Demon in the Machine

by Lise MacTague

  Isabella might not even be prepared for her visit. With that thought, Briar strode up the steps to the front door. She rang the doorbell smartly. If Isabella wasn’t ready, that was her own problem. It would serve her right for putting Briar through additional discomfort.

  She was preparing to ring the bell again when it opened. A footman, much too old for the position, looked up at her. The pronounced curve of his spine rendered him much shorter than he must have been in his youth.

  “Miss Brionie Riley here to see the Honorable Isabella Castel.”

  “Of course, Miss Riley. Miss Castel said you would be by. She awaits you in the workshop.”

  A workshop? Here? The townhouse wasn’t nearly as impressive as the earl’s, but the neighborhood did not suffer from a lack of class. Isabella’s neighborhood was quite comparable, and Briar found it difficult to believe there was a larger garden here than at the earl’s home. Wherever would they keep a workshop?

  “Your man can take the carriage around to the coach house. If you’ll follow me?”

  He turned, a labored affair that had Briar’s back aching with sympathy. They made their slow way through the house. It was immaculately clean and suitably less impressive than the earl’s.

  That was not unexpected. Viscount Sherard’s home in the city aspired to no higher rank than his title. There was a subtle air of shabbiness to the house, however. It took Briar a while to put her finger on it. If they hadn’t been traversing the stately halls so slowly, it was possible she might have missed it. For one thing, there weren’t enough servants for a house this size. The footman should have been enjoying his retirement, a grandchild upon his knee. The cuffs of his jacket were the slightest bit frayed. Here was a bare spot on a carpet, and there the tied-back drapes couldn’t quite hide how threadbare the velvet had gotten.

  She’d heard no rumors about the family’s fortunes. If they were destitute, surely she would have heard something. The only thing the higher set enjoyed discussing more than who was richer was who had fallen from grace. The Sherards never came up. Isabella always had the latest fashions and new gowns when she attended the balls. Certainly, she had mentioned that they hadn’t yet gotten one of the new horseless carriages, but there were many who had yet to do so.

  They stepped out a side door and into the small back garden. A gazebo dominated much of the small green space. It was here that the footman left her.

  “Miss Castel will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Briar folded herself onto the gazebo’s narrow bench to wait. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to wait three days for this appointment with Isabella. Of course, the burglar hadn’t known they had an appointment the last time. Minutes ticked slowly by with no sign of Isabella. This was not her definition of shortly. To her dismay, Briar found she hadn’t yet recovered from her discomfort in the carriage; she fairly vibrated with anxiety. A grinding sound filled her ears, setting her teeth on edge.

  No, it wasn’t that formless worry. Briar grabbed at the edge of the bench to keep from falling over. Her grip made no difference; she continued to slide down. She wasn’t moving, the gazebo was, or more accurately its floor was. There was nothing for it but to wait as the floor laboriously ground downward. She looked up with some discomfiture as the opening receded further away from her. She had to be more than ten feet below ground, then twenty. It was quite dark at the bottom of this hole. Was Isabella returning the favor of being trapped? If she was, she would find that Briar was no shrinking violet.

  The floor lightened. She’d arrived at her destination. Isabella could have warned her. Instead, the target of her ire stood at the bottom of the lift, a broad smile upon her face.

  Machinery lined the large underground room. It was an incomprehensible wall of dials and gauges, of sparks and steam. The lights around the top of the room were reflected back by dozens of polished metal surfaces, and beneath the smells of metal and oil lurked the scent of brimstone. On the heels of the smell, she caught the glow of infernal runes here and there. Maybe half the machines seemed to include runic embellishment of some sort.

  “What do you think?” Isabella extended her arms and turned slowly in place. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “That’s one word for it.” Briar walked slowly down the shallow steps leading down from the gazebo’s displaced floor. “It certainly is bright.” She had to hand it to the girl. This was an inspired solution. Going underground would give her a lot of room; still it wasn’t without its pitfalls. “Aren’t you worried about the river?”

