Dawn's Early Light (27 page)

“A death ray able to pick off ships from the sky,” Wellington mused, “a portable dynamo powering this weapon, and one of America's most innovative minds at the centre of it all.” He looked at Felicity. “We're missing something.”

“Well, yes,” she said, “intent.”

“No, I mean, we're missing something that could help us draw a conclusion and decipher Edison's intent,” Wellington said as they reached the five-and-dime. “If we could just find that missing piece, we may be able to have a stronger grasp on this investigation. We still don't know why he's in Flagstaff.”

Felicity chuckled softly as she pulled out the small key and disengaged the lock. “You make it sound as if the clue is right in front of us.”

“There is a good possibility it is,” Eliza said, still checking corners and side paths. “Personalities like Edison tend to show off. We have dealt with our fair share of maniacs with the flair for the dramatic,” she added as they entered the dim general store, its display windows still covered and interior illuminated with lanterns.

“You got my message? Excellent.” Tesla was standing at the counter, his gaze focused on a small component no longer than his hand. He was fastening the two parts together. When a hard
click
sounded, he said, “Follow me.”

He strode to the back of the five-and-dime where three lanterns were casting more concentrated light for the table. The array's components were displayed in precise rows. Eliza strolled over to the dismantled array for a closer look, picking up one of the death ray's mechanisms—perhaps this was a timing disc of some fashion—for a closer look. The hiss escaping from Tesla froze everyone in place, making it easy for the scientist to slip between them to snatch the part from Eliza's hand. It was as if he were handling a piece of Ming Dynasty china how Tesla returned the palm-sized disc back to where it had been originally placed.

If Tesla had not done that, Eliza would have never caught the pattern.

The items removed from the targeting array were lined up in three long rows extending from either side of the array's case. From the edge of the table, the three rows were only three items deep in width.

“Welly?” she whispered.

“Yes, the pattern,” Wellington replied. “I think you're looking at the price of brilliance.”

“Mr. Tesla,” Felicity began, her hand hovering over the three-by-three pattern of mechanical devices and parts, “have you . . . slept?”

Tesla blinked, and then gave a forced grin, perhaps an attempt to appear civil. “I . . .” He blinked again, seeming to notice Felicity as if for the very first time. “Miss Lovelace, I sometimes prefer not to sleep in matters of importance such as this.”

The three agents looked to one another, the silence threatening to smother them all before Wellington spoke up with a slight cough. “So . . . you said you had a breakthrough of some kind here?”

“Yes, I did.” Tesla walked over to the opposite side of the table where the parts had been arranged and held out a hand over a group of rows. Eliza swallowed hard as she noted the three rows and columns had also been segregated into three groupings. She took a deep breath, pushing back her own impulsive thoughts, as Tesla began. “This group controlled the input of power. The second group here was more centric to calibration, coordinates, and targeting. And this group,” he said, holding his hand over the final group of components, “is for regulating output. Based on Mr. Books' notes, I can attest that Edison has a fairly impressive but rather inelegant replica of my design.”

Eliza stiffened. “That's your breakthrough?”

“No,” Tesla said, returning to the husk. “This prototype is Edison's ridiculous method of operation realised. He loves to say, ‘If I find ten thousand ways something won't work, I haven't failed. I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward.' A rather slapdash approach to science,” he scoffed. “Therefore if we make the assumption that Edison is remaining true to his past methods, I believe the Currituck death ray was meant to be broken. Test it to an inch beyond its endurance, then build on the failure. The final test, according to your accounts, Mr. Books, was more about power levels. You will note here,” Tesla said, motioning to several of the devices in the “output” group, “the pitted and scorched condition?”

Wellington adjusted his spectacles and nodded. “These components are burned out.”

“The death ray was only sustainable for one small, concentrated burst,” Tesla said, tapping on a small stack of papers next to the death ray casing, his eyes wildly darting over each component, each grouping. “One short burst of energy, while impressive, is hardly worth the risk of discovery. He now needs to sustain the beam's integrity.”

