Dawn's Early Light (26 page)

She drew aim on the half-melted remains of the cash register, but Axelrod scuttled over to her and lowered her arm before she could even slip a finger around its trigger.

“Eliza, my dear, please,” he breathed, his face quite pale, “I would prefer you not discharge the Brouhaha in here.”

Wellington was slipping the Jack Frost into its fashioned holster as he said, “Well, we did ask for reinforcements, and these exciters should give us just what we—”

His words were cut off on account of a rather odd giggle from Blackwell, and a pronounced eye roll from Axelrod. He gave Eliza a sincere look of sorrow, as if saying silently to her,
“It pains me to see someone of your calibre tethered to such a one as Books,”
but he drew himself together, plastered a sickeningly civil smile on his face, and replaced his top hat back on his head. “My fellow Ministry colleague, you once again underestimate the scope of our services to you in the field. We were charged to bring you reinforcements, and so we have.”

“What Professor Axelrod is trying to tell you, Books,” Doctor Sound began, “and you all, is that with the developments of your mission, both the Ministry and OSM agree that an addition to your party is required.”

“Another agent?” Eliza asked, stepping forwards with a dark expression on her face.

Sound stroked his moustache with his thumb and replied, “More of a consultant, a scientific resource for questions you all will no doubt have.”

“Now, hold on,” Bill said, raising his hands. He was looking at both Sound and Axelrod, casting only a few nervous glances at Blackwell, who was still, for some bizarre reason, sizing up his forearms from a distance. “We're trying to move all secret-like with four in our party, and—to be honest—our stealth tactics as a group are in need of some attention. You're saying you and OSM want to add on a fifth?”

“Doctor Sound,” Eliza said, echoing Bill's concern. “I'm training an agent in the field already—”

“Books is an agent possessing skills that could even rival your own,” Sound stated, waving his hand dismissively. “Besides, we have worked with this consultant on several occasions, and are in need of his services. Particularly now, considering—”

“I honestly could not give a toss, Director, if this fifth wheel is bleedin' Sir Isaac Newton, Louis Pasteur, and Marie Curie all rolled into one. He's a complication we really do not need!”

“Agent Braun, you have been only recently reinstated to the field,” Sound warned, his voice even and controlled. “I sincerely hope we do not have another disagreement that has you removed from it again.”

“This isn't about following orders!” Eliza snapped. “This is about personal safety.”

“Agent Braun,” Axelrod cooed. “You must not work yourself up so.”

“Stuff it, you git!” she barked. “You're not the one riding inside of rockets with mad airship cannons while death rays—”

“An
electroacceleratron
,” Axelrod snapped, rolling his eyes again.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to direct her words or a solid right hook at Axelrod, but it was Wellington who stepped up to him. “Remind me how the electroacceleratron device works again?”

“It launches focused, charged energy elements at designated targets, decimating said designated targets utterly and completely.”

Wellington nodded. “So the device shoots rays?”

“Yes,” Axelrod replied.

“Of imminent death?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don't you call it a death ray, you popinjay?!”

“I beg your pardon,” came a calming voice from the shadows, “but that is what I told Professor Axelrod in so many words. Electroacceleratron, at least to me, seems a bit extravagant.”

All of them turned as the man once concealed in shadows stepped into the shop's flickering lights. His features could be best described as angular, and his fashion unquestionably European. His eyes studied them all intently, and a curious grin remained on his mouth. It was not the condescending mannerism that Axelrod had down so well. This was a grin one would make when learning something new.

The man was dashing and—from the wide-eyed expression on his face—familiar to Wellington.

Doctor Sound cleared his throat. “Agents, may I introduce to you . . .”

“Nikola Tesla,” Wellington said, taking a few steps forwards. “This is a great pleasure.” Now it appeared that Wellington would be in need of smelling salts.

“Of course it is,” the new arrival said, his tone conveying it was more a statement than a jest. He wrung his gloved hands as he looked to both Wellington and Eliza. “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, though.”

“Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, Chief Archivist for the Ministry's Archives,” he said.

Eliza cleared her throat, and added, “And recently promoted field agent.”

“A man of many talents,” he stated coolly, “if what I was told back in England is true.”

Eliza cleared her throat again.

“And my partner,” Wellington stammered, “Eliza D. Braun.”

