A Clockwork Heart (18 page)

And as I listened to them speak, I took note of their wishes. For even bound and held in this place, I still might have a few tricks up my sleeves. And sometimes, for those who are true of heart, wishes can come true.

CHAPTER 24

“Does it ever stop raining in this place?” Loisa scoffed as she stepped out of the cab. She lifted her shawl of the finest Spanish mantilla lace over her top hat like a veil to protect her curls from the damp.

Elle strode out into the street to look for a cab but, as was invariably the case when seeking a cab in London, there was never one to be found when needed.

They turned into Charing Cross Road and started walking toward Trafalgar Square.

“I'll try on this side of the road,” Loisa said. “You take the other.

“Jellied eels, madam? Mine's the best in the West End,” a coster with a barrow perched on the street corner said as she passed.

“No, thank you,” Elle said quickly. She had never been partial to eels boiled in vinegar and suspended in a jelly made from their own cartilage.

“I have oysters too. Freshly caught,” he said.

“Thank you, but no,” she said. Then she paused and looked at the coster. He was a surly-looking man with a salt and pepper beard did not do much to cover up the scars from whatever painful diseases had marred his life. His eyes were sharp though. This was a man who missed very little.

“Perhaps you might help me with some information,” she said after thinking for a moment.

“Well, I can't say as I know much. I tend to stick to minding me own business, I do.”

“That a fact now?” Elle arched her eyebrows. “And you work this corner every day?”

“Every day that God gives,” the coster said.

“Hmm. Perhaps I will try some of your eels after all,” Elle said. She opened her holdall and pulled out two pence.

The coster took a moment to examine the money in the light of his lantern before he started spooning eels into a newspaper funnel.

“Down the road, opposite that corner, lives a gentleman. He has sandy hair and wears glasses,” Elle said.

The coster nodded slowly. “There's many gentlemen with sandy hair round here, madam,” the he said.

“He's a fellow who likes books. Involved in all sorts of funny magic business. Comes and goes at all hours. Have you seen him today?”

The coster pursed his lips. “I may have.”

“Did you see anything unusual happen in Denmark Street today?”

“Perhaps,” the coster said scratching his ear.

Elle pulled another coin out of her holdall. “I will give you this shiny new shilling if you tell me what you saw.

The coster palmed the coin and smiled at her. It seemed that they were now speaking the same language.

“It were them gypsies. The one had a peacock feather in his hat. That's the evil eye, that is. They came here in the afternoon while I was manning my pitch across the road. Carried him out and loaded him into a carriage as if he were a side of beef. I thought it must have been a gambling debt or something. Didn't think more of it.”

“Do you know where they went?”

The coster rubbed his jaw “They headed off toward Tottenham Court Road. Could be anywhere by now.”

“Thank you kindly.”

“Much obliged, madam,” the coster said. “Bless you and have a good evening.”

“I will,” she said. “And where would I go if I were out to meet the traveling folk?” she said, trying for just that little bit of extra information.

The coster scratched his head. “Well, you might want to have a look at the Black Stag pub. It's in the East End, mind. But there are loads of traveling folk in the area and the landlord lets them drink there sometimes. One of the few houses round there who do.”

“The Black Stag,” Elle said. “Thank you for the tip.”

“Do take care if you go there though. The Black Stag is no place for a fine lady on her own,” the coster said.

“I found one!” Loisa called out from the inside of a steam cab that drew up beside her.

Elle smiled at the coster. “Well then, it's a good thing I am not a fine lady then. Good evening to you, sir.”

She stepped into the cab and sat down next to Loisa.

“Are those eels?” Loisa wrinkled her nose at the fishy vinegary smell that emanated from the newspaper parcel Elle held.

“They are indeed. Horrible smelling things, aren't they?”

“So what did the man say? I presume you did not purchase those for the purpose of eating them?” Loisa said.

“I know my father is quite fond of these, and I'm sure Mrs. Hinges will make them presentable with a few slices of brown bread and butter, but yes I do believe, my dear baroness, that we have ourselves a clue.”

Loisa looked at her with expectation.

“After the monastery, we're going to the pub,” she said.

“Well, this isn't going very well,” Elle said. The cab had dropped them off just outside Battersea Park and at that moment they were standing, ankle-deep in cold mud. Water dripped down in big, insulting drops from the branches of the trees above them. One hit her right on that warm spot where ear and neck connect and she shivered.

“This is the mist that draws forth the Tickers,” Loisa remarked, unaffected by the cold. “But they must go somewhere during the day. Do you think that this place might be it?”

