unlocked and groaned open. Wellington appeared, staring wide-eyed at her with an equally wide-eyed but better-armed Pearson at his back. The tall man swiftly leveled Eliza's second pistol straight at the back of the Archivist's head, creating just the scenario Eliza did not wanted to be stuck in.