The Ghost Rebellion (43 page)

His hand slipped over her own, and squeezed. She looked up into his hazel eyes, and felt a single tear escape her. Eliza believed herself to be travelling in a very ladylike fashion, buttoned and corseted, proper skirts made for hypersteam travel, but it was evident by Wellington’s gesture that he wasn’t fooled by the cool mask she presented.

“
Ah, young love.” Sophia’s green eyes sparkled with amusement. “I do hope my presence isn’t intruding.”

“
Not at all,” Eliza replied. Then she leaned across and delivered a deep kiss to Wellington that put her mind in a whirl for a moment or two, pushing back melancholy thoughts. When she released him, he dropped back into his chair, and adjusted his cravat. Was that regret she saw flicker across Sophia’s face? Eliza could not be certain as Sophia turned back to the window, watching Italy rush by in a blur.

The train pulled into Siena by midday, and thankfully by then they had managed to remain polite as they sipped tea, and simply ignored each other. Despite the warmth and comfort of their private carriage, a palpable tension lingered. At this particular station, however, Sophia rose from where she sat.

“
We have arrived,” she stated, grabbing the small suitcase from her overhead compartment.

Emerging onto the platform, Wellington took charge of their small amount of luggage. He disappeared for a few moments, perhaps to find any kind of transportation that did not involve a driver. No need to put anyone else at risk.

“
Despite our current worries with Jekyll being at large and this Agent Case business coming to light,”
Director Smith had said to them in confidence before setting off,
“the del Morte clan have always been a threat. Wherever she is taking you, learn anything you can about her, and how her family operates. Anything we can glean from her might prove valuable and worth the bother.”
 

“
You have our word, Sophia,” Eliza said. “We take you home. No trackers. No report filed with the Ministry. Your secrets are safe with Wellington and myself.”

Sophia looked Eliza from head to foot, then back again. “You surprise me, Braun. This seems out of character for you.”

“
That’s a bit of a lark coming from you.”

“
People can change.”

Did
Sophia del Morte
just say that? “Really?”

Wellington had returned with some sort of news—and not good news, from the look on his face—but was silenced before sharing it when Sophia offered them something totally unexpected. “Would you like to meet the family, and perhaps join us for dinner? No tea though, only wine.” She held her hands up. “And I promise, no poisons.”

“
What about blades or guns?” Wellington asked.

“
Mr Books, this is
my
family. Do not ask for the impossible.”

 
Sophia’s smile was beautiful, and yet also somewhat alarming. In a remote village, populated with an unholy legion of deadly women, surely they would not last long? Yet there was the offer right before them.

Eliza tilted her chin upwards. She never said no to an adventure. “Yes, let’s.”

“
Follow me,” she said.

“
But that is what I came to tell you,” Wellington said. “I cannot find proper transportation for us.”

“
No need to worry, Mr Books.
Mi familia
has standing arrangements here.”

Sophia led the way to the local stables across from the train station, where she procured horses for the three of them. By the sweat on his brow, the owner seemed to recognise her straight away. He handed over mounts quickly, took the money offered, and then retreated. It was hardly a surprise the del Morte family were known in Siena.

Eliza looked at the tossing head of the stallion she had been given. As New Zealand was a country with few roads and endless countryside, equestrian skills comprised some of her earliest memories. However, with Wellington’s influences, she had grown more comfortable with the steadiness of a motor car. They were, after all, predictable. Horses had minds and instincts of their own.

“
Isn’t there a place where we can hire a motor vehicle for the trip?” Wellington asked, looking over his shoulder as if his steed would magically change into one.

“
Nonna does not care for them,” Sophia replied, already gracefully arranging herself atop her bay mare. “Besides, anything motorised would be futile. No roads.”

“
Come on, Welly,” Eliza said with a laugh, as she clicked her tongue to urge her horse forward. “Better than camels, you must admit.”

Wellington appeared not to like her reminding him of that particular endeavour. Reluctantly, with reins clasped easily in one hand, he joined Eliza and Sophia on their way out of the stables.

