Asher’s Invention(16)
“Don’t be a fool, man. You’ll swing from the gibbet for sure, and for what? Nothing but a boxful of tricks.”
Monk backed away unsteadily. He groped for his walking stick, but it was lost in the straw, and he daren’t take his eye off Asher. “What do you mean? This here’s Lambkin’s invention. The one he tried to cheat Grimlock and his friends out of.”
“Silas never got the damned thing to work. That gimcrack you’ve got there is a fraud.”
“No it ain’t! I seen it with my own two eyes. It’s been running for more’n an hour now.”
Asher shrugged. “I’m surprised it’s lasted that long. It was only meant to work long enough to fool you.”
“I don’t believe you!” The man heaved up the device and wedged it awkwardly against his chest. In his other hand, the pistol wavered. “You’re trying to trick me, but I’m not falling for it.”
Asher advanced another step. He heard Minerva shuffle forward, but she had sense enough to remain well behind him. Eyeing the gun in Monk’s hand, he calculated that if he threw himself to one side, he would still have sufficient time to draw out his ViperRay and pull the trigger. But he didn’t want to kill another man that night if he could avoid it. With some careful handling, he might still persuade Monk to give himself up.
“I’m not trying to trick you. I built that thing myself. It’s running on nothing more than hydrogen peroxide, not aether-magnetic current. Soon, it will run out of fuel, and you’ll just be left with a box of useless magnets and pistons. Believe me, there is no such thing as a perpetual-motion machine.”
“You’re lying!” Monk hoisted the machine higher as it threatened to slide from his grasp and tightened his grip on the Lancaster. “Don’t think I won’t shoot the both of you.”
“Father!” Dorian Monk stood stock-still in the side doorway, dressed in nightshirt and cap, his hair disheveled above his flabbergasted face. “What the deuce is going on here? What are you doing with that gun?”
“Ah, son, you’ve arrived just in time to help me.”
Dorian’s stupefied gaze alighted on Minerva. “Miss Lamkbin! Tell me what’s happening.”
She shifted forward, but Asher held her back, mindful still of Monk’s gun. “Dorian,” she said from behind Asher’s arm. “Your father is in grave trouble. He kidnapped my father and held him to ransom in exchange for that device he’s holding, but now it’s all lost for him. Tell him to put down his weapon and give himself up.”
The blood drained from Dorian’s face. “Father?” He approached his father slowly. “Is any of this true?”
“You’re going to listen to this chit? I know you have a weakness for her, but I’m your father, your own flesh and blood. You believe me.”
Dorian breathed in and out, his rounded eyes fixed on his father. “What is that you have clutched to your chest? Does that belong to Mr. Lambkin?”
“It belongs to me and you. It’s your future, son. With this we’ll be richer beyond imagination.”
“It’s nothing,” Asher broke in harshly. “Dorian, your father believes he has the world’s first perpetual-motion machine, but all he has is a trifling little toy.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Bubbles of spittle formed at the corners of Monk’s mouth. “Stop gawking and make yourself useful. Find some rope and bind these two up.”
Dorian’s jaw sagged. His eyes darted between Asher and Minerva and his father. “I don’t know if—”
“Don’t be such a mealymouthed ninny. Do as I say.”
“Listen, man. Don’t compound your father’s mistakes,” Asher said.
Minerva grabbed his arm. “Asher, look…the machine.”
He stiffened as he saw the first wisps of smoke coiling from the millennium machine. Monk, too caught up in haranguing his son, hadn’t noticed.
Asher raised his voice. “Monk, I advise you to put down that contraption at once and move clear of it.”
“Another trick of yours.” The old man sneered.
“This is no trick. Look. There’s smoke.”
The smoke thickened, a thin white mist spiraling out of all the rivets and joints of the brass box.
Dorian started forward. “Father, perhaps it’s best if you put that thing down.”
“I’m not about to be bested by that whippersnapper. `Tis just a bit of steam, that’s all. Harmless. Every machine known to man emits a bit of smoke.”
