His Clockwork Canary (11 page)

She moved to examine Willie, glaring over her shoulder when Simon leaned in as well.
“Stop hovering.”

He didn’t budge. “She was shot.”

“O’blasterated.” Caro’s hands moved gently and efficiently over Willie’s motionless
body. “A sinister weapon that works on the same principle as a shotgun. Instead of
pellets, the cartridge is packed with razor-sharp metal shards and heated by a core-propulsion
blast. Imagine being pierced at a high-velocity impact by hundreds of searing hot
blades.”

Bugger.
“You sound so blasé.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“I haven’t.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Why don’t you take a walk? Get some air.”

“I’m staying.”

“Right, then. At least turn whilst I cut away this binding. I need full access to
the wound.”

As if he would be aroused by the sight of Willie’s bare breasts at a time like this.
Still, not wanting to anger the curt doctor, he did as she asked.

“From the chopped hair and mannish clothing, I take it Willie’s been masquerading
as a boy. The dark discoloring of her face and hands suggests use of a tanning agent
to further alter her appearance. Astounding what lengths a Freak must go to in order
to lead a somewhat normal life.”

The bitter tone in her voice caused Simon to peer back around. Caro had already made
quick work of the binding, discreetly placing a linen over Willie’s torso. She’d also
fixed some sort of mask over Willie’s nose and mouth.

“To ensure she doesn’t awake whilst I work,” Caro said, as if reading his mind. “Stop
fretting. She won’t feel a thing.”

Regardless, Simon’s shoulders tensed as Caro pulled a weapon from her medical bag—a
gleaming pistol with a thick needle protruding from the muzzle. Simon watched, fascinated
and wary, as she snapped what looked to be tubes of blood on each side of the barrel.
“What the devil is that?”

“She’s lost a lot of blood. She needs a transfusion.”

He grasped the doctor’s wrist as she took aim. “Injecting her with Vic blood could
kill her, or sicken her for life.”

“Which is why I’m using
Freak
blood,” Caro said, sounding vexed. “Step off, Darcy.”

His brother’s faith in this woman be damned. “How do I know those vials contain Freak
blood? Why should I trust you?”

Caro gave a disgusted growl, then raised her tinted spectacles to her forehead.

Simon marveled at her direct and cutting gaze. A gaze that swirled with a rainbow
of colors. “You’re a Freak.”

“I’m a Mechanic. I fix things. Except when waylaid by overbearing oafs. Do you want
me to help your friend or not, Darcy?”

He nodded, chagrined. Confused.

Dr. Bella Caro turned back to her work. Injected blood into Willie’s arm via the transfusion
gun. Simon had never seen anything like it. Then she traded her tinted glasses for
bronze goggles that featured three different magnifying loupes and a tubular bulb
that shot a fierce beam of direct light. She studied the multiple wounds to Willie’s
shoulder and upper arm, then procured antiseptic and intricate forceps from her bag
of medicinal wonders. “I’ll need to extract every piece of shrapnel. Missing one could
be dire. Don’t worry,” she said with a smug smile. “I’m thorough. Although this could
take some time. Do sit before your knees give way, Darcy. I’ve no time to attend to
you as well.”

He was not, in fact, woozy. Just concerned. For Willie. “Your bedside manner leaves
something to be desired, Dr. Caro.”

“I don’t need to be pleasant, Mr. Darcy. I’m brilliant.”

Her arrogance was grating yet inspiring. Though she looked all of twenty summers,
surely she had the expertise to mend Willie. Jules would not have enlisted her otherwise.
“How do you know my brother?” he couldn’t help asking as she pulled slivers of metal
from Willie’s flesh.

“I fixed him.”

“Pardon?”

“When he got his legs blown off, I fixed him. Better than new.”

Simon frowned down at the woman. “Jules is in possession of both of his legs. They
weren’t blown off. Just horribly mangled.”

She shrugged. “Figure of speech. Now do leave off. You’re a distraction, man. I abhor
distractions.”

Simon couldn’t care less about Bella Caro’s comfort level. Damnation. Jules considered
this shrew a friend? Mind reeling, Simon dragged a chair to the other side of the
bed. Not knowing how else to help, he sat and held Willie’s hand. Though limp, her
touch was familiar. This moment every bitter thought he’d hurled in her direction
melted away until there was nothing left but their pure and youthful love. He chanced
a look at the good doctor, who was, thank God, intently focused on Willie’s wounds.
“Are you and my brother lovers?” he asked directly.

“Rude of you to ask, but no.”

“Were you ever—”

“We are associates. Doctor and patient. Acquaintances. Friends. Nothing more.”

Never once did she meet his gaze. He did not wholly believe her, but he did not press.
He’d been too bold already. His only excuse was that he was now morbidly curious about
his twin’s life as a Mechanic, as well as the intimate relationships between Freaks
and Vics. Simon suppressed further questioning, allowing the doctor to focus on her
work. He smoothed his thumbs over Willie’s knuckles and allowed his mind to wander.
The nostalgic journey was both pleasing and troubling. A hundred questions welled.

