Phoenix Rising (35 page)

Wellington chuckled, but his reply was cut off. Devane gave a curt nod to his manservant, and his cigarette was exchanged for a primed shotgun. “No time for that now, I'm afraid,” he gasped, his voice now overcome with elation as the gun raised.

Eliza's impulses lifted her own rifle, but Wellington moved with unexpected grace, catching the barrel of her shotgun before it could return Devane's threat. He now brandished the weapon, his eyes silently assuring her
I'll have to manage
. Both Wellington and Eliza whirled around in the direction in which Devane was walking. Whatever could have produced such excitement in him could not be a good thing.

Their fears were validated on hearing the scream. Time stretched around that terrible moment. The Fairbankses—or the journalists Eliza knew were masquerading as Harold and Dahlia Fairbanks—were scrambling through the low scrub, keeping a pace Eliza was familiar with. It was not to be mistaken—this was the all-out flight for life. She would have opened fire on the hunters regarding the imposters as sport, had she been armed. However, it was all happening too fast. Observation was easy, reaction lagged far behind.

The Brethren and the Society candidates were taking shots at them. From design or chance, the pair were running in a zigzag pattern, stumbling and falling over the uneven, unfamiliar ground.

Molly screamed a choking, horrified scream for mercy and survival as Fred tugged her after him. Eliza's throat constricted. Molly and Fred weren't lucky, and the Brethren weren't poor shots.

Bartholomew had already lazily raised his rifle, tracked their progress with a measured horizontal movement of the barrel. Then he fired twice. Two shots, two perfectly measured shots. Molly dropped, immediately followed by Fred. One was, mercifully, a headshot, but Eliza's stomach rolled on hearing a thrashing around in the underbrush, accompanied by a hard, high-pitched hacking cough. Molly was choking on her own blood. Eliza recognised in the woman's throes the sign that she now had a hole in her throat. She was dying by inches.

“Now
that
is proper sport!” Devane erupted. He himself was ecstatic. “Care to finish her off, old boy?” he asked Wellington.

“Forgive me, Bartholomew,” Eliza heard Wellington's voice but she could not look away from the carnage. She couldn't have been more than twenty. “I prefer to kill on the first shot.”

Devane's laughter turned into a disgusted moan. “Oh I say, Hewitt,” he said over his shoulder, holding out the spent shotgun, “Please take care of that pathetic creature.”

“Very good, sir,” the man replied, replacing Devane's weapon with his still-lit cigarette.

Hewitt casually checked a pistol and then strode off into the bush. Even from their distance, the three of them could see Molly's white dress twitching, and smeared with the crimson strokes of a mad artist.

Eliza felt the vertigo creep in. Molly was in the same outfit from last night. Wellington and Eliza stood very still, watching Hewitt close the distance. She couldn't breathe, suspended above the situation in horror.

Their companion savoured another long drag and looked at them through the smoke. “Journalists. Not the right sorts at all—and hardly proper putting on a pretense as they did. Havelock saw it at once. We do not tolerate deception, old boy.”

There was the confirmation: this Phoenix Society was far more than just a modern Hellfire Club. Eliza moved imperceptibly closer to Wellington. Against a group armed with long-range weapons she and the Archivist would only be marginally more likely to escape—

The pop of the pistol rang out over the grounds. Eliza did not flinch. Neither did Wellington. She might not have shown any outward sign, but inwardly she made a promise to Molly: There would be a reckoning. By the time she and Wellington walked away from this place there would be justice for all those the Phoenix Society had crushed beneath their feet so thoughtlessly. Obviously Molly had not let on about the other two hens in the den, but that was cold comfort. It was going to be impossible for Eliza to forget her face.

Wellington considered her then twisted his mouth into a smirk. “And here I thought the Phoenix Society was lax on their standards. So nice to know that discipline is so well maintained.” His arm locked around Eliza, pulling her in close. She could feel his anger in his grasp, but still he kept the illusion. “And that you're a fine shot.”

