Iron and Blood

by Gail Z. Martin

  The domes of large black umbrellas formed a somber circle around his father’s open grave. Kovach’s guards kept up their guise as mutes, and had stationed themselves around the edges of the group, while Kovach himself stood just behind the mourners on a slope that afforded him a good view of the main approach. Cullan was nowhere to be seen, and Adam Farber had wandered off, deep in his own thoughts as usual, poking around the half-built pyramid.

  Reverend McDonald cleared his throat and began to read Psalm Twenty-Three. The handful of mourners joined in, voicing the familiar words in a low rumble. Henry fidgeted, but whether it was out of grief or boredom, Jake could not tell. Jake recited the words, but he was distracted. His sixth sense told him that something was wrong.

  Just then, the mourners at the nearby grave turned to face them. Dropping their umbrellas, they drew shotguns from beneath their cloaks and opened fire.

  Henry cried out and dropped to his knees, clutching his shoulder, blood oozing from between his fingers.

  “Stay down!” Jake commanded, dropping the umbrella and drawing his own gun. Another shot barely missed Reverend McDonald, ricocheting as it hit one of the nearby tombstones.

  Reverend McDonald yelped as Rick grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him into the open grave.

  “Sorry,” Rick said. “You’ll be safer in there.”

  Kovach’s men had shouldered their rifles, firing through the gauzy disguise of their ‘wands’. Drostan Fletcher came running, a revolver already in hand, shooting at the attackers. The cemetery resounded with the fusillade, and all around them, Jake heard the ping of bullets and shot striking granite.

  Under covering fire, four of their guards hustled George, Henry, and the handful of remaining guests to their carriages. There was no way for the guards to get to Jake and Rick without stepping directly in the line of fire. Giving a slap to the horses and a shout, the guards sent two of the carriages galloping away.

  Jake and Rick had already taken up positions behind nearby markers, and were returning fire. Anger channeled Jake’s grief, clearing his head and sharpening his aim. A shot grazed his left arm and he dropped and rolled behind a monument. Blood trickled from the wound, though the gash was not deep. Jake tied his kerchief around it to staunch the bleeding, cursing under his breath at losing a good suit. He scanned the land around them, but the tombstones and mausoleums provided far too many places to hide.

  Jake took cover behind a tomb; larger than a headstone, smaller than a mausoleum, the grave had a solid base of carved stone blocks, with small obelisks on each corner, topped by a miniature Parthenon, crowned by a cornice and cupola.

  Jake signaled to Rick and dodged from behind the monument to squeeze off shots at the nearest ‘mourner’ before moving to a better position. Rick and he had a well-established routine and Jake knew that his friend would cover him as he moved. Kovach’s men and Fletcher had taken up positions surrounding Thomas Desmet’s open grave.

  The sham mourners’ hearse flew open and more fighters poured out, even as additional men climbed from their hiding place inside the open grave around which the group had gathered. Had they dug the grave themselves, Jake wondered briefly, returning fire, or commandeered a new grave dug on someone else’s account?

  Gunfire echoed across the rolling hills. Jake could see Rick hunkered down behind a large basalt obelisk, methodically taking out assassins as they came within his sights. Jake poked his head around the edge of the tomb, and a shot cracked just above his head, sending stone chips into his hair. He was safe for the moment, but pinned down, and Rick appeared to be running low on ammunition.

  By the look of it, their opponents were equal in firepower and forces, presenting the nasty likelihood of a bloody battle fought across Homewood’s serene hills. From what Jake could see, one group of assassins was holding down the area near the pyramid, which sat between Jake’s friends and their carriages. Another group had taken a position behind several graves on a slight rise, giving them an advantage. Scattered between the groups, Jake spotted several of Kovach’s men, but Cullan and Adam were nowhere to be seen.

  Jake swung out from his hiding place long enough to get in another shot; this time, he saw his bullet take a man through the chest.

  “One more down,” Jake muttered, reloading.

