His Clockwork Canary

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I suppose he gave up the precise location as well.”

“He did.”

“He said you were swapping ghost stories.”

“We were.”

Simon tugged his derby down, cursing the frosty wind and this convoluted discussion. He thought back to the interrogation, the way she’d focused intently on her subject, the way she’d gripped Filmore’s arm and the way she had frozen.

The kid drifted off.

Indeed, when Simon had pulled her limp body from the bar, she’d looked as though she was in a trance. There was but one explanation. She’d pried into Thimblethumper’s and Filmore’s thoughts. It would also explain much about her often shocking and candid interviews.

“You lied to me,” Simon said as they moved under an arch and then down several stone steps. “You’re psychic. Some sort of mind reader.”

“Not exactly,” she said whilst moving into a musty, darkened corridor.

“What exactly?” Simon persisted.

“I’m a Time Tracer.”

CHAPTER 9

Willie had never confessed her supernatural skill aloud. At least not to a Vic. Her mother and father had known of her time-tracing gift—albeit in its infancy. And of course Wesley knew, although since they’d never been close and did not, in fact, converse on a regular basis, he did not know how far her supernatural skills had advanced. Just as she was in the dark as to the progression of his gift.

In a moment of weakness, Willie had once described her powers to a trio of Freaks—fellow members of the Freak Fighters. She was hoping one of them shared the same skill, was hoping to garner some insight or advice and to feel a little less alone. Being one of a kind amongst a minority made her feel even more the outcast rather than special. Amongst her kind she had heard rumors of telepaths and accelerated healers. Of those who could teleport and those with enhanced strength. She had also heard of someone in America who had a modicum of control over the four elements—earth, water, air, and fire. A skill that mirrored her brother’s. But to her knowledge, Willie was the only Freak born with the unique skill of reliving other people’s memories.

In recent years there had been random abductions, where nefarious agencies had forced Freaks to use their gifts for the agency’s greater good, which was ultimately wicked in nature. Some Freaks had gone rogue, offering their services for hefty sums. The majority of Freaks, like Willie, simply longed to integrate their special skills into a normal life and daily job. But unfortunately, until the day they won certain rights, they were forced to live a lie.

Willie had never felt more alone or lost than the moment she’d connected with Filmore. Not once in all the instances where she had traced, and there had been many, had she ever bobbled her objective. In and out. She never lingered. She never interacted. She was the proverbial fly on the wall. Only this time she’d seen something that had caused her to connect with Filmore a second time. Something that had caused her to linger and search. She had seen her mother.

“Bloody hell, woman. Slow down. It’s black as night in this corridor. You could walk into wall or fall into a well.”

“I see fine.”

“How is that possible?” Simon asked. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Enhanced night vision.”

“A Time Tracer, whatever that is, with enhanced night vision. Are you pished or delusional?”

“You know what I am, dammit. It was in the letter.” Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears and a little too loud, bouncing off the ancient stone walls. Why had her mother been part of Filmore’s memories? Why had they been arguing over whether to hide in the west, north, or south? Willie stopped cold at the junction of two corridors. They looked exactly the same. In his memory, had Filmore gone left or right? Willie had looked away, searching for her mother. She’d even called out her name and in doing so had summoned a whirlwind of memories from another time. Futuristic images from the 1960s, from her mother’s past. Filmore’s past. Willie had seen them embrace. Had seen them plotting. She’d sensed a deep bond and a strong attraction on Filmore’s part. Had Michelle Goodenough had an affair with Jefferson Filmore? Had she been in league with the Houdinians? Had she lied to her family all those years regarding the destruction of the clockwork propulsion engine? If so, how else had she deceived them?

Simon grasped Willie’s elbow, startling her out of her musing. “What letter?” he asked in a tight voice.

She whirled, her facade forgotten as years of angst welled and spewed. “The letter I wrote explaining why I couldn’t come. The letter stained with my tears in which I begged you to understand, which apparently you did not. Because instead of meeting me a month later as I asked, you stayed away! Now can we just get the bloody rebel engine and get out of here?”

“Jesus. Mina? I thought it was you. I sensed . . . Dammit, I can’t see you.”

But she could see him perfectly. His handsome face contorted in confusion and anger. And she could see the bulk of a man slipping out through a crevice and aiming a weapon directly at Simon’s back.

“No!” Willie shoved Simon with all her might, knocking him aside just as something sharp and hot slammed into her shoulder, propelling her backward. The back of her head hit stone and she cried out, pain shooting through her skull and blossoming throughout her shoulder and chest.

“Shite!” Simon scrambled and covered her body with his own just as another shot ricocheted off the walls, inciting sparks and a noxious smell.

Loud voices echoed down the hall and Willie heard their attacker fleeing. “Some sort of gas,” she said in a weak voice. “Get out, Simon.”

“Not without you.”

“Can’t move. Can’t . . .” Her words trailed off as Simon scooped her off the floor and into his arms.

“Who goes there?” someone yelled. “Police!”

“What’s that smell?” another called out. “Look! Smoke!”

Willie coughed as plumes of noxious fog welled.

“Eyes tearing,” Simon choked out, “and I’m blind as a bat in this dark. Moving toward the voices—”

“No. No, coppers.” She spied a distant splash of light and pointed down a corridor. “That way. Turn left. Walk. Keep walking.”

“I see it.” He picked up speed, rushing toward a gust of cool air. Moving quickly toward the sliver of light.

“It’s a door,” Willie said, her vision fading, her voice weak. “Shove.”

“I see it, sweetheart. Hush.”

She felt him climbing steps and sucked in the fresh cold air even though it hurt like the devil to breathe. Her chest and head hurt and her eyes stung from the gas. Her corneatacts had been contaminated, making the throbbing worse.

Simon’s attention was riveted on the seemingly endless and steep stairwell.

Delirious with pain, Willie quickly removed the tinted lenses, letting them fall from her fingertips as she closed her eyes and dropped her head to Simon’s shoulder. Light exploded behind her closed lids as they breached the outdoors.

“St. Giles’,” he said. “We snaked around somehow. We’re at the cathedral.”

“Secret catacombs,” Willie managed.

She felt him opening her duster, heard him curse. “We need a doctor.”

“No doctor.”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”