“Thank you, old boy.” Devane shook his head. “A bit disappointed in you, though.”

Eliza's grip tightened on his arm but Wellington merely replied with, “I don't finish what others start, Lord Devane, and I wouldn't have missed.”

“Excellent shooting, Barty!” Havelock called, walking from the direction of the manor. His smile was as broad and charming as a shark's. “But what happened with the woman?”

“I could have imbibed too much brandy throughout the morning.” Devane shrugged, his eyes never leaving Wellington. “I will endeavour to do better next time.”

“So you should,” he chided. Havelock turned to Wellington and Eliza, his eyes still nurturing their earlier look of jollity. “The Fairbankses were journalists, we discovered. They were looking to pen an article on private clubs, like ours. We just couldn't have that.”

“Certainly not, Doctor Havelock,” Devane agreed quickly.

“Now,” Havelock said, smiling, “how about a bite to eat?”

“As long as the entree has nothing to do with what Lord Devane just brought down.” Wellington chuckled.

While Eliza watched Devane join in with the laughter, Havelock did not. His face remained as chill as stone. “We're not in the colonies, St. John. We are a civilised society.” He adjusted his collar. “We will have them stuffed and mounted for display.”

By the tone of his voice it was hard to judge if he was joking or not. Either way Eliza decided that at tonight's dinner they had indeed better play whatever game was required of them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wherein Doctor Havelock Displays
His Work and an Unexpected Guest
Makes a Fashionable Entrance

A
part from the Fairbankses, something was notably absent from the dinner party that night. It was an identical setting as the First Night celebration, but Wellington sensed something was off. Quite off. There was no mention of the couple, but he did not believe it was out of respect for their memory. It was fear. Fear of association with them. Fear of becoming
like
them. Uttering their names could have at best meant a black mark against any chances of initiation; and considering how the Fairbankses were dealt with, any reasons for repercussion were to be avoided.

Wellington wondered how huge of a black mark it would have been if Havelock knew he had thrown up in the toilet on returning from the hunt.

Eliza had remained by his side, amazingly enough. He did not understand why she continued to gently rub his back as he gagged and heaved. Surely this would provide hours of amusement for her on returning to the Archives.

With every spasm, with every painful retching ripped from his throat, she had sat by him, palm gently pressing into his back, making long, slow circles. “
It's all right
,” she'd whispered to him, again and again. Had he the voice, Wellington would have wanted to scream,
No, it is not all right. We watched a couple gunned down like foxes at the hunt. How is that all right?

Instead, he continued to vomit until there was nothing left in his stomach. He didn't remember leaving the bathroom or passing out on the bed. When he stirred, he was under the covers, Eliza asleep on the chaise longue. The sun was setting. It was a picturesque moment of tranquility that screamed for a photographer. At least that was how it appeared in that moment of heavy silence.

He needed to wash his mouth out, brush his teeth, and prepare for the night's revels.

“
It's all right
,” he kept hearing Eliza whisper.

“
Perhaps the colonial is, for once, correct
,” came the voice of his father when he emerged from the water closet. “
Perhaps those people were not right for this circle. Nothing wrong with separating those who are from those who are not.
”

“What?” Eliza had asked, noting his reflection in the mirror.

“
Common woman,
” his father seethed in Wellington's mind. “
Making sacrifices for Queen and Country, she calls it? The trollop enjoyed herself the previous night, I have no doubt.
”

“It's nothing.”

“Books, if you are not up for—”

“I said it's nothing. Therefore, it is
nothing
.” His contempt even surprised him. He snatched up a brush and began working on his hair. “Do not question me, Miss Braun—otherwise, you never will trust me,” he said, setting the brush aside and tugging at his vest.

Seconds slipped away. The silence, Wellington considered, had been oppressive.

“Stay with me, Wellington,” she had told him. “There is a time and a place to lose yourself in a part—”

“
How dare this woman address you in such a fashion
,” hissed his father.

“—and there will be those times you will need to remain cognisant of who you are and whom you trust. Do we understand each other, Books?”