The spark monastery loomed up ahead of them. Its four chimneys were silent and ominous against the gunmetal sky.

“If Jasper's newspaper clippings are anything to go by. I must admit that it does make for a really good place to hide. Spacious and with as much spark as is needed to create these monsters,” Elle said.

Loisa lifted her head and sniffed the air. “I smell death,” she murmured.

“Oi, what are you two lovelies doing standing out here, eh?” someone said behind them.

Elle and Loisa both turned to face the man who spoke, but they were blinded by the bright beam of a spark lantern that splashed light across the grass and trees.

“The park is closed to the public. But seeing as you are here, why don't you two pretty darlings come over here so we can have a little cuddle? There's a penny in it for each of you if you do,” one of them said.

“That one is mine
,
” Loisa said softly.

Elle nodded and stepped aside.

Quicker than the eye could see, Loisa leapt into action and grabbed the man. She tilted his head and she sank her fangs into his throat.

Elle shuddered. She had never seen a Nightwalker feed on a person before and it was utterly terrifying. Loisa was every bit the predator the books and legends spoke of.

Suddenly Loisa let out a choking sound. She let go of the man and she fell to the ground gasping and clutching her throat.

“Loisa!” Elle ran over to where she lay curled up in the ground.

“Silver!” Loisa gasped. She doubled over and started vomiting bile as black as peat onto the ground.

Elle held her friend by the shoulders as she retched. “What do I do?”

“Run. Get away from here,” Loisa choked out between bouts of retching.

The man she had attacked started laughing as he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his neck. “That's right, little Nightwalker. Thought you could have a bite of old Tom.” He laughed again. “You nearly got me once, but not twice my dear. I've been drinking my silver every day with my porridge, just in case we met again so there's to be no sipping from my neck, all right?” He let out a shrill whistle. “Vargo. Hunch. It's the two from the docks. I knew they'd be back for more trouble. Let's load them up. The dark one will be dead soon, but I'm sure the mistress won't say no to the other. At the very least, she'll want to know where her ticker gone off to. She's not very big, but who knows, the mistress might have a use for her.”

Loisa was on her hands and knees, dry-heaving. Her body arched in spasms every time she retched.

Elle reached inside her coat and pulled out her Colt. “No amount of silver will stop a bullet to the chest, so don't even think about it,” she said to the two lumbering assailants who were bearing down on her. She cocked the revolver with a satisfying click. “I have one bullet to the head and one to the heart for each of you, with plenty to spare in case I miss, if you take even one step closer,” she said.

They hesitated. One of the men raised his hands in a gesture of submission.

“Loisa, can you stand?” Elle said.

Loisa groaned and gagged, but she nodded.

“Then on the count of three, I am going to lift you so we can run all right?

Loisa nodded again.

“One … two … three!” Elle slipped her arm around Loisa and dragged her up off the ground. The two of them stumbled past the men. They had spread out to catch them as if they were locked in some bizarre rugby game where Loisa was the ball. Elle felt her shoulder connect with the soft part of someone's abdomen. The man gasped with surprise and stumbled backward.

“Get them! Get them!” one of them shouted as Elle and Loisa broke through the line and ran for cover. Elle skidded and slid under the dark branches of yew hedge. They landed in the freezing mulch where they lay for long silent moments, hoping the men would miss them in the dark.

Loisa groaned and retched again. She looked to be in a terrible way.

“They went this way,” someone said. She heard the trudge of hob-nailed boots on wet mulch just outside their makeshift hiding place and she held Loisa tighter, lest she make another sound that might give them away.

But her attempts were in vain. “Got ya!” one of the men crowed. Elle felt a huge hand grab her by the collar of her coat in order to drag them out of the hedge. Without thinking, Elle turned and fired at her assailant.

Two shots, fired in quick succession rang out across the silent park.

The man let go of Elle and she heard him drop to the ground. He gave a strange little gurgling grunt, and then he lay perfectly still.

“Loisa, you have to run with me. Just for a little while, all right?” she whispered.

The Nightwalker nodded and Elle dragged her up.

The two remaining henchmen were crouched over their fallen comrade on the other side of the hedge, but they both sat up when Elle and Loisa stepped out of the hedge.

“No one comes a step closer, do you understand? I don't want any more trouble,” Elle said. “Just let us go and nobody else needs to get hurt this evening. Understood?”

The one she thought was called Vargo lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender.

Elle did not wait to see if he meant it. She turned Loisa round and together they stumbled along the pathway and into the street. For once the Fates were looking out for them and to her unending relief, an unsuspecting steam cab pulled up just as they stepped onto the pavement.