“So Edison has a targeting mechanism,” she repeated. “He also has a better dynamo for increased output. What are we missing?”

“Better optics,” Felicity whispered suddenly, looking over to Tesla.

“Exactly,” Tesla said.

“That's why we're here in Flagstaff,” she added, her pale skin now turning an unhealthy shade of green.

Eliza leaned forwards. “Care to enlighten your guests?”

“A pair of scientists—Lowell and Douglass, I believe their names are—petitioned a few years ago to build an observatory in the A.T. The designs were ambitious, and they got their wish. The observatory went active just two years ago.” Felicity looked at both Eliza and Wellington. “Care to guess where it is?”

“And that's why we're here,” Wellington said. “The optics of a telescope are hardly the same cut or curvature as the lenses used with a lighthouse. However . . .”

Eliza drew to his conclusion quickly. “Those optics could easily be manipulated and modified. We're talking about Edison and he has been looking to increase everything. Efficiency. Output. With the right optics and the proper mods, he could easily increase range.”

Wellington shook his head. “We are still no nearer in deducing exactly what his ultimate plan is with the House of Usher.”

“You could always ask him.” All eyes now turned to Tesla as he took them all in, one at a time. “He established an office here not more than a year ago. The other end of town. Edison has never been very concerned with secrecy.”

“Right then,” Felicity said, “I'll fetch Bill at the Concord, and we can pay Edison a visit.”

“Just a moment,” urged Wellington, “if we go in with guns blazing, we may very well fail in discovering Edison's ultimate intentions for this death ray.”

“Which is why we are going to go collect Edison properly,” she replied. Felicity then turned to Eliza. In the woman's eyes, that rivalry had been set aside. She was all business. “I know you understand what needs to be done, Eliza, yes?”

“I think Wellington is right,” she insisted.

“You do?” Felicity asked, stunned.

“You do?” Wellington asked, equally stunned.

Ye gods,
Eliza swore silently,
I cannot afford to do anything else stupid from here on out!
“Yes,” she repeated through clenched teeth, “I think Welly is right. All we know is Edison has a death ray and that he's come to Flagstaff for improved optics. This means he's building an even better one, yes? Where? We need to proceed carefully.

“Felicity, if you and Bill help Tesla here pack up the death ray prototype, Wellington and I will case the Red Rock Theatre, where Edison is speaking tonight. We will note known entrances, exits, possible abduction spots.” Felicity went to contradict her, but Eliza immediately cut her off. “You are a clever girl, I would never question that”—Felicity arched a single eyebrow on those words—“but this is the mission and you are quite green concerning spycraft. Four people are far more likely to be spotted in a simple casing of the location.”

She looked between the two of them, and then gave a reluctant nod. “Fair point.”

That must have been painful.

“We will meet you and Bill at the Royal”—Eliza checked her pocket watch—“at three? We have the upper hand at present. Best not to lose it.”

“Agreed,” Felicity admitted.

Eliza gave a nod, then motioned to Wellington. “Let's go take a closer look at this theatre, shall we?” she asked as she replaced her sun spectacles over her eyes. “See you at the Royal, Felicity.”

Once outside, Wellington offered Eliza his arm, and they began a slow stroll along the main street of Flagstaff. They continued in the shade of shop awnings until the cover ceased, stepping into the sunlight and open space before a grand building advertising tonight's audience with Thomas Edison. Eliza smiled up to her partner, and then gave his arm a light tug. They continued past the wide building and took a moment underneath the awning of another row of storefronts.

“There's the Red Rock Theatre,” Wellington said, motioning with his head.

He didn't point. Good. He was learning.

Still, he had a bit to go before he was ready to be out by himself. “Excellent observation. Now, follow me.”

His head bobbed between the building and Eliza. “I thought we were going to the theatre to case all access points?”

“We will,” she said with a little smile. “Once we return from Edison's workshop, the only other establishment in a town like Flagstaff that would hold the interest of a cad like Edison.”

Eliza had just made it to the front of a hardware store when from behind her, she heard the rhythmic
thump-thump-thump
of Wellington's feet against wooden planks.

