A Conspiracy of Alchemists Read online

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” Elle wiggled her arm, but the fairy refused to budge. Elle tried to undo the clasp, but it was stuck. “Patrice, I think my stowaway has broken the clasp. Can you help me, please?” She held her wrist out to him.

  “Oh! That can’t be good—” Patrice started to say but something beyond her shoulder caught his attention.

  “Patrice, there you are!” A man said in English behind her.

  “Marsh. You have found us!” Patrice flushed red and half rose up from his seat.

  Marsh turned out to be a tall man wrapped in a black carriage cloak despite the mild weather. His dark hair was too long and messy to be fashionable. The black shantung waistcoat, just visible from between the folds of his cloak, looked too finely tailored and expensive to match the rest of him.

  “This is Miss Eleanor Chance. The pilot,” Patrice said, emphasizing the last word.

  “How do you do.” She hid her arm behind her back. It was never wise to advertise in this type of establishment that one was wearing diamonds.

  Marsh barely nodded in reply as he looked her up and down. His fine, regular features creased into a frown. “Patrice, surely you can’t be serious?” he said.

  Patrice started to stammer an answer, but Marsh turned on him. “And iron? What were you thinking? Do you realize that I have been looking for you for three hours?”

  “It was the safest place I could think of to wait. Besides, there is nothing to worry about. This was merely a diversion, nothing you wouldn’t be able to overcome.” A tinge of obstinacy crept into his tone. “Miss Chance is an excellent pilot. She has top-notch credentials. I can assure you that all will be well.”

  “I honestly don’t give a damn about her credentials,” Marsh said, “but I do care about the fact that we need to leave this place. Immediately.”

  Elle felt a tight little bud of anger unfurl inside her. “Mister Marsh,” she said. “If the fact that I am a woman is not to your liking, then please, by all means, go and find someone else to fly your cargo. But I am keeping the diamonds for my efforts.”

  “Please tell me you’re not one of those tedious Suffragettes as well. Good work, Patrice,” Marsh sighed, and rolled his eyes.

  Being called a suffragette in such unfair and unflattering terms was one thing; being called tedious was another, and Elle wasn’t going to dignify his insufferable remark with an answer. Instead, she gathered her holdall to return the box.

  Patrice placed a hand on her arm. “Please, if I may. My associate is not himself today. We really do need your assistance.” He gave Marsh a pointed look as he spoke.

  Marsh rubbed his hand over his face in a gesture of resignation. “Very well, but this is on your head, mon ami.”

  Patrice turned to Elle. “Allow us to hail you a cab. It will take you back to the airfield. Wait there for further instructions. I do hope you would forgive this imposition while Mr. Marsh and I attend to a few last-minute items of business.” He paused for a meaningful moment as he pleaded with her in silence to play along.

  “I can walk, you know. The airfield is not that far from here.”

  “I would feel better if I saw you off safely.” He inclined his head toward the contents of her holdall.

  She tightened her grip on the strap. Let them waste money on a cab if it mattered that much. “Very well. then, Patrice, I’ll see you at the airfield for takeoff. We depart at six. Don’t be late,’ she added with as much hauteur as she could muster.

  Marsh rolled his eyes. “I’ll be downstairs,” he grumbled as he stalked off.

  CHAPTER 2

  Outside the café, Patrice handed Elle into an old hansom carriage, recently converted and fitted with an engine. Horseless carriages were all the rage in Paris these days. The spark reactor and steam engine were attached to the front of the carriage underneath the driver’s seat. The dome of the reactor gleamed blue-green and the pistons huffed and hissed. Little puffs of steam escaped while the engine idled. The cab driver, seated on the front of the carriage, held on to the lever brake to stop the cab from lurching forward.

  Patrice had a word with the driver and handed him money. Then he poked his head into the window. “Take care of yourself until we meet again. And don’t worry about Mr. Marsh. I will see to him. Just make sure you look after the box.” He pulled up the window and snapped it shut.

