A Study in Darkness (4 page)

When they left the alley, light from a window above gave Imogen a glimpse of their quarry. The woman wasn’t young, tall, or pretty. She had a green skirt and black jacket, a black hat perched on her dark hair. Just from the way the clothes fell around her frame, Imogen had the impression the cloth was limp from long use.

They followed, and followed. The woman went through a rounded archway in a large brick structure. It led to a central courtyard with several stone staircases that led to three floors above. Imogen, who had never lived in anything smaller than a mansion, looked around with a mixture of dismay and fascination. Was this where the poor lived? It wasn’t as if she’d never thought about it—the papers were full of opinions about what to do with the impoverished masses of London—
but the specifics had obviously eluded her. The place was dark and dingy and she had a muted impression that it smelled. Forgetting that this was just a dream, she let fear slide beneath her guard. This wasn’t a place she wanted to linger.

“What is it you want to know?” she whispered to the presence, as the woman began mounting one of the stairways, her tread weary and slow. And why would this poor woman—who obviously possessed next to nothing—have any information to offer?

The answer didn’t come in words, but in anguish. The presence radiated a childlike bewilderment, a sense of displacement Imogen could not begin to name—a knowledge that something was wildly, irrevocably
wrong
. It hit her like a wave, drowning and buffeting her in emotion so strong she lost all bearing. The image of the stairs and the woman vanished, plunging her back into the black, timeless void.

Something is missing
.

The statement was followed by searing, violent rage.

With a gasp, Imogen sat straight up in her bed, going from sleep to waking in a single moment. Her head swam, as if someone had struck her. What was that dream about? Why had that presence spoken to her? Why now and never before? Something had changed, and a dark, anxious place opened up inside her. If a person had enough bad dreams, was it possible to lose one’s reason?

She was certain—as certain as if she had seen the whole thing during her waking hours—that something terrible had happened to that woman on the stairs. Something the presence had done.

She buried her face in her hands, breathing hard, the slick of sweat on her skin making the gauzy fabric of her nightgown cling to her back and arms. Very soon, the cold air in the room bit through the thin garment and cleared her head. Slowly, slowly the tide of terror receded, its cold touch slithering away.

A candle flickered on the nightstand. She wasn’t afraid of the dark in the usual sense, but ever since the nightmares began—she had been little more than six years of age—she’d been afraid of waking up unable to see. The candle
was there so that she knew with certainty when a dream was over.

The hideous anger still pulsed in her memory, fading echoes that left her scraped hollow with fatigue. Imogen pulled her knees up under her chin and gazed around, cataloguing the items of barely familiar furniture. The shapes and colors reassured her. She recognized her room at Maggor’s Close, Jasper Keating’s new country house—purchased so that he might hold shooting parties for his important friends. It might have been the closest thing to enemy territory, but at least it was in the here and now.

What was that dream about?
Usually her dreams were of the dark place and the presence, or the even more terrifying one where her soul left her body, wandering away and getting so lost she couldn’t find her way back. But they rarely involved other people, much less strangers. That was a new twist.

Imogen scrubbed at her face, exhausted. The summer had been bad for nightmares, ever since the difficulties last spring. That had put everyone on edge, and it was a wonder none of them had gone over that edge. The only thing that had kept her sane was the iron will with which she pushed away the images, refusing to think about them once they were over. She couldn’t prevent them from ruining her sleep, but she could keep them from cluttering up her waking hours.

Which were apparently starting now. There was no chance of further rest. She slid off the tall bed, her feet searching out her slippers. Then she slid on her quilted robe and paced to the window, cupping her hands to shield her eyes from the reflection cast by the lone candle flame. The moors around them lay in moonlit tranquility, silent but for the hoot of an owl.

And the voices of men deep in the back-and-forth of conversation. Imogen couldn’t see them clearly—they were standing too close to the wall below. She picked up the tiny, feminine pocket watch from her dressing table and tilted it to the light. It was two o’clock, the dead of night. Who was up at this hour?