“Grosvenor Square. And be as quick as you can about it. This is an emergency,” she told the cab driver.

“Will fresh blood help?” Elle whispered to Loisa as they rattled through the streets. Loisa was so pale that her skin shone with a bluish hue in the half-light of the spark lamps that shone through the cab windows in bursts as they drove past. Black veins spread under her fine skin as the silver made its way though her system.

The Nightwalker nodded. “It helps us heal,” she mumbled.

Elle sat Loisa up against the seat and wrenched herself out of her damp leather coat.

“Wha–what are you doing?” Loisa mumbled. Her head lolled to the side.

Elle rolled up her sleeve to expose her wrist. “I am not going to let you die in the back of this cab, Loisa. Not while I can do something about it.” She held her wrist before the Nightwalker's white lips. “Take some blood from me.”

Loisa shook her head. “No.”

“This is a matter of life and death. Do it, damn you. Before I lose my nerve and you die.”

Loisa's eyes flew open at the sensation of Elle's pulse against her lips.

“Go on! What are you waiting for?”

Elle gritted her teeth and closed her eyes as she felt the sharp jab of fang pierce her skin.

Loisa started making strange little slurping sounds that chilled Elle to the bone, but she held herself resolute. They both knew that without blood her friend would die.

Seconds ticked by as they sat, huddled together in the dark. Elle felt herself grow woozy and she gently took Loisa's face into her hands. The Nightwalker stopped feeding and fell back against the seat. Without missing a beat, Elle quickly wrapped her handkerchief around her wrist, sealing off the puncture wound that marred her arm.

“We are now blood sisters. Forevermore,” Loisa mumbled. She closed her eyes with a little sigh.

Elle watched her for a few anxious moments. The black under Loisa's skin looked like it was slowly receding. She would probably need more nourishment before she was well, but hopefully she would make it.

And so, for the second time in three nights, Elle found herself dragging an injured loved one up the stairs of Greychester House while the doctor was summoned. But at least this time there was hope. They had found the lair of the necromancer.

CHAPTER 25

A large man in a bowler hat stepped off the train at Paddington Station. He had no luggage, save for a brown leather Gladstone bag that he carried with him always.

Patrice Chevalier had come to London.

Outside the station he paused and sniffed the air. It had stopped raining, but the air was thick with freezing fog. It was the kind of damp that soaked into the lungs, filling them with the miasmic pneumonia that spelled certain death.

Unperturbed by the damp, he held up his arm and hailed a cab. “Soho if you please,” he said in heavily accented English.

“Walk on!” said the cabbie as the Hackney lurched forward. Patrice studied the clockwork taximeter whirr and tick as the fare mounted up. London was such an insanely expensive city. He hated coming here.

Outside Dean Street he bade the cabdriver to wait for him. His business here would be quick, he was sure.

Upstairs, Police Commissioner Willoughby was at lunch. He was slicing into the hunk of rare roast beef that sat in a reddish pool in the middle of his plate.

“Police Commissioner … no don't get up,” Patrice said smoothly as the startled man recognized him. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Of course,” Willoughby stuttered. He put down his knife and fork and wiped his face. “I am so sorry, Mr. Chevalier. I was not expecting you.”

“I like to drop in on my contacts unannounced. It keeps them on their feet.” He pulled out one of his little black cigarillos and lit it, blowing a fine plume of scented smoke into the air. “It has been a while, though. How are things?”

“Well, I am glad you stopped by,” the commissioner beamed, regaining his composure. “How are your clients? I trust they are well?”

Patrice gave him a sly smile. “I have various clients, Commissioner. Some are better than others.” Of course, the commissioner was referring to the Council of Warlocks. Patrice had kept him on the payroll for some time—even while he was working with Marsh. Sometimes it paid to have a few secret resources.”

The commissioner pushed his plate aside. “Well, I think I might have some excellent news for them. You know our little problem … the one with the red hair?”

“Yes …” Patrice said slowly.

“Well, I think I might have dispensed with the obstacle. Let's just say that I had an important task for the good viscount and it has taken him away from home. The way is open for your clients to take what is theirs.”

“Is that so?” Patrice said. He did his best to keep his face impassive, but Wolloughby was right, this was excellent news.

“It is indeed.”

“Do I want to know how you achieved this most interesting state of affairs?”

“It's up to you. If you don't ask, I won't tell. But let's just say he's not coming back.”

“Well then, I shall have to pay the lady a visit. Payment will be forthcoming once I have confirmation that your plan has actually worked.”

