Dawn's Early Light (14 page)

Motioning with his hand for her to remain still, Wellington took hold of a sizable piece of driftwood. He tested its heft, equal to that of a solid cricket bat. Jolly good. He had only taken five steps before changing his grip on the driftwood, and then hissing in pain.

Embedded in his palm was one of those damned sand spurs.

He looked up to see the Shocker's head spin on its shoulders to look directly at him. Its eyes switched from amber to red as its arms swivelled back and something inside it began to click louder and faster.

Something flew past Wellington and attached itself on the Shocker's head. The disc, perhaps bigger than a crown, popped and sparked against the automaton, bringing the interior clockwork to a painfully grinding stop.

“Hopefully, we didn't just surrender our position,” Felicity whispered, looking around them. “Didn't expect the Locksmith to be that noisy.”

“The Locksmith?”

“It uses a low current of electricity and magnetism to manipulate tumblers in combination locks and intricate security measures.” She shrugged. “I took a gamble it might short out a Shocker.”

“Clever girl, you are,” Wellington said appreciatively.

“I have my moments.”

Distant voices from further down the fence caused them to both crouch low. He whispered to Felicity. “We should be able to remain hidden if we are careful.”

She swallowed hard. “Forgive me, Mr. Books. This is usually Bill's office. I'm not one for engagement—particularly if it involves guns.”

Wellington nodded, unsheathing from the small of his back a Remington-Elliot three-barrel. After Eliza's comment at the
Delilah
, he opted for a more practical sidearm. “I can empathise.” He checked its gauges, then primed the compressor. “If it comes to that, we will have to do our best, now won't we?”

Felicity looked him over. “Exactly what kind of an archivist are you?”

He glanced at the Remington-Elliot and then back at her. “A rather complicated one.”

There was just enough light coming from the keeper's house and Currituck Light itself to allow both he and Felicity to make out Edison, along with two other gents, proceeding down the causeway connecting the shore with the compound.

“For the love of God, speak up, man,” Wellington heard Edison snap.

“I said, my superiors at the House of Usher are finding your endless tests beyond tedious.”

“You want the thing to work properly, don't you?” he barked back. “I suspect, yes, therefore you will want to make certain the targeting array works. Once we perform this test,” he said, checking his pocket watch before looking out towards the ocean, “then
and only then
will we proceed to Phase Two.”

“If we had employed the man behind the original idea”—Wellington noted the Usher agent's chest swelling ever so slightly as he continued—“we would be further along, I wager.”

Edison heard that slight clearly as he rounded on the man. “Let's be perfectly clear, shall we? The Serbian may believe multiple field tests are an inefficient use of time, but if you want something to be durable and above all
reliable
, you throw everything you have at it to try and break it.” Edison began to turn away but placed a finger against the Usher agent's chest. “Question my methods again, and this project ends.”

Wellington felt a sharp rap against his shoulder.

“Who is the Serbian?” Felicity whispered in his ear.

“I have a notion,” Wellington said, looking along the fence's length, “but I need confirmation. Follow me.”

Moving as quietly as possible, Wellington and Felicity crept closer to shore, keeping pace with the two men as they drew nearer to the dark, cylindrical tower casting its light out across the ocean.

“Your philosophies and clever idioms may charm a theatre full of admirers, Professor Edison, but to the House you are simply stalling, attempting to distract us from how truly far behind schedule you are.”

Edison stopped, the lighthouse flaring to life as if on cue to illuminate the genius' face, showing its kindly façade seen at the reception completely absent, replaced by a cold, hard scowl.

“Is that what your superiors believe?” Edison's grin lengthened at the sight of a young boy and a large man—another Pinkerton possibly?—approaching from the direction of the shore. A large box, slung over the boy's shoulder, bobbed against his thigh as he walked. “Very well then, Gantry. Allow me to show you exactly how far along we are.”

“The buoy is ready, Professor,” the boy said.

“Excellent.” Edison gestured to the Pinkerton next to him and took from the guard two pair of intricate goggles; one pair he kept for himself and the other he offered to Gantry. They slipped the devices over their heads, adjusting them across their eyes, before turning their gazes towards the horizon.

“Get close, Miss Lovelace. If those are Starlight goggles, we could be found.” Wellington took her under his arm, allowing her to nuzzle deeper into his embrace. “So, gentlemen,” Wellington muttered to himself as he looked over the Atlantic and then back to Edison and his assembly, “what exactly are you up to?”