Wellington remained silent, his eyes fixed into the mirror.

“Agent Books?”

There was something soothing about the repetitive grooming.

“Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes,” he finally answered. “Indeed we do.”

Wellington really didn't understand. He didn't understand why someone would choose to do field work. The Archives made sense to him. Logistics. Facts. Deduction.

Not this.

There was a specific kind of person that engaged in covert intelligence. He understood the type usually to be detached and distant. They were talented people. That, he would never question.

“
No need to muck about with the soldiers in the trenches
,” his father would scoff.

With a final, long look to each other, Wellington and Eliza had discarded their own demeanors for their St. John personas; and now once more, they were in the dining room, enjoying a lovely dinner.

However, there was no avoiding the two vacant places at the table, and everyone heeded the warning in their own way.

The initiates were now taking careful stock of one another. The Pembrokes particularly were keeping their distance—from everyone. It must have been his military training, assessing the very real threat surrounding him and his wife. With children to consider, they must have changed their priority to surviving the weekend. Nathaniel Pembroke, on locking eyes with Wellington, sized him up. Had the man been holding a pistol, Wellington would have felt an urge to dive for cover.

The other remaining couple, the Collinses, appeared nervous. Barnabus was sweating, while Angelique's pallid complexion against her white evening dress gave her the semblance of a wraith. Both of them were looking quickly to either side of them, desperate to keep up the appearance of eager, willing initiates.

Wellington glanced at Eliza; her eyes were still downcast.

“I say, St. John,” came a voice next to him.

Wellington dabbed at his mouth with his napkin before answering, “Lord Devane.”

“Tosh, man, you know to call me Bartholomew. Why the formal—” Then he paused, and gave a soft “Ah,” accompanied with a bright, knowing smile. “I wouldn't worry, old boy, about your running for the spot. You are making many around here sit up and take notice.”

“Am I now?”

“Quite,” he assured Wellington. “Apart from your delightful wife, you are showing good character. The right fit for our Society.”

“Well then,” Wellington said, giving a slight exhale. “I assume then that means my brains will remain in my head.”

Devane chuckled. “We have standards and traditions, old boy. You have to understand.”

“I do—though I do find your initiation rituals a bit—incontrovertible.”

Devane nodded. “They have to be. When you hear what Havelock has to say tonight, you will understand fully.”

“I look forward to it,” Wellington replied as calmly as he could, casting a quick glance to the head of the table.

Doctor Havelock, this time, had been waiting for everyone, his face warm and pleasant with no trace of remorse from the afternoon's grizzly judgement passed on the journalists. He now enjoyed the first course with everyone, even through the tension in the air. Wellington then cast his eyes around the dining room, and that's when he noticed the additional space. Was it on account of the missing couple? No. The gaslight was catching the butler's mirrors in the walls. The gaslight caught the curved fixtures as there were no servants standing by them. Behind Havelock's throne, where servants would have been, was a pair of brass obelisks, rising up waist high to the only servant present in the room. Their appetizer had been served and the first round of wine had been poured; but now, only the imposing butler always within Havelock's call was present. The servant was as still as the two obelisks.

“Good evening, Brethren and Initiates all,” Havelock spoke, silencing everyone. “I know that my presence here, and my current outburst, is not characteristic to those of you who know me well; but to you, my Brethren, when have I ever been known for convention?”

The laughter was polite, perhaps touched with a hint of apprehension.

“I am here for a simple indulgence: to see your reactions.” Havelock turned to his butler. “Pearson, you may begin.”

The lone butler turned to one of the obelisks, reaching behind it to lift a lever fixed in its back, Pearson's efforts providing mild amusement for some of the ladies in the room. Once the lever locked into the upright position, silvery-pearl jets erupted from vents on either side. The loud, accompanying hiss evoked gasps from the ladies, but the screams of surprise and horror came when metal plates slid back and skeletal arms and legs comprised of gears, pistons, and struts extended from the casing. By the time the obelisk's top rotated and transformed into an angular face accented by eye sockets and a mouth-shaped grill that glowed with a gaseous, deep emerald light, Pearson had locked the lever on the second obelisk.

