by A. W. Exley
“Or, here’s an even more fantastical hypothesis, perhaps the man is still alive, working in America, and remitting money to his beloved daughter,” McToon said. “There’s also the rather pesky concept of corpus delicti.”
The judge narrowed his gaze at the flustered prosecutor. “Surely you can prove the man is dead? Because the defence has compelling evidence that he is alive and simply chose to abscond.” He banged his gavel. “Unless you’ve got something else, I’m going to throw this out.”
The prosecutor went bright red and impersonated a fish out of water for several moments. His mouth opened and closed as he blew invisible bubbles. He consulted with Fraser before blurting out, “He assaulted a reporter.”
McToon smiled. “These are dark days for Viscount Lyons, the newspapers have devoted many inches to his relationship with Lady Lyons and her tragic disappearance. Can you blame a distraught husband who lashes out at one who makes unfounded suppositions?”
“He shoved a knife up the poor man’s nose,” Fraser said.
“No one doubts the depth of his devotion to his wife, a momentary lapse in judgement, your Honour, brought about by his grief. Is the reporter concerned pressing charges?” McToon looked around the courtroom, but Albright was missing from the front row.
Fraser ground his jaw. “No. But Lyons has assaulted a member of Her Majesty’s Enforcers not once, but twice, in front of several reliable witnesses.” He threw out the last remaining charge. “That is an imprisonable offence.”
McToon nodded. “Yes, quite right, as it should be.” He leaned down for a moment to consult with Nate. “Although I believe the court may exercise its vast discretionary power to substitute a fine, if it believes that more fitting in these strenuous circumstances.”
The prosecutor jumped to his feet. “That’s not cricket, milord, he can’t argue his way down from murder to a fine.”
McToon raised one bushy eyebrow. “Such a tragic event, milord. And even now we hinder his search, his need to find any evidence of what happened to his wife.” He spread his hands wide, imploring the court for sympathy.
The judge rolled his eyes. “The murder charged is dismissed. I do, however, find Lord Lyons guilty of assault against an Enforcer.”
“Ha!” Fraser pointed to Lyons before the prosecutor elbowed him to settle down.
The judge peered over his glasses. “On each count of assault, this court fines Lord Lyons the sum of ten pounds.” He banged his gavel. “Pay twenty pounds to the clerk and you’re free to go.”
Nate rose and bowed to the judge. “I’ll happily pay twice that if I get a couple more goes.”
McToon and Nate shook hands, and the solicitor pulled a billfold from his satchel.
“No!” Fraser roared from his seat as he slammed his fist to the table. “You cannot let him go, he must account for his crimes.”
The noise disturbed the chicken from its temporary roost and the owner saw her opportunity to recapture her dinner. The old woman dashed after her bantam, Fraser leapt for Nate and the Enforcers tried to bring everyone under control. The judge banged his gavel so hard the end fell off.
“Order! Order! I will have order in this courtroom.”
The chicken flew to the bench, the highest ground it could reach unless it wanted to roast itself on a dodgy electric light, and stared at the judge.
Nate turned and faced his nemesis. Fraser’s actions delayed his search for Cara and cost him valuable days. The inspector had his day in court and lost. He would happily pay ten pounds for wrapping his hands around Fraser’s neck again. Perhaps for fifty, the judge would let him slip a blade along the man’s ribs. For a rare moment, he could drop his mask. He bared his teeth and grinned.
Fraser launched himself over the dividing space, his arms swinging as he tried to claw his way to Nate. Sergeant Connor grabbed him from behind, massive arms holding the dapper inspector in an iron grip as Nate walked from the courtroom and out into the frigid London air.
ut in the street, Nate was greeted by a wall of men. In warm coats, they lined both sides of the road for as far as he could see. To the trained eye, slight bulges and unusual creases gave away the concealed weapons. They stood at least four deep. No one spoke, this was no angry crowd, but loyal soldiers awaiting the word to advance. At the bottom of the steps, lounged Liam O’Donnell.