Judging from the way the boy was attending to Edison, he was some sort of personal assistant. After a curt nod from the inventor, the boy removed the box from his person and opened it, illuminating himself from the faint luminescence emitting from whatever was held within. From inside the box, the assistant pulled out a small listening device that he hung off his ear.

“Telemetry is running,” the boy called to Edison. “The signal from both the light and the buoy are steady.”

“Then begin the count in seconds if you please,” the inventor replied.

The assistant looked in his opposite hand. Wellington could just make out something like a timepiece cradled in the boy's palm. “Five seconds mark.” A few moments later: “Ten seconds mark.”

It was a strange little scene, but the archivist was sure that whatever Major Brantfield witnessed was about to happen again. Something, he knew, felt distinctly off.

Then he quickly realised something was off. The lighthouse was no longer signalling.

A low moan, somehow reminding Wellington of the bass line's darkness and texture in Wagner's “Siegfried's Trauermarsch,” ran ever so subtly underneath the sound of the beach, but only for a brief time. It grew louder, more dissonant. He could feel it in his chest by the time Wellington heard the boy shouting to Edison, “Forty!” The drone became a soft roar, less musical now. More like that of a steam liner's boiler room.

Wellington and Felicity both fell backwards into the sand as, with a sharp clap of thunder, a brilliant beam of white light erupted from the Currituck Lighthouse. They watched this focused energy cut through the inky darkness. He fumbled up to his knees and tried to see what this unimaginable power struck on the horizon was, but could make out nothing at all. With the curvature of the earth his view was limited to only a few miles.

Edison was staring at his assistant, who was twiddling madly with knobs inside the box. Finally, the young man let out a sound that resembled a squeak. “A solid hit on the buoy, sir.”

“Now then, Elias”—Edison, the smugness most apparent in his tone, turned to the Usher gent—“your House was concerned about us being behind schedule?”

Gantry was staring out over the sea. “How far out? Ten? Fifteen?”

“Twenty-five miles,” the assistant piped up.

Gantry followed the steady beam overhead, then pointed out into the horizon as he asked Edison, “Target buoys? I thought you lot had been practising on live targets. Why not tonight?”

Edison shrugged. “I was told our little experiments have been gathering curious onlookers. Tonight, I thought to err on the side of caution and not rely on the reputation of the Graveyard.” He clapped Gantry on the back. “Nikola may be a reckless crackpot, but I know talent and potential when I see it. A shame he and I could not reach . . .” His words faded. Then, after a moment's reflection, added,” . . . an understanding.”

My God,
Wellington thought,
the rumours were true. The death ray Tesla had on his drawing board is real.

And now, Thomas Edison had built it.

“As of tonight, targeting and distance are taken care of. We now proceed to Phase Two.” Edison began walking away from the Usher agent and his second. His young assistant was close on his heels. “I packed last night for the
Midnight Runner
. It leaves in just over an hour for Chicago. After my show there, we will proceed to Detroit. I suggest you travel light if you wish to accompany me.” He spoke over his shoulder to the boy, “And make sure Ford has things ready for me, lest I make things unpleasant for him.”

The assistant nodded, then stopped as he put a hand to his ear. “Professor Edison, the watch sighted two ships about a mile off shore.”

“Really?” Edison hesitated. “Pirate ships?”

“No running lights.” The boy paused, then nodded. “They looked as if they were lining up for an exchange.”

Edison looked at Gantry, then back at his attendant. “Signal the Lantern Room. Let them know we're running an unscheduled test.” He turned to the Usher agent and smiled darkly. “Last night, we were able to power up for a second shot in five minutes. Let's see if we can break that record.”

Wellington turned to Felicity as they watched them return to the Lightkeeper's House. “Fastest way back to the resort?”

“Towards the beach. Follow it in a southerly direction.”

“Excellent. A rather successful night of reconnaissance, Miss Lovelace.” The sound of a hammer locking back caused his throat to tighten. “Save for that.”

“If you got an Ace in the hole,” the gruff voice from behind them began, “I'd be getting rid of it. Right about now.”

Wellington sank back. This gave him enough cover, along with the surrounding shadows, to lift up the rock in front of them. It was about the same size as his Remington-Elliot, slightly heavier, though. So long as it was heavy enough to sound like a pistol being thrown into the brush and, of course, the man holding them both at gunpoint wasn't wearing Starlights.

“Very well,” Wellington said, turning the gun, handle first, to Felicity. “I am armed, sir, and tossing the gun away.” He could see the whites of Felicity's terrified eyes. He furrowed his brow, and shot a glance to his weapon. Her still widening eyes jumped from the Remington-Elliot to his own gaze. He lifted the rock and then motioned with his gaze, once more, to the gun. Finally the American got the hint.