On the open road, Sophia led them leisurely a mile or two before reaching a grass-covered goat track taking them deeper into the countryside. To say this ride was a beautiful, well-earned respite from their investigation in India would be an understatement. Somehow, it made perfect sense to Eliza that Sophia, with her singular, unique charm, came from such a place.

“
Have your family been in the area long?” Wellington said. It was a delight to see him so relaxed, at peace.

“
My Nonna came here when she was first married. My grandfather’s people have been here since recorded history. Nonna doesn’t like to talk about where she came from.” Sophia shot him a wry grin. “I suggest you don’t ask her.”

“
No questions for Nonna,” he muttered to himself. “Duly noted.”

“
I hope you don’t mind the question, but it’s the elephant in the room.” Eliza could see in the corner of her eye Wellington’s grip tighten on his reins. “Are all your family killers?”

Sophia’s smile was quite proud. “If you hadn’t asked, I would have thought you far too trusting. The answer is no. Our village, Monteriggioni, is a rather peaceful place. And you are guests. You have nothing to fear.”

The wistful note in her voice nearly took Eliza’s breath away. There was also a hint of longing that she recognized from when she spoke of New Zealand. Again, a part of her ached.

Thank goodness Wellington was in a curious mood. “So do you have a plan for when you get there?”

Sophia shrugged. “I suppose I will take the path my Nonna did when she retired: find a husband, raise a new generation of del Mortes, and teach them how to weave and throw knives.”

It was quite a picture, and Eliza could easily see it. Who the lucky, or unlucky, husband would be was another thing altogether.

Twilight was just stealing over the hills, colouring the landscape with shades of turmeric and saffron. Eliza was about to ask Sophia about the wines of her home when the assassin suddenly kicked her horse into a gallop. She caught on their guide’s face a hardened expression, one Eliza had never seen during their trip from India.

Then, in the air, she could smell smoke. Not the kind reminiscent of winter bonfires. This was stronger, heavier.  

Immediately Eliza was after her, with Wellington just behind. However, they didn’t have to chase Sophia far as she had galloped to the top of the next hill. As both agents pulled up next to her, they saw why she had stopped.

On the opposite hill was the town they assumed to be Monteriggioni, small but with walls. The sounds of wood crackling and roof beams falling could be heard across the narrow valley. Tall flames and thick, acrid smoke reached into the indigo and violet sky above. Eliza could tell the town had been burning for some time. Nothing moved within the village walls, apart from the flames. No people were fleeing into the valley. No cries for help echoed up to them.

The firelight reflected on Sophia’s face, catching the tears in her eyes. Her shock surrendered to sadness and mourning. She shook her head, her hands clenching on the reins. “Nonna warned me about Usher,” she said, her voice cracking. “She warned me and I didn’t listen.”

Eliza dared to place her hand on Sophia’s shoulder. “You don’t know that it was—”

Sophia let out a howl, a primitive scream that made the horses jerk sideways in alarm. When she turned to her, Eliza saw an incredible, raw rage. “I know! I know
them!
I know they came here for me!”

She could think of nothing to say in response. It was most likely true. Considering how Sophia had cost the House of Usher in her partnership with the Maestro, it would not be unexpected for them to strike against her.

This tactic, however, was shocking. Even for Usher.

As Sophia kicked her horse forward, Eliza called out to her, “Do you want us to come with you? They could still be there.”

The horse stopped, then turned around. The look on Sophia del Morte’s face was one Eliza would never forget; it was naked pain, lit by fire and destruction. “
No
,” she spat. “This is my business.
La Cosa Nostra.
My family, my revenge.”

Wellington trotted his horse forward. “Sophia, please, let us help you.”

“
Do not get in the way!”
Her warning made Eliza pull back instinctively on her mount’s reins. “If I need you, I will find you. Rest assured.”

And with that she urged her horse into a mad gallop towards the burning Monteriggioni.

“
Does she really intend to take on Usher alone?” Wellington asked.

Eliza’s gaze travelled across the destruction. “She’ll do whatever she has to, Welly.” Reaching over she gave his hand a squeeze. “Let’s go home. We have a madman of our own to catch.”