“Everything all right, then?” His usual grin was replaced by something harder. Today he stood before Nate not in his capacity as the unofficial mayor of the Rookery, but as a general ready to command his army.
“The matter has been resolved thanks to my fine legal counsel. Thank you for the support of St Giles, Liam. I will ensure the loyalty of the men is rewarded tonight, I will have a cart load of kegs delivered.” Nate slipped on a scarf and gloves handed to him by the waiting Brick.
Liam moved his hand in a discreet signal, which was relayed through the assembled men. “The lads will appreciate that, but you know they would follow you into the fires of hell if required.”
Nate shook Liam’s hand. “That won’t be necessary, at least not today.” But who knew what tomorrow would bring?
The Irishman doffed his hat to Nate and walked off down the street, whistling. Behind him, the army fell in and returned to their home base in St Giles.
They wasted the better part of two valuable days while Fraser played his game. “Thank you,” Nate said as McToon stepped down beside him. “I hope I pay you enough.”
“Oh, I manage to get by,” the lawyer said. He pulled on his gloves and smacked his hands together. “It makes a refreshing change to get out of the office and appear in court.”
Nate nodded at his solicitor as the man hailed a steam cab. “Our groundwork paid a handsome dividend,” he said as McToon climbed inside.
“My father was a farmer and he always advised to prepare the land well, before you plant a crop. A sage piece of advice I follow to this day. Let me know if you require anything else, Lord Lyons.” McToon touched the tip of his hat and took his seat.
Nate watched the cab trot off down the road as Brick fell into step next to him.
“Clarence has gone over the underground maps.”
“And?”
The pugilist shook his head. “Not as plain cut as you hoped. The Curator does however, own two properties that Clarence reckons are within what he calls tunnelling distance, of the main underground rail.”
He let out a sigh. Not the result he wanted, but it still gave them a starting point. “Where?”
“One in Lambeth and another in Startford.” Brick glared at a reporter who thought to follow them, and the man froze in his tracks.
Nate considered the two options, one on either side of the Thames. “Lambeth is too close to Southwark, it would be an obvious place for us to start.”
“His Stratford property is farther away from the tunnel, but it’s also got a lot of rail activity.”
“We’ll start in Stratford, then,” Nate said as they reached his black carriage and its burnished metal horses.
Jackson jumped down from the high seat by the driver. “The airship came from Russia with what you wanted and we managed to draw it up into the hangar. Bloody hard going over the ice. One line snapped, the metal froze and couldn’t handle the load.”
The slick ice covered slipway meant extra work on the mechanics to haul the airships up. But winches and lines were replaceable, lives were not.
“We have it secure, that’s all that matters. We’ll gather what we need and head for the closest rail entrance to Stratford,” Nate said. If events went as he planned, they would soon find Cara. He climbed into the carriage and they rode in silence to the Lyons Cargo hangar down by Tower Hill. The massive doors fronting the Thames were closed, inside it hid an airship with a very precious cargo―his sniffer dog.
Men milled around outside, huddled around braziers. They murmured greetings as he strode past and joked that Enforcers couldn’t hold him.
Nate pushed into the hangar. The airshi
p Isis dominated the space, even with her air bladder deflated and stored away. The Egyptian goddess stood at the prow, every crease in her linen dress picked out in wood and whitewashed and her crown gilded so it glinted in the soft light. The chain mail net that protected the bladder rested in a giant crate next to the ship. He ran a hand along the sensuous curve of her side as he walked to the rear doors.
He commissioned the upgrade to the vessel after he and Cara were joined by the Heart. She was christened the Isis as a nod to the goddess who protected them. The ship was intended to be their personal conveyance for their travels around the world. A double-sized and luxurious cabin was fitted out just for the couple, but he made a mental note to redecorate a cabin for Rachel, who would accompany them.