  The rain was now a fine mist, casting a haze over the cemetery. Fog had rolled in, hanging in ghostly wisps low to the ground, making it even more difficult to see well enough to get a clean shot. On the other hand, Jake thought, it made it that much easier for his side to stay out of the line of fire.

  A new noise sounded among the gunshots; a strange, high-pitched, ululating whine. Jake caught a glimpse of motion out of the corner of his eye. As he watched in amazement, a black-shrouded shape rose from the roof of one of the funeral carriages and hovered in the air, trailing its gauzy covering. Two more revenants joined the first, pausing for a moment before they fanned out.

  Jake could hear shouts and curses from their assailants as the strange shapes moved in their direction, and several of the false mourners broke from cover, giving Jake the chance to squeeze off a few shots and fell one man as he ran from the apparition.

  A low hum countered the high-pitched noise and grew rapidly louder. Jake could see Rick glancing around to find the source of the noise, as the whine reached an ear-splitting crescendo.

  “What the hell is that?” Jake breathed. Sparks of blue light were running up and down the crane that stood poised over the pyramid.

  At that moment, the ghostly things opened fire.

  Fire blazed from the floating specters, sparking from what Jake could now see were the muzzles of Gatling guns. The gauzy coverings burned away in seconds, revealing the ‘ghosts’ to be three automated flying saucers, the same type that had saved their necks over the Atlantic. The Gatlings laid down a deadly spray of bullets. Emboldened by the sudden reprieve, Jake and Rick ran to new positions, the better to harry their opponents.

  A crack like thunder rattled the glass in a nearby mausoleum. Jake turned to see a brilliant flare of blue-white light erupt from the tip of the crane. Ozone filled the air like the aftermath of a lightning strike.

  The bolt touched down between the pyramid and a row of headstones. A blinding streak sizzled across the ground, leaving a scorched line in the grass. Three of the assassins were caught in the conflagration, screaming as the brilliant light cut through their bodies and left only charred remains.

  The remaining assailants ran for their lives as a new volley of rifle shots from Kovach’s men felled all but the swiftest runners. Jake saw Kovach signal several of his sharpshooters and take off on foot after the last of the assassins as the rest of the men, now divested of their guise as mutes, swiftly secured the area before giving the all-clear. Fletcher appeared to be searching the sham burial site for bodies and going through the pockets of the fallen attackers.

  Warily, Jake rose from his hiding place, his revolver still at the ready. Rick carefully rose from his crouch, gun in hand. “What in the name of God was that about?” Rick asked.

  “Did you see that?” Cullan Adair jumped down from behind one of the bullet-scarred carriages, beaming with victory. “Did you see those babies fly?”

  “Were you trying to frighten the life out of us?” Rick looked as if he could not quite decide whether to be angry or relieved.

  Cullan chuckled. “I really hadn’t thought about what they might look like taking off when I put them on the tops of the carriages. I threw the cloth over them to keep them away from prying eyes. But did you see how well they flew?”

  “We saw,” Jake said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “And more importantly, they shot as well as they hovered.”

  “Is it over?” Adam Farber peered out of the doorway to the half-finished pyramid. His glasses were askew and his hair looked as if it had been standing on end.

  “Appears so,” Jake said, watching as Kovach’s men began seeing to the casualties. A few of their guards we
re limping, and one or two were noticeably bloodied, but most looked none the worse for wear, considering.

  “Is this the new project you were telling me about?” Rick’s voice was awestruck as he stared at the crane above him.

  A sly grin spread across Adam’s face. “Yep. Although I never thought I’d use it quite like this.” He sauntered down from the pyramid to join them, and let out a low whistle at the charred ground and incinerated bodies. “Wait until I tell Mr. Tesla about this.”

  “Or not,” Jake said with a warning glance.

  Adam frowned, then nodded. “Yeah. Or not.”

  “Something you whipped up in your spare time at Tesla-Westinghouse?” Jake asked.