The commissioner grinned with glee. “I had the lady in my office just a few days ago. I had her in readiness to deliver her to you, all trussed up like the pretty little goose she is, but her dastardly uncle intervened and so I had no choice but to let her go.”

Patrice let out a chuckle. “I'd hardly call Eleanor a pretty goose. She is most extraordinarily talented when it comes to escaping capture, but you did your best, sir, and I will not hold it against you.” He picked up his bowler hat and stood. “I had better be off then. I am pleased with your news.”

The commissioner nodded and picked up his knife and fork. He stabbed into his cooling beef even as Patrice turned to go.

“Battersea Monastery,” Patrice said as soon as he was seated back in the cab.

“Are you sure?” the driver said. “It's closed to the public. Lots of rumors of trouble in the area, so it's best avoided, sir.”

Patrice inclined his head. “I have an appointment. Now take me there before I change my mind and find another fare. And don't think I'll pay for the trip here, either.” Patrice was not interested in debating this with a mere driver and so he balled his fist and stared at him with the promise of violence clear in his eyes.

The cabbie did not quibble, but drove off at top speed.

As they made their way through the congested streets, Patrice was pleased to note that London had not changed much since he last visited. Apart from the extension of the rail system, it was still the same cold, damp congested place.

They slowed to allow a spark-tram to pass. A little newspaper boy ran up next to the carriage and thrust a newspaper at the window. It read
SPARK
SHORTAGES
PLUNGE
CITY
INTO
CRISIS
in big bold letters.

Patrice smiled to himself. This place had not even begun to know what the word crisis meant. It was going to be so satisfying to see these smug people running from the terror that he, Patrice Chevalier or Sir Patrice Abercrombie as he was known in the northern parts of the country, had brought about. Yes, it would be satisfying indeed. But first he had to go and see what his newest clients were up to. The Consortium paid well and he was curious to see the work they had told him about. With their money and influence, they were so much more powerful than the Council. Eleanor would have to wait until later. If Marsh was really gone, then a few hours would not matter. He would pick her up on his way back. The thought of her surprise at seeing him again made him smile. Yes, it would be sweet to deliver the Oracle to the Council on his return journey. This little trip to London was proving to be most profitable indeed.

The driver refused to drive into the grounds, but instead dropped him off outside the park. This meant he had to walk the last part—a task he did not relish with his bad leg. In fact, his bad leg was something he preferred not to think about at all, if he could help it. The knowledge that he was only half a man who existed partly in the Realm of Light and partly in the Realm of Shadow was a bitter topic indeed.

Outside the heavy oak doors he paused to knock with his walking cane.

In answer, a tiding of magpies rose up from the rooftops. “Here! Here! Here!” they crowed as they circled the two lightning collector chimneys high up in the air above him.

The door opened with a low creak to reveal a monk dressed in the gray robes that the electromancers wore.

“Good afternoon, monsieur. We have been expecting you,” the monk said. He stepped aside to allow Patrice access.

Patrice nodded at the monk and stepped inside.

“Please follow me,” the monk said.

Patrice suppressed a shiver as they walked. He did not think it possible, but the inside of the monastery was even damper and colder than it was outside.

He wiggled his knee to allay the aching tingle that ran up and down the bottom half of his body.

“Everything all right, sir?” the monk asked.

“Fine. It's an old injury that plays up when the weather is bad,” Patrice said.

He was led down into a long corridor that took them through one of the refectories and on to the control room.

Patrice felt a chill pass over his shoulders. This was a strange place and it made his skin crawl. But he was not a man given to fancy or squeamishness and so he walked on as if he were on a gentle afternoon promenade on the shores of the Mediterranean.

The lady he came to see was waiting for him on the mezzanine that overlooked the turbine hall.

Patrice fought the surge of fear and desire that coursed through him as soon as he laid eyes on her. He had been warned about
La
Dame
Blanche
, but no number of warnings could prepare him for the physical impact she had on him. On all men, if the legends were to be believed. Harlot.

“Madame,” he said with a polite smile.

“Monsieur Chevalier. I am so pleased you have arrived,” she said with a gracious smile.

“I see you have been busy.” He motioned to the massive machine and the cattle pens that took up large parts of the turbine hall.

“I have indeed. We have managed to complete almost a thousand of them now. They are all in cells on that side of the building.”

Patrice felt himself fill with glee. A thousand unstoppable, infallible soldiers who were nothing but utterly obedient was almost enough to overrun London.

“I will take you to see them a little later. The insertion process is working very well and they are simply splendid specimens.”