  “The Thames?” Isabella shrugged. “We pump excess water up and out. There’s no need to worry. Plus, we never have to water the garden.”

  “I see.” Feeling more than a little dazed, Briar followed along behind Isabella as she crossed the long workshop floor.

  “Sorry you had to wait so long. I wanted to get your carriage down here first.” True to her words, on the other side of the workshop the horseless carriage waited for them. Johnson was nowhere to be found. “Your chauffeur is waiting belowstairs,” Isabella said, correctly surmising who she was looking for. “I shall send for him when you’re ready to leave.”

  Briar turned halfway around and tried to reorient herself, with a little success. Some of the feeling of being overwhelmed receded. She knew where she was, if nothing else.

  “So what are you going to do now?” she asked.

  Isabella’s delighted smile widened into a grin. Her eyes fairly sparkled with excitement. “Easy, we’re going to take it apart. Father!”

  “Take it apart? I must be back to the earl’s by early afternoon. You can’t take it apart.”

  “Never fear. We’re just going to take have a look at the engine, since that’s what you’re so worried about. It’ll be back together and running in a tick.”

  A loud bang from nearby had Briar trying to climb three feet into the empty air. She cast about wildly and her eyes fixed upon a cloud of smoke that billowed up from the source of the noise. A moment later, a lanky man in filthy coveralls emerged from the small cloud. He waved a stained handkerchief in front of his face. His face was blackened with soot, except where his goggles had been. A shock of bright red hair stood on end on top of his head. It was easy to see from where Isabella got her coloring. He was lanky and would have towered over his daughter and Briar alike were it not for a slight stoop.

  “That didn’t work.” He coughed once into his hand and stood glaring distractedly at the hulking device that was revealed when the smoke cleared. It looked to Briar like a large coil with more coils affixed to its top. A lonely light blinked slowly on one side of the machine.

  “Father.” Isabella took the man’s elbow and gently turned him around to face them.

  “Hmm?” He blinked twice at her, then gave a small start when he noticed Briar standing to one side. “Oh! We have a guest.”

  “We do. This is Miss Brionie Riley. She had the concern about the power source in the new horseless carriages from Mirabilia Manufacturing. Brionie, this is my father, Joseph Castel, the Viscount Sherard.”

  Briar started a bit at Isabella’s use of her given name. She hadn’t realized they were on such intimate terms, but then they both knew much more about the other than even their closest acquaintances did.

  “Excellent! It’s good to have concerns, young lady.” Isabella’s father beamed at Briar. “Too many inventions are rushed into production these days. Safety is the most important part of any invention.”

  “Quite, my lord.” He seemed to be the poster child for the importance of safety.

  He waved away her formality. “You may call me Joseph when in the workshop, my dear. This is no place to stand on ceremony. Shall we get started?” He rubbed his hands together with glee and started toward the carriage.

  Isabella materialized by his side carrying a large box of tools. Briar realized with some surprise that she too was wearing coveralls. Somehow she’d missed that detail when coming down to the workshop. They wer
e much cleaner than her father’s. When Isabella bent over to deposit the toolbox on the floor, Briar had to look away. The pants left no part of her shapely posterior to the imagination.

  “What do you think?” Briar asked while studying the lights above her.

  “We haven’t gotten very far.” Isabella’s voice became more muffled when she pulled herself under the carriage. “I need to access the engine compartment…there.” Energetic clanking emanated from beneath the earl’s prized vehicle. “Oh, this is fascinating. Father, you must see this.”

  Joseph joined his daughter, leaving Briar to her own devices. She tried to take stock of the work area once again but was overwhelmed by it all. The small explosion Isabella’s father had caused was more than enough reason to keep her hands to herself. Part of her desperately wanted to track down the traces of infernal magic she detected in a dozen different places in the work space, but the rest of her was too on edge to contemplate poking around. She had to keep an eye on that carriage but not from too close. At this distance, she felt the barest bit of anxiety. Briar tapped her foot. The quicker this went, the quicker she could be home with her books and away from Isabella’s provoking presence and the terror that awaited her in that carriage. She resigned herself to a long morning of watching other people work.