  Elle nearly fell over in her seat as the cab pulled off over the cobbles. The driver did not seem very skilled in his command of the machine. And if there was one thing Elle knew about, it was spark-powered engines. They took finesse to master and this was clearly a skill the cab driver had not quite acquired yet.

  They trundled down the street and took a right turn. She caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. La Dame de Fer rose up over the city bathed in afternoon light.

  She frowned. She knew Paris well enough to know that they were going in the wrong direction.

  “Excuse me!” She banged on the hatch door that opened up next to the driver so passengers could give directions. He didn’t seem to hear her so she leaned forward to open the window. It was stuck. She rattled the frame and wrenched at it until she managed to drag it open slightly.

  “Excuse me. This is the wrong way,” she called out to the driver.

  There was no answer. She tried the door handle, but it too was firmly locked. The cab sped up. Something was very wrong. There was no way of telling where this man was taking her. Paris was rife with occultists and libertines in need of quarry. And that was without counting the Nightwalkers and the other creatures of Shadow. This city could be a dangerous place for a woman on her own and she had no intention of ending up on some dark altar or a dinner platter in a dungeon somewhere. And there was the box to consider. She needed to do something. Quickly.

  Elle gripped the door handle and shoved at it. It budged slightly, but held firm. The buildings started whirring by with nauseating speed. She swallowed down the urge to panic and hitched her holdall across her body so the leather strap nestled between her breasts. With her bag in front of her, she turned sideways and gave the door a kick with both legs.

  Cab doors are by nature rather flimsy and not designed to be kicked. The cab shuddered. She kicked it again. The leather-padded plywood door split next to the handle. She leaned back and kicked the door again with all her strength. With the sound of tearing upholstery, the door flew open.

  The driver looked down in surprise and let go of the brake. The cab lurched forward, almost out of control.

  Elle closed her eyes and launched herself out of the moving cab. She landed on the pavement, hitting her elbow on the cobbles. She rolled and sat up, looking about to get her bearings so she could see which way to run.

  The cab slowed down and the engine shuddered to a halt as the driver let it stall. He yelled and leapt off the machine after her.

  She stood up to run, but out of nowhere someone stepped from behind and grabbed her. Before she could react, Elle felt the cool graze of sharp-edged steel press against her throat and it made her stop in her tracks. “Don’t move, or I will slit your throat from end to end,” a voice behind her said. The smell of absinthe laced his breath as he held her in his grip. Absinthe. That meant it was quite likely the man was deranged.

  Elle held very still as the blade edge scraped against her skin. If he was away with the fairies, there was no telling what he might do. One wrong move and she would be dead for sure.

  “Go restart the cab,” her captor said to the driver. He tightened his grip on her. “Now, very slowly, let go of that bag of yours.” His damp breath filled her ear. “Go on, hand it over … there’s a good girl.” His fingers crawled up her arm and over her shoulder. They dug into her neck as he gripped the strap of her holdall. In a violent move, he dragged it over her head, taking several strands of her hair with it.

  Elle gasped with pain and revulsion. She tried to move away, but his fingers dug into her throat, threatening to choke her.

  “There you go
. Now you and I are going for a little ride. And don’t you dare scream, or I’ll make sure you will be sorry.”

  Fury rose up inside her. She was not going to let this man drag her off to do who-knows-what with her. And she certainly wasn’t going to let him get away with her holdall.

  “No, you will not,” she croaked. She brought her foot up and shoved her heel into her attacker’s groin. Elle was slim, but years of helping her father in his workshop building engines had made her lithe and strong. It was a lucky shot, but her boot sank into his crotch with satisfying force.

  Her attacker wailed and doubled over.

  Elle twisted out of his grip and kicked him in the knee. He went down onto the pavement, clutching his groin. She caught sight of his face and gasped. It was the poet from the café.

  How? Why? She didn’t have much time to wonder. The driver yelled and jumped off the cab, where he had been restarting the engine.