“Quite so, madame. What better soldier is there than one who does not fear anything and who cannot be killed.”

“Please, call me Clothilde. Would you take a coffee?” she said.

“I might. But don't you have anything stronger?”

She laughed. “Of course. One needs it in this cold damp place.” Clothilde snapped her fingers and a monk appeared with a tray.

“Absinthe, if you have some,” Patrice said. “And don't let the fairy out. I like to watch scream when I light my drink. They are such bothersome creatures, are they not?”

“Indeed. They can be,” the lady said with a tight little smile.

Patrice sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs. “I have brought the new prototype as requested.” He opened his portmanteau and pulled out a glass case. Inside was a shiny clockwork device, the size of human heart. It was made entirely of silver.

“Oh, isn't it lovely. So he has perfected the perpetual motion mechanism. These silver hearts will require no winding, they will simply keep running, yes?”

“That's what they claim,” Patrice said.

Clothilde smiled. “The Clockmaker is indeed a master of his craft,” she said as she took the case from Patrice.

“And I gather that you have enough silver to replicate this for the second project?”

“Yes. My men have been hard at work liberating silverware from donors who can afford to part with some of their wealth.”

“You mean they have been robbing houses?” Patrice said.

Clothilde shrugged. “If you want to be vulgar about it, I suppose you could call it that.”

And what about the next stage of the project?” Patrice asked.

Clothilde looked up. “Ah, Emilian. You have brought the drinks. This is Monsieur Chevalier, our honored guest.”

Patrice looked round to see a man with dark hair and eyes carrying a tray.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” Emilian bowed and set about pouring their refreshments.

“We aim to capture the first Nightwalkers for fitting of the devices within the next few days. I believe they would make a splendid addition to our armies,” Clothilde continued the conversation.

“The chairman will be pleased,” Patrice said.

Clothilde smiled sweetly. “If the chairman is pleased, then I am pleased.”

Emilian snorted as he set the fine absinthe glass with the spoon resting over the rim before Patrice.

“I'm sorry, did you say something?” Patrice said.

“Ask her about her special project. The one she's keeping a secret,” he said.

Patrice looked at Clothilde who was glaring at Emilian with such venom that it made Patrice break out in goose bumps.

Clothilde gave a shrill little laugh that belied her composure. “Emilian is so impudent. He really should be whipped for being so cheeky,” she said sweetly.

Emilian just shrugged, seemingly unimpressed by the fury of his mistress.

“Special project?” Patrice said.

“Oh, it's nothing really. They brought in a most interesting find about a week ago. A man unlike any other. I thought him to be the perfect candidate for some of my advanced tests. I was going to speak to you about the matter when you got here as I know that you are a man who gets things done.” She walked over to him and laid her hand on his arm. “And I was hoping we might be able to help one another. Off the books, as it were.” She gave him one of her most alluring smiles.

Patrice felt a gentle shiver run through his body that led to a most inconvenient stirring in his loins. It had been the first such stirring Patrice had felt since his accident and he found this to be deeply disturbing in the circumstances.

“Ah, now that is a completely different situation,” he said without showing his discomfort. He took a sip of the mixed absinthe Emilian had placed before him. Somewhere, a fairy screamed softly.

“So where is he?” Patrice said.

Clothilde looked slightly embarrassed. “This is where we ran into a slight problem. We fitted him with one of the special devices the Clockmaker sent, but one of these incompetent little monks let him out for the night with the others. And now he is gone.”

“Gone?” said Patrice.

“Someone stole him.”

“Someone stole him,” he echoed. “And there is no way you can get him back?”

“We are working on it, but so far we have not been successful.”

“And why is that?”

“We haven't quite managed to locate him yet.” Clothilde toyed with the brass key she wore on a chain around her neck. “We almost caught the thieves but they shot one of my men. Who would have thought it? That a puny little redhead and an even tinier nightwalker could cause so much trouble.

“Can't you just catch another specimen and proceed with that?”

She shook her head. “It is unlikely that we will ever find one as good. I was most surprised when I examined him. A most unusual set of circumstances. Can you imagine my surprise when I started probing him, only to find out that he was a warlock? And not only that, but he also seemed to have bound his own powers within himself?”

Patrice froze, his drink half way between table and lips.

“I unbound the man's powers and tied them to me of course, but even in his reduced state, he fought me.” She gave Patrice another smile. “Which is why I wanted to speak to you. Just think of all the power one could channel through a warlock. There is so much one could do with such an individual.”

Patrice stared at her, but said nothing.