Dorian laid a hand on the box. “But Father, I really think it’s safer if you—”
A glowing white spark arced between Dorian’s hand and the millennium machine. Dorian cried out and flinched back as a sharp hiss emanated from the box, accompanied by a billow of greenish smoke. Monk gawked at it, consternation breaking across his face for the first time. The pistol slipped unnoticed from his grasp. The millennium machine began to rattle.
He dropped it, and the box cracked open on the stone floor. An explosion ripped through the air. The roar hammered Asher’s eardrums. White heat blasted his skin as the wave of energy smashed into him. Twisting, he grabbed hold of Minerva, pushed her to the ground and flung himself over her. For what seemed like an eternity, the world rumbled and bellowed and crashed around them. Bits of masonry and straw rained down on his back. Finally the room stopped shaking, and the air ceased to thunder. Terrified horses screamed nearby.
“Minerva…”
His heartbeat faltered, then recovered somewhat as he sensed her squirming beneath him. He helped her to her feet, brushing the debris from her skirts as he ascertained her wholeness. Her dress was torn, her damp, dirt-strewn hair was falling down her back and her face was smudged, but otherwise she appeared unharmed.
Her eyes widened. “Dorian!”
She dashed across to where the young man lay supine amongst the rubble. Around them the carriage house lay in ruins. Dozens of small fires had started in the scattered straw. In the stable next door, crazed horses whinnied and kicked their hooves. Dorian sprawled facedown in the rubbish, his nightshirt torn to shreds. As Minerva bent over him, he let out an anguished whimper.
Her hand trembled on his shoulder. “Dorian?”
Asher hunkered down. “Here, let me.”
Slowly he eased the man onto his back. The whimper became a harsh sob.
Minerva’s fingers flew to her mouth. “Dear God, no…”
Asher’s innards knotted. He couldn’t stop himself recoiling from the sight that greeted him. The right side of Dorian’s face, from temple to chin, was a raw, pulpy mess of blood and meat. Sunk into the oozing flesh, his right eye, bloodshot but whole, flickered up at Asher.
How could the poor man still be conscious? “We must get you out of here before the fire spreads.”
He bent to slide his arms under Dorian’s back, but a hand clamped onto him, a hand of mangled metal and twisted wire, resisting. “My father…” Dorian groaned.
At the same time Minerva uttered a faint cry. She pointed toward the mound just a few feet away, a mound of blackened cloth with legs and arms attached, surrounded by a sticky pool of congealing blood. All that remained of what once had been Monk.
Retching, Minerva rushed out of the carriage house. The hot metallic smell of blood spilled out, mingling with the gathering haze of the fire. Bile rose in Asher’s throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look at Dorian.
“I’m sorry. Your father is dead.”
Dorian glared at him. He continued to glare even as Asher picked him up. He yelped with pain, but his eyes never left Asher’s face. The uninjured eye was glacial blue, the damaged eye a malevolent red. Asher ignored the hatred in his countenance, and as the fire mounted to an inferno, he carried Dorian out into the rain-soaked night.
Chapter Nine
Four weeks later.
“Eee ma’am, Mr. Quigley has arrived!” Hetty burst into the kitchen, all afluster.
Minerva glanced up from the stove, where she’d been stirring her beef broth. She put down the spoon and wiped her hands across her apron. “Really, Hetty. That’s no way to behave when visitors call.”
“But we’ve been waiting and waiting for him to come back, and now finally he has!”
“We have not been waiting and waiting,” Minerva said firmly. But despite her words, she was all too aware of the sudden pinching in her breast, the unsteadiness of her hands, the tingling flutter in the pit of her stomach. “Have you shown him into the parlor?”
“Yes, ma’am. Will you be wanting tea, then? Shall I bring out the best service?”
“Hetty, if I require tea I shall ring for you, as I always do.”
She untied the apron and smoothed down her skirt. For a second she debated whether she should change into something smarter than her everyday cotton dress, but then she chided herself. Why should she titivate herself for a man who had hightailed it back to London almost a whole month ago and since then hadn’t bothered to send her so much as a postcard? She would show him how little she cared. Still, she couldn’t prevent herself patting down the stray wisps of hair as she mounted the stairs and crossed the hallway to the front parlor.