“Aren't we trying to keep the peace with our American counterparts?” Wellington asked under his breath. “You told Felicity—”

“I know what I told her.” Yes, their goodwill presence was supposed to be as only “observers” in this investigation. Considering everything up to this point, some New Zealand initiative and British ingenuity was needed. “I think that the Americans are ready to charge in with guns blazing, as Americans are wont to do. We need a closer look at this workshop.”

Wellington blinked. “Eliza, these sorts of decisions should be cleared with the director.”

“Well, he's back in London,” she hissed. “And how long do you think it will be before Edison decides to turn this invention against the Empire? One man should not have that much destructive capability at his whim.”

“A noble thought,” Wellington said, looking around them for a moment. He leaned in closer, unsettling Eliza for a brief second. “So how are we to go about doing this?”

Now they were firmly in her territory. “Follow my lead. I should be able to get us in and out without anyone noticing, not even our delightful American companions.”

Eliza then slipped her arm into the crook of Wellington's and gave him a tug. Together, they made for Edison's workshop, the time for protest behind them. The time for action, ahead.

B
eing Madame Fiammetta Fiore was no great hardship, but being on the arm of a mad Scotsman was. Sophia allowed herself to be led around and have her feet trodden on by McTighe for several days. Most of his conversations were about things that she couldn't understand one bit. The meaning of freckles, the movement of cloud formations over the Isle of Skye, or the history of copper coins. Rantings of a brilliant lunatic. Now she understood that the “Mad” moniker he had earned was entirely appropriate. Albert was going to be the harder target, since that OSM agent assigned to him, Martha Harris, never let him out of her sight.

It was always the women,
Sophia mused, watching her over the rim of her morning cup of tea. The assassin took the female of the species far more seriously than the male. She knew all too well that one of the “weaker sex” had to work much harder to rise into any position of power. Despite the recent advances in technology and society, women were still seen as creatures that needed to be protected. But Sophia's mother, the renowned courtesan Francesca del Morte, had taught her daughter that strength did not merely lie in weapons alone. It was also in the mind. This Miss Harris required some assessment.

Hamish McTighe was up in his suite today on account of a rather severe cold, thanks to an additive Sophia had dropped into his nightly single malt. Now she was freer than she had been in a few days.

A lucky thing for Hamish too. Sophia had reached the stage where she was quite willing to risk bloodshed just to be free of him. It was her preferred modus operandi, but since joining the Maestro's employment, she had stretched her skill set to its utmost. Assassinating nobility had been a pastime for her.
Kidnapping
nobility? Something new, at least when it came to royals. A fact she had to remind herself again and again as she loaded the dart gun that morning.

Sophia took a sip of her tea and smoothed down the rather plain bronze-coloured day dress she had picked out this morning. The only concession to luxury was the narrow trim of fur at the neck and on the trailing edge. It was as simple as Sophia's wardrobe got.

The prince's American agent, in Sophia's observations of her, was more than competent at keeping an eye on him, but she didn't appear to be heavily armed. Sophia's assessment was that this Martha Harris had been chosen for her assignment because of her looks. The prince appeared charmed with her, her dark skin and shapely figure most becoming to him. Bertie's lingering gaze insinuated that he desired a more intimate adventure with her. Like all men, it was not the head on his shoulders that led him.

Sophia stirred her tea, and drank another sip. She was proud of the fact that anyone observing her would never have been able to tell she hated the stuff. Far too much time in England had forced her to drink lakes of the dishwater beverage, yet without it a lady often had nothing to mask her intentions while seated.

So when Miss Harris came downstairs, and walked to the concierge desk, Sophia was careful to be busy about adding more lumps of sugar to her cup. She watched with her peripheral vision as Harris stood at the desk, waiting impatiently for someone to tend to her. The concierge in his very fine dark green coat continued whatever menial task held his attention at the other end. Sophia knew this was a trivial thing as she had seen two other hotel patrons approach the concierge, both patrons receiving the man's undivided attention. Martha Harris was the exception, even when he completed whatever was at his desk. The agent was visible to him, and yet he did not seem ready to acknowledge her existence. He sat there for a moment, his eyes darting in the direction of Miss Harris for a brief instant, then set to stacking some papers. Something about the set of Harris' shoulders suggested that she was used to this.