  Chapter Seven

  The carriage engine was unlike any other Isabella had seen. The designers weren’t too keen on anyone else tinkering with the inner workings, for one thing. It had taken the two of them quite some time to even open the engine compartment. The manufacturer had used several non-standard fasteners. By the time they finally wrestled the hatch off the compartment, Isabella had worked up a full sweat. It rolled down her forehead and into her eyes. She had to blink constantly to keep the stinging drops from blurring her vision.

  Once inside, Isabella wondered if they’d made a mistake by assuming the hatch led to the engine compartment at all. Inside was a container, some sort of squat cylinder with no visible closures, seams, or other marks. Its featureless brass exterior was marred only by the intersection of the front axle which was apparently also the drive shaft. There was no drive train and the engine, if that’s what it was, wasn’t separate from the shaft. The shaft ran straight through it.

  “I think we’ll need to take off the wheels and axle,” Isabella said.

  “Quite.” Next to her, Joseph chewed on one end of his mustache while he considered the engine. Having full conversations while lying on their backs staring straight up was very natural for them. Isabella suspected she’d had more discussions with her father in the workshop than she had in every other room they’d ever occupied at the same time put together. Outside the workshop, Joseph Castel was withdrawn and introspective. Put a tool in his hand and point him toward a piece of machinery, and he could wax eloquent for hours.

  Isabella pushed herself back, shooting out from under the carriage on the creeper she’d designed for this sort of work. It had been her first innovation, having found her father’s version exceedingly uncomfortable and difficult to maneuver. It had three wheels instead of the four of his, allowing for greater maneuverability with only the slightest kick of one leg.

  “We need to jack it up,” Isabella said to Brionie.

  Miss Riley had a vacant expression on her face which vanished when she heard Isabella’s voice. Once again, Isabella found herself the recipient of Brionie’s sharp gaze. What was she thinking about? It was too much to hope that it was her.

  She noticed a large grease stain on the front of her coveralls as she stood up. A few half-hearted wipes told her it was a lost cause. That’s what she got for wearing her good coveralls for a teardown. What had possessed her to even do so? Brionie hadn’t noticed. It would take more than that to get her attention.

  “Jack it up?”

  “Yes. The engine is fascinating, but we can’t get at it without removing the axle.”

  Brionie’s brow creased slightly. Isabella couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or confused. “I don’t care about the axle. The engine is the problem.”

  Isabella nodded. “That’s what’s so interesting. They seem to be all one unit, which is really unusual.” She rubbed her hands together. “I can’t wait to crack it open.”

  “Isabella?” Her father’s voice floated out from under the carriage. “Send for Jean-Pierre while we take it out.”

  “Jean-Pierre? Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “I do. By the time he arrives, we should be ready for his opinion.”

  That was great. The last thing she wanted was that puffed-up bundle of pomposity around while she was trying to impress Brionie Riley. But if her father thought it was necessary, then it probably was. He had a nose for sniffing out demoniac involvement in machinery. While demoniac energy was certainly useful, Isabella was more of a purist. Her devices included as little magical enhancement as possible. She liked to see how far she could get without it. Jean-Pierre, on the other hand, had never met a problem that couldn’t be solved with the judicious application of demoniac magic.

  She stalked over to the messenger tube, coming down on her heels with a little more force than was absolutely necessary. It was a good thing her shoes were rubber-soled. No one would realize her irritation as she stomped about like a cranky three-year-old. She cranked on the lever to the side of the machine and waited. Finally, a voice issued tinnily from the cone-shaped speaker above the messenger junction.

  “Send for Jean-Pierre LaFarge, if you please.”

