Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (44 page)

“Are you ready?” Adelaide asked. Defoe tapped a kiss on her cheek, inhaling the soft scent of her perfume.

“I am,” he said, fading from view.

He watched as his lover opened the door to the drawing room, taking his place next to her, unseen. If this were an enemy, he would be in for one hell of a surprise.

“Mr. Morrisey?” she asked politely.

The man bowed effortlessly. No one from 2058 would be able to do that…except Theo. Years of dojo training made the gesture as automatic for him as breathing.

“Good evening, madam,” the man replied. “I apologize for my abrupt arrival.”

Adelaide maintained a discreet distance. “My butler said you are trying to locate Mr. Livingston. Is that correct?”

“Yes, madam. He is a business associate of mine, and I have some information I need to impart to him of a most urgent nature.”

Complex speech.
Theo always used more words than were needed, but so did the Victorians. Defoe moved closer.

“I am sorry, Mr. Morrisey. I have not seen him for over a week.”

“Oh.” The man said, looking genuinely disappointed. “Do you have any notion of where he is staying?”

Adelaide delivered a demure shake of the head.

“Then I apologize for impinging on your time, madam.” Another bow and the fellow left the house as quickly as possible.

Defoe shifted into view right before he exited the front door. Once on the street, he watched how the man moved. It was Theo: he had a certain rhythm to his step. Defoe hurried to catch up with him.

“Damn,” his friend muttered. “Where are you, Harter?”

“Here,” he said,
en mirage
as Livingston.

Morrisey was in a defensive posture in a heartbeat. Once he realized how that appeared, he straightened himself, glancing around the street, chagrined. Beneath the calm exterior, Defoe knew his friend was steaming.

“No wonder people shoot you,” Theo remarked.

Defoe laughed. “It’s good to see you again. Come along, let’s go back inside.”

“If you haven’t heard, Keats is free.”

Defoe halted mid-step and swiveled toward him. “I’ll be damned. She actually pulled it off.”

“Of course she did,” Morrisey replied, sounding annoyed.

“So what in the hell are
you doing here?” Defoe asked.

“TPB has issued a Restricted Force Warrant for me.”

Defoe laughed. “Welcome to the criminal classes, Theo. I knew I’d corrupt you eventually.” He waved him forward. “Come on, I’ll re-introduce you to Adelaide. You need to know what’s going on here.”

~••~••~••~

You didn’t get to be Lead Assassin by waiting for your superior to die in his bed. Unless, of course, you were busily suffocating him with a plump pillow. Satyr couldn’t tell which of the Seven was tailing him. That ability eluded him. Still, he knew it was one of them.
Tobin?
Most likely.

Just to make it sporting, Satyr had not varied his form, but kept to his most favorite, the one the Seven knew so well. He continued his way down the lane and then turned into the first passageway, one of the narrow ones that the East End seemed to favor. As he walked, he studied the walls around him. What few windows he spied were hidden behind shutters.

Excellent.

He shifted into nothing and then waited by a drainpipe. That was his edge. Only one of the Seven was a Virtual, and Archer’s loyalty was solid. Satyr had made sure of that.

His hunter warily entered the narrow passage. If he’d been smart, he would have paused to listen for Satyr’s footsteps. But this one wasn’t smart. That meant he was one of the newer ones, still too unseasoned to take on someone of the Lead Assassin’s cunning.

Satyr waited a millisecond after the man passed him, then whispered, “Boo!” He caught the junior assassin, mashing his face into the brickwork. A knife skittered into the debris at their feet.

“So which one of my little birds are you?” he hissed.

The man shifted out of pure fright. It wasn’t Tobin, but Dailey, the most junior of the Seven.

Why send the most inexperienced?
Because he’s so expendable.

Satyr immediately flipped Dailey around, so his body was in the line of fire should there be a second menace in his wake.

“What are you doing, you fool? You’re not good enough to kill me.”

“He s-s-said I had to.”

“Tobin?”

A frantic shake of the head. “The As-s-scendant,” Dailey stammered.

Satyr loosened his grip on the man’s neck.

“I didn’t want to. He s-s-said he’d have Tobin cut me up if I didn’t. I figured I might get lucky.”

“Why kill me?”

“He s-s-said it was because S-s-saint Michael told him to.”

What’s this nonsense?

Satyr shoved the fellow away in disgust. Tradition allowed the Lead Assassin the choice of whether he killed the challenger or not. It was usually more instructive to leave a bloody corpse so the others would take the hint.