“Mr. Tesla, a pleasure.”

“From the briefing I received, you managed to disarm the bomb attached to the Outer Banks prototype.” He gave a tiny bow to her. “Thank you.”

“The creator behind Tesla Knuckles?” Bill gave a gruff laugh as he inserted himself between the Ministry and Tesla. “Now here's a man I'm happy to meet,” he said, sticking out his hand.

The scientist's smile faded on looking at Bill and Felicity. “I think you and your organisation are well acquainted with me, considering your surveillance of me, yes?”

Bill's hand lowered slowly as Tesla walked by him. He greeted the blushing Felicity with a curt nod, and then turned quickly on Eliza. “I know my involvement in your quaint adventure is slightly unexpected, if not unwelcomed, but the death ray is, simply put, my responsibility.”

“Nikola here hardly needed persuasion in joining you all in the field,” Doctor Sound said, his mouth crooking in a sly smile, “once he heard of Edison's involvement in this.”

The bad blood between them was well-known, even beyond scientific circles; and from the look on his face at Edison's name, Eliza did not know if Doctor Sound was practising best judgement in bringing up the man's name.

Wellington picked up one of the lanterns on the main counter. “Mr. Tesla, if you would follow me, please.” He led the man to the back of the shop. Wellington set down the light at one end of the table, and then pulled away the tarp. “I believe this is what you risked the æthergates to see.”

“Well now, look at you,” Tesla whispered, removing his gloves.

When the scientist's bare fingers touched the mechanical device, he sighed. Eliza was convinced he would burst into tears at any moment. It reminded her a bit like Wellington's behaviour around that damnable car.

“Yes . . . yes . . .” muttered Tesla, his eyes seeming to dismantle the device in his mind. He suddenly winced. “No, that part there is Edison's handiwork. Crude, but I can see the reasoning. I suppose.” He tilted his head to one side and then looked up at Wellington. “So he managed to stabilise the current. Admittedly, using the lighthouse's optics was a stroke of genius.” His fingers continued to skim along the edges of various mechanisms and alternators as he spoke. “A hundred different ways to make the power distribution more efficient, and yet he just blunders on through, more worried about upsetting one of his precious fuses. I told him he needed to make those blasted things sturdier. Like trying to support an ocean liner's hull on an eggshell.” Suddenly, Tesla's voice displayed real emotion: bitterness. “My design, but very much Edison's style. If you can call it as much.”

“Don' know if this trinket will mean anything to you,” Bill spoke, pulling from his satchel what Eliza recognised as the dead man's switch from the Usher operative. “He did have one of his boys wired with one of these.”

Tesla looked over the jumble of wires and clockwork, clicked his tongue, and grabbed the suspended magnifying glass from where he had been laying out tools. He positioned the device on its stand, suspending it over the breastplate of the dead man's switch and studying the array as would a biologist over a dissected frog.

“You're welcome,” Bill huffed.

“It appears that Edison is making his new pastime taking my ideas and bringing them to fruition.” He looked up from the kill switch and said, “Stands to reason. He has plenty of resources that I, unfortunately, do not. He has spent all his life capitalising on the ideas of others, granting him the ways and means to create all this,” he said, motioning to the portable death ray and the kill switch.

“We know Edison's been a step ahead of us,” Bill said gruffly. “So how does you coming along with us help the situation exactly?”

Tesla fixed his gaze upon Bill, and Eliza felt a shiver dance through him, thankful such a look was not aimed in her direction.

The scientist brushed off his hands, though there was nothing apparently on them, before answering Bill. “I understand these concepts and contraptions better than you, and I know Edison far better than anyone else in this room. If he has not deviated too dramatically from his bombastic manner, I can provide you insight on what he is doing next.”

“Valid points, Mr. Tesla,” Eliza spoke, her tone as pointed and focused as his had been, “but you are hardly a trained field agent and able to defend—”

“Madam, I am capable of defending myself.” He then turned to look at her. “Do you really believe the gentleman behind the Tesla Knuckles to be a shrinking violet?”

Eliza arched an eyebrow. “Touché.”

The scientist took his jacket off and returned his attention to the death ray contraption. “I am going to need some time to study this unintentional Tesla-Edison collaboration. Doctor Blackwell, would you be too troubled in assisting me on this endeavour?”