America was a strange creature to Sophia; always talking about liberty for all, and yet failing so miserably to provide it. Their recent war might have proven a point, but its good intentions were still some way from filtering down to the actual people.

An immaculately dressed red-haired woman approached the desk at the other end, also ignoring Miss Harris. Immediately, the concierge was on his feet, tending to the lady, standing mere inches from Harris. Sophia managed to hide a smile. She would have laid odds that the agent was having trouble repressing the urge to smash the man's face into his own counter.

The red-haired woman and the concierge were talking about travel plans, and sights to see in the area. From the look of the travel brochures in the woman's hands, Harris would be waiting for some time. This would leave the prince unprotected for, at the longest, thirty minutes, depending on how many places this patron wished to visit.

She recalled McTigue's comments earlier when he had first introduced Sophia to the prince. He would be on the fourth floor. Before the lift came to a halt, she pulled back the inner gate, opened her handbag, and pulled out her compact.

This early in the morning, especially after a night of carousing, there would be few people in the hallways, and those in their rooms asleep or groggy. Her chances of moving undetected were all in her favour. Still, she kept her footsteps light as she crept down the row of suites. She opened her compact and held the mirror down low and angled out in order to peer around the corner. The way was clear. She looked over her shoulder, and then swept as quietly as possible back the way she came. Reaching the end, she repeated the manoeuvre.

The man currently standing in front of the prince's door appeared remarkably alert for this time of the morning. He was also quite large. If he were the
first
line of defence for her to face, his counterpart would be even more formidable.

She put her compact in her purse, and took out a dark mask of hard leather, with two small cylindrical filters fixed on either side of it. Once the mask was secured around her mouth and nose, she fished out a silver ball that fit quite nicely in the palm of her hand. She then glanced at the fob dangling from her dress, checked the time, and gave the sphere a slight twist from each side.

On hearing the sphere click, Sophia began a silent count to ten as she tossed it towards the man and then disappeared back around the corner flipping up the mask's eye shields. Sophia calmly walked around the corner, her carriage confident and hardly rushed. Perhaps her fashion was bizarre, at present, but she would wear it with all assurance.

The guard had seen the sphere first as his eyes were cast downwards. When he looked back up to see a woman of pleasant proportions, her stunning outfit topped by a monstrous visage of brass, leather, and glass, he drew his sidearm. The weapon had cleared his jacket when the sphere tapped at his foot. He disappeared in a rush of greenish gas that enveloped him, turning whatever warning he attempted to shout into a sickening retch. The guard was already dead considering how his body collapsed onto the fine-carpeted floor underneath them.

A second guard, alerted by the sound of dead weight falling in the hallway, appeared in the door. Sophia knew the first burst was lethal, but once dissipation occurred it was nothing more than an irritant.

That did not mean it was a
mild
irritant.

Sophia was only a few steps away when she caught sight of tears glistening against the guard's cheeks, his pistol faltering in his grasp and his breath audible in excruciatingly harsh, dry coughs. A quick flick of her wrist, and the concealed stiletto shot out of its hiding place under her very respectable sleeve and stabbed the guard's forearm twice, releasing his grip on his weapon. The other arm came around in a wild left hook that Sophia ducked under. She leapt on the man's wide back and drove the stiletto deep into his neck. He stumbled back, but Sophia continued to ride him as if he were a fine performance horse until he joined his compatriot on the floor.

The bloody stiletto still in hand, Sophia stepped into the prince's suite. The man she recognised as the valet was on his feet, a modified blunderbuss braced against his hip.

“To arms!” the man screamed just before Sophia dove to one side.

An explosion ripped through the mêlée, but she was a moving target and this man was not an experienced shot. Sophia stood from her roll and shot her other arm out forwards, sadly ripping the respectable sleeve and cuff there, and two razor-discs sailed across the suite and knocked the valet to the ground. Unlike her, the brave servant to the prince would not be getting back up.

