“Fall back!” Eliza screamed as she reloaded her pistols. “Fall back behind the stern when I start shooting.” She snapped her second pistol shut, then took a long slow breath. Wellington admired the way calm washed over her face. “Now!”
With Eliza unloading her pistols in the direction of the hostile gunfire, Wellington and Felicity crouched low to the ground and scrambled for the Delilah’s stern. Bullets kicked up sand and rock around Eliza, continuing to shuffle back until her pistols were spent. She then turned and bolted for the wreckage, small explosions, usually associated with explosive shells, following in her wake.
“Five gents, armed with what sounds like Rickies,” Eliza said, collapsing by Wellington and Felicity. She started fishing out bullets from her belt as she talked. “That’s the good news.”
“And the bad?” Wellington asked.
“They have the high ground.” Her words stopped as holes suddenly appeared in the hull. “From where I saw movement, they’re on that dune you were eyeing up.” She finished loading the pistol in her grasp, twirled it in her hand, and offered it to Wellington, handle first. “Something tells me, this time, you won’t throw it back at me.”
He took the weapon, still warm from Eliza’s touch. Exquisitely balanced. The hei hei design against the ivory was still quite appropriate for Eliza, only lovelier up close. He glanced up. “But I have the Nipper . . .”
She actually rolled her eyes. “I am sure that thing is cute, but in this situation I think my gun is more appropriate.”
She had a point.
Then Eliza D. Braun grinned. “Shall we dance?”
Wellington gave a slight nod. “I’ll lead.”
Leaning out from cover, he caught a glimpse of a shooter high on the dune. He took a shot but merely sent the man’s hat into the air. How he hated the crowns of American hats. They were so ridiculously tall!
From his side, Eliza fired, but her aim was more level to the ground. He looked in the direction of the shot just in time to see one man fall while the other ran for cover. Wellington’s eyes immediately darted back to his original target. A small section of the dune was slowly rising up. It was just enough of a target to take his shot. This time, from the glimpse of spray reaching into the air, Wellington knew he hadn’t missed. Two more shooters popped up from the top of the dune just before Wellington slipped back behind cover.
“One on the ground, one in the ground,” Eliza said over the rapping of bullets against the hull. “One target down on the dunes, two still remaining.”
The archivist dared to get a peek from their hiding place, but chunks of the Delilah raining down on him forced him back. “There are more up there. At least seven remain.” Wellington watched a man topside attempt to sprint for a flanking position. Wellington’s shot was a step faster. “Correction. Six. How many rounds left, Eliza?”
“Five in the belt, and then we’re done. Now where the hell is Bill?”
Felicity, who was cowering on the ground, offered no suggestions.
Wellington decided to concentrate on staying alive rather than worrying about the erstwhile agent, but that was when all thought was momentarily obliterated.
The dune looming overhead exploded; sand, dirt, and high grass flying in all directions. Eliza bolted out of their hiding place and drew a bead on the other man she had seen advancing on them. He staggered back, his brow knotted as if he were trying to understand what happened to his compatriots on the dune; then he dropped hard to his knees before surrendering to the ground. Another shell launched from the deck, tearing away at a small ridge of sand. The shot was enough to bring down the rest of the dune on top of what sounded like a trio taking cover behind wreckage and flotsam.
“Found the ship’s armoury!” Bill’s voice called from the top deck of the Delilah.
Wellington looked over to his side to find Felicity in a tight ball next to the hull, her fingers in her ears. He tapped her gently on the shoulder and she gave a start.
“I think we’re safe,” he offered.
She pulled her hands away. The poor thing was shaking like a leaf. He offered her a spot of help in standing, but suddenly Felicity was wrapping her arms around him. Wellington could now feel her trembling all over, feel her body pressing into his own form with each deep breath.
“Easy there, Miss Lovelace,” Wellington said, his hand searching for the right way to console the terrified woman.
“I am reminded why I prefer the library work over fieldwork,” she said with a gasp. She was looking up into Wellington’s eyes, her own gaze soft, vulnerable, and yet quite alluring. “The quiet.”
“Yes, well, umm . . .” He tried patting her back a little harder, but her embrace on him tightened. “All’s well that end’s well?”
“You were amazing, Mr. Books,” she said, her eyes wider, her smile warm and alluring.
“Yes,” a voice came from behind him, “a wonder on the battlefield, aren’t you?”
He craned his neck to look over to Eliza. Why did she look so upset? She didn’t have a traumatised librarian clinging onto her like ivy. Wellington gave Felicity two more quick pats on the back before wrenching free of her.
He stumbled over to where Eliza was removing a satchel from one of the would-be assassins. “Rather lucky, don’t you think?”
Eliza opened the bag, rummaging through it. “Luck has nothing to do with it,” she said, looking up at him. “Welly, why would assassins—all of them carrying satchels—come for us at a shipwreck and break into an open shootout?”
Wellington paused, then saw the reasoning there. “They were just as surprised as we were.”
“Bring me that other man’s bag,” Eliza said, returning to the one in her hands. “I have another idea.”
As she began pulling out an assortment of items, Wellington went to the second dead man and relieved him of his pack. Inside he found an assortment of heavy glass bottles.