There was something genuinely endearing in watching Blackwell transform from scientist to giddy schoolgirl in an instant. From underneath her massive hoop skirts, Josepha Blackwell danced on the tips of her toes, and softly clapped her hands together. The woman practically bowled over both Felicity and Bill in order to get to the Serbian.

“Mr. Books, could I trouble you to remain here, simply to walk me through your eyewitness accounts.” He gave an awkward nod to him as an apology.

Wellington smoothed out his coat, more out of a nervous gesture than attempting to press out the wrinkles within the fabric. “I am more than happy to assist.” He was determined not to spin a pirouette as Josepha had done, but Eliza could tell it had crossed his mind.

“Excellent,” Tesla said, beginning to roll up his sleeves. “Professor, I know your time is limited, but if you have a moment?”

“For a colleague and peer, of course I do,” Axelrod replied brightly.

“Excellent.” Tesla's smile widened as he fished in his coat pocket and produced a small slip of paper. “If you would not mind, I am in need of libation. From my briefing of Flagstaff, I understand there is a purveyor of juices in this town, perhaps two establishments west of here. Would you have them make a drink following these specifications?”

Axelrod stood there, staring at Tesla, who slipped the paper between his fingers and then turned back to the death ray device, where Blackwell eagerly awaited.

“Yes.” Axelrod glanced at the order again and then back at Tesla. “Straightaway.” It was a rather strangled affirmation.

As the head of Ministry's R&D proceeded out into the Arizona sun, Eliza caught a glance of Wellington, who'd never looked happier.

“And why are you smiling so broadly?” Eliza whispered to him.

“Just savouring one of the best moments during my time with the Ministry,” he replied with a slight sigh. “Ever.”

E
liza, still dressed in her morning robes and desperately craving a strong cup of breakfast tea, stared out of the window at the panoramic view, one she was certain was best shared from bed with a warm lover lying beside you.

And now I am thinking of Wellington.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, and screwed her eyes shut. “Gods, I have been away from home for far too long.”

“Beg your pardon?” the voice came from the doorway.

Eliza picked up the drinking glass from the bedside table and brandished it aloft. It was most satisfying to see Wellington dive to the ground.

“You're right,” he said quickly waving a hand, “I should have knocked!”

Her grip tightened on the makeshift weapon. She still wanted very much to throw it.

“Just thinking aloud,” Eliza said, finally curbing her desires, and lowering the glass to her side.

Wellington looked up from the floor. “Thinking?” He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Don't you think better when being shot at?”

She tossed the glass up in the air and caught it, trying her best not to let her mood show. Still, at least she knew he remembered some things. “I do, but as it is the morning, and I have not partaken of breakfast yet . . .”

“Neither have I,” he said, getting to his knees.

That was when Eliza noticed the grease and oil smudges on his shirt. She wondered how much sleep he had got last night.

“I know, I am quite a sight,” he said, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “Just give me a moment to change out of this work shirt.”

“Wellington,” Eliza said, crossing her arms, “a moment if you please.” She was no trembling maid or delicate thing. She was a woman of
Aotearoa
. She was better than this. Eliza drew in her breath and looked squarely into his eyes. “I want to have a word with you.”

Wellington cleared his throat and returned her gaze. “Yes, Miss Braun?”

She blinked, as he got to his feet. Sometimes she forgot he was taller than she was.

“I am assuming you wish to test my observations, assess how I am handling the field, yes?” Wellington frowned at her silence. “What would you have of me, Eliza?”

“I—” she began. He was as close to her now as he had been in the Archives. She could smell the combination of sweat, oil, and steam on his skin. She wanted him to kiss her like that again. Why didn't he? Why didn't she for that matter just grab him? Lost, she ended up blurting out. “I must know what your game is.”

His brow knotted and that charming look of befuddlement flickered across his face.

But only for an instant. “
My
game?” He rested a fist on his hip as he added, “You and that brash git Wheatley are attempting to perform an emergency tonsillectomy on one another while Pinkertons are bearing down on us, and
you
want to know what
my
game is?”

Eliza had steeled herself for that, although she had not expected Wellington's depiction of Wheatley's unexpected kiss to be so graphic. Still, she ploughed on. “Trust me, Doctor Books, your own surgical skills were quite impressive in the Archives, yes?”

