Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (45 page)

“A vote will be taken tomorrow, once all of the Twenty have returned to London. He will be dispatched by the Lead Assassin, and a new Ascendant will take his place.”

A palace coup.

“Just as long as the next one leaves me alone,” Cynda muttered.

“Before the Lead Assassin completes his task, I will request that he learn the location of the explosives for us. I’m hopeful the Ascendant can be convinced it would be an honorable gesture to reveal that information before he
retires.
”

Now that’s a sales spiel: you’re going to die anyway, but here’s your chance to do the right thing.

A tap on the door. The butler appeared and whispered something in his mistress’ ear.

“Already?” she asked in surprise. “He wasn’t supposed to arrive until later. I shall come to him.” Adelaide turned toward her guests apologetically. “I have a visitor and must see him alone for a few minutes.”

Defoe’s brow wrinkled.

“It is the Lead Assassin,” she explained, as if divining his thoughts. “I must ensure he will not harm you, Malachi. If he agrees to that restriction, I feel we should include him in our discussions.”

“You trust him that much?” Defoe asked.

“For the moment.”

The moment she was out the door, Cynda posed the question. With the Victorians out of the room, she went informal. “Why would this guy want to hurt you?”

“It’s Malachi Livingston that’s on the Ascendant’s hit list. I have no idea why.”

“Why not? He’s trying to kill everyone else,” Cynda muttered.

The door opened.

“Yes, Mr. Livingston is present,” Adelaide answered cautiously. “There is to be no attempt under this roof, do you understand?” The newcomer nodded. “Good. Then we shall discuss the situation at length.”

Their hostess entered, then turned to make the introductions.

“This is Satyr, the Lead Assassin,” she began.

Cynda examined the newcomer. A solid white bloom encased his form. That wasn’t a surprise. The chief assassin would be
en mirage.

Which means he could anyone.

She took inventory. Dark hair. Dark eyes. That matched her patchy memory.
No macassar oil.
That didn’t seem right.

He started in surprise the moment he saw her.

“You gave your word, Satyr,” Adelaide warned, taking her place next to Defoe. “None of my guests are to be harmed.”

The visitor didn’t answer, but let his gaze skip over the others, one by one. He frowned at Morrisey, whom he wouldn’t know. Then a predatory smile appeared. It didn’t match the face.

“How fortunate,” he said.

The voice sounded wrong.

“We’ve met before,” Cynda said, testing him. “At Effington’s party. Surely you remember.”

In lieu of a reply, he slid a hand into his coat pocket.

Before she could call out a warning, a sharp crack split the air. Adelaide staggered a few paces, bewilderment on her face. A vast crimson stain was forming on the front of her apricot dress.

Defoe was on the move before the rest of them. He caught his lover as she tumbled toward the floor, cradling her in his arms. Another gunshot, this one aimed at him. There was a bright burst of shattering glass, followed by a cry from Theo. A third slug tugged at Cynda’s hat as it flew by.

Her hands shook so badly that her first shot missed. The second clipped the assassin’s arm. He swore at the sudden pain, his form changing as he took off at a run, colliding with the butler in the long passageway.

The man who threw her in the Thames. She’d always remember that face.

Cynda found Morrisey kneeling at the woman’s side, carefully pressing a Dinky Doc into Adelaide’s neck. He stiffened when the readings appeared. He reset the device, fumbling with the settings, then touched it against her neck again. Adelaide’s pain eased. Behind them, Cynda heard the butler shouting for someone to send for a doctor.

“How bad?” Defoe demanded, frantic.

Morrisey shook his head. “It hit her heart.”

It took Cynda a few seconds to process what he’d said: Adelaide was bleeding out with every beat. She knelt next to their hostess, taking her hand.

Rover One fumbled for his interface. “I’ll take her home. We can heal her.”

Cynda took his arm, though he fought her. “No. Don’t waste the time you have left.”

“Listen to her,” Morrisey said, his voice breaking. “She’ll die before you get there. Be with her at the last. I never had that chance with Mei.”

“Damn you,” Defoe shouted. “Leave us be!”

Cynda didn’t move, but continued to hold the woman’s hand. It grasped hers reflexively. Morrisey tried to pull her away, but she shook him off.

“If you are touching her when she dies,” he warned, “you will become one of us. Is that what you want?”

No.

Cynda retreated, shaking from the adrenalin churning inside of her. “What about him?” she asked, indicating Defoe.

“He’s already a Virtual.”

“But it has to do something.”

“It will, but I doubt you’ll get him away from her,” Morrisey whispered. He sank onto a chair, his face ashen. It was only then she noted the thick line of blood running down his scalp and onto his face.

She grabbed a linen napkin from a small serving table and pressed it onto the wound.

“Hold this,” she said. A trembling hand rose and did as she asked. A quick treatment with the Dinky Doc reduced the bleeding. His color improved.

Their eyes met. His were glistening. She knew it had nothing to do with the injury. She wet her handkerchief and gently began to remove the blood from his face.

Though she tried not to listen, she heard Defoe’s loving whispers and Adelaide’s faint responses.

“We shall go to Paris, my love,” he said, his voice thick and quavering with emotion. “We will buy a small home and you shall grow beautiful flowers. We will travel, you and I—”

“Malachi…”

“You are the only one I have loved, Adelaide. All the centuries, you’re the only one. You cannot leave me.”

A thick cough. “I know…love you.”

Defoe kissed her. There was a faint murmur from her lips and then she fell silent, draped over his arms like a sleeping angel. A shudder ran through him as Adelaide Winston no longer drew breath.

Cynda’s head bowed in grief. Morrisey pulled her close, their tears intermingling.

