The Doomsday Vault

Patrick’s machine leaned down for a closer look. His eyes were wide and wild. Clockwork madness. Alice wondered if he’d been infected with the clockwork plague before or after the ball and prayed it was after, for Louisa’s sake.

“Alice Michaels!” he said. “Well! I’ll be glad to make you my London queen, my luscious Boadicea, my warrior angel. Especially if you made these automatons. I’ll make you famous.”

A shot cracked through the air and ricocheted off the glass. It was quickly followed by another. Alice heard shouts and clattering hooves.

“Police always come in legions,” Patrick groaned. He stuffed the three automatons into his machine’s chest cavity, and it clanked shut. “I’ll come back for you, my Boadicea, my spider. Give my best to Louisa.”

With that, he turned and stomped away, leaving Alice in the shambles of the shop.

Chapter Eleven

Gavin leapt from his horse and pushed through the crowd of people that surrounded the ruined shop. Smashed wood and twisted metal lay everywhere like random notes flung from a staff, and the discordant smell of fear hung in the air, though it did nothing to dispel the crowd, most of whom were waiting for the chance to make off with something. Everything he hated about London was in evidence-dirt, chaos, evil-minded people hovering about. Still, it was pure luck that he and Simon had been only a few blocks away when the report came over the wireless.“Move aside, please! Police!” he called. “Police! Let me through!”

The word police always did it. The crowd rippled aside to reveal the demolished shop front. Gavin hurriedly picked his way inside, his black leather jacket protecting him from snags and jabs. He didn’t bother to remove his simple workman’s cap. Clearly, the machine had come and gone, but it might have left clues-or victims-behind. His practiced eye automatically picked out several four-pronged claw marks in the walls and deep circular gouges in the floor that marked out huge footprints. Gavin noted their size and did some mental math. The machine had been between twenty and twenty-five feet tall, the same size as the mechanicals used during the Napoleonic Wars, and that made Gavin nervous. If the pattern he had become all too familiar with held true, the mechanical would be armed with a number of dangerous weapons. He sniffed the air. Paraffin oil. Some clockworkers had begun experimenting with new, more efficient fuels for their machines. This was clearly one of them. Several shop shelves, what remained of them, had been swept clean, indicating theft as a motive.

A figure popped up from behind the counter at the back of the shop, and Gavin reflexively went into a fighting stance. The figure, a woman, brandished a crowbar. Her hat was askew and she had a wild look in her eyes, but Gavin recognized her instantly. His heart did a little jump, and happy surprise thrilled through him. He swallowed a small lump in his throat and dashed across the shop, where he reached out to embrace her, then stopped himself at the last moment.

“Alice!” he gasped, and snatched off his cap. “Alice Michaels! What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

Alice dropped the crowbar and grabbed Gavin’s jacket lapels with both fists. He smelled her perfume, a sweet, roselike fragrance at odds with the frantic look on her face. “We have to get them back!” she barked. “Now!”

“Get what back?”

“The machines! He took the machines! We have to get them back before he figures out what they’re for and tells everyone when he comes back to make me his queen!”

For a terrible moment, Gavin was afraid Alice was the clockworker who had destroyed the shop. She was babbling like Dr. Clef on one of his bad days, and her expression said she wasn’t quite all there. Then he realized she was just upset, a victim.

“It’ll be all right,” he soothed. “Just tell me what happened.”

“There isn’t time for that, you idiot. Let’s move!”

“Is someone going to help me up?” groaned a reedy voice from near Gavin’s feet. “Or am I to lie here until the scavengers strip my rivets?”

What Gavin had taken for a pile of debris on the floor in front of the counter turned out to be an automaton trapped under a beam. “Kemp?” Gavin asked. “Holy cow! Can you get up on your own?”

“Do you really expect me to answer that, sir? I believe Madam dropped a crowbar on the counter.”

“Quite a crowd out there.” Simon d’Arco stepped into the shattered shop. He wore a black coat and cap like Gavin’s and a large pack with indicator lights and dials on it. A crank stuck out one side. “Good heavens! I didn’t expect to see you again, Miss Michaels-or soon-to-be Mrs. Williamson. Are you enjoying your betrothal?”

“Oh dear Lord,” Alice groaned. “Mr. d’Arco, we must catch that clockworker immediately. We can use my carriage.”

“If you mean the one out front”-Simon cocked a thumb over his shoulder-“I think the mechanical stepped on it. There’s an awful wreck out there, and the horses are gone.”

“Damn it!” Alice shouted, and Gavin stepped back, shocked at hearing such language from a woman. “You brought horses of your own, didn’t you?”

Gavin asked, “Why are the machines so important, Miss Michaels? Tell us, and we’ll do our best.” He flashed what he hoped was a confident grin. “The Third Ward’s best will amaze even you.”

“I doubt that, Mr. Ennock,” she snapped. “Those machines belong to my fiance. They are extremely … valuable, and he’ll be very upset if they’re lost. We must recover them.”

Gavin found himself nodding. It had been a year since they’d parted, but she was just as he remembered her-furious, beautiful, and crackling with more energy than a Mozart symphony. He straightened the lapels on his black leather jacket. “We’ll get them back. I promise.”

Just then, several colored lights on Simon’s pack lit up. Gavin, adept at reading the codes they indicated, gave the crank a whirl and plucked a large round microphone from the side of the pack.

“Emergency message from headquarters,” he said to Alice as Simon twisted his head in an attempt to see what was going on.

From the floor, Kemp said, “Isn’t anyone going to-”

“Is that a wireless communication device?” Alice asked, interested despite herself.

“Yep. Agent Ennock here,” Gavin said importantly into the microphone. “What have we got? Over.”

Static hissed and crackled, and a ringing feedback noise played a note two cents above F-sharp. Gavin winced. Perfect pitch wasn’t always an advantage.

“This is Lieutenant Phipps, Ennock,” said the radio. “Put d’Arco on. Over.”

With a sideways glance at Alice, Gavin deepened his voice a little and said, “I can handle the problem, Lieutenant.”

“Put d’Arco on. Now. Over.”

Flushing slightly, he handed the microphone to Simon, who pressed the button. “D’Arco here. Over.”

“Remember that grinning idiot of a clockworker you and Teasdale had it out with last year? He’s resurfaced. At this very moment he is rampaging on Fleet Street with another zombie horde, even though it is broad daylight.”

Alice stiffened.

“Since you have met him before,” Phipps continued, “I want you to get down there and capture him immediately. Acknowledge. Over.”

“What about the clockworker that smashed the metalsmith shop?” Simon asked. “The longer we wait, the farther away he’ll get. Over.”

“You mean you didn’t capture him? Over.”

“He had already left the scene by the time we arrived. Over.”

There was a brief pause. “I need you on Fleet Street, d’Arco, but I don’t want Ennock going after that clockworker by himself. If-”

Alice snatched the microphone. “This is Alice Michaels, Lieutenant. I’ll go with Mr. Ennock.”

“Miss Michaels? What the hell are you doing on this frequency?”