Scarlet Devices (9 page)

Matthew had to laugh when he followed them out. Their protection was hardly needed after all. The local police had cordoned off the walkway all the way to the holding area with sawhorses in a double row, and officers on foot and horseback patrolled the resulting corridor in a thick rank. The crowd could barely see the drivers, much less approach them.

It seemed excessive until he glanced back at the front of the hotel and saw the splatters of lurid red paint, the sloppily executed graffiti marring the white marble facade.

YOU WILL ALL BURN IN HELL
, the primary one shouted. Others, less prominent, seemed to hint at whoredom and the evils of the steam engine. He couldn't see much in that quick glance, but what he saw was more than enough to make him wish they'd considered a third row of barricades. And perhaps a few officers with rifle harnesses, just to be on the safe side.

Parnell and Lazaris were both larger men than Matthew, more intimidating, and he was smart enough to be grateful for the added safety their escort provided Eliza. He still wanted to punch both of them in their leering, odious faces, but his logical mind allowed that such was probably uncalled for. It must have shown in his expression, however, as a wry voice beside him remarked that he must be either as ill as Smith-Grenville, or lovesick indeed.

Matthew glowered down at Cantlebury, who grinned even wider than usual in return.

“Lovesick, then. Oh, let me guess. Who,
who
could the young lady be?”

“Shut up, Cantlebury.”

“She's really ensnared you, hasn't she? You're never snappish in the morning, Pence. Don't look them in the eye or kiss them on the lips, my boy, haven't I warned you before? Is all my instruction gone to waste?”

Cantlebury's instruction had been valuable indeed. Dwarf or no, when it came to debauchery and seduction the man had few equals in their class at Oxford, perhaps because he'd made such a study of it. Or perhaps, Matthew had to admit, it was simply that the women seemed to like him so damn much, and he got under their guard when they weren't looking. Despite his appalling taste in jokes and general lack of decorum he was never without a female companion, to Matthew's knowledge. Not even when racing, though people weren't meant to know about that.

“You're right, I suppose.” Matthew forced himself to exhale, to adopt a cynical smile. “It's just a question of finding a distraction, really. Miss Speck is holding up rather well, don't you think, for a spinster of her age? Perhaps I ought to make a foray in that direction.”

“Shut up, Pence.”

Having scored even points, they shook hands like the gentlemen they were before parting ways to go to their separate cars.

I
T WAS A
straight shot from Meridian to St. Louis, rolling hills providing little challenge to the cars. The paved road persisted in some stretches, and the continuing dry weather meant the rougher patches were at least firm and navigable.

Eliza spent the morning playing at follow-the-leader with Van der Grouten and Lazaris. The sleek silver monster and Lazaris's more understated black steamer were both fine machines, worthy competitors, and she found the game of stealing the front position strangely invigorating. For hours they dueled, Lazaris shooting her a wicked grin whenever she overtook or fell behind him, Van der Grouten awarding her a grave nod at each passing.

The wind whipped through her open window, trying to tug her hair loose from under her hat, and dust flew up behind the car in a giddy whirlwind, blinding whoever came directly after. This was the point, she realized for the first time. What they were here for, the reason the others came back to it. The thrill. The chase. The
fun
. She was in the middle of it, and almost didn't mind when she had to give up the lead again to pause in a stream to refill her water tank.

Matthew and the Watchmaker drove up as she primed the pump and saluted one another as they left their vehicles to perform the same duty as Eliza. It was a constant concern, the balance of water and fuel. Eliza felt fortunate that her multi-phased engine, with its hybrid mix of Stirling technology and Dexter's special blend of spirit fuel, ran cooler and more efficiently than almost any other car in the field. But steam was steam and power was power and physics meant that the relationship between the two had its limits. Ergo, driving into streams when the opportunity presented itself.

She was lucky too that she didn't need to leave her vehicle to fill the water tank this way. Matthew's pump primed near the boot of his steamer, and the Watchmaker's water intake seemed to snake up one of the “legs” of his peculiar spider-car.

They waited in companionable silence, all three seeming to appreciate the moment of respite under the warm sun. With the Watchmaker there, Matthew didn't dare approach Eliza for the more personal conversation she feared they must have soon. The water pumps chugged along, but quietly enough that Eliza could hear birds in the nearby trees, a cheerful accompaniment to the rustic idyll of the moment.

The birds flew up all at once, and Eliza had just enough time to register that their behavior seemed odd before the sound of the explosion reached her.