Not in this case.
He scooped up the knife and tossed it to Dailey, who barely caught it in his shock.

“Leave London,” Satyr ordered. “If I see you again, I will cut you into thin ribbons and relish every moment of it, do you understand?”

Dailey nodded furiously. “Thank you, sir. I don’t want to be in the middle of this.” He took off at a dead run, his boots slipping on the stones.

Satyr listened to the fleeing footsteps while straightening his gloves. The Ascendant had declared war against his own Lead Assassin. This was unprecedented.

Dailey was right. No one wanted to be in the middle of this.

~••~••~••~

One of the guards sat on the stairs outside the building. It was the newer one, the replacement for the man who’d tried to assault the Fenian’s daughter during her captivity. Satyr had particularly enjoyed that kill. In his mind, nothing was as evil as taking advantage of a helpless prisoner, especially a woman.

The guard was smoking a pipe, looking like he belonged there, though still on the alert. This one had some talent. Satyr quickly dismissed him, slipping him sufficient coins to ensure he’d not be easily found. The man hurried away into the darkness.

As Satyr pushed open the door to the abandoned saddler’s shop, the aroma of well-oiled leather greeted him. He’d always liked that smell. Continuing toward the back room on silent feet, he listened intently. Beyond the door he heard muted voices. He eavesdropped for a time and then smiled. It was not the conversation you’d expect between a guard and a captive.

How romantic.
Fiona Flaherty had found herself a beau, someone who would try to protect her. That complicated matters.

He returned to the front door and closed it heavily. Shifting out of his favored form, he headed toward the back room. The voices fell silent. There was the sound of boots moving across the room and the creak of a chair, the guard resuming his place.

With a tortured sigh, Satyr felt in his pocket for the knife and went to do his duty.

“Jacynda will be upset we didn’t include her on this jaunt,” Alastair said, reining in his long strides so Keats could keep up with him.

“She’s always angry about something,” was the mumbled response.

“Not recently. She’s changed.”

The sergeant gave his friend a long look. “We all have. You in particular. Lost your high ideals, haven’t you?” he chided.

The words stung. Though some of the initial shock had worn off, he knew his friend was still inside that prison, looking up at the rope. It would be some time before Keats recovered fully. In the meantime, he’d have to make do with the sergeant’s sharp tongue and abrupt changes in mood.

Near dusk, Keats had arisen from his bed and announced he was off to Rotherhithe to find the anarchist. It had been impossible to dissuade him. He’d quickly donned his older set of clothes, mussed up his hair, and been ready to set out. Alastair hadn’t had the time to find suitable clothes, so he’d opted to go
en mirage
as a dockworker. It was an unpleasant compromise, but better than allowing the distracted sergeant to wander around on his own.

“I never thought I would do this so willingly,” Alastair grumbled.

“At least you have the option.”

“You still can’t shift?” he quizzed.

“I haven’t tried for a very long time,” Keats replied. “It just doesn’t matter anymore.” His tone of voice said otherwise.

“I don’t see why you need to speak to Flaherty,” Alastair said.

“I must know where he’s been looking for his daughter. That way I won’t waste time.”

“He may well cut your throat just for something to do.”

“That might be a blessing,” Keats replied.

Alastair fell quiet. There was no point in arguing.

Flaherty’s situation wasn’t much better. The Irishman had made the ultimate sacrifice for his daughter. The Fenians would never trust him again, not with him coming forward to help a copper.

When they reached the church, Alastair suggested, “I’ll go in and find the priest. You wait here.”

“He won’t know who you are.”

The doctor had forgotten he was
en mirage.
That was unnerving. It was becoming too easy. As they entered, Keats genuflected and headed for the front pew. Alastair joined him.

Keats peered up at the crucifix. “I feel a bit like Job,” he said, “as if God and Satan had made a bet between them to see how strong I was.”

“The Devil lost,” Alastair said.

A faint smile returned. “Maybe.”

The priest appeared. Then he recognized Keats. “Sergeant?”

“We’re here about a missing lamb,” Keats said.

Nowlan frowned. He beckoned and they followed him outside the church, into the graveyard.

“Wait here.” Then he left them alone.

Keats pulled his coat tighter. “Is Johnny Ahearn buried here?”

“This way,” Alastair said, leading him through the gravestones.

The sergeant studied the grave. “Has his wife had the child yet?”

“No.” It was the Fenian, the priest at his side. “What ya doin’ back here, little sergeant?”

