Asher's Invention

by Coleen Kwan

  Monk backed away unsteadily. He groped for his walking stick, but it was lost in the straw, and he daren’t take his eye off Asher. “What do you mean? This here’s Lambkin’s invention. The one he tried to cheat Grimlock and his friends out of.”

  “Silas never got the damned thing to work. That gimcrack you’ve got there is a fraud.”

  “No it ain’t! I seen it with my own two eyes. It’s been running for more’n an hour now.”

  Asher shrugged. “I’m surprised it’s lasted that long. It was only meant to work long enough to fool you.”

  “I don’t believe you!” The man heaved up the device and wedged it awkwardly against his chest. In his other hand, the pistol wavered. “You’re trying to trick me, but I’m not falling for it.”

  Asher advanced another step. He heard Minerva shuffle forward, but she had sense enough to remain well behind him. Eyeing the gun in Monk’s hand, he calculated that if he threw himself to one side, he would still have sufficient time to draw out his ViperRay and pull the trigger. But he didn’t want to kill another man that night if he could avoid it. With some careful handling, he might still persuade Monk to give himself up.

  “I’m not trying to trick you. I built that thing myself. It’s running on nothing more than hydrogen peroxide, not aether-magnetic current. Soon, it will run out of fuel, and you’ll just be left with a box of useless magnets and pistons. Believe me, there is no such thing as a perpetual-motion machine.”

  “You’re lying!” Monk hoisted the machine higher as it threatened to slide from his grasp and tightened his grip on the Lancaster. “Don’t think I won’t shoot the both of you.”

  “Father!” Dorian Monk stood stock-still in the side doorway, dressed in nightshirt and cap, his hair disheveled above his flabbergasted face. “What the deuce is going on here? What are you doing with that gun?”

  “Ah, son, you’ve arrived just in time to help me.”

  Dorian’s stupefied gaze alighted on Minerva. “Miss Lamkbin! Tell me what’s happening.”

  She shifted forward, but Asher held her back, mindful still of Monk’s gun. “Dorian,” she said from behind Asher’s arm. “Your father is in grave trouble. He kidnapped my father and held him to ransom in exchange for that device he’s holding, but now it’s all lost for him. Tell him to put down his weapon and give himself up.”

  The blood drained from Dorian’s face. “Father?” He approached his father slowly. “Is any of this true?”

  “You’re going to listen to this chit? I know you have a weakness for her, but I’m your father, your own flesh and blood. You believe me.”

  Dorian breathed in and out, his rounded eyes fixed on his father. “What is that you have clutched to your chest? Does that belong to Mr. Lambkin?”

  “It belongs to me and you. It’s your future, son. With this we’ll be richer beyond imagination.”

  “It’s nothing,” Asher broke in harshly. “Dorian, your father believes he has the world’s first perpetual-motion machine, but all he has is a trifling little toy.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” Bubbles of spittle formed at the corners of Monk’s mouth. “Stop gawking and make yourself useful. Find some rope and bind these two up.”

  Dorian’s jaw sagged. His eyes darted between Asher and Minerva and his father. “I don’t know if—”

  “Don’t be such a mealymouthed ninny. Do as I say.”

  “Listen, man. Don’t compound your father’s mistakes,” Asher said.

  Minerva grabbed his arm. “Asher, look…the machine.”

  He stiffened as he saw the first wisps of smoke coiling from the millennium machine. Monk, too caught up in haranguing his son, hadn’t noticed.

  Asher raised his voice. “Monk, I advise you to put down that contraption at once and move clear of it.”

  “Another trick of yours.” The old man sneered.

  “This is no trick. Look. There’s smoke.”

  The smoke thickened, a thin white mist spiraling out of all the rivets and joints of the brass box.

  Dorian started forward. “Father, perhaps it’s best if you put that thing down.”

  “I’m not about to be bested by that whippersnapper. `Tis just a bit of steam, that’s all. Harmless. Every machine known to man emits a bit of smoke.”