Not so much a sound, she though afterward, as a bone-shaking
whump
, something not just heard but felt. In the moment she knew only panic, the same primal fear that had sent the birds flying. She ducked by instinct, hiding herself below the level of her car windows as she tried to slow her breathing and think.

What in blue blazes just happened
? Her mind threw possibilities at her, all of them awful, and she forced herself to sort things out one thing at a time. Matthew and the Watchmaker? Was it either of their cars? No, because they'd seen the birds when she had; they'd all looked up at once, and just before she ducked she'd seen Matthew shouting and running to his car.

Seen, but not heard, because all she could hear—still—was the reverberation of the blast. Her ears rang with it. But whatever it was, it hadn't happened close enough to injure her or Matthew. Or the Watchmaker. Her heartbeat began to slow to something like a reasonable pace, though her body still vibrated with the urge to run and hide.

She realized her ears were recovering when she heard another sound. Shouting, from close by.

“Eliza!
Eliza!
”

Matthew flung the car door open, nearly spilling her out, and stared down at her with a look of frantic relief.

“You're all right!”

“Yes, I think so. What was that?”

“No idea. It came from somewhere ahead. Were you still in front of the pack?”

“No.” She pushed herself back to a seated position, her scattered wits slowly reassembling themselves. “No, Van der Grouten and Lazaris are both ahead of me. We've been passing the lead all morning. They overtook me when I stopped for water. Five minutes ahead, maybe ten? They'd been out of sight a few minutes when you arrived.”

The Watchmaker's spectacled face appeared behind Matthew's shoulder.

“Van der Grouten was ahead of you?” When she nodded, he raised one skeletal hand to his mouth, visibly shaken. “Oh, Hans . . .”

“Let's get moving. We won't find out anything by staying here. Eliza, you should ride with me.”

Just like that, her good will toward Matthew flew away like a startled bird. “And lose my chance at retaking the lead? I don't think so, thank you. We have no idea what happened, and this is still a race.”

To his credit, he kept his thoughts to himself. With a curt nod, he stalked back to his steam car and began to close the pump mechanism, while the Watchmaker did the same. Eliza had only to pull a lever to ready her car, and as she'd left it idling she was able to beat both men out of the stream and back onto the dirt-and-gravel road.

Matthew would have never let me see this
, was her first thought upon arriving at the scene of the blast. Her second was that she would have been happier not seeing it.

That it had been sabotage was clear. The Victoria Dominion was known for its sinkholes, its perforated limestone underpinnings and karst lands, but this new chasm bore obvious blast burns around the edges. Flames still flickered here and there among the chunks of rubble, creating a hellscape in the midst of the otherwise beautiful bucolic scene. Eliza left her car, barely feeling her feet, buzzing all over again with fear that grew worse as she approached the still-smoldering edge of the hole and peered down.

The air scorched her lungs, and the smell of cordite was fading beneath the growing stench of burning tires and another odor that was horribly familiar. She couldn't put a name to it; it was too far out of context. Then her mind identified it, and she ran for the nearest bush. By the time Matthew and the Watchmaker squealed to a halt behind her car, Eliza had already wiped her mouth clean and kicked some dirt and leaves over the evidence of her violent reaction.

“Don't look!” she called to them, but it was too late. They were already at the brink, already gaping at the horrors the chasm held.

The Watchmaker froze, but Matthew backed away from the edge, one hand pressed firmly to his lips.

“I told you not to look.”

“It smells like—”

“I know.”

Burnt pork
. Neither of them said it, but neither of them would ever forget it.

It was so obviously too late to save Van der Grouten and Lazaris that Eliza didn't even raise the question. Not even for form. But what was obvious to one was not so clear to another, whose emotions might be more personally involved.

“Hans!” shouted the Watchmaker as he skittered over the edge, vanishing below the rim of the sinkhole in a flurry of dust and smoke.

“Jesus, it's still burning. He'll die down there!” Matthew tore after him, but stopped short of following him into the pit. “Watchmaker! Don't be a fool, man, it's too late!”

“No!” came the reply, the sound distorted by the cavern. And then a wail, piercing and anguished:
“Noooooo!”

“He'll burn too if he doesn't get out of there,” Matthew muttered.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Eliza stepped past him, testing the edge of the pit with a stamp of her toe. “The footing's firm enough here. Do you have a rope? I have one somewhere if you don't.”

“Are you planning to lasso him?”