He circled the slumbering vessel and jumped up into the open cargo bay to be greeted by a strange site. Sergei, the mighty dragon master, sat on the floor with his shoulders slumped, crooning a Russian lullaby to the creature in his arms. It listed toward him, head burrowed in his lap as it made miserable whimpering noises.
Nate cursed. The bloodhound was no good to him this sick. “How serious is it?”
Sergei stopped singing and looked up. “This is flying sickness. It will pass soon.”
The dragon had grown from the large puppy they left behind in Siberia. He was now the size of a large calf, his wings were folded against his sides as he burped up the last of his altitude sickness.
Nate stared at his last remaining hope to find Cara and hoped it didn’t vomit all over the clean deck. Although by the lemon scent in the air, he guessed it already had and someone mopped up. “A dragon that gets sick from flying?”
Sergei’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug under his bearskin cloak. “He is young, still finding his wings and not used to the air up high. He will learn.”
Nate moved closer to crouch by the growing creature. It lifted its head and dull eyes whirred with deep reds and oranges. Its breath came in short gasps, pushing its sides in and out in shallow drafts. The dragon looked as though he suffered from more than just airsickness.
“Are you sure he will be able to find her?” His plan hinged on Rachel’s idea of the sniffer dog. It sparked his memory of the dragon, sick with longing for Cara. He prayed that attachment meant he could locate her. Although given the fact the little dragon looked like a young man the morning after his very first drinking binge, he doubted if the animal would be of any use to him. He suspected he couldn’t even walk, given Sergei seemed to be holding him upright.
“Da. He will find the little one. Dragons very good with scent, they find me buried in the snow in Siberia. London no problem.” A large hand caressed the dragon’s triangular head.
Good. The Curator wanted a dragon and what he would get was an enraged one searching for his stolen mother. All they had to do was let him loose. Once he sobered up.
Nate wrote of his plan to Sergei, but it still surprised him that the other man agreed to expose his charge. “Once he is outside this hangar, we cannot keep him a secret anymore. The world will know of his existence.”
The Russian heaved a great sigh and leaned back against the wall. “I think this over. Since Cara leave, this male look every day for her. He heartsick for her.”
Nate knew how that felt, his heart sickened and withered without her. Odd that the dragon became so attached in such a short space of time.
“He need her, so I chose to take risk.” A massive hand ran down the row of spines developing along the dragon’s back. “Besides, people stupid. They not believe their eyes.”
There was a slim chance Sergei was right. No one would expect to see a live dragon walking the London streets, especially not when mechanical ones were becoming almost commonplace. Still, he knew the enormous risk Sergei took. It wasn’t just this little male they endangered. Any confirmation of the existence of dragons would fuel hunters worldwide. His wyvern back in Siberia could be lost. Not to mention Queen Victoria would be unimpressed to discover her stolen egg hatched and produced the longed for male.
“I will protect him and his kin with everything I have,” Nate said.
The two men held gazes. Sergei nodded, and they shook hands.
He rose to his feet, and between them, they helped the dragon to unsteady paws. Sure enough, he lurched like a drunk youngster to the cargo door. A very heavy drunk trying to co-ordinate four feet. He teetered in the doorway and whimpered, then vomited up a rivulet of bile. At last, he hopped down and stared at the stones beneath his feet, as though expecting them to lurch out from under him. The whimper turned into a chirp and he shook himself like a wet dog.
“See,” Sergei said. “He find land legs, already.”
Nate pulled a chemise of Cara’s from his pocket and held it out.
The dragon shoved its nose into the soft cotton and inhaled. More chirps followed. He looked up and his eyes brightened, shots of yellow flashing through the red. To Nate’s untrained eye, his gaze seemed clearer and more focused. He peered around, as though he expected to see Cara nearby. He directed a high, questioning chirp at Sergei.
“She missing, little one. You find her. Da.”
The long snout nosed at the chemise again, and he crooned to himself. A few minutes later, he sat back on his haunches and flapped his wings. He reared up and sat down, over and over, as though testing his strength and reach. With one last chirp, he headed toward the door, each step stronger and steadier. The bloodhound had a scent.