“My work here is done.”

Simon blinked out of his musings. How much time had passed?

Caro stood abruptly, returned her instruments to her bag, and traded her surgical
goggles for her tinted glasses. “Willie will be down and out for a while.”

“How long?”

“A week or two. Depends.”

“On what?”

“On her.” The good and arrogant doctor pulled on her coat and fastened each button
with rigid focus. “There could be fever, delirium, but she will survive. Rest is of
supreme importance. Do not allow her to move about too soon.”

“Anything else?” he asked as she pulled on her riding hat and leather gloves.

“She sustained severe nerve and muscle damage,” Caro said with a compassionate glance
toward her patient. “Regaining full use of her right arm might prove an arduous and
long process. See that she strengthens the muscles and advances flexibility no matter
the difficulty or pain.”

“What if there are complications?” Simon asked as she marched toward the door. “How
can I contact you?”

“You can’t. We never met, Mr. Darcy. I was never here.”

“Understood. Still.” Simon glanced toward Willie’s unconscious form. “Have a heart,
Dr. Caro.”

“How flattering that you find me lacking in compassion,” she said with a sniff. “Oh,
very well.” She slipped a calling card into his hand and glared. “Emergencies only.
And that means someone had better be dying.”

Simon glanced down at the card as she bolted from the room. He wanted to thank her.
He
should
have thanked her. A scant second later he followed the curious doctor into the hallway . . .
into the lobby . . . into the street . . . but Dr. Bella Caro was gone.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
S
OMEWHERE OVER THE
M
EDITERRANEAN
S
EA

Bingham owned a personal fleet of substantial and impressive dirigibles, but none
as grand as his modified zeppelin, a spectacular flying machine dubbed
Mars-a-tron
. Fitted with advanced equipment—steam turbines, rocket blasters, and a state-of-the-art
gyrocompass—as well as a luxurious gondola with an ornate private cabin,
Mars-a-tron
would afford Bingham a swift and comfortable journey to the land down under.

Although the day had been pitted with various bumps, Bingham was riding high from
a string of good news. On the downside, he’d been visited by the shire constable,
who’d been intent on inquiring about the viscount’s rocket fuel supply and mentioning
the disastrous explosion caused by that buffoon Ashford in his efforts to build a
moonship. Bingham had confessed to loaning his poorly neighbor a modicum of fuel,
but he was in no way responsible for the regrettable accident.

The constable agreed.

But Bingham’s mother doubted the law official’s sincerity.
He’s sniffing about,
she’d said.

Let him sniff.
Bingham would not be outsmarted by some bumpkin constable, nor would he be henpecked
by his worrywart mother.

Aside from that minor nuisance, his master plan was progressing.

As of a day ago, the members of Aquarius were indebted to Bingham for handling a potential
catastrophe on their behalf, and now, because of his ruthless determination, plans
for the royal assassination were once again in motion.

Wilhelmina Goodenough was in league with Simon Darcy, and, if she knew what was good
for her, would report to Bingham in due course. Captain Dunkirk, the air pirate he
had put on the tail of Amelia, had the youngest Darcy sibling in his sights. The elder
brother, Jules, was the only Darcy to elude Bingham, but that would soon change. Bingham
paid his spies handsomely for results. He did not reward incompetence. One of them
would ferret out the science fiction writer, affording Bingham yet another possibility
of stealing away a time-traveling mechanism.

The most promising news had come from one of Bingham’s Mod Trackers. After months
of chasing their tails, one of his more motivated mercenaries had finally located
Professor Maximus Merriweather. The genius recluse had established a small camp in
a remote region of the Australian outback. It would take days to make the trek, but
Bingham would circumnavigate the globe in order to speak face-to-face with Merriweather.
The twentieth-century physicist/cosmologist would be a wealth of information if coerced
or bribed. An original Peace Rebel, he’d been instrumental in designing the time-traveling
Briscoe Bus. “Time to repeat history.”

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

Bingham turned away from the massive map on the wall and regarded his ship’s captain
with a dour expression. “Set the controls to hover, Northwood, and join the crew topside.
Captain Dunkirk should be rendezvousing with us shortly. When he does, send him below.”

“Aye, sir.” Northwood toggled a switch on the control panel, then left the bridge.

Bingham sank down on his plush throne. The air pirate had been the bearer of encouraging
news as well this day. The fact that Amelia Darcy had joined with the famous and pathetically
moral Sky Cowboy in her search for an invention of historical significance had been
disconcerting. Tucker Gentry was a worthy opponent, and dammit, Bingham wanted that
invention—assuming it had something to do with time travel. If the invention allowed
him to pursue a futuristic voyage, well then, no need to journey all the way to the
godforsaken outback.

“I am underwhelmed by yer mite crew, but yer dig’s damned impressive.”