Felicity's eyebrows curled up as she slid her hand up to the gun handle. Once the three-barrelled pistol was steady in her grasp, Wellington heaved the rock to one side where it landed with a loud
fump
against the brush and sand.

“That's real good. Now slowly—”

Perhaps the only sound more out of place than the Currituck Death Ray was Felicity's shrill, sharp scream that, Wellington could only assume, was some sort of battle cry. She sprang from her crouched position, the first shot of the Remington-Elliot ripping through the quiet of the night. Then came the second and third in quick succession. Her scream grew softer and softer as she ran out of air, and Wellington looked up at his partner in the field, watched the smoke trail from the triangle of barrels the Remington-Elliot formed, nodded, and then raised his hands.

“Turn around,” Wellington said gently as he came to his feet. “And open your eyes.”

Felicity did so, and now both of them faced their captor.

“What the hell was that all about?” the gunman, Wellington recognised as the perimeter lookout they had passed earlier on, asked them.

Felicity let the spent weapon fall at her feet. “Sorry,” she whimpered. “I hate guns.”

Wellington let out a slight chuckle at that, regretting that Eliza was missing this. That comment would have most assuredly tickled her funny bone. Wherever she was presently, though, Wellington took great relief that she was far safer than he.

S
ussex turned over in his sleep, pulling his pillow tight. He had dreamed of falling into a pit, but then being born aloft by a set of massive dirty wings. Perhaps if he slipped back into Morpheus' embrace quickly enough he could capture the dream again.

Dream? That sharp realisation jerked him awake. He could not recall having gone to sleep at all.

He lay still for a moment trying to shake loose a memory of getting here, into his own bed, but for all his attempts, nothing came to him. Had he had too much wine at the dinner table, and maybe Fenning or even Ivy had helped him to bed?

That was the trouble: he had no recollection of drinking
anything
—not even tea.

With his heart beating fast, Sussex sat up and pushed aside his pillows. His head felt lighter than his body, and he discovered that he dared not risk any further physical exertion. He worked his jaw several times, and found his mouth bone dry. It took several attempts, but he managed to croak out, “Fenning . . . Fenning!”

Nothing happened, and he cursed the ancient ears of his valet. He should have replaced the doddering fool years ago! Shaking, Sussex managed to gather enough strength to lean out of his bed and yank on the bellpull. However, it took so much out of him that he ended up flopping back on his pillows. His own body was apparently about as reliable as Fenning's. What on earth had happened to him?

His gaze darted around his room, trying to find clues, but whatever had happened to his body had also affected his mind. It was hard to hold on to details, put things together, or make sense of anything. He took a deep breath and practised the exercises that his doctor had taught him. Sussex needed to calm himself, and once he was . . .

Rocking. There was a gentle rocking. And that sound. He was on a train.

The curtains were pulled, and in the semi-darkness all his familiar surroundings looked totally alien and a little threatening. What horrors lurked in his wardrobe or lay upon his chair? The mundane suddenly began to appear dangerous when his body and mind were both failing him.

Just before he could sink totally into paranoia, the bedroom door popped open and Fenning finally appeared.
At last,
he cursed inwardly,
earning his damn wages.
The old valet's wrinkled face was folded into concern, but since that was his usual expression, Sussex never read too much into it.

“Sir?” he asked, leaning over the bed, thus enveloping his master in the choking reek of mothballs. “Oh, it is good to see you awake, sir!” A charming sentiment, to be sure; but Sussex didn't have time to spare calming the old man's nerves. The grogginess was taking its toll, making his body slow in responding to his commands. Sadly, it gave Fenning more chance to twitter on. “The mistress was so concerned for you. Of course, she is presently having dinner with the children, but she was assured that you—”

“Fenning!” Both of them were surprised at the volume of his voice when it finally came out. The old man stood as erect as a soldier. Sussex licked his lips before asking, “What happened to me . . . ? I don't remember anything after leaving the palace. Was that today?”

“Three days ago,” his valet replied, but his eyes didn't meet Sussex's. The valet then began to adjust the bedclothes, tucking them in so tight that Sussex doubted in his current condition that he'd be able to move them at all. The old man was usually a veritable chatterbox, and yet now he had put a lock on his tongue.

“Go on, man. What happened?” Sussex snapped, feeling some strength return to at least his jaw. “My last memory was returning to the house in order to leave on holiday with the family.”