“I owe you my life,” Keats began. “And though I should arrest you on sight, I’ve come to pay my debt. I need to know where you’ve been looking for your daughter and—”

“What’s this game?” Flaherty asked, frowning.

“No game. I’ll help you find her, but I have to know—”

“Ya brought her here a couple hours ago.”

“What? I didn’t—”

“Yer off in the head,” Flaherty said.

“No, I’m not!”

“Ya brought her here, to Father Nowlan. She said ya promised ya’d keep her safe, and ya did.”

“It wasn’t me, Flaherty,” Keats admitted. “I had no idea where she was; that’s why I came to talk to you.”

“Then who…” Flaherty asked.

A slight wind blew through the graveyard, ruffling leaves near the old stone fence.

“It had to be one of the strange ones,” the priest said, crossing himself.

“Apparently her captors decided she was of no more value,” Alastair offered. “I am relieved they didn’t harm her.”

Flaherty had his knife out in an instant. “Yer one of them. I know yer voice, and it don’t go with that face.”

Alastair groaned, then shot Keats a desperate look.

“Go on, you’ve already stepped in it,” his friend advised wearily. “He might as well know it all.”

The transformation went smoothly, but still left the doctor queasy.

“What the hell is goin’ on here?” Flaherty demanded.

“We’re both what you call strange ones,
”
Keats explained. “Alastair can look like anyone he chooses, but he’s not practiced enough to do it properly.”

“Ya can change as well?” Flaherty asked, the knife still out.

“Not anymore. You took that from me when you hit me on the head in Green Dragon Place.”

Flaherty’s eyes narrowed. “Ya was with him that night?” Keats nodded. “Looked like a woman, didn’t ya?” It was Alastair’s turn to nod. “If yer one of them, ya know who took my daughter,” Flaherty growled.

“No, we don’t,” Keats replied.

“I don’t believe ya.”

“Do you know every Irishman in London?” Alastair challenged. “Of course you don’t. Same with our kind.”

Flaherty spat on the ground in disgust, then reluctantly tucked the knife away. “No wonder ya always seemed to know what I was about.” He spat again. “Don’t matter. Fee’s safe now, and that’s what counts. I sent her with her man to Dorset Street. I’ve got friends there. They’ll look after her.”

Keats felt their advantage waning. They’d not found the girl, so Flaherty had no obligation to help them. He could arrest the Fenian—he was still a sergeant—but that wouldn’t yield the explosives. And it would tear his soul apart in the process. Still, he had to make the effort.

“We need to know where you’ve stashed the dynamite and the gunpowder,” he said. A stronger gust of wind blew Keats’ coat open, making him shiver.

“Come into the church. It’s raw out here,” the priest suggested.

Keats didn’t move. This had to be decided now.

“Yer a stubborn little fella, aren’t ya?” Flaherty grumbled.

“I don’t want those explosives used by you or anyone else.”

“I wouldn’t kill anyone,” the man replied. “I was after somethin’ bigger than a few dead coppers.”

“What?”

A look of pride stole across Flaherty’s face. “That bit of fancy glass. You know, the one the old cow’s stud built.”

It took Keats a moment to translate. “The Crystal Palace? You’d destroy Prince Albert’s masterpiece?” he asked, astounded and repulsed at the same time. Keats’ grandparents had taken him there when he was eight, and he fondly recalled the massive glass structure and the astounding dinosaur sculptures. He remembered standing inside the glass building, gazing upward into the sky, sure he’d been transported to another world.

“You are a barbarian, sir,” he shouted, his fists bunched.

Flaherty laughed. “Why not? It’d upset folks right proper. Get their notice. Maybe they’d finally let Ireland go free.”

“No, it’d just bring more laws down on our heads. They don’t think like we do.”

Keats realized what he’d said the moment after the words tumbled out of his mouth.
We
. Somehow he’d crossed over to Flaherty’s side without realizing it.

“Whoever made you steal those explosives won’t use them on that
fancy bit of glass
, as you call it,” Alastair argued. “They’ll kill people. Lots of people.”

“I know.” Flaherty’s good humor faded as he swore under his breath. He waved them forward. “Come on, I’ll show ya where the first batch is stored.”

“First batch?” Keats blurted.

“The explosives are spread all over creation, best as I can tell.”

Then it’s worse than we thought.

~••~••~••~

The hotel room was immaculate. Fresh flowers rested in a vase on the table near the window. The bed was made, and clean towels sat near the washstand. It was missing one thing: Theo Morrisey.