Bingham glanced over at the pirate rogue, known as the Scottish Shark of the Skies,
lazing on the threshold of the bridge. Dark, menacing, and arrogant. A mercenary.
Dunkirk had served Bingham well on previous occasions. As long as Bingham paid handsomely,
the pirate produced. He ignored the man’s insolence and gestured him inside. “You
intercepted the Sky Cowboy and Miss Darcy?”

“Aye.”

“You acquired the artifact?”

“It’s what ya hired me to do, yeah?”

Bingham rubbed his hands together in wicked anticipation. “Is it aboard the
Flying Shark
?”

“As I said in the telepage, my ship sustained damages. I commandeered a small transport
to meet with ya.” Dunkirk produced a brass box from behind his back. “Miss Darcy made
quite the fuss when I took this from her. Offered me a percentage of the jubilee prize.
Fifty percent of half a million pounds. I confess I was tempted.”

“Crossing me would not bode well,” Bingham said. “But I guess you know that, as you
are here and not in league with the lovely yet vexing Miss Darcy.”

Bingham’s hands trembled as he rose and reached for the box. So small. What could
it be? A component for the clockwork propulsion engine? A diagram of the time machine?
A formula or perhaps a document stating the precise location of pertinent wormholes?

He set the box near the gyrocompass and, upon opening the lid, discovered an exquisite
model of an ornithopter. Somewhat fanatical regarding aviation, he’d seen drawings
of a similar construction. Flying machines as imagined by the master, Leonardo da
Vinci. “Where precisely did you procure this?”

“Tuscany, Italy. Mount Ceceri.”

An old stomping ground of da Vinci’s.

The great bird will take its first flight on the back of Monte Ceceri. . . .

What, if anything, did this exquisite model of a da Vinci flying machine have to do
with time travel?

Bingham donned a pair of magnifying specs and examined the model at great length and
with utmost intensity.

“Pay up,” Dunkirk said, “and I’ll be on me way.”

Bingham tempered his disappointment as he inspected the compact, though intricate,
model of a da Vinci ornithopter for the third time. He had to be sure. Unfortunately,
he was. “This isn’t it.”

Dunkirk, who’d been lounging in a seat without invitation, leaned forward with a sneer.
“It’s what Miss Darcy came oot of that cave with, and she was damned well averse to
letting it go. I searched the cave for anything else. Empty. Ya told me to steal whatever
Amelia Darcy was after, yeah? This is it. A da Vinci ornithopter. An invention of
historical significance.”

“But it is not significant to me.”

“What the fook does that mean?”

Bingham straightened and slid the specialized specs to his forehead. “I don’t want
it.” It did not apply to time travel. It was not even a full-scale working ornithopter.
A prized artifact for a museum or a private collector, but nothing but a disappointment
to him. “It will not advance my cause.”

“Could be worth half a million.”

“Ah. The jubilee prize.” Bingham refrained from rolling his eyes. Dunkirk was ignorant
of his role as anonymous benefactor of the Triple R Tourney, and he intended to keep
it that way. He’d learned long ago that the best way to control his “employees” was
by controlling what they did and did not know about him and his many ventures.

Bingham rocked back on his heels, anxious to be on his way. He had many irons in the
fire, Professor Maximus Merriweather, at this moment, being the hottest. He gestured
to the sixteenth-century model. “By all means.”

Dunkirk stood. “You’re offering me the invention instead of the payment we agreed
upon?”

“The ornithopter is worth more than I offered you.”

“If it wins the prize.”

“Thought you were a gambling man, Captain Dunkirk.”

“We had a deal.”

“Indeed. You failed to deliver what I anticipated. I am not satisfied with your services
and thus shall not pay.” He flashed a lethal smile. “Take the ornithopter or leave
it. This transaction is over.” Bingham had toyed with killing the insolent pirate,
but the man was a valuable minion—as long as he stayed in line. Cutting Dunkirk loose
for a while, denying him lucrative “work,” might inspire the man to treat Bingham
with more respect in the future—when next Bingham needed him.

The Scottish bastard eyed him up and down, then smiled. “I be takin’ the ornithopter.”

Bingham watched as the intimidating man gently scooped up his “prize.” “Oh, Dunkirk.
You neglected to mention the status of Miss Darcy.”

“Dead.”

“Pity.”

“Aye, it is,” he said on his way out.

Bingham sensed true regret in the pirate’s voice, when all Bingham mourned was the
chance to dominate Miss Darcy in bed. Ah, well. At least her demise would please his
mother.

He called for his captain. “Set a course for Australia.” He would not dawdle and pine
over Miss Darcy’s less-than-thrilling discovery. Certainly he would not mourn the
outspoken utopian’s death. He would seek the expertise of Merriweather, who had firsthand
knowledge of the Briscoe Bus. As backup, he intended to contact Miss Goodenough.

Time to turn up the heat on Simon Darcy.

But first he would deplete some of his frustration by ravaging his sex slave and confidant.
He moved toward his private cabin, knowing the automaton was naked and waiting in
his bed as ordered. “Renee!” he bellowed. “Get on your hands and knees.”