Colleen Gleason - The Clockwork Scarab

We were coming out onto the street when I remembered Amunet. Tied up and hidden in the side hall where I’d left her.

“Oh no,” I said, taking one deep breath of cool night air. “She’s trapped!”

It was one thing to leave the Ankh and his guards in the chamber to find their way out. But Amunet was helpless and no one knew she was there.

No one but me.

I dashed back into the building. I had time. The building was made from brick. It wasn’t as if it was going to burn to the ground. But the smoke, and the flames . . . they would eat anything wooden or cloth.

Or human.

Using my small illuminator for light, I retraced our steps. Despite the growing pain from my wound and the renewed flow of blood, I managed to find my way back . . . back to the opium room, now filling with a different sort of smoke . . . back through the side door, where Pix had stolen that kiss from me right against that wall . . . into the side hallway, tinged with smoke. A dull, grating roar filled my ears.

Beaming my light, I ran up the narrow corridor to where I had left Amunet. The smoke had begun to filter through, but it wasn’t as thick as I’d expected. Light flickered from . . . the open door.

Amunet was gone.

But I wasn’t alone.

I looked up to find a gun pointed at me.

“Welcome back, Miss Stoker.”

I could hardly catch my breath, but the cool night air helped. Whoever the individual was who’d been carrying me dumped me unceremoniously onto my feet.

I looked around and didn’t immediately see Evaline, although I’d watched her run out onto the street behind us. However, just a short distance away was a cluster of very confused, frightened young women. The Society of Sekhmet had been evacuated. She was probably in the midst of the girls. Just then, the sound of sirens screeching filled the air. The police or firemen.

The young man who’d carried me out, whose torso was bared by the vest that identified him as one of the opium servers, spun to look behind him. “Bloody ’ell! I’m gone.” Before I could thank him for his assistance, he took himself off.

I stood there for a moment, still panting, and looked up. The fire in the upper floors would devastate, but the building wouldn’t come down. It was brick. Surely someone as clever as the Ankh would find an escape.

Which meant that this wasn’t over.

The sky-anchors swayed high above, large dark balloons bumping against each other in the breeze. As I watched, one of them detached itself from the others. It happened occasionally that one of the moorings loosened, and streetwatchers would announce it with cries of “Cut loose! It’s cut loose!” and there would be wagers on how long it would be buffeted about in the sky and where it would land.

Then comprehension dawned. The stage, the entire stage in the opium den, had been a sort of airship. The steps, in all four directions, had actually been folded sides, collapsed onto the floor. Now they’d been raised and the entire stage lifted . . . and was being piloted up and out of the open roof. I watched with a combination of admiration and annoyance that I hadn’t observed this earlier.

“Miss Holmes!”

A familiar peremptory voice had me spinning around.

“This is becoming quite a habit, is it not? Encountering you in the thick of criminal activity.” Inspector Grayling stood there, radiating exasperation. “You promised not to come here tonight.”

“I didn’t promise any such thing,” I told him. “I merely said—wait!” I cried, struck by a realization. “I must get to Cosgrove Terrace.” This was my chance to catch Lady Cosgrove-Pitt in the act—or, more accurately, not to. She wouldn’t be there. She couldn’t be. “Quickly!”

“What is it?” he asked, his pique easing in the face of my desperate entreaty.

“It’s—it’s a matter of life and death,” I said. I couldn’t explain it to him; he wouldn’t believe me. He wouldn’t want to believe the awful truth about his relative.

I’d have to show him.

It was to Grayling’s credit—and I suppose mine—that he didn’t hesitate. “This way,” he said, taking my arm when I whirled to hail an air-bus. “It’s faster.”

With a little more force than necessary, he directed me to the large, gleaming steamcycle. It appeared even more dangerous at close proximity. I swallowed hard.

“Put these on,” he said, shoving an aviator hat and a pair of goggles at me.

Then he climbed onto the machine, straddling it as one would a horse. His long coat split over the seat, falling in two black swatches. For the first time, I noticed how long and powerful Grayling’s limbs were and I realized, with a sudden shock of heat and nerves, that I was going to have to sit behind him. And hold on.

I couldn’t breathe.

“I . . .”

“Miss Holmes,” he said with challenge in his eyes, “a matter of life and death cannot wait for you to build up your courage.”

Drat. He was right. I had to get to Cosgrove Terrace to prove that Lady Cosgrove-Pitt was the Ankh. I pulled the aviator cap down over my head and arranged the goggles as he did something to the machine.

Its engine came to life with a spectacular roar, then settled into a rhythmic, metallic purr. Steeling myself, I climbed onto the seat behind him, thankful I had had the foresight to wear the new split skirts I’d had made, like Miss Stoker’s. I couldn’t imagine what a spectacle I would have made of myself otherwise.

“Hold on,” he said, and the engine gave another loud roar. I could feel it charge and vibrate beneath me, and I realized he was waiting for me to hold on to him.

Thankful my face was hidden by the goggles and that I was behind him, I placed my hands gingerly at his waist, curling my fingers into his wool coat.

The cycle roared again, then surged forward. I jolted backward and, stifling a shriek, gripped his coat more tightly as I leaned toward him. The warmth of his body melded into me as a sharp wind blasted over my arms and skirted legs.

We rounded a corner at full speed. I slipped to one side on the seat and nearly tumbled off. Terrified, I gave up on propriety and gave in to practicality, changing my position to wrap my arms around his torso, grabbing my wrist with my other hand. This position required me to rest my cheek against Grayling’s back, filling my nose with the pleasing aroma of wood-smoked wool.

I felt the muscles of his torso shift and slide as he manipulated the cycle, and only after what seemed like forever did I realize I had my eyes closed.

Cautiously, I opened them and peered down from behind the green-tinted goggles. The first thing I saw was my leg curved forward, directly behind his as my split skirt blustered wildly about. Thank Fortune I was wearing pantaloons beneath it. Beyond that, I saw part of the brass detail curving around the cycle. We were moving so fast that everything else, including the ground some distance below, was a blur.

I’d never traveled anywhere at this speed. Cool air roared over me as we slipped in and out of alleys and over canals, beneath air-lifts and among carriages with the dexterity of a cat. I even lifted my face away from Grayling’s warm spine and eased my death grip around his waist. It was exhilarating.

And then, suddenly, there was a brick wall. Right there.

I closed my eyes and ducked instinctively as Grayling’s arm jerked. The cycle turned, tipping to the side so acutely I had to cling even more tightly to him.

I kept my eyes closed, deciding it was better I didn’t see where we were going as we zigzagged through the streets, the roar of the machine filling my ears, its rumble buzzing through my limbs.