The valet cleared his throat, shifting from one foot to the other. “You. . .” he finally ground out, “You had . . . a fall, sir.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” snapped an unseen, but familiar, voice from behind the butler.

Fenning nearly toppled over as Sussex's doctor pushed his way through the door. The valet scuttled out of the room and shut the door behind him with barely a whisper. It was the first time Sussex had seen him break protocol. Fenning had not asked to be dismissed.

Henry shook his head as soon as he was out of sight, but put his bag on the bed and opened it wide. “While I'm sure your man means well, I don't believe in holding anything back from my patients, so I will tell you the truth. You didn't have a fall, Peter. It was another episode. A rather bad one, I might add.”

The news dropped on Sussex like a ton of bricks. As he gasped in horror, his whole world slid away. He imagined the hundreds of awful places it could have happened: at the club, at the train station, while he was entertaining any number of foreign ambassadors . . .

Then the worst thought of all crossed his mind.

“Ivy?” he whispered tersely. Fenning could have been trying to spare him the worst of it. “Is Ivy all right? Did she . . . did she suffer?”

The doctor pressed his hand over the duke's. “Don't panic, Peter. Your family is quite well, and no one is the wiser as to your condition. Everyone was preparing for holiday. You were found in your study. So, now we concentrate on making you well,” he said brightly, standing up and pulling out the tray of vials holding familiar serums and solutions, “and I take a rather unexpected trip with the Duke of Sussex and his charming family.”

“To what purpose and what end?” Sussex asked his physician dully. “With my turns happening with no warning now, surely your treatments can't offer any hope?”

“Peter!” came the sharp reply. “While there is life there is hope, and you, my dear friend, have plenty of life! Yesterday, for starters, you were most enjoyable company. The memory loss could simply be an unfortunate side effect.” He peered into his doctor's bag as he assured his patient. “This is promising. I have been working on a regimen with another patient of mine, and I wondered if that treatment plan would serve your malady.”

“Really?” Sussex sat up a little in bed. It had been some time since true hope surged in him. Perhaps an end of this madness was truly in sight?

Henry's smile was blindingly white in the semi-darkness as he held up a small vial. “And this is why, my friend, the medical profession is often referred to as a practise. On occasion, I get something right.”

It could have been a trick of the eye, but the murky, purplish liquid seemed to gleam as much as his smile did.

“Such a little thing,” Sussex croaked out. “Can it really cure me?”

“Cure? That remains to be seen,” Henry said with a shrug. “However, I must warn you: the lapses of memory may become more frequent.”

“Oh.” And that all-too-familiar spectre of despair slipped its clutches around him again. “I see.”

“But,” he said, handing Sussex what appeared to be a freshly printed photograph, “once we get you better, you will have less of a need for these.”

It was his family. Ivy. His sons, John and George. All of them, smiling with wonder and delight. Arching over them was the support struts of Eiffel's engineering wonder.
More of an eyesore,
he had thought when seeing it under construction years ago. Yet he and his family had paid the Tower a visit, and they had been so happy.

However, he couldn't remember any of what appeared in this photograph to be a lovely day.

“We're in Paris?” he asked, looking around the cabin.

“Yesterday,” the doctor said, locking the vial into a hypodermic pistol. “We're just outside of Bruges.”

Of course it had to be damned Bruges. Ivy and her fascination with canals were to blame. “The lapses of memory don't seem so bad all of a sudden.”

“Your body and mind will adjust.” Henry placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don't worry, my friend. You won't be alone.”

Sussex returned the lost moment back to the nightstand. “A few more memories lost in exchange for a cure? A fair enough price.”

“Very well, but I shall have to restrain you again.” The doctor's voice was soft and soothing. He had the gentlest of natures. Far too gentle for his profession really. “As a precaution.”

The other doses had not been painless, so if Henry was emphasising restraints, then what was coming had to be truly awful. Still, it could not be as painful as living in this limbo, not knowing when the episodes would hit or which of his loved ones he might hurt.

Sussex nodded and closed his eyes, nuzzling his head deeper into the pillow. He heard Henry secure restraints across his body, felt the softness of wool and linen close around his wrists and ankles. The leather he knew was supple and soft. The highest quality, assuring no marks would be left visible. Henry thought of everything.

“Here we go then,” his doctor whispered to him, as if they were setting out on a journey together.

The muzzle of the hypodermic pistol pressed against his skin, and the chill raised gooseflesh along his arm.

There was a sharp
pop
, and Sussex learned immediately that Henry was to be trusted without question. His doctor, his friend, had not lied to him.

The pain was quite blinding.