  Adam looked a bit thunderstruck by his creation’s results. “Uh-huh. Cullan and Miska had asked if I could set up a distraction just in case anything went awry. It’s got other uses, but when I heard the gunfire, I thought I might put the fear of the Almighty into whoever was out here.” He paled. “I didn’t mean to kill anyone. It’s a prototype, fairly new, and we don’t have the kinks worked out yet.”

  Jake clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a dangerous man, Adam. Remind me to watch your next invention from a safe distance—like several miles away.”

  “Adam, that has serious potential. You and I need to talk when this is all over.” Rick eyed the wreckage, then turned to Jake. “Whoever did this, they had it all planned out. Want to bet the cemetery didn’t dig that grave?” he said with a nod toward the open hole where their would-be assassins had gathered.

  “They didn’t try anything at the church service,” Jake mused. “Too public? Too many big fish?”

  “They probably bet it would only be close family here at the grave,” Cullan said, his expression grim. “You, George, and Rick—which would have buried Brand and Desmet along with your father.”

  Jake let Cullan’s statement sink in as his gaze followed the return of Kovach and his fighters. Kovach’s anger was apparent in his brisk stride, and in the curses that carried in the still air.

  “The rest got away from us,” Kovach said. “They had a carriage waiting over the next ridge. We couldn’t pursue them on foot.”

  “Any idea who they were?” Now that mortal fear had subsided, Jake’s anger outweighed his grief for a moment.

  “Offhand, I’d say they were someone who didn’t like you much,” Kovach said, running a hand back through his dark hair. “Otherwise, no idea—yet—about who hired them.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, they weren’t amateurs.”

  “Nothing on the remaining bodies or hearse to give us a clue. But maybe your men will find something.” Fletcher said as he joined them.

  “Want to bet it’s the same people who gave us a going-away party in London?” Rick asked.

  “The question in both cases is, why?” Jake mused.

  “Hello?” A faint voice quavered across the foggy air. “Is there anyone out there? Don’t shoot—I’m a man of the cloth.”

  Reverend McDonald peered from the lip of Thomas Desmet’s grave. Fresh dirt streaked his face and clumped in his hair, and his clerical collar was muddy and hanging at an odd angle.

  “Oh, dear Lord, we left the reverend in the hole,” Rick murmured as he and Jake headed at a run toward the befuddled and frightened cleric.

  “You’re the one who pushed him in,” Jake muttered under his breath.

  “Does it count against my immortal soul, do you think?”

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “Worse. He’s likely to tell Mother.”

  NICKI LECLERCQ MOVED as silently down the servants’ stairway as her bustle would allow. She had intentionally chosen a time when the help would be busy cleaning up after breakfast, and her aunt would have retired to her room.

  If she were caught, it would cause a scandal, she thought, and shivered. Then I simply must not be caught.

  Her boots had the softest soles of any she owned, and she padded down the steps carefully, wincing at every creak and groan from the old stair treads. She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the bottom.

  Nicki peeked around the corner and saw no one in the back corridor, so she tiptoed to the servants’ entrance. She had exchanged her deep mourning for a charcoal gray traveling suit that might have been acceptable for second mourning, but would cause a stir were she recognized as a close relative to the deceased. Yet it was worth the risk to gain information, news that would be all the more difficult for Rick or Jake to acquire given their sudden, unwelcome prominence.

  “You’ll be needing this.” Wilfred’s voice made Nicki jump and she gave a squeak. The butler stood just inside the vestibule. He held out an umbrella in a decorous shade of dove gray. “Madam said to remind you that the gentlemen will likely be home by noon, so you’ll want to return before then.”

  “She knows?” Nicki’s eyes widened.

  The barest hint of a smile touched Wilfred’s lips. “She strongly suspects.”

  “Is she… upset?”

  “She said she’d have gone herself if she could have possibly arranged it.”

  Catherine Desmet’s movements would be curtailed by social convention for the next year, as befitted her station and bereavement. Nicki, however, was neither as close to the deceased nor as well-known in New Pittsburgh.

  Nicki gave Wilfred a broad grin. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll keep a low profile.”

  The look in Wilfred’s eye was skeptical.