  Dorian laid a hand on the box. “But Father, I really think it’s safer if you—”

  A glowing white spark arced between Dorian’s hand and the millennium machine. Dorian cried out and flinched back as a sharp hiss emanated from the box, accompanied by a billow of greenish smoke. Monk gawked at it, consternation breaking across his face for the first time. The pistol slipped unnoticed from his grasp. The millennium machine began to rattle.

  He dropped it, and the box cracked open on the stone floor. An explosion ripped through the air. The roar hammered Asher’s eardrums. White heat blasted his skin as the wave of energy smashed into him. Twisting, he grabbed hold of Minerva, pushed her to the ground and flung himself over her. For what seemed like an eternity, the world rumbled and bellowed and crashed around them. Bits of masonry and straw rained down on his back. Finally the room stopped shaking, and the air ceased to thunder. Terrified horses screamed nearby.

  “Minerva…”

  His heartbeat faltered, then recovered somewhat as he sensed her squirming beneath him. He helped her to her feet, brushing the debris from her skirts as he ascertained her wholeness. Her dress was torn, her damp, dirt-strewn hair was falling down her back and her face was smudged, but otherwise she appeared unharmed.

  Her eyes widened. “Dorian!”

  She dashed across to where the young man lay supine amongst the rubble. Around them the carriage house lay in ruins. Dozens of small fires had started in the scattered straw. In the stable next door, crazed horses whinnied and kicked their hooves. Dorian sprawled facedown in the rubbish, his nightshirt torn to shreds. As Minerva bent over him, he let out an anguished whimper.

  Her hand trembled on his shoulder. “Dorian?”

  Asher hunkered down. “Here, let me.”

  Slowly he eased the man onto his back. The whimper became a harsh sob.

  Minerva’s fingers flew to her mouth. “Dear God, no…”

  Asher’s innards knotted. He couldn’t stop himself recoiling from the sight that greeted him. The right side of Dorian’s face, from temple to chin, was a raw, pulpy mess of blood and meat. Sunk into the oozing flesh, his right eye, bloodshot but whole, flickered up at Asher.

  How could the poor man still be conscious? “We must get you out of here before the fire spreads.”

  He bent to slide his arms under Dorian’s back, but a hand clamped onto him, a hand of mangled metal and twisted wire, resisting. “My father…” Dorian groaned.

  At the same time Minerva uttered a faint cry. She pointed toward the mound just a few feet away, a mound of blackened cloth with legs and arms attached, surrounded by a sticky pool of congealing blood. All that remained of what once had been Monk.

  Retching, Minerva rushed out of the carriage house. The hot metallic smell of blood spilled out, mingling with the gathering haze of the fire. Bile rose in Asher’s throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look at Dorian.

  “I’m sorry. Your father is dead.”

  Dorian glared at him. He continued to glare even as Asher picked him up. He yelped with pain, but his eyes never left Asher’s face. The uninjured eye was glacial blue, the damaged eye a malevolent red. Asher ignored the hatred in his countenance, and as the fire mounted to an inferno, he carried Dorian out into the rain-soaked night.

  Chapter Nine

  Four weeks later.

  “Eee ma’am, Mr. Quigley has arrived!” Hetty burst into the kitchen, all afluster.

  Minerva glanced up from the stove, where she’d been stirring her beef br
oth. She put down the spoon and wiped her hands across her apron. “Really, Hetty. That’s no way to behave when visitors call.”

  “But we’ve been waiting and waiting for him to come back, and now finally he has!”

  “We have not been waiting and waiting,” Minerva said firmly. But despite her words, she was all too aware of the sudden pinching in her breast, the unsteadiness of her hands, the tingling flutter in the pit of her stomach. “Have you shown him into the parlor?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Will you be wanting tea, then? Shall I bring out the best service?”

  “Hetty, if I require tea I shall ring for you, as I always do.”