Curiosity riveted her. Perhaps because she was friends with Evelina Cooper, niece of the well-known detective Sherlock Holmes, Imogen wasn’t prepared to let that curiosity languish. Besides, anything was better than dwelling on the dream that still gnawed at the edges of her mind.

She crouched, making herself small in case anyone looked up, and grasped the latch of the diamond-paned window. She turned the cold brass handle and gently nudged the casement open a crack, just enough to hear the conversation more clearly. The old wood moved without a sound. After all, since the windows in this dreary place leaked so much cold air, they could hardly be a tight fit.

The first voice she heard was Jasper Keating’s. Although he was officially master of the household, he divided his time between Maggor’s Close and his London offices, leaving his daughter to entertain his guests for the weeks of grouse hunting ahead. He hadn’t been at supper, so he must have arrived sometime that night.

“What are you talking about?” he said angrily. “A bomb in the middle of London? You don’t do that sort of thing unless you’re ready for a fight.”

A bomb?
Imogen froze in place, her eyes going wide. She’d been expecting bedroom scandal or maybe chat of a shady business deal, but this was serious. Eavesdropping had suddenly gone beyond an entertaining diversion.

“Perhaps he is. Maybe that’s the whole point. In any event, he’s planning some sort of splashy statement, and somewhere in your territory.” The other voice was deep—Imogen thought she knew it but couldn’t call up a face or name. “That’s why I came to you. If one of us makes a move to stop him, it will be a long, messy affair—death, property damage, and bad press all around. With two of us, it could be quick and neat. No point in letting rebels take advantage of any lapse in security.”

“You’re still on about that Baskerville affair.”

“So what if I am?” said the deep voice. “I’m still correct. Whoever takes up arms against us—rebels, aristocratic or otherwise—will never succeed as long as the rest of the Steam Council is united.”

The Steam Council? That was what the men and women who ruled the great utility companies called themselves. Jasper Keating, one of the key members, was called the Gold King after the yellow-tinted globes he used to mark all the gaslights his company supplied. The steam barons all indicated their territories like that—the Blue King, the Violet Queen, and the rest. At sunset, the multicolored globes turned London into a patchwork glory of light. It was a beautiful sight, even though it was evidence of the stranglehold the council had on London and all the Empire. But the peace that held the council together and the rebels at bay was every bit as fragile as those colored globes.

Now Imogen’s blood was fizzing with alarm, making her movements quick and clumsy. As Keating was one of the key members, it made sense that any rebel intrigue would be brought to his attention. But to whom was he talking? Imogen nudged the window open another inch and rose up on her knees to peer out. The angle was wrong, and all she could see was grass.

The Gold King dropped his voice until it was just above a murmur. “What are you proposing? An alliance?”

“Why not? I’ll help you take care of this business.”

Curiosity was driving Imogen wild. She gripped the edge of the casement and gathered her courage. Then she poked her head out, long braid swinging, feeling rather like a jack-in-the-box. It was the only way to look straight down at the men below. Then she ducked back inside, pulling the window with her so that it was all but shut again.

Holy blazing hat ribbons!
The other man was William Reading, the Scarlet King, another one of the Steam Council, and one with his fingers deep into the military might of the Empire.
Two rival steam barons teaming up against a third? Is that what’s going on?
And what about the bomb? Who or what was the target?

“And in return for your help?” Gold asked Scarlet.

“We have other interests in common. You, I’ve heard, had your hands on the only example of an intelligent navigation device. You know, the magic machine called Athena’s Casket.”

Imogen sucked in her breath, wondering where this twist in the conversation would lead. Even she knew that intelligent navigation was the holy grail of warship design. It combined an air deva with navigational equipment, essentially giving the ship extraordinary lift and a mind of its own, with all the quickness and maneuverability that implied.

Keating made an angry noise. “Only to destroy it. I don’t hold with using magic. It’s not legal in the Empire.”

“Of course,” Scarlet replied, though he sounded skeptical. “I understand your position completely. Dodgy stuff, all those glowy orbs and whatnot.”