  Nicki let herself out the servants’ door, glancing both ways before stepping into the back street. She made her way the length of the block before emerging onto Shadyside Avenue, where she caught the Squirrel Hill streetcar.

  Nicki kept her head down until the streetcar was out of Shadyside, fearing she might run into one of the Desmets’ neighbors. Rain kept many people indoors; all the better for her to move about unnoticed.

  At the Squirrel Hill stop, Nicki alighted and glanced up and down Murray Avenue. Two other women and a man also got off the streetcar, but Nicki was relieved to see that none of them looked familiar. She drew her shawl around her shoulders against the cool wind, and hastened the few blocks it took to reach Woodland Road. It had become quite a popular address with many of New Pittsburgh’s elite after the Civil War. Several grand mansions graced the street, but Nicki was looking for a smaller home tucked between two of its opulent neighbors.

  The brick, neo-Renaissance house looked modest and circumspect in comparison, though Nicki knew property in this neighborhood was highly desirable and priced to match demand. She took another look around as she ascended the steps from the street and spotted a man farther down the block lighting a pipe. It was difficult to tell from the angle, but she was almost certain he had been on the streetcar with her.

  The door opened at her first knock. A plump maid looked at Nicki with a bored expression. “May I help you?” she asked, her German accent unmistakable.

  “I’m here to see Renate Thalberg,” Nicki said, withdrawing a calling card from a silver case in her purse. She was careful to hold her purse so the maid would not glimpse the small derringer next to the card case.

  “She’s quite busy,” the maid replied, glancing at the card. “Perhaps if you’ll come back another day—”

  “Priscilla? Who is it?” A woman’s voice called out from down the hallway.

  “A Miss Veronique LeClercq has come to call,” Priscilla replied. “Are you—”

  “Nicki!” A moment later, a slender young woman appeared in the hallway. Renate Thalberg was in her late twenties, slightly-built, with an ethereal appearance that even the bustles and mutton-leg sleeves of current fashion could not weigh down. Light brown hair in a loose chignon framed intelligent brown eyes and fine features just a bit too sharp to be conventionally pretty. “Priscilla, please see her in and bring us tea.”

  “Right away, ma’am.” Priscilla eyed Nicki as if she did not relish the new assignment before stepping away to do as she was bid.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Renate sai
d, giving Nicki a hug and taking her by the arm to lead her to the sitting room. “I’m so sorry it’s under such sad circumstances.”

  Nicki removed her shawl and sat in a wing-backed chair beside a small tea table across from Renate. For a few moments, until Priscilla returned with tea and a plate of shortbreads, they spoke of the weather and mutual acquaintances. When Priscilla drew the door shut behind her, Renate fixed Nicki with an inquisitive look.

  “What brings you here on the day of the funeral, when you should be home in mourning?” Renate resembled Andreas enough to pass as his sister, but Nicki knew she was really his great-granddaughter.

  Nicki sipped her tea and cringed. “I know it’s not proper, but Jake and Rick will be too constrained, what with mourning and all, to make discreet inquiries, and I may be forgiven a little more freedom of movement since I’m not in the immediate family.”

  Renate gave a sharp laugh. “Discretion isn’t usually your hallmark, Nicki. But Andreas told me you might call. I understand you had a bit of trouble bringing back his urn.”

  Nicki wrinkled her nose. “We were shot at, chased, pursued by an airship and shot at some more.” She paused and sipped her tea. “Jake says Andreas doesn’t think it was because of the urn.”

  Renate shook her head. “It wasn’t.”

  “Why? If Andreas wanted the urn, maybe other people did, too. Maybe it’s more valuable than he thought.”

  Renate sighed. “The urn itself is nice, but hardly a museum piece. Andreas wanted the urn because it contains the ashes of his fourth wife.”

  Nicki struggled to avoid choking on her tea. “Truly?”

  Renate grimaced. “Truly. One of the prices of immortality is how frequently you outlive the mortals around you. Andreas is several centuries old. He outlived four wives before he decided to pull back from mortals. But the fourth wife, Elizabeth, was his favorite.”