  She untied the apron and smoothed down her skirt. For a second she debated whether she should change into something smarter than her everyday cotton dress, but then she chided herself. Why should she titivate herself for a man who had hightailed it back to London almost a whole month ago and since then hadn’t bothered to send her so much as a postcard? She would show him how little she cared. Still, she couldn’t prevent herself patting down the stray wisps of hair as she mounted the stairs and crossed the hallway to the front parlor.

  Asher turned from the window as she entered. When she saw him, the force of his presence hit her like a giant wave. She paused, greedily drinking in his appearance. He was almost more handsome and vibrant than she could bear. As she took in his elegant gray frock coat, finely tapered trousers and snowy cravat, she wished she had changed her dress and done something to her hair. Ah, well, too late now. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her at her worst already.

  “Asher, how pleasant to see you again.” She used her most serene voice as she crossed the room.

  He gave her a formal bow over her hand. “I meant to come earlier, but I had some unavoidable business to attend to in London.”

  “Of course.” Far be it from her to inquire what that unavoidable business was. “Won’t you sit down?” She waved graciously at the settee before taking a small armchair herself.

  “You look very well.” He sat down near her, scrutinizing her minutely.

  “I’m fully recovered, I can assure you.”

  “And your father?”

  She frowned and laced her hands together in her lap. “He’s still recuperating. The doctors say it will take some time.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is he still in the infirmary?”

  “No. I brought him home a fortnight ago. It’s much better for him to be here, among everything familiar.” She paused. “He’s in his study at the moment. Would you like to see him?”

  “Very much.”

  She led the way down the hallway, hesitating just outside her father’s study. “You understand, he isn’t himself these days.”

  Asher contemplated her. “Minerva, what are you not telling me?”

  “It’s nothing, really. Nothing life threatening.” She pinched her lips together. “It’s just that he doesn’t remember much.”

  “Of the kidnapping and the attempt on his life? I’m not surprised, after such brutality.”

  “No, he doesn’t remember much of anything. He recognizes me and Hetty. He knows this is his home…but nothing else. He remembers nothing of the past ten years or so.”

  Asher raised his eyebrows. “Nothing at all? Nothing of me and the millennium machine?”

  “He doesn’t seem to have any recollection, but perhaps seeing you now will jog some part of his memory.”

  They entered the study where a white-haired man sat by the fire with a book in his lap. He looked up and smiled at her. “Minerva, my dear.”

  “I have a visitor for you, Father. It’s Asher Quigley.”

  Minerva held her breath as Asher greeted Silas warmly. Her father nodded, still all smiles, but it was plain to her he had no idea who Asher was.

  “My dear fellow, do take a seat,” Silas said. “And tell me about yourself. Are you an acquaintance of my daughter?”

  Asher met Minerva’s eyes, compassion softening his features. He sat down opposite Silas and spoke to him for several minutes while Minerva observed them quietly. Her father was obliged to lean forward to listen, as his hearing was still impaired by the thick bandage over his left ear. Despite his eagerness, he had little stamina, and after a few minutes of conversation he began to flag. When she saw he was growing tired, she rang for Hetty.

  “Father, Hetty will bring you your broth now.” She retrieved the book from his lap and smoothed the plaid rug over his knees.

  “That will be very comforting, my dear.” He nodded docilely, not making a fuss as she and Asher left the room.

  “He’s greatly changed,” Asher said when they had returned to the parlor. “His entire personality has altered. His charm remains, but all his dynamism has gone.”

  She moved about, twitching the curtains at the windows, too restless to sit. Outside, the hoary morning frost had begun to melt under the weak winter sunlight, and the glistening bare branches of the tree stretched up toward a pale blue sky. Christmas had come and gone, but she’d scarcely noticed, let alone celebrated the occasion.

  She sighed. “He’s almost like a child now, dependent on my telling him what to do and when to do it.”

  “Minerva, I’m so sorry. That must be a terrible burden on you.”