  “Yes, Isabella.” It was impossible to tell for certain who spoke on the other end. This was an early design of her brother’s, one he’d lost interest in after developing it. Sound waves and related devices were of no interest to Isabella. She preferred devices that interacted directly with the world, not ones that passively recorded it. Still, it would have been nice if he’d tinkered further with the messenger tube, if for no other reason than to eliminate the hissing and popping that accompanied the sounds it transmitted.

  She turned around and almost ran right into Brionie. Had her reflexes been slightly less sharp, she would have. As it was, they stood almost nose to nose. Brionie’s eyes were brown, she noted. They looked like warm hot chocolate, and this close they didn’t look nearly as hard as they did when she glared at Isabella from across a room.

  “Miss Castel.”

  Apparently surprise was what had softened Brionie’s eyes. She was no longer startled, and now they looked ready to bore straight through her.

  “Sorry.” Isabella backed up a half pace.

  “Who is Jean-Pierre LaFarge? And why do you dislike him so much?”

  “Jean-Pierre is my father’s partner.” Isabella moved to walk past Brionie. The blasted woman moved with her, refusing to allow her to pass. “They went to school together. Apparently he was some sort of prodigy. He’s our expert with demoniac energy.”

  Brionie’s lips pursed at the word “demoniac” and Isabella had to wonder if she was one of those with moral objections to the use of the energy. Given the methods she’d used to trap Isabella, that seemed unlikely. So why the disparagement? Many churches sermonized at length about how the evils of demoniac workings corrupted the machines and souls of their users. As far as Isabella was concerned, it was a tool like electricity, if more flexible.

  “You don’t like him.”

  “I don’t have to like someone to work with them.” No, she didn’t like Jean-Pierre. His good looks, smooth manner, and inability not to flirt with the fairer sex had nothing to do with it, she told herself. “He’s pompous, overbearing and very…French.”

  “Ah.” That seemed to satisfy Brionie. She stepped back and allowed Isabella to pass before accompanying her across the workshop floor. In contrast to Isabella’s almost noiseless stride, Brionie’s heels clicked neatly along beside her, each step matching Isabella’s with unnerving precision. “Lord Sherard thinks the engine uses ‘demoniac’ energy.”

  “It must.” Isabella heard the slight emphas
is on demoniac. There was definitely something going on there. Maybe Isabella wouldn’t show Brionie too many of her own inventions, only the purely electric ones. “I don’t know how it could work without extensive enhancement. That’s why we need to get it out of the carriage to get a closer look at it.”

  “Very well.” Brionie returned to perch on the small stool where she’d been waiting. As Isabella made her way over to the far side of the workshop for more tools, she could barely make out Brionie’s last words. “I shall endeavor not to be too impressed by Monsieur LaFarge.”

  That was encouraging. Isabella whistled as she pulled out everything they needed to hoist the carriage. By the time she and Joseph had freed the strange engine and axle from the carriage, her shoulders cried out for some relief. They placed the entire rig on a nearby workbench. Brionie came over to view the device. She donned white gloves before reaching out to touch it, not seeming to care when their fingertips came back black and sooty.

  The lift cranked to life and made its laborious way up to the surface. When it returned, Jean-Pierre LaFarge stood in the middle. As usual, he was immaculate, from the ends of his heavily waxed mustaches to the gleaming tips of his shoes. Isabella suspected that he dealt with demon energy because most of the time he could do so without getting his hands dirty. The only time he deigned to cover up his perfect clothes were when he charged demoniac runes with animal blood.

  “Bonjour, all.” LaFarge swept down the stairs, hat and cane in one hand. “What do you ’ave for me?” He bent at the waist in a mocking bow toward Isabella. As usual, he gave no indication that he registered her antipathy toward him. While she made every attempt to be civil with him, there were times when his attitude was too much to bear. The sharper side of her tongue came out, usually before she could censor herself.