Cynda held her temper until the maid had departed and then let loose a stream of abuse under her breath.

“You did the same thing on your first trip,” Mr. Spider reminded her. “You left your handler and went off on your own. Got into trouble almost immediately.”

“But I’d been through the Rover Academy,” she argued. “I had a clue what I was facing. If he ends up hurt or dead…” She blew out a puff of air. “Where are you, you idiot?”

“Hunting Defoe?” the spider suggested.

Cynda gave her delusion a nod. “Exactly.”

She extracted the pendant and went to work. Defoe’s extreme reaction to Adelaide Winston was the best clue she had. A few minutes later, she was in a hansom cab heading toward the woman’s upmarket address. She’d made sure to take the necessary precautions: proper manners, nicest dress, pistol tucked in pocket.

Who says I don’t know how to act like a lady?

The courtesan’s butler was a solemn sort. Most of them were, but he probably had to be even more circumspect. This was a house in which the obscenely well-off got their requisite tumble with what was reported to be one of the most beautiful women in London. They paid handsomely for her time. And for her discretion
.

Expertise always costs more.

He disappeared into another room. When he returned, Morrisey was right behind him.

“Ah, Miss Lassiter, good of you to join us,” he said, all formality.

She issued a tight smile in response. “I was concerned when you weren’t at the hotel,” she said sweetly, mindful of the butler.
I’ll give you an earful later.

“Such things happen,” he tossed off lightly. “Mr. Livingston is in the drawing room.” He offered his arm and she followed his lead.

The other founder of the time immersion industry was in a room defying description. Everything was flawless: the carpet, the draperies, the furniture, and even the paintings. A Victorian scholar would have sold his children into white slavery to have a photo of this perfection.

Defoe was
en mirage
as that Victorian gentleman again. He gave a nod and then turned his attention to the other woman in the room. The moment his eyes lit on her, his expression changed to one of frank adoration.

It was easy to see why: Adelaide Winston possessed flawless skin, hair, the works. The gown was apricot silk and flowed around her like a cloud. Though she had to be Transitive to be one of the Twenty, there was no white outline. What you saw was the real Adelaide in all her glory.

Wow.

To her surprise, Cynda didn’t feel inferior. It was what the woman did best: she made you feel comfortable within your own skin.

“Which is why Defoe is in love with her,” Mr. Spider observed.

Love?

“Definitely. Look at his face.”

Her delusion was right.
I’ll be damned.

The moment Adelaide rose from her chair, Defoe was at her side. Cynda stifled the snicker. Rover One was acting like a love struck teenager

“Adelaide, this is Jacynda Lassiter,” Defoe introduced.

“Good evening, Miss Lassiter,” Adelaide said. “Welcome to my home.” The timbre of her voice was pitched to command your attention without the need to shout.

“I apologize for arriving without an invitation,” Cynda replied.

“I am honored you did.”

As Cynda settled into a chair near Morrisey, she felt the woman’s eyes on her, assessing her. Adelaide resumed her own chair, perched like royalty, but behind the pretty face was a brain as sharp as a stiletto. Their eyes met and a simple gesture of respect was traded.

“Miss Lassiter has been in on this from the start, Adelaide, so we can be completely candid.” One of Adelaide’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly in what might have been protest. “She is the one who saved my life.”

Cynda kept her surprise hidden. Defoe wasn’t usually that open with compliments.

“I see. I thank you for that, Miss Lassiter. I am very pleased to see you survived your own ordeal.”

Cynda inclined her head. No need to tell the woman she was only paying Defoe back for all the times he’d saved her.

“I was explaining the Ascendant’s mission, at least what it was in the beginning.” She adjusted a stray fold in her skirt. “The Ascendant was charged with obtaining a wagonload of explosives with an eye toward providing them to certain parties in Russia. We felt that causing turmoil amongst the Marxists would be of benefit. Russia is growing more unstable, and some of us fear they will replace the Czar at some point.”

They got that one right.
Though it would take another three decades before the Bolsheviks ushered in the future Communist state.

“Your Ascendant stole
three
loads of explosives,” Cynda pointed out. “That’s a lot of turmoil.”

“That is where he began to disobey us,” Adelaide conceded. “He was only supposed to acquire one load of dynamite. Involving the Fenians was his next error. He has been making too many as of late.” She paused, then lowered her voice conspiratorially, even though only the four of them were in the room.