  She drew her stiletto out of her bodice and balanced it in her hand, ready to defend herself.

  The driver just laughed when he saw her weapon. In reply, he drew out a long metal rod and flicked it. An electric-blue charge started crackling at the one end of the stick. Elle swallowed with dismay. It was a Tesla spark prod—the type policemen used to subdue unruly mobs and anarchists. One buzz from that and she would be immobile and drooling on the floor for hours. The driver stood in the road, blocking her way. The spark prod in his hand crackled ominously.

  She glanced down at the squirming poet. She only had a few moments before he recovered enough to come after her again.

  Together, the two men were more trouble than she could manage. She turned to run, but the poet grabbed her ankle and tripped her. For the second time she fell hard on the cobbles. She held the blade up, ready to stab whomever touched her next.

  “Let go of her!”

  A pair of boots appeared next to her face. She looked up and realized with a rush of surprise that it was Mr. Marsh. Before she could protest, he hauled her to her feet. She found herself face-to-face with his solid chest as he slipped his arm around her waist to stop her from falling.

  The poet cursed and spun round. And slashed at Marsh’s calf. Marsh cried out and swiveled Elle out of the way as he held her to him.

  The poet dragged himself up to face them. His stubbly cheeks glistened with sweat. He started laughing and held the holdall up before him.

  Elle lunged at it, stumbling out of Marsh’s grip. For the third time in as many minutes she landed on the ground, winded.

  Marsh and the poet squared up to face each other.

  “Come on, then. Let’s have it,” Marsh said in a low voice. He leaned forward, ready to fight.

  The poet grinned at him and shook his head. “Oh no.” He spoke English with a heavy Cockney accent. “Not that way, Gov. I ain’t that stupid.” He drew something from inside his pocket and hurled it at Marsh. There was a bright flash of light as the projectile hit Marsh square in the chest. The air filled with the acrid smell of alchemy.

  Before anyone could do anything, the poet disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  Patrice ran up to them. He was panting and rubbing his fist. “Are you hurt?”

  Marsh was bent over at the waist. He was taking long steady breaths. His hair had flopped forward into his eyes and his hat lay forgotten on its side on the cobbles.

  “Did you get him?” he asked Patrice.

  Patrice shook his head and pulled a slim black cigar from his pocket. He lit it and took a deep draw. The end glowed red in reply. “No, he got away,” he said as he exhaled. “I grabbed him, but he was too fast. Managed to get a good punch in though.”

  “What are you doing here?” Elle said. She rubbed her palm. A dusty bruise was already forming from landing on the cobbles. “Have you been following me?”

  Marsh straightened up with a groan. “I noticed that your cab drove off in the wrong direction and decided to investigate. We were lucky that another cab was to hand and so we were able to follow you. And a good thing we did too, by the looks of things.” He bent over and examined his leg. The leather of his boot was marred with a long gash where the knife had split it. “I seem to have had a lucky escape.” He stood up straight. “Just ruined a good pair of flannels. Thank you for asking.” He gave her a pointed look.

  Elle realized she was holding her breath and let it out slowly. “I could have managed on my own, you know,” she said.

  Marsh snorted. “With that brooch pin?” He gestured at the stiletto she was still holding.

  “This is a deadly razor-sharp weapon, if you don’t mind.” She turned her back to him and tucked the blade into its place inside her shirt.

  “Well then, you should mind that you don’t cut yourself or your laces,” he observed.

  With her buttons done up, she faced him. “That was the poet—the one from the café. And he’s gotten away with my holdall, and the viscount’s box.”

  “That was no poet.” Marsh retrieved his hat form the cobbles. “Patrice, I am hoping with everything I am that the box Miss Chance is referring to isn’t our box. It’s not, is it?” he asked between gritted teeth.

  “I thought it would be the safest place. No one would look in a lady’s luggage, surely?” Contrite, Patrice looked down at the ground.