Suddenly, Defoe was on his feet. The bloom around him vanished, along with the image of Malachi Livingston. Now it was his features.

“I will find him!” he shouted, breaking the unearthly silence. “I will stop him!”

“You can’t,” Cynda said. “Her death is embedded in the timeline now.”

He wasn’t hearing her. “I know what he looks like!” he crowed. “I can do it.”

“But he’s not—”

“Harter, no!” Morrisey called, but his friend was gone, the characteristic transfer halo hovering in the air near Adelaide’s body. It wavered for a second, then vanished.

The butler gaped, dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen a shifter like that.”

There was a hammering on the front door, then the sound of running footsteps. The butler crossed the room, opening the door a slit. He shut it instantly.

“It’s a constable,” he said. “The maid must have sent for him.” He gestured to the far door. “I’ll tell him you’d already left before this happened. That’s all he needs to know. Go on!”

It took Morrisey to pull her out of the room. Cynda could only stare at their hostess. Even in death, Adelaide Winston was beautiful.

They halted a few streets away to examine his wound.

“It’s stopped bleeding,” she told him. She sounded calm, but inwardly she was a mess. The bullet might have killed him. Only a few inches and…

“It makes no sense…she let him in the house…clearly trusted him.” Morrisey’s words were coming out in a rush now. “Why would the Lead Assassin kill her?”

“It wasn’t Satyr. He shifted right after I nicked him. He was the guy who claimed to be my brother and took me out of Bedlam.”

Cynda hailed a cab. The jarvey gave them a concerned look, what with the fresh blood on Theo’s collar, but wisely didn’t comment.

Once they were on the way to the hotel, she squeezed Theo’s hand reassuringly. He stared ahead, like a blind man. He was letting the loss overwhelm him, burrowing headlong into the memories of his own lover’s death.

She had to get him talking. “What will happen to Defoe? He was touching her when she died.”

Morrisey blinked a couple times, but didn’t answer.

“What will happen to him?” she repeated.

He turned toward her with grateful eyes. “Since he’s already a Virtual, it’s said that if you keep taking from the dead, insanity is the final gift.”

“Then it was him,” she said softly. “Defoe wasn’t after the prince at Effington’s party. He came back to kill Satyr. He blames him for Adelaide’s death.”

And I told Rover One right where to find him.

It took Keats some time to pick the lock on the warehouse door. He didn’t have his tools and it fell to using a couple pieces of wire. As he worked, Flaherty and the doctor stood watch.

To relieve his nerves, Alastair joked, “To hear the Crown Prosecutor tell it, you’re a master criminal who can open a lock in a fraction of a second. Lose your touch in the nick, my friend?”

“It would help if I had my lock picks,” Keats fumed.

“I’m sure the rozzers will give ’em back,” Flaherty assured him. “Ya just gotta ask nice and polite-like.”

“We could just break it open,” Alastair suggested.

“Don’t want to leave any trace that we’ve been here.” Keats tugged on the lock. It popped free. “There.”

After a quick look around, Flaherty opened the warehouse door.

“Come on, I’ll show ya where they are.” His voice echoed more than Alastair had expected. As they walked further inside, the reason was made clear: the warehouse was empty.

Flaherty rotated in a slow circle, his mouth open. “I swear, the gunpowder was here!”

“If you’re lying to me,” Keats hissed, jabbing a finger in the anarchist’s direction for emphasis, “I will personally introduce you to the hangman. Mr. Berry and I are
very
well acquainted.”

“I ain’t lyin’. No need.”

Keats slowly deflated, wiping a hand across his chin. “How many casks of gunpowder did you have left?”

“Twenty-four. But they had me repack it into half barrels.”

“Four dozen.” Keats shook his head at the thought.

Alastair watched as his friend made as thorough a search as he could with the light of a candle he’d brought from the church. He appeared about to give up, when he spied something. He waved his companions over.

“Hold this,” he said, shoving the candle into Alastair’s hand. He ran his fingers through the black material. “Gunpowder.” Something shiny caught his interest and he extracted it from the black grains.

“It’s a coin,” Alastair said, holding the candle closer. “Sixpence.” He frowned as he examined it closer. “Shouldn’t it be silver?”

Keats glared at Flaherty. “Shall I add forgery to your list of offenses?”

“That’s not my doin’.”

Keats swore under his breath, then dumped the coin into his pocket. Dusting off his hands, he stood. “Let’s get out of here before a watchman sees us. I have no desire to spend another night in jail.”

After they secured the door, Keats sat on a thick coil of rope by the water’s edge, filling his pipe as if this were just another evening’s jaunt. After striking a match, the tobacco came to life. He tossed the match into the water.

“How many other sites are there?” he asked.

“Seven,” Flaherty answered, kneeling next to him. “I’ll take ya to them.”

Keats nodded, his eyes fixed on a point across the water. “We’ll make the rounds, but I’m willing to bet they’ll be empty.”

His pipe went out. Swearing, he lit it again and took a few deep puffs. Aromatic smoke rose in a thin column.

“We’ll check the other sites, then I’ll let the Chief Inspector know that you’re no longer the primary threat.”

Flaherty shot him a skeptical look. “Will he believe ya?”

“He has no other choice.”

~••~••~••~

Thursday, 8 November, 1888

Rose Dining Room

The moment Satyr entered, the Ascendant looked up from his newspaper. Faint surprise flickered across his face. Then his expression reverted to neutral.

“Mr. S.,” he acknowledged cautiously.

“Sir,” Satyr replied, skipping the courtesies. He sat in his appointed chair, amazed that Tobin wasn’t already in his place.