A hit. A very palpable hit.
Don't you agree, Johnny Shakespeare?
she seethed.

“Ah, yes, in the Archives . . .” Wellington said, nodding. His hazel eyes darted away from hers as he removed his spectacles. “Is this something really appropriate for public discussion?”

“No, it's more suited for a private discussion, a conversation stymied by either demands of the mission”—and then she flicked the tail of his work shirt—“or that ruddy contraption of yours!”

Perhaps it had not been the right thing to bring the motorcar into this, because he was as sensitive about it as if he was its damned father. He raised a finger. “Now just a moment, there's a reason I've been working on that ‘ruddy contraption' as you so eloquently put it . . .”

“One would have thought you kissed the motorcar instead of me,” she said, feeling her annoyance rise with each word that passed between them.

“But there's a
reason
for—” Wellington caught his thought in mid-speech, and averted his eyes once more. Apparently he was trying to calm himself by taking in the view of the mountains. “You want to know why,” he snapped, his words clipped, “why I kissed you in the Archives?”

“No.” Eliza stepped closer, and that brought his eyes back on her. “I want to know why you kissed me
like that
in the Archives?”

Wellington tilted his head. “Like what?” He thought about it a moment and then nodded. “Oh. Like . . .
that
.”

“Yes, Welly.” She longed to just lean forwards and kiss the hell out of him, but this moment was strung on a knife edge, and Eliza would not upset the balance. She wasn't sure if Wellington had been struggling with this also, but they were going to see this to the end. They were going to have this talk.

He fidgeted with the stained cloth, wringing it between his hands.

“You have to understand,” Wellington began, “this is . . . difficult for me.”

“I was the one getting kissed, and then left dangling for days upon days,” Eliza said. “You're not alone on this, mate.”

“Yes, I know. I—” And he shut his eyes tight. Then, following a long, slow draw of air, Wellington blurted out, “Eliza, if you must know—”

Knock-knock-knock.

Both she and Wellington leapt apart. Whoever was behind that door had better be frightfully important. She eliminated the possibility of Sound, Axelrod, or Blackwell. They had returned to England the previous night. It couldn't be Tesla, since they'd left him at the five-and-dime, working on the death ray device.

Before she could stop him, Wellington had opened the door. Eliza clenched her jaw shut and managed to hold back the expletive that trembled on her lip. It almost burst out when the knocker was revealed.

Felicity Lovelace's smile matched her outfit. It was bright, cheerful, and a picture of sweet perfection. Decked in spotless pastel pink and green and liberal accents of lace and bow, she looked absolutely darling. So darling, in fact, that Eliza longed to punch her square in the nose.

What was more, Felicity was carrying a tray bearing orange juice, the miracle of proper tea, ham, eggs, toast, and as a centrepiece a modest vase, a single red rose in it. A proper breakfast to be sure.

For one.

“Good morning, Wellington!” Felicity said cheerily. “I was bringing you breakfast, and on the way I intercepted the bellhop; he had a message for you.” She nodded to the slip of paper tucked under the glass of juice. “It simply reads: ‘Come at once if convenient. Breakthrough. N.T.' Pretty safe assumption that we are now needed at the five-and-dime.”

“A lovely meal you have there,” Eliza said, drawing closer to the door, almost like a panther bearing down on a deer.

“Oh dear me,” Wellington spoke suddenly. “Your arms must be tiring. Please, do come in.”

Eliza continued to locate any and all vulnerable points on Felicity's person as the American made her way across the suite. “No matter. I made the bold assumption you were awake as I heard movement.” She looked over to Eliza as she set the tray down. “The walls here are so thin.”

You. Bitch.

“Breakfast is served, and by the time you finish and Eliza”—Felicity looked over to her, motioning a hand from her head to her feet—“dresses, we can all be off to the safe house, yes?”

“Of course,” Wellington said with a sigh.

Eliza gave the librarian a tight smile as she walked over to the breakfast. “Give us—”

“Twenty minutes,” Wellington interrupted her.

“Excellent!” Felicity beamed. “Bill and I will meet you downstairs.”

She turned to leave with a rustle of silk, but Wellington stopped her. “Felicity?”

“Yes?” the American asked softly. “You need me?”

Eliza was now looking for objects to throw.