  He looked so concerned for her it made her toes curl. Attempting to lighten the mood, she said, “In a way it makes things easier. At least he isn’t going about, running up huge debts I know nothing about.”

  “Speaking of huge debts, while I was in London I’ve been consulting with some friends of mine in the legal profession. If you will hand me the agreements your father signed with his investors, I’m sure something can be worked out.”

  “Something has already been worked out. I made a complaint to the police about Grimlock stealing Father’s possessions. It seems Father was astute enough to limit his liabilities in this venture, and the investors have no legal recourse to the contents of this house or the workshop.”

  Asher raised his eyebrows. “So it’s all resolved?”

  “Grimlock and the others visited my father in the infirmary. I think they’re convinced there’s no possibility of their recouping their money in the near future, so they will have to write off their losses. It isn’t as if they’ve lost their entire fortunes over this debacle.”

  He circled the floor in front of the fire, frowning down at the carpet. “Well, it seems you’ve managed more than adequately in my absence.”

  Minerva dimpled at him. “Were you looking forward to charging in on your white stallion to rescue me?”

  He stopped short. “You were happy enough the last time.”

  Her jollity faded. “Oh, Asher, I am eternally grateful to you. What you did went far beyond the call of duty. I will never forget it.” She spoke from the bottom of her heart. No one had ever risked their life for her the way Asher had.

  He positioned himself with his back to the fire, legs spread apart, hands behind his back. “And what of Dorian Monk?”

  “Dorian…” She couldn’t help releasing a soft sigh. Her whole being panged at the thought of the young man. “His injuries have permanently scarred him. His life has been shattered. He will never be the same again.”

  “It must be difficult for any man to realize his father wasn’t the upstanding citizen he thought he was. To have his name pilloried about the entire town.”

  She busied herself straightening the antimacassar on the armchair. “That won’t happen.”

  “What? You mean you won’t expose Monk for what he was—a vicious, unscrupulous villain who stopped at nothing for his own gain?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “What good would that do? Dorian has suffered enough, and through no fault of his own.”

  The frown on Asher’s brow deepened. “Your heart bleeds for him, then
.”

  “He is a completely innocent party in this.” She bit her lip.

  “He’s still your landlord and your creditor.”

  “Not anymore. He tore up the mortgage deeds.”

  “Oh, I see!” His coattails swished irritably from side to side. “And that makes you eternally grateful to him too, does it?”

  His annoyance irked her. She wasn’t some possession to be argued over.

  She shot him a stiff frown. “I doubt I’ll see much of Dorian Monk anymore. Our relationship has changed beyond recognition. We might have been friends once, and we might still be friends in the future, but for now we both want to avoid each other as much as possible. It’s just too painful for both of us.”

  He grunted and patrolled the room, still seeming unsatisfied by her answer. He looked as if he wanted to say something badly, but was reluctant to speak his mind.

  “Perhaps it’s as well you’re estranged,” he said a touch gruffly. “It will make what I have to tell you a little easier.”

  “Oh?” Uneasiness squirmed in her at his somber expression.

  “While I was in London, I managed to deduce what made the machine explode like that in Monk’s carriage house.”

  “And?”

  “It was Dorian’s mechanical hand. It had a zircon crystal in it, just like the other hand you were making for him. When he came in contact with the box, the zircon reacted with the hydrogen peroxide and caused the explosion. I’ve verified this in my workshop.”

  She sank onto the settee as the ramifications of what he’d just said hit her. “So Dorian’s hand killed his father.” She shook her head. “The zircon crystal serves no purpose. It’s purely decorative. Dorian wanted something…special.”

  Her body felt numb. Even if she and Dorian weren’t divided, she’d never be able to tell him this. She noticed Asher’s taut shoulders and tense posture, the tapping of his boot against the hearthstone. Her uneasiness wormed again. What else was he not telling her?

  “Is that all you’ve been doing in your workshop these past weeks?”

  A tinge of wariness entered his eyes. “What else would I be doing?”