“First batch?” Keats blurted.
“The explosives are spread all over creation, best as I can tell.”
Then it’s worse than we thought.
~??~??~??~
The hotel room was immaculate. Fresh flowers rested in a vase on the table near the window. The bed was made, and clean towels sat near the washstand. It was missing one thing: Theo Morrisey.
Cynda held her temper until the maid had departed and then let loose a stream of abuse under her breath.
“You did the same thing on your first trip,” Mr. Spider reminded her. “You left your handler and went off on your own. Got into trouble almost immediately.”
“But I’d been through the Rover Academy,” she argued. “I had a clue what I was facing. If he ends up hurt or dead…” She blew out a puff of air. “Where are you, you idiot?”
“Hunting Defoe?” the spider suggested.
Cynda gave her delusion a nod. “Exactly.”
She extracted the pendant and went to work. Defoe’s extreme reaction to Adelaide Winston was the best clue she had. A few minutes later, she was in a hansom cab heading toward the woman’s upmarket address. She’d made sure to take the necessary precautions: proper manners, nicest dress, pistol tucked in pocket.
Who says I don’t know how to act like a lady?
The courtesan’s butler was a solemn sort. Most of them were, but he probably had to be even more circumspect. This was a house in which the obscenely well-off got their requisite tumble with what was reported to be one of the most beautiful women in London. They paid handsomely for her time. And for her discretion.
Expertise always costs more.
He disappeared into another room. When he returned, Morrisey was right behind him.
“Ah, Miss Lassiter, good of you to join us,” he said, all formality.
She issued a tight smile in response. “I was concerned when you weren’t at the hotel,” she said sweetly, mindful of the butler. I’ll give you an earful later.
“Such things happen,” he tossed off lightly. “Mr. Livingston is in the drawing room.” He offered his arm and she followed his lead.
The other founder of the time immersion industry was in a room defying description. Everything was flawless: the carpet, the draperies, the furniture, and even the paintings. A Victorian scholar would have sold his children into white slavery to have a photo of this perfection.
Defoe was en mirage as that Victorian gentleman again. He gave a nod and then turned his attention to the other woman in the room. The moment his eyes lit on her, his expression changed to one of frank adoration.
It was easy to see why: Adelaide Winston possessed flawless skin, hair, the works. The gown was apricot silk and flowed around her like a cloud. Though she had to be Transitive to be one of the Twenty, there was no white outline. What you saw was the real Adelaide in all her glory.
Wow.
To her surprise, Cynda didn’t feel inferior. It was what the woman did best: she made you feel comfortable within your own skin.
“Which is why Defoe is in love with her,” Mr. Spider observed.
Love?
“Definitely. Look at his face.”
Her delusion was right. I’ll be damned.
The moment Adelaide rose from her chair, Defoe was at her side. Cynda stifled the snicker. Rover One was acting like a love struck teenager
“Adelaide, this is Jacynda Lassiter,” Defoe introduced.
“Good evening, Miss Lassiter,” Adelaide said. “Welcome to my home.” The timbre of her voice was pitched to command your attention without the need to shout.
“I apologize for arriving without an invitation,” Cynda replied.
“I am honored you did.”
As Cynda settled into a chair near Morrisey, she felt the woman’s eyes on her, assessing her. Adelaide resumed her own chair, perched like royalty, but behind the pretty face was a brain as sharp as a stiletto. Their eyes met and a simple gesture of respect was traded.
“Miss Lassiter has been in on this from the start, Adelaide, so we can be completely candid.” One of Adelaide’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly in what might have been protest. “She is the one who saved my life.”
Cynda kept her surprise hidden. Defoe wasn’t usually that open with compliments.
“I see. I thank you for that, Miss Lassiter. I am very pleased to see you survived your own ordeal.”
Cynda inclined her head. No need to tell the woman she was only paying Defoe back for all the times he’d saved her.
“I was explaining the Ascendant’s mission, at least what it was in the beginning.” She adjusted a stray fold in her skirt. “The Ascendant was charged with obtaining a wagonload of explosives with an eye toward providing them to certain parties in Russia. We felt that causing turmoil amongst the Marxists would be of benefit. Russia is growing more unstable, and some of us fear they will replace the Czar at some point.”
They got that one right. Though it would take another three decades before the Bolsheviks ushered in the future Communist state.
“Your Ascendant stole three loads of explosives,” Cynda pointed out. “That’s a lot of turmoil.”
“That is where he began to disobey us,” Adelaide conceded. “He was only supposed to acquire one load of dynamite. Involving the Fenians was his next error. He has been making too many as of late.” She paused, then lowered her voice conspiratorially, even though only the four of them were in the room.
“A vote will be taken tomorrow, once all of the Twenty have returned to London. He will be dispatched by the Lead Assassin, and a new Ascendant will take his place.”
A palace coup.
“Just as long as the next one leaves me alone,” Cynda muttered.
“Before the Lead Assassin completes his task, I will request that he learn the location of the explosives for us. I’m hopeful the Ascendant can be convinced it would be an honorable gesture to reveal that information before he retires.”
Now that’s a sales spiel: you’re going to die anyway, but here’s your chance to do the right thing.
A tap on the door. The butler appeared and whispered something in his mistress’ ear.
“Already?” she asked in surprise. “He wasn’t supposed to arrive until later. I shall come to him.” Adelaide turned toward her guests apologetically. “I have a visitor and must see him alone for a few minutes.”
Defoe’s brow wrinkled.
