Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

She moved to examine Willie, glaring over her shoulder when Simon leaned in as well. “Stop hovering.”

He didn’t budge. “She was shot.”

“O’blasterated.” Caro’s hands moved gently and efficiently over Willie’s motionless body. “A sinister weapon that works on the same principle as a shotgun. Instead of pellets, the cartridge is packed with razor-sharp metal shards and heated by a core-propulsion blast. Imagine being pierced at a high-velocity impact by hundreds of searing hot blades.”

Bugger. “You sound so blasé.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“I haven’t.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Why don’t you take a walk? Get some air.”

“I’m staying.”

“Right, then. At least turn whilst I cut away this binding. I need full access to the wound.”

As if he would be aroused by the sight of Willie’s bare breasts at a time like this. Still, not wanting to anger the curt doctor, he did as she asked.

“From the chopped hair and mannish clothing, I take it Willie’s been masquerading as a boy. The dark discoloring of her face and hands suggests use of a tanning agent to further alter her appearance. Astounding what lengths a Freak must go to in order to lead a somewhat normal life.”

The bitter tone in her voice caused Simon to peer back around. Caro had already made quick work of the binding, discreetly placing a linen over Willie’s torso. She’d also fixed some sort of mask over Willie’s nose and mouth.

“To ensure she doesn’t awake whilst I work,” Caro said, as if reading his mind. “Stop fretting. She won’t feel a thing.”

Regardless, Simon’s shoulders tensed as Caro pulled a weapon from her medical bag—a gleaming pistol with a thick needle protruding from the muzzle. Simon watched, fascinated and wary, as she snapped what looked to be tubes of blood on each side of the barrel. “What the devil is that?”

“She’s lost a lot of blood. She needs a transfusion.”

He grasped the doctor’s wrist as she took aim. “Injecting her with Vic blood could kill her, or sicken her for life.”

“Which is why I’m using Freak blood,” Caro said, sounding vexed. “Step off, Darcy.”

His brother’s faith in this woman be damned. “How do I know those vials contain Freak blood? Why should I trust you?”

Caro gave a disgusted growl, then raised her tinted spectacles to her forehead.

Simon marveled at her direct and cutting gaze. A gaze that swirled with a rainbow of colors. “You’re a Freak.”

“I’m a Mechanic. I fix things. Except when waylaid by overbearing oafs. Do you want me to help your friend or not, Darcy?”

He nodded, chagrined. Confused.

Dr. Bella Caro turned back to her work. Injected blood into Willie’s arm via the transfusion gun. Simon had never seen anything like it. Then she traded her tinted glasses for bronze goggles that featured three different magnifying loupes and a tubular bulb that shot a fierce beam of direct light. She studied the multiple wounds to Willie’s shoulder and upper arm, then procured antiseptic and intricate forceps from her bag of medicinal wonders. “I’ll need to extract every piece of shrapnel. Missing one could be dire. Don’t worry,” she said with a smug smile. “I’m thorough. Although this could take some time. Do sit before your knees give way, Darcy. I’ve no time to attend to you as well.”

He was not, in fact, woozy. Just concerned. For Willie. “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired, Dr. Caro.”

“I don’t need to be pleasant, Mr. Darcy. I’m brilliant.”

Her arrogance was grating yet inspiring. Though she looked all of twenty summers, surely she had the expertise to mend Willie. Jules would not have enlisted her otherwise. “How do you know my brother?” he couldn’t help asking as she pulled slivers of metal from Willie’s flesh.

“I fixed him.”

“Pardon?”

“When he got his legs blown off, I fixed him. Better than new.”

Simon frowned down at the woman. “Jules is in possession of both of his legs. They weren’t blown off. Just horribly mangled.”

She shrugged. “Figure of speech. Now do leave off. You’re a distraction, man. I abhor distractions.”

Simon couldn’t care less about Bella Caro’s comfort level. Damnation. Jules considered this shrew a friend? Mind reeling, Simon dragged a chair to the other side of the bed. Not knowing how else to help, he sat and held Willie’s hand. Though limp, her touch was familiar. This moment every bitter thought he’d hurled in her direction melted away until there was nothing left but their pure and youthful love. He chanced a look at the good doctor, who was, thank God, intently focused on Willie’s wounds. “Are you and my brother lovers?” he asked directly.

“Rude of you to ask, but no.”

“Were you ever—”

“We are associates. Doctor and patient. Acquaintances. Friends. Nothing more.”

Never once did she meet his gaze. He did not wholly believe her, but he did not press. He’d been too bold already. His only excuse was that he was now morbidly curious about his twin’s life as a Mechanic, as well as the intimate relationships between Freaks and Vics. Simon suppressed further questioning, allowing the doctor to focus on her work. He smoothed his thumbs over Willie’s knuckles and allowed his mind to wander. The nostalgic journey was both pleasing and troubling. A hundred questions welled.

“My work here is done.”

Simon blinked out of his musings. How much time had passed?

Caro stood abruptly, returned her instruments to her bag, and traded her surgical goggles for her tinted glasses. “Willie will be down and out for a while.”

“How long?”

“A week or two. Depends.”

“On what?”

“On her.” The good and arrogant doctor pulled on her coat and fastened each button with rigid focus. “There could be fever, delirium, but she will survive. Rest is of supreme importance. Do not allow her to move about too soon.”

“Anything else?” he asked as she pulled on her riding hat and leather gloves.

“She sustained severe nerve and muscle damage,” Caro said with a compassionate glance toward her patient. “Regaining full use of her right arm might prove an arduous and long process. See that she strengthens the muscles and advances flexibility no matter the difficulty or pain.”

“What if there are complications?” Simon asked as she marched toward the door. “How can I contact you?”

“You can’t. We never met, Mr. Darcy. I was never here.”

“Understood. Still.” Simon glanced toward Willie’s unconscious form. “Have a heart, Dr. Caro.”

“How flattering that you find me lacking in compassion,” she said with a sniff. “Oh, very well.” She slipped a calling card into his hand and glared. “Emergencies only. And that means someone had better be dying.”

Simon glanced down at the card as she bolted from the room. He wanted to thank her. He should have thanked her. A scant second later he followed the curious doctor into the hallway . . . into the lobby . . . into the street . . . but Dr. Bella Caro was gone.

THREE DAYS LATER SOMEWHERE OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

Bingham owned a personal fleet of substantial and impressive dirigibles, but none as grand as his modified zeppelin, a spectacular flying machine dubbed Mars-a-tron . Fitted with advanced equipment—steam turbines, rocket blasters, and a state-of-the-art gyrocompass—as well as a luxurious gondola with an ornate private cabin, Mars-a-tron would afford Bingham a swift and comfortable journey to the land down under.

Although the day had been pitted with various bumps, Bingham was riding high from a string of good news. On the downside, he’d been visited by the shire constable, who’d been intent on inquiring about the viscount’s rocket fuel supply and mentioning the disastrous explosion caused by that buffoon Ashford in his efforts to build a moonship. Bingham had confessed to loaning his poorly neighbor a modicum of fuel, but he was in no way responsible for the regrettable accident.