More to the point, machines that used something besides steam power would eventually put the utility magnates on the trash heap. And that was why the steam barons had made hunting down magic the next best thing to a religious crusade crossed with a national sport. Magic was their rival. Anyone claiming to use real power was subject to jail and probably execution or—if there was some suspicion they actually had the hereditary talent referred to as the Blood—a trip to Her Majesty’s laboratories for testing.

Imogen’s stomach began to ache with tension. She was well aware that her friend Evelina already knew how to put devas inside clockwork machines—exactly the information the steam barons were after. Imogen guarded that secret as if her own life depended on it, because Evelina’s certainly did.

“Unless,” continued Scarlet in a harder tone, “one of us learns to control magic-powered machinery first. Whoever wins that race wins the Empire. So, friend, what happened to this prototype?”

“It was stolen,” Keating growled.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Again, he sounded like he only half believed Keating. “Rumors of pirates using demons to subdue their prey. Making whole ships vanish in a puff of smoke.”

Keating grunted, the single sound rich with disgust. “I know who has the casket. The problem is catching him. It’s not as simple as it sounds.”

“Let me help you,” the Scarlet King replied. “I have a fleet of small, nimble airships.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?”

“You have admirable vessels, but my men are trained for surveillance. Wherever it has gone, the device can be retrieved. Discreetly, of course. That’s what I want for stopping your bomber. You and I pool our resources and get that device before someone else from the council does. We study it and share whatever technical information we learn.”

“It’s magic.”

“It’s an edge. Any one of us will use it if we can, and I plan to use it against the rebels.”

Imogen closed her eyes, the ache in her stomach spreading to her whole frame. Evelina’s friend—the handsome circus rider Niccolo—had stolen the casket. Had he turned pirate? She hadn’t heard that tale, but sometimes the really important news never made it to the papers. Men like Keating wouldn’t want the whole Empire after his prize, so they would keep something like that quiet.
Nick as a pirate?
Imogen mused.
He would look good with a cutlass and parrot
.

Imogen’s heart pounded as she strained to hear the voices. Angry and urgent, they were almost whispering now, making it hard to pick out words. It sounded like more on the same subjects: rebels, bombs, the navigation device, building an alliance against the other barons. Imogen wasn’t a diplomat’s daughter for nothing; she could tell the combination of these topics spelled trouble around the Steam Council’s table—and that meant trouble for everybody.

Fingers trembling, she nudged the window open again, hoping to hear despite the mumbling. This time, the blasted hinge gave a squeak. She froze.

“What’s that?” the Scarlet King demanded. “Look, there’s a light above.”

Keating replied in a weary tone. “That’s Imogen Roth’s room. She’s a frail thing and always sleeps with a light.”

A frail thing? Well, bollocks to you, Keating, I have your secrets
.

There was silence, then a scuffle of feet on the gravel, as
if someone was shifting nervously. “Let’s go inside,” muttered the Scarlet King.

More footfalls. Imogen waited, counting to twenty before she risked making a noise. Then she dove for her bed, burrowing below the covers to find some residual warmth—and to appear innocently asleep if anyone came to check.

But if she hadn’t been wide awake before, she was now. Bombs? In London? Ordinarily, one would tell the police, but their supervisors were owned by one steam baron or another. When it came to something like this, their hands were tied.

Still, she had to tell someone what she knew—someone who understood bombs and power struggles, and someone who could warn Evelina’s Nick. Unfortunately, there was no one in her family she could trust, and the man she loved was banned from seeing her.

Imogen felt very alone, her nerves worn to nothing, her eyes sandy from too little sleep. She wasn’t a swashbuckling heroine who dangled from cliff tops and taught dragons to play fetch. That was more in Evelina’s line. Nor was she a brilliant detective; that was Evelina’s uncle, Sherlock Holmes. But maybe that was where she should start—by finding a way to contact her friend. Her father had banished Evelina, too—he seemed to take umbrage against anyone Imogen liked—but enough time had passed that maybe she could find a way around his dislike. Then there was still the matter of Tobias and Evelina—now there was a disaster—but that wasn’t a question for a tired brain.