Sparks of Light (Into the Dim #2)

Starstruck, I managed to nod. “I . . . yes. Yes, sir. I’m Hope Walton. My friends and I are all so honored to meet you, Professor—”

Apparently done with his version of the niceties, Tesla pounded on the roof. “Let us away,” he called to the driver. Not even glancing in Collum’s direction, he said, “There shall be no more talk of the device business until we are done here. I stay only long enough to speak with Vanderbilt and Astor. Then I must immediately return to my lab. There is much to do. At that time, you may state your case. This is my final word.”

“Our Nikola,” Phoebe whispered. “Quite the charmer, isn’t he?”





Above our heads, every one of the mansion’s myriad windows glowed with diffuse golden light. Music and the muffled sounds of laughter penetrated the stone walls. I secured my wrap around my bare shoulders, shivering beneath its heavy ivory silk as the five of us stepped from the carriage.

Phoebe tugged at her low neckline. “Ugh. Sure as sunset, this thing’s gonna slip and show my girls. I should have taken it up an inch or so. And who are all those people watching us?”

The spectators, mostly middle-class, were obviously keen for a glimpse of New York’s wealthiest and most prestigious inhabitants. A cadre of uniformed policemen held back the crowd as we funneled through the portal and into the Vanderbilts’ fenced yard. Though I knew little about Hollywood, I had a feeling this was as close as I’d ever get to walking the red carpet.

“Speaking to that . . .” Collum hurried after Tesla, who moved rudely past the queued guests, too impatient to wait his turn. A brilliant flash boomed from the portico just ahead where the host was posing for a photo with each guest in turn.

Tesla bounded up the steps, neatly cutting off a man with enormous sideburns and his affronted, bejeweled wife. “I say!” the man exclaimed.

“You say?” Tesla rounded on the man. “You say what?”

When the flummoxed man only opened and closed his mouth, Tesla scoffed and turned away. “Never understood that phrase. If you have words that need to be spoken, simply speak them and be done, yes?”

“Why, look here, Mina,” cried a voice from the line. “It’s our own little Niko!” A man stepped out of the queue and strode over to plant a hearty slap on Tesla’s back.

Short and stubby, hair already going famously white, Mr. Thomas Alva Edison—?creator of the light bulb and the direct current, holder of more than a hundred patents, and Tesla’s most despised rival—?grinned up at Tesla. A much younger woman in lavender ruffles tripped along as she hurried to join them. Bow tie askew, tuxedo coat misbuttoned and frayed at the hem, the nearly fifty-year-old inventor may’ve looked like someone’s rumpled old uncle, but I noticed his leering smile did not reach his eyes.

Straightening his immaculate greatcoat, Tesla responded to his former employer in a voice flat as a sheet of paper. “Edison.”

“I must say, Niko.” Edison raised his voice just enough so that it carried past the fence and into the first few rows of spectators. “It’s right unusual to see you keeping company with a . . . female.”

Edison’s emphasis on the word didn’t go unnoticed by the avid crowd. The aging inventor paused, letting their whispered speculations spread.

“And here I thought you eschewed the company of ladies . . .” Another sly, deliberate pause. “. . . so you could pursue those little notions of yours.”

Without a word of warning or the slightest hesitation, Nikola Tesla snaked his arm through mine, nearly yanking me off my feet when he hauled me up the steps to meet the host.

William Kissam Vanderbilt’s buggy eyes tracked the inventor. “Why, Professor, I am honored. Welcome to my home.”

Vanderbilt extended a hand in greeting. Tesla recoiled, though he quickly recovered. I felt a shudder run through him as he took a deep breath, then placed his gloved hand into Vanderbilt’s. Their handshake was odd, and seemed to go on a bit too long. When it was done, Tesla spoke with a barely concealed grimace. “Even providing the relative safety of the glove,” he said, “the touching of hands can often lead to illness. I would suggest—?when next we gather—?we propose an alternative greeting for members.”

All the guests within earshot tittered. If ?Tesla noticed, he didn’t react. But William Vanderbilt did. Baring his teeth, he spoke through them. “This is not the place for such a private discussion, Professor.” Vanderbilt then reached up with his right hand and patted his lapel three times. Standing in front of him, I caught the tip of something gold sticking out from beneath the black cloth as he eyed Tesla. “Are we clear?”

Tesla’s jaw tightened, though he quickly agreed. Then he repeated Vanderbilt’s distinct gesture. Pat. Pat. Pat.

Puzzled, I slid my eyes sideways. There, over Tesla’s heart, his lapel covered a lump that looked suspiciously similar to Vanderbilt’s.

What the hell?

“Now.” Something in the tycoon’s false bonhomie set my teeth on edge. “Let’s get that photograph taken, shall we?”

“Yes,” Tesla murmured, eyes still fixed on Vanderbilt’s lapel. “As you say.”

Though I doubt he was aware of it, Tesla’s grip on my arm had tightened to the point that—?putting aside the option of creating a huge scene—?I had no choice but to follow.

Of course, by then it was much, much too late. As we positioned ourselves beside the host, I turned to peer at Collum and Phoebe. From the looks on their faces, I could see that they, too, realized what was about to happen.

What do I do? I mouthed.

Phoebe opened her mouth, closed it. Collum, looking slightly pole-axed, only shrugged.

The photographer disappeared beneath the black cloth of his enormous camera. The lighting assistant measured out his flash powder.

The photographer yelled, “Hold!” And I did the only thing I could think of. I ducked out, angling my body as far to the side as was possible without ripping Tesla’s arm clean out of its socket. Unless fate had gotten even weirder than usual . . . the only part of me that would appear in the 1895 newspaper photo that Moira, Phoebe, and I would find in the year 2016 would be my gloved arm and one recently altered sleeve.





Inside the vaulted foyer, male and female attendants took wraps and coats and furs. I motioned to Collum and Phoebe and sketched out the details of the strange exchange between Tesla and Vanderbilt. Collum frowned. “Any idea what it means?”

I shook my head.

“Great,” Phoebe snapped, her tone uncharacteristically sharp as she handed her wrap to one of the attendants. “One more damn mystery to add to the pile.”

I glanced over at her and saw the troubled look she was working so hard to hide.

“Hey,” I said, tucking an arm into hers. “They’re fine. If I know Doug, he’s having the time of his life in that lab.”

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