  Marsh said something into the air above him in a language Elle did not know. She guessed from the inflection that the words were not fit for polite conversation. Then he turned to her and gripped the tops of her arms. “What else was in the holdall?” He gave her a little shake.

  The ferocity of his question sent her heart racing. “J-just my things, the flight papers … and the box,” she stammered. She liked to think of herself as robust, but such manhandling was quite unacceptable and her blood was still pounding through her veins from the shock. “Now let go of me, this very instant, you big lout.” She kicked his shin and started wriggling furiously to escape his grasp.

  Marsh cried out as her boot connected with his shin. He straightened up and loosened his grip. “Damn it, that hurt.” His eyes were winter-cold.

  “Well, you deserved it,” she said.

  Marsh did not respond. Instead, he looked away before he spoke. “It seems that the men Patrice and I initially had business with now have business with you. And for that, I am truly sorry.” His expression softened as he spoke.

  Elle found herself at a loss for words. Physical shock and delayed reaction were sending her whole body into shakes. She swallowed the lump that was building in her throat and looked away.

  “Very well, if you insist on pouting, we shall share pleasantries first. Tell me, madam, are you harmed? Any broken bones? No gaping injuries?”

  Evidently he was mistaking her silence for petulance. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pout. I mean, I’m fine. A few scrapes perhaps, but no harm done.” It was a ridiculous answer and she found herself casting about for a better one, but his attention was already elsewhere.

  “Patrice, this has been a most unfortunate turn of events. I fear that matters have become rather complicated by this little episode. We need to get back to London as soon as we can.” He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. “We must make for the airfield immediately, before they decide to come back.”

  “I think we need to call the authorities,” Elle said, recovering some of her composure.

  Marsh shook his head. “You may take it from me that the police will be of no assistance in these circumstances. In my experience, involving the authorities will be far more trouble than it’s worth.”

  Elle stared at him. She did not move.

  “Come along, then, Miss Chance.” Marsh nodded at her.

  “I beg your pardon!” she said, bristling at his presumptuousness. “I’m not moving from this spot until I get an explanation as to what just happened here.”

  Marsh turned round and faced her. She was beginning to realize that this was not a man who was used to being contradicted. “An explanation? Very well,” he sai
d in a low voice. “By deviating from our plan, your friend over there has just placed all of our lives in danger. You now know too much and so do the men who attacked you. Is that enough?”

  “Not even close.”

  His expression grew darker. “You may trust me on this: The less you know about the matter, the less they’ll be able to torture out of you later.”

  Elle crossed her arms over chest. “And why should I trust you?”

  “Because, Miss Chance, I am the freight you have been hired to carry to England tonight.”

  “You’re the freight?” She frowned.

  “That box was too important to be left in the hands of a stranger. Something Patrice did not appreciate fully, I see.”

  Elle shook her head. “Even if I agreed, the ground crew would spot you and they would never let you board.”

  “That’s why I told Patrice to hire a resourceful pilot. Unfortunately, as we are now landed with one another, I’ll happily hide in a crate if it would assist.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “You see, I am now in your hands as much as you are in mine. A rather unfortunate situation, but seeing as we all want to go home tonight, I suggest that we stop messing about and get on with it.”

  He was right, which was utterly annoying. She didn’t want to wander the streets of Paris on her own for the next few hours either. Not with the knowledge that those men were out there and intent on capturing her. She could bid good-bye to Mr. Marsh and this whole unhappy business the minute they landed in England. It seemed a sensible enough trade under the circumstances.

  “Fair enough, Mr. Marsh. I will take you back to London with me. But I’m only doing this because I promised Patrice that I would. And I believe in keeping my promises.”

  “As do I, Miss Chance. As do I.” He turned his attention back to Patrice. “Patrice, let’s see if we can start that machine, shall we?”

  Patrice touched the rim of his hat and climbed onto the driver’s seat. Marsh took hold of the engine crank and gave it two turns. The spark reactor glowed blue-green. The machine started huffing and puttering as the water boiled in the tanks.