Havelock took in the reactions of shock and terror with all the delight of a child on Christmas morning.

Wellington struggled to keep an eye on their quarry, but he himself found the new devices far too enticing. He could feel the cool exterior he had worked so hard to build evaporating; but the more the automatons took form, the less Wellington cared.

When they moved of their own accord, he felt himself straighten slightly, a surge of joy in his chest. These creations were simply magnificent! He thought he heard a gasp come from Eliza, but a moment later he realised that it was from his own mouth.

Then his eyes happened to meet Havelock's. The man was staring at
him
, and his smile widened. He gave Wellington a compatriot's nod.
You understand
, the simple gesture conveyed. Havelock kept his gaze on Wellington until the eight-foot automatons flanked him.

“I give you tonight's attendants, my friends. I give you the future,” he announced, sounding like a father announcing the birth of his child. “The future that the Society has dreamed for so long, they will bring to fruition. But before that reality comes to pass—”

His finger flipped a single switch on the closest “attendant's” wrist, and the green glow from inside its brass cranium surged for a moment. Havelock repeated the gesture on the other automaton, and both stomped out of the room with a strange grace that came unexpected concerning their imposing build and height.

“—dinner first? Please, everyone, return to your seats.”

Once again, a lovely meal of greens, poultry, and lamb, and fine wine that never seemed to end, was served. It was all as delightful as the previous evening, yet the serenity and civility of the proceedings were continuously broken when the ominous mechanical monsters would slowly tread into the dining room. Astoundingly, the automatons were able to handle the tasks of tending to the dinner party's needs with the same efficiency as the house staff. Any delay based on their size seemed to be taken into account.

There was also the look of the automatons themselves. One or two of the Brethren's wives—and even a few of the Society's men—grew pale when the things leaned in to serve. Conversation couples shared would cease abruptly as a metallic arm extended between them in order to replenish their wine. Wellington found it curious that while the house servants were regarded as appliances for the privileged, these mechanised manservants were more so. They were not alive, sentient, or in any way possessing consciousness. No egos to bruise. No fragility or vulnerabilities. If they had a particularly bad day, you could send them in for repair. These automatons
were
appliances.

One advantage the now apparently outdated house staff still possessed over this modern convenience: their invisibility. It was easy for the upper class to dismiss or ignore the working class. An apparatus of hydraulics, brass cylinders, pumps, and spinning gears provided a greater challenge to ignore, particularly when said apparatus reached between you and your wife to fill the glasses.

Dash it all
, Wellington thought as he dabbed the corners of his mouth. Then he turned towards the head of the table where Havelock watched his creations' clockwork ballet with glee. “Doctor Havelock, a word if you please?”

All conversation ceased. In the distant corner of his eye Wellington could see Bartholomew, now almost as ashen as his wife. Not even Eliza's gentle touch on his thigh caused him to start. The die had been cast, and this was his opportunity. This was his area of expertise.

Havelock's smile eased a bit, a bushy eyebrow crooking ever so silently. “You have a question, St. John?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Wellington replied. “I am compelled to ask—how?”

Now Eliza's fingers squeezed his knee, none too gently either. Wellington reached for his glass of wine, downed it in a rather ungentlemanly display, and then replaced it on the table. His hand slipped under the table afterward, resting on top of Eliza's—trying to communicate assurance—even though his head was spinning slightly after partaking of the drink so quickly.

With a soft hiss, the metallic arm extended into the space between him and Havelock. Wellington kept his gaze locked with the man; his own knowing smile never faltering as his glass was refilled and the automaton stepped back to its neutral position.

Wellington inclined his head forward, the slight gesture earning him a few soft gasps from the ladies of the table. It was a silent repeat of the question.
How?

Havelock's own smile widened once more. He began to laugh, his own eyes twinkling at Wellington's initiative. He waved a finger at him, “For a man in the textiles industry, Richard, you seem quite taken by the sciences.”