“I am in need of a favour,” he began, and then motioned to Eliza. “As we are on official business now, I am in a state, and time is a luxury, would you mind fetching a hotel maid? My partner is in need of assistance in getting ready.” Her smile faltered for a moment. Wellington appeared not to notice, but Eliza did. “It would mean a great deal to me if you would do so.”

“But of course, Wellington,” Felicity said, her cheeriness now sounding slightly forced. “I shan't be long.” With a glance to Eliza, she turned and disappeared out the door.

As soon as she was gone Eliza spun on him. “In the field you usually make sure I am laced up.”

“I don't think that is very appropriate at the moment,” Wellington muttered, snatching up the glass of orange juice.

“Welly—” She hated the tone of her own voice immediately.

“Eliza, I suggest partaking of breakfast,” he interrupted, motioning to the meal intended for him. “Your maid will be here in a few moments.”

Wellington gave his hands another wipe down, gingerly grabbed a fresh shirt and vest, and disappeared into the washroom.

This was, most certainly, not over.

She had only made it two steps when a soft rap sounded at the door. Eliza nearly tore the door free from its frame, her free hand cocked back and ready to indulge that earlier urge—

Her fist remained locked and suspended by her head when she saw the Royal maid, her bright, pleasant demeanour suddenly replaced by abject terror.

“My apologies,” Eliza muttered, dropping the fist to her side. “I'm not a morning person.”

The young lady who came up to tend to Eliza was waifish but had the pull of a team of oxen. On the third pull, Eliza gave a sharp grunt. She thought absently how this girl could give her maid back home, Alice, a run for her money. On the fifth tug, she wondered if Felicity had paid the woman extra for this abuse.

Once dressed, Eliza stepped out and met Wellington in the parlour. Just behind the archivist was a valet. The attendant must have come in while she and the maid were engaged in suiting up for the day. Slipping what appeared to be a generous tip to the valet, Wellington discharged the man and turned to offer his arm to Eliza. He was, much to her delight, dressed impeccably, as usual.

In fact, he appeared taller. The outfit was lying quite handsomely on him.

“Wellington—”

“As you told me, this is an assignment, not a holiday.” He motioned in the direction of the exiting valet. “This morning, I thought to indulge. Shall we?”

She'd been so close to getting a straight answer from him. If it had not been for . . .

“There you are!” Felicity declared brightly from the base of the staircase. Bill stood behind the librarian, loosing a stunning smile at Eliza. “I take it the maid I sent up was satisfactory?” she asked. With a wry grin, Felicity then added, “I wanted to make sure you were properly attended.”

And there was the confirmation. “Well,” Eliza said, running her hands along her stomach. “I feel quite secure. While I can normally take a bullet wearing this thing, I believe now I could take a cannonball.”

“And you look great in it too.” Bill delivered the compliment so easily as he hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Belle of the ball, you are.”

At her side, Eliza could feel Wellington shift uncomfortably. She needed to disarm this straightaway, let Wellington know where Bill stood in her eyes.

Before she could reply properly, Bill spoke. “Edison's here. After we left Tesla with the death ray, I took a night watch, keeping an eye on the station and all. Not sure where he caught the train, but it wasn't a hypersteam. The Wizard, the Usher fellah, and the Pinks all shuffled off the train at four this morning. I overheard him say something about limited range and next time they'll find a hypersteam station.”

Wellington nodded. “I'm surmising that clever escape craft of his has restrictions.”

“You could be right about that,” Bill said, rubbing his beard. “He didn't look none too pleased when he checked into the Concord hotel across town.”

“So he's still keeping the pretence of a tour?” Eliza asked.

Bill held up a local newspaper. “Front-page news. He's talking tonight at the Town Hall. No announcement of any cancellation.”

“So we know where Edison is: his hotel, asleep. Bill, keep an eye on the Concord. Anything changes, come get us.”

He nodded. “Sounds good, Lizzie.”

Eliza motioned to the doors, slipping on a pair of sun spectacles. “Let's get going. Tesla's waiting on us.”

The three of them were soon strolling in Flagstaff's morning light. Wellington leading Eliza on one arm, Felicity on the other. To curious eyes they must have just appeared as one lucky man with two attractive ladies, but Eliza instinctively kept her eyes moving from building to building. Casing the town was the only thing keeping Eliza from throttling the librarian.