“It is the Lead Assassin,” she explained, as if divining his thoughts. “I must ensure he will not harm you, Malachi. If he agrees to that restriction, I feel we should include him in our discussions.”
“You trust him that much?” Defoe asked.
“For the moment.”
The moment she was out the door, Cynda posed the question. With the Victorians out of the room, she went informal. “Why would this guy want to hurt you?”
“It’s Malachi Livingston that’s on the Ascendant’s hit list. I have no idea why.”
“Why not? He’s trying to kill everyone else,” Cynda muttered.
The door opened.
“Yes, Mr. Livingston is present,” Adelaide answered cautiously. “There is to be no attempt under this roof, do you understand?” The newcomer nodded. “Good. Then we shall discuss the situation at length.”
Their hostess entered, then turned to make the introductions.
“This is Satyr, the Lead Assassin,” she began.
Cynda examined the newcomer. A solid white bloom encased his form. That wasn’t a surprise. The chief assassin would be en mirage.
Which means he could anyone.
She took inventory. Dark hair. Dark eyes. That matched her patchy memory. No macassar oil. That didn’t seem right.
He started in surprise the moment he saw her.
“You gave your word, Satyr,” Adelaide warned, taking her place next to Defoe. “None of my guests are to be harmed.”
The visitor didn’t answer, but let his gaze skip over the others, one by one. He frowned at Morrisey, whom he wouldn’t know. Then a predatory smile appeared. It didn’t match the face.
“How fortunate,” he said.
The voice sounded wrong.
“We’ve met before,” Cynda said, testing him. “At Effington’s party. Surely you remember.”
In lieu of a reply, he slid a hand into his coat pocket.
Before she could call out a warning, a sharp crack split the air. Adelaide staggered a few paces, bewilderment on her face. A vast crimson stain was forming on the front of her apricot dress.
Defoe was on the move before the rest of them. He caught his lover as she tumbled toward the floor, cradling her in his arms. Another gunshot, this one aimed at him. There was a bright burst of shattering glass, followed by a cry from Theo. A third slug tugged at Cynda’s hat as it flew by.
Her hands shook so badly that her first shot missed. The second clipped the assassin’s arm. He swore at the sudden pain, his form changing as he took off at a run, colliding with the butler in the long passageway.
The man who threw her in the Thames. She’d always remember that face.
Cynda found Morrisey kneeling at the woman’s side, carefully pressing a Dinky Doc into Adelaide’s neck. He stiffened when the readings appeared. He reset the device, fumbling with the settings, then touched it against her neck again. Adelaide’s pain eased. Behind them, Cynda heard the butler shouting for someone to send for a doctor.
“How bad?” Defoe demanded, frantic.
Morrisey shook his head. “It hit her heart.”
It took Cynda a few seconds to process what he’d said: Adelaide was bleeding out with every beat. She knelt next to their hostess, taking her hand.
Rover One fumbled for his interface. “I’ll take her home. We can heal her.”
Cynda took his arm, though he fought her. “No. Don’t waste the time you have left.”
“Listen to her,” Morrisey said, his voice breaking. “She’ll die before you get there. Be with her at the last. I never had that chance with Mei.”
“Damn you,” Defoe shouted. “Leave us be!”
Cynda didn’t move, but continued to hold the woman’s hand. It grasped hers reflexively. Morrisey tried to pull her away, but she shook him off.
“If you are touching her when she dies,” he warned, “you will become one of us. Is that what you want?”
No.
Cynda retreated, shaking from the adrenalin churning inside of her. “What about him?” she asked, indicating Defoe.
“He’s already a Virtual.”
“But it has to do something.”
“It will, but I doubt you’ll get him away from her,” Morrisey whispered. He sank onto a chair, his face ashen. It was only then she noted the thick line of blood running down his scalp and onto his face.
She grabbed a linen napkin from a small serving table and pressed it onto the wound.
“Hold this,” she said. A trembling hand rose and did as she asked. A quick treatment with the Dinky Doc reduced the bleeding. His color improved.
Their eyes met. His were glistening. She knew it had nothing to do with the injury. She wet her handkerchief and gently began to remove the blood from his face.
Though she tried not to listen, she heard Defoe’s loving whispers and Adelaide’s faint responses.
“We shall go to Paris, my love,” he said, his voice thick and quavering with emotion. “We will buy a small home and you shall grow beautiful flowers. We will travel, you and I—”
“Malachi…”
“You are the only one I have loved, Adelaide. All the centuries, you’re the only one. You cannot leave me.”
A thick cough. “I know…love you.”
Defoe kissed her. There was a faint murmur from her lips and then she fell silent, draped over his arms like a sleeping angel. A shudder ran through him as Adelaide Winston no longer drew breath.
Cynda’s head bowed in grief. Morrisey pulled her close, their tears intermingling.
Suddenly, Defoe was on his feet. The bloom around him vanished, along with the image of Malachi Livingston. Now it was his features.
“I will find him!” he shouted, breaking the unearthly silence. “I will stop him!”
“You can’t,” Cynda said. “Her death is embedded in the timeline now.”
He wasn’t hearing her. “I know what he looks like!” he crowed. “I can do it.”
“But he’s not—”
“Harter, no!” Morrisey called, but his friend was gone, the characteristic transfer halo hovering in the air near Adelaide’s body. It wavered for a second, then vanished.
The butler gaped, dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen a shifter like that.”
There was a hammering on the front door, then the sound of running footsteps. The butler crossed the room, opening the door a slit. He shut it instantly.