Eliza took a whiff of one of the bottles she had set out before her and recoiled. Shaking her head, she peered into Wellington’s bag. “Just what I thought.”
“What?”
“These are accelerants. I would have no doubt the men topside are carrying liquids that are volatile in nature. Maybe even high strength acids.”
Wellington looked back at the other man and then up at the dune where the sniper had been. Only five of them, but with the right tools, they would make easy work of this site. “Cleaners?”
“No bodies? No wreckage? It would make sense to have them waiting on a word, in case of something like this.” She returned her attention to the corpse, and then sat back on her haunches. “Well now,” Eliza said, lifting up the dead man’s hand and inspecting his ring, “looks like this case just got a touch more interesting.”
The shooter, much like his friends, was not a man of means nor privilege. They all wore the trappings of labourers; whether that labour was on the docks or farming fields, it was difficult to conclude. Harder to conclude still was how this man and the other nearby came to wear such fine silver rings, each displaying the same sigil carved in a cut of obsidian. Wellington felt himself shudder slightly at the sight of the raven.
He looked up to the dune still smouldering from Bill’s attack. He then turned back to Eliza. “If the House of Usher are involved—”
“One step ahead of you.” Eliza relieved Wellington of her pistol before calling out, “Bill! We got to get a move on!”
Both Bill and Felicity appeared from the stern. Bill was carrying what looked like a pair of small cannons. “Got you a little something to remember me by, Lizzie. Where to now?” he said with a sparkling grin.
“We’ve identified these boys. They’re with the House of Usher.”
“Really?” Felicity’s hand went to her chest. “Do we need to call the home office for reinforcements?”
“Absolutely not,” Eliza sa
id. “We still don’t know how they are doing this. We need to find Merle again.”
The librarian glanced at her own notes, then back over at the wreckage. “To see if there’s anything else he can remember?”
“That”—and then Eliza glanced down to the two dead Usher agents—“and see if he’s still alive.”
SEVEN
In Which Heroes Are Rediscovered
When Eliza walked into Quagmire’s, there was very little sign of their previous night’s brawl, save for the absence of tables and chairs. The bartender must have recognised her, considering how quickly he reached for what she could only assume was a shotgun, concealed underneath the bar. The sound of Bill’s own rifle hammer being pulled back and locking into a firing position, however, froze the man where he stood.
“Where does Major Brantfield live?” Eliza asked, her eyes boring into the bartender’s.
“What makes you think, missy,” he seethed, “that I know where a drunk like Mer—”
Eliza grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and yanked. His face slammed hard into its smooth, worn wood with a crunch.
“Where does Major Brantfield live?” she asked again in exactly the same tone.
“All right,” he yelped clasping one hand to his nose. “Let me put this another way . . . fuc—”
Her fingers found his shirt collar, and once again the bartender’s face connected with the bar.
“Next time,” she said, her voice never faltering, “I won’t be so polite.”
She heard Bill chuckle as the burly barkeep, struggling to breathe, muttered the whereabouts of Major Merlin Brantfield.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, jerked her head at Bill, and stormed out of Quagmire’s.
Wellington had already disengaged the hand brake before Eliza was settled in the passenger seat. They rumbled away from the saloon in a cloud of white steam, Bill on horseback only a few paces behind.
“Went well then, did it?” Wellington asked in a calm tone.
Eliza shot him a look, and pointed to a side track. “Down there.” She wasn’t about to get into an argument with him about her methods. Bill was in many ways more in tune with her than the archivist.
They passed through low scrub, and bounced along the sand for a few minutes until they saw a shack that looked to be held together by willpower alone. Beyond the dilapidated dwelling, the powerful, grey waves of the Atlantic continued to pound and dig at the wide, sandy shore. She couldn’t imagine a more desolate spot, and she had seen a few.
Eliza checked both pistols, glanced at the portable cannon Bill had so sweetly presented her at the Delilah, and then reconsidered as she calmly replenished her belt with spare bullets. Throughout she did not look in Wellington’s direction. “What have we got, Bill?”
“We each have those shell-lobbers. I got the Peacemakers,” Bill said, dismounting his ride, “and I also got this.” He slipped free of its holster an impressive rifle. Running along the top of the barrel was a coil, connecting with the microgenerator just above what she could only assume was the receiver. It resembled a Winchester model, but there was no lever action. “Say hello to American ingenuity—the Winchester-Edison 96X. It’s a prototype.”
“How many shots?”
“Six sixteen-gauge shells.” He then motioned with his head to the small coil running above the barrel. “The coil gets out a burst somewhere in the range of two hundred kilovolts to five thousand megavolts.”
“Five thousand megavolts?!” Wellington exclaimed. “That’s a range between stun and incineration!”
Bill shrugged. “Told you it was a prototype.”
Eliza smiled slightly, but turned the conversation in the direction she wanted. “And you, Wellington, I take it you still have the Nipper?” She hated that damn thing, but at least he was armed.
He checked his left pocket, then went to his right, and fished out the tiny, bulbous weapon. Bill let out a snort and flipped the safety off the 96X, coaxing a tiny hum that grew higher in pitch with each second.