“Hardly. I was planning to go in after him.”

“You were—are you stark staring mad, woman?” Matthew's face, already red from the heat of the blast site, grew redder still. Veins stood out at his temples. Eliza had never seen him so worked up.

“Well, one of us has to. While you're standing there trying to prove your masculinity, the Watchmaker's down there broiling!”

“If I wanted to prove my masculinity this is not how I would go about it.”

Her body felt as taut and strained as his looked, angled in for the fight, but conflicted as to motive. The heat between them was not entirely anger, not entirely fear either, but a dangerous brew of those and other instincts.

The shuffle of rocks drew their attention down to the pit again. The Watchmaker was climbing back up, tears streaking the soot that covered his face. He slid on the loose surface, losing purchase more than once. Matthew lay down as far over the edge as he could and reached a hand down, helping the other man back to safety.

“You're on fire,” Eliza pointed out, feeling unearthly calm because she was buzzing with adrenaline again and time was passing so slowly. She flipped up the long tail of the Watchmaker's black driving coat and used the fabric to pat out the flickering ember on his back.

“It would have gone out on its own,” he told her. “The coat is fireproof.”

He stumbled a few feet away from the pit and collapsed to the ground, pressing his head against his bony knees, and began to sob.

Still in shock, miserable that she had no help to offer the disconsolate man or the two who had died, Eliza turned away and found herself inches from Matthew's chest. It seemed inevitable, taking that final step toward him, leaning into him for support. His arms encircled her as if they had been waiting to do that very thing, one hand finding its way to her waist and the other cradling the back of her head.

“I'm sorry,” he said after a moment. “I shouldn't have shouted. I was frightened for you.”

“No, I was about to jump into a flaming pit. Feel free to shout at me any time I seem likely to do that again.”

She felt his chuckle more than heard it, pressed as she was against his waistcoat. Felt too the hitch of a sob that broke it halfway through.

“I would have gone in after you, you know. Even without a fireproof coat.”

Eliza squeezed him tighter, stroking his back to soothe him. “I know.”

The crunch of tires on rough road alerted them, and they pulled apart as another car swung into line behind Matthew's and the Watchmaker's. It was Moreau, who approached the scene with baffled horror on his face and backed away with a string of French profanities that Eliza had to pretend not to understand.

Madame Barsteau, arriving moments later, reacted in much the same vein. Whitcombe was next; he heaved his bulk over to the lip of the crater and stared down at the wreckage, scanning its perimeter and not saying a word.

Miss Speck and Cantlebury, evidently driving in tandem, pulled up behind Eliza's steamer and joined the huddled group. Whitcombe soon pulled Cantlebury and Matthew away, however, leaving the women and Moreau standing over the still-weeping Watchmaker.

Moreau made the first move, crouching near the man and murmuring to him until he lifted his head enough to whisper a response. As they talked, Eliza explained what little she knew to the two other women. Mostly they all tried not to stare at the wreckage in the pit, and failed.

“Definitely a bomb,” Whitcombe confirmed, returning after a few minutes of reconnaissance with his colleagues. “The tripwire's still attached to that tree over there, and there on the other side as well. The blast marks suggest the charge itself was buried, and I think the road surface may have been treated with an accelerant, based on the char. They may not have bargained on the sinkhole being triggered, but there's no way to know for certain at the moment.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about it, monsieur,” Madame Barsteau pointed out, her implication clear.

Whitcombe shrugged it off. “My family ran a munitions factory during the war and I came up there as an apprentice and journeyman. Then the war ended, we retooled to peacetime production and eventually I went off to read classics. But if there's one thing I know about besides the ancient Greeks, it's explosives. Which means if I wanted to get away with sabotage, they're the last thing I'd use. I'm not fatally stupid.”

She nodded her concession, and Whitcombe continued. “This was subtle, though. If I hadn't known what to look for, I probably would have thought this was just another sinkhole, with tragically coincidental timing. Most people would assume the fall made the cars explode, because they wouldn't realize the blast marks indicated the presence of other explosives. They'd have attributed this to accident, not sabotage.”

“We need to reach the next town and alert somebody,” said Cantlebury. “And send somebody to deal with . . . the remains.”

“It would be faster to go back to that last city we drove through,” suggested Miss Speck, to the disapproval of all the others.

“Perhaps that's what they're expecting!”

“Why give them what they want?”

“What if some of the others took a different road? We must go ahead to the checkpoint to warn them.”