Sergei smiled. “See, he remember, he find her now.”
Peace enveloped Cara. Once her mind made the breakthrough about her and Nate being connected on a far deeper level than just the heart, everything fell into place. They were the phoenix and the dragon, light and dark. She embraced Nate’s darkness for it kept her safe at night, he protected her in the void where no other man could reach. In the same way, he needed her to bring light and warmth to the coldest regions of his soul. While they could exist without each other, together they became better, stronger. More in harmony with their natures.
She sat with her back to the wall and considered her options. Somewhere deep under Enforcers Headquarters, she imagined Nate did the same thing. She had lost her way to communicate with him, and the Curator was economical with facts. He told her little and expected miracles. She had a life to live and no intention of spending it as the Curator’s pet.
The lights flickered, once, twice. The familiar warning signal of the horrors to come. She hopped to her feet and pulled the bed into the room, putting her plan into action with the last remaining minutes of light. She grabbed the pile of priceless books the Curator loaned her and stacked them by the wall. If she was going, she was taking the texts with her. Then she knelt by the patch of stones she had loosened. She had judged the thickness of the wall by studying the doorframe when it sat open. By her estimate, she had dug just over two thirds of the way through the mortar on the blocks, assuming they were a similar size. Tonight she would kick through, regardless of what lay on the other side. She only hoped she were strong enough to fracture the remaining filling that locked the stones in place.
The last flicker came and pitch black descended on the room. In his attempt to fracture her mind, the Curator plunged her into endless nights filled with nightmare creatures. Except it no longer scared her. She wasted hours screaming, locked in her waking nightmare, trying to fend them off on her own. In her moment of clarity, she realised she didn’t have to, her approach was all wrong. She loved Nate and embraced the beast within him. She opened her mind to the dark and the demons. The scuttle of hellish creatures, whether real or imagined, came from the corner. Long claws caught on the flagstone floor as they searched for her.
Then, as though she held a dandelion blowball in her hand, she simply blew away the nightmare that dominated her life for so many long years. She released each painful memory to dance on the wind, to soar high with each tiny propeller from the seed head. With the last puff of breath, she found a measure of forgiveness for her fa
ther. With that act, the cell imprisoning her mind fractured. The walls split and fell apart, the roof slid to one side, and the terrified girl was freed. As bricks and timber disintegrated into dust, she stood in a meadow surrounded by tall trees. One half bathed in sunlight, the other wrapped in shadows and dark.
“You are free to walk whatever path you chose,” she whispered to young Cara. The girl stepped forward, but not to pick one side over the other. She danced back and forth, crossing from sun to shadow and back again, welcomed by both worlds.
She took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks. A nail tapped at her foot, and she slapped it away.
“Shoo. Go bother someone else. I have work to do and you’re in the way.” She imagined their confusion at finding her no longer paralysed. Nate was king of this dominion, and they would bow before him or suffer his wrath. “If Nate were here, he would skewer every last one of you.”
The demons scurried back to their corner, chastened and diminished. They growled and gnashed their teeth, but dared not approach her again. Like scolded pets, they sulked and waited to be called forth.
Her fingers found the edge of a stone in the dark. She visualised the spot she wanted and sat down on her bottom. Taking a deep breath, she centred on the loosened spot. With feet raised, she kicked. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the stone seemed to warm under her kicks, which brought her initial concern to the surface.
“Oh Lord, please don’t let there be lava on the other side.”
She continued to kick. Each time she struck the spot, the stones moved a bit more and warmed under her boots. Another two-footed blow and the stone crumbled and one foot went straight through to the other side.
She drew her leg back and held her breath. Would her room full with water? She reached down, but her boot was dry although the sole was hot. No light came from the hole. She moved to her knees, her hands grasped blindly in the dark. She found the ragged hole, the stones heated under her palm as though they surrounded a hearth.