“Fair enough.” Eliza gave a nod. “Stay sharp, everyone.”
“Are you sure about the crest?” asked Felicity suddenly.
“You can say, without equivocation, that Usher and I have a past,” Wellington returned, his eyes darting between Eliza and Felicity. “I would know that raven’s crest at a glance.”
“I’ve never met any of their agents before. This is fantastic!”
“Come again?” Eliza asked.
“This means a second correlation is being established between OSM and the Ministry. We already have such an instance, although that mission—Operation: Plutonian Shore—was not a sanctioned partnership such as our present one. It involved an agent of yours, a Mr. Bruce Campbell, if memory serves . . .”
Eliza stared at her, stunned into silence. Was Felicity’s head rushing over a cross-reference? She looked over to Bill, who shook his head and shrugged.
Felicity continued to drone, “The Ministry was seeking a bizarre artefact—”
“Agent Lovelace,” Eliza bit, her patience for the woman slipping faster than the final grains of sand in an hourglass, “I don’t know if you have taken account of the current situation, but what we are about to do demands stealth.” She closed in on her, and Felicity leaned back as Eliza drew close enough to smell the touch of perfume on her. “Therefore, with all due respect, shut it!”
Felicity’s eyes widened, and she nodded. She bit her bottom lip and then whispered, “My apologies. It’s just . . .” And the strange excitement returned to her eyes. “This is a cross-reference in the making. This is so exciting!”
Eliza narrowed her gaze on her, contemplated stuffing her into the boot of Wellington’s motorcar, but instead made the mental note that librarians were on par with archivists as odd ducks that could work her last nerve to its breaking point.
“We go in quiet, we go in ready,” Eliza said.
“Stay close, Felicity,” Wellington whispered to her, “and stay low.”
Yes, Felicity, Eliza seethed, you do that.
She motioned for Bill to flank their position while the three of them crept up to the front porch. With the exception of the ocean, there was no sound, not even the creaking of a rocking chair that sat motionless against the few warped floorboards. Her eyes looked over the sides of the shack. She noted a few bullet holes in the window, but it was impossible to tell if said bullet holes were from earlier today or the previous decade.
Bill peered from around the opposite end of the house, his 96X up and ready, but only for a moment. It slowly came down as he tried to make sense of something he was looking at. Eliza glanced back at Wellington and Felicity before she stepped out into the open.
“Merle?” she dared to call. “Merle, it’s Eliza. The girl from the pub.”
Another step, and then Eliza saw what was holding Bill’s undivided attention.
The dead man was still gripping the Smith & Wesson Schofield but from the splatter of blood on his hand and wrist, he had tried to stop a wound before pulling the trigger, and there was a good chance he didn’t manage to do that. Eliza pointed both her pistols forwards as she stepped up to the porch.
“Merle, you okay?”
The response she heard from inside was nothing more than a low gurgle.
“He’s alive!” she shouted, holstering her weapons.
Merle was sitting up against the far wall of the shack; a shotgun and two pistols, both more appropriate for history books than battle, were scattered across his lap. He looked exhausted, but Merle’s eyes widened with relief and perhaps hope on seeing Eliza. She tried to count the number of holes they had put in him, but there were just too many. A couple in his stomach, she knew that for certain. One in his left shoulder. His right knee was completely mangled.
“Oh dear God, Merle,” Eliza said, not sure where it was saf
e to touch him.
He winced as he pointed with his unscathed arm. “Out,” he whispered, the pain in his breath cutting Eliza deep. “Out.”
“You want to be outside, on the porch?” she asked. She could tell in his eyes that he hadn’t been drinking. He was terrified.
“Out!” he wheezed, pointing again for the doorway.
“Bill!” she called, grabbing underneath his good arm.
Bill slipped in; but on working his arm underneath Merle’s injured arm, the old man lurched, letting out a gurgled groan.
“The man’s bleeding internally,” Wellington said, slipping behind Merle to give Eliza additional support. “Hold his arm steady, and watch the knee.”
The three of them hefted Merle and carried him low on the ground. This was when Eliza saw not only the dead man in the doorway but two more opposite Merle. Three against one, and the “Magician of Manassas” had bested them with antiquated firearms. She could see as they carried him that he was in agony, but when he felt the open air in his hair, his features softened.
“Let me take a look at him,” Wellington said, removing his coat and bending down.
Merle slapped Wellington’s hands away from his shirt and slowly shook his head.
“Major,” Bill said quietly, “you got to let us help you.”
“I’ve seen this before in Africa,” Wellington said sombrely. “He doesn’t want us to.”
Merle stared at Wellington knowingly, perhaps recognising another soldier. He then looked over to Eliza and smiled. “Knew—” he whispered, “you’d—come.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Despite all the horrors she’d seen, her throat tightened. She took his hand. “Merlin, you were right. We found another ship. Something happened to her.”
He nodded. “Delilah. Know its sound.” His eyes rolled in his head, but Merle blinked, took in a painfully deep breath, and snapped his eyes on Eliza. “Curri—tuck. Light. Something—not right.”
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