Coda

In Which a Mad Doctor Sees the Light

Paris,
La Ville Lumière.
One of the touchstones for the Age of Enlightenment. Just in the distance, rising from an ocean of gas lamps, stood the pride and joy of the city and, of course, the architect Gustave Eiffel. Now ten years old, the wrought iron lattice wonder straddling Champ de Mars stood as a testament to what was possible if man were given no boundaries or inhibitions. Though it was true, while the Tower was being constructed, its creator took more than his fair amount of grief and scorn from the Paris Elite. Architect Charles Garnier and artists such as Maupassant, Massenet, and Bouguereau mounted protests against its construction, attempting to halt what they believed would be an abomination, a bastard creation of science and art, of form and expression, of design and creativity.

These prominent men had been wrong. So very, very wrong.

The Eiffel Tower, even at this distance, stood as an inspiration to Henry Jekyll. Those who had opposed Gustave Eiffel’s legacy would have denied their fair city the distinction of having the tallest man-made structure in the world. The Tower was a breakthrough of art, architecture, and ingenuity, and Eiffel had proven to be right.

Just as he would be. One day.

Jekyll turned away from the inspiring view of the City of Lights and took his fresh cup of tea from the automaton. Head tilted, he examined the mechanical manservant, took his first sip, and then winced at the sharpness of the brew. Once again, it had steeped for too long. A human servant would only need one or two brewing attempts before comprehending what constituted a perfect cup of tea.

This was the automaton’s fifth attempt.

“
I thought we had remedied this,” Jekyll muttered to himself as he limped around the metallic valet to the tea tray. He dropped in two more sugar cubes, stirred it into the leather-coloured liquid, and then took in a sip.

Absolute swill. He dropped in another two cubes.

Still terrible.

Three more. That should do the trick.

Better.

Well, perhaps one more.

The taste now replenished his soul. The perfect cup of tea. Finally.

Jekyll took another long sip of the Darjeeling and then stared into the drink. Eight cubes. Dammit. He was going to need another regimen. This would make the third on a weekly basis. The only other choice was to skip the treatment and allow himself to run loose in the streets of Paris. If that was his choice tonight, he would have to secure his dwelling and find an overnight boarding house as a beginning and ending point for his exploits; his alpha and omega for a night of unleashed debauchery. Possibly spilling blood. Whether that blood would be innocent or not, was impossible to calculate.

He set the cup and saucer on the end table, and taking up his cane, followed the servant’s passage down to the kitchen. The automatons stood here like skeletal soldiers, silent and dark in the shadows. To some, it might have been unnerving, these metallic creations just standing there, waiting for a command. To Jekyll, they were merely furniture, so he continued through to the butler’s quarters where the only light was present.

Outside the door this automaton was active, its gears and cogs clicking while lights flared and dimmed in their simple sequence. The automaton’s eyes glowed green as its head slowly and smoothly turned to look at him. On recognizing that someone was standing in front of it, the eyes switched from green to yellow.

“
Henry Jekyll,” it stated.

The automaton held its stare with him as a pattern of bips and beeps softly ticked in its head. Jekyll was not familiar with Morse code or the ways of wireless communication, but its creator had told him this was the sentry’s particular routine, or was it sequence? He couldn’t recall the proper terminology, but it was still nothing less than ingenious how this machine communicated with its brethren on the other side of the door.

Those yellow eyes, still trained on him, switched back to green as it stepped back.

“
Just incredible,” he whispered, taking out the ornate key from his pocket.

Jekyll inserted the key and turned it twice to the left. Levers snapped inside the lock, then Jekyll grabbed the bow and pulled. The key’s stem split, gaining another half inch of length. Now he turned it counter clockwise.

From the doorway came a sequence of low, deep strikes as the extra bolts disengaged. In his early experiments, he’d contained himself behind this door, back when he’d still fought against his breakthrough. That was before he knew the exquisite joy of being a god amongst mortals, before he knew the taste of the purely primal.