Sophia took a few moments to get the tingle of excitement running under her skin back in control. She had not enjoyed this sort of kill for quite a time, and she found that she had missed it. Scooping up the fob hanging from her waist, she noted the time, the second hand also helping her rein in her thrill. She still had time, but could not kill the man in the final room. The Maestro wanted him alive.

She kicked open the door with a well-planted foot and immediately dove for the floor on hearing the generator. A wild, frantic display of lightning bolts reached above her and singed the walls, shattered wall fixtures, and destroyed a breakfast setting where the valet had originally been. From her purse, Sophia pulled out the small dart gun, leaned out from her hiding place, and fired. Prince Albert hefted his unique rifle but no second volley came. Sophia's dart had landed square in his chest. By the time Bertie got his hand on it, he was already falling.

She ripped the mask free, tasting fresh, unfiltered air. He landed hard, but he would get no compassion from her. Soon enough, under her care, he would be earning more bruises. Heaving from underneath Bertie's armpits, she dragged the unconscious prince through the servant's door, hefted him into the lift, and then joined him in a ride down to the laundry. The convenient carts on the ground floor she could use to push his not-inconsiderable bulk to the rear entrance. There, her driver could manage the prince into her carriage. This morning's abduction was about keeping things simple.

The lift doors shuddered open.

“Room service!” Martha Harris spoke cheerfully just before punching her hard in the nose.

This was not the first time Sophia had taken a blow there, and so she avoided the natural reaction to clasp her face. Still hurt like the devil, but she managed to stay standing. Her vision flared white for an instant, and yet through the glare she could see a form she knew was Harris. The thing in front of her lolled and shifted in her eyes, and then snapped into focus. Harris' second jab was coming straight for her. Sophia's hands came up and landed a strong hold on the American, yanking her into the lift, sending her chin into Sophia's elbow, and pushing the black woman back into the hallway wall.

“Between the wait for the idiot at the concierge desk and all the lovely reflective surfaces downstairs,” Harris said, pulling herself off the wall, “you didn't think I spotted you, did you?”

Sophia did not respond. Her own body was flush with the joy of battle now. The punch to the face had been unexpected. That meant Miss Harris was formidable. And as she loosened her skirts and stepped free of them, she recalled how she preferred being up close and personal like this with opponents.

Harris did not enjoy it as much when Sophia's knee stopped her charge. Martha struggled to catch her breath, leaving herself open for a kick, but Sophia's leg was in Martha's iron grasp before it could reach its target. The assassin found herself thrown hard into the wall and then, a moment later, on the floor. She attempted to roll out of the way as Harris unleashed several kicks to her rib cage.

“Nice corset,” Martha quipped. “Before I turn you in to the authorities, I'm going to want the name of your tailor.”

Getting her feet under her, the assassin returned her stiletto back to her grasp. She feinted right, but Harris ignored the bait, trapping then twisting her arm, driving the blade between the door and its frame. She then pushed hard against Sophia, and the blade snapped free of its hilt.

Sophia loved that blade.

“Puttana!”
she spat, charging forwards. Elegance and technique were both supplanted by all-out brawling, both women landing what blows they could. Sophia, through the flurries of punches, jabs, and slaps, caught sight of a stairwell, perhaps leading to a basement. She grasped tight to Harris and pushed her to what she hoped would be her death on the narrow staircase.

Unfortunately, her opponent was far too clever for her to get away with that.

Harris wrapped a free arm around Sophia's waist, and together they slammed against the stairwell. The assassin landed on top of Harris, and proceeded to strangle the life out of the agent who had broken her favourite stiletto. Harris brought the heel of her palm straight up into Sophia's lip, breaking the Italian's hold on her.

Sophia scurried back away from Harris, just as the prince moaned from the floor of the lift. This was not going as planned. She should already have been out of the building with her prize, instead of roughing it with this harlot. This scuffle was costing her time. Time she didn't have as the commotion in the prince's suite would have assuredly alerted others by now.