Nathalie Gray - Mechanical Rose

An Elloras Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Mechanical Rose

ISBN 9781419916267

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Mechanical Rose Copyright 2008 Nathalie Gray

Edited by Mary Moran.

Cover art by Syneca.

Electronic book Publication May 2008

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Elloras Cave Publishing, Inc. 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/)

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

MECHANICAL ROSE

Nathalie Gray

Chapter One

She held him until he had drawn his last breath. Only then did she let his lifeless form slump to the checkered floor, his face a sharp contrast to the black velvet jacket he wore. She did not hate him. She hated none of them, these dangerous men. But to preserve the fragile balance, to protect the world from their carelessness, their wars or grand ambitions, she had been tasked with either their capitulation or their murders. None had ever suffered at her hands for this was not her way. Eleanor Cleverly may be a spy, a murderess, but she was no fiend. Why resort to violence when a simple drop of potent poison would suffice?

Through her gloves she felt his neck cooling. After she gently let his head rest on the floor, she stood, dusted her corseted dress and retracted the spring-loaded needle into her broach, which she then reattached to her bodice. Shaped like a blood-colored rose, light reflected off its glossy petals. In fact, enough weapons were concealed on her personher corset alone was a veritable armoryto kill a man in half a dozen ways. Slender dagger, garrote, pistols, poison.

Without a backward glance, Eleanor swept through the grand foyer, noiselessly opened the door and emerged from the mans house to a clear, cool night where stars twinkled like sapphires in a sky of black satin. Steam-powered dragons of brass and silver flew overhead, their mechanical flapping wings and clanking gears discernible to her keen hearing, the subtle gleam of their hulls catching the twin moons light over the bristled city skyline.

The Divine Graces must have been on her side. Not that she had ever needed their intervention.

Smells of the night greeted her as she rushed from her targets house, padded to the corner of the interior courtyard, making sure no one would surprise her while she activated her own dragona smaller version of those above. She nimbly climbed on the hinged stepladder, shook the hem of her dress out of the way as she turned to sit at the commands. Like burnished gold, the ignition lever glimmered when she wrapped her gloved hand around it, released the foot brake by small increments until steam hissed an angry tune as it filled the machines cylinders.

With a lurch, the dragon took off. Rose above the mans house, higher until wind whipped at her hair and stung her eyes. The unseasonable chill shocked her. Only mid-autumn and already cold-charged high winds howled and wailed. Made it smell like winter. But then again, she should not be so surprised. Unfortunately, Terras climate had gone the same way as its populationout of control. If the latter had been fixed with an assisted selection vaccine for anyone not chosen to become parents, the former was proving more problematic. Due to mankinds foolishness climate had grown unstable in the last decades, so much so that seasons blended into one long uninterrupted blur of gray days and cold nights. And the wind. Travel by air, lauded not so long ago, had now become the means of transportation of the poor. Or those who preferred anonymity. Such as herself.

She presently flew above the city center, built on piles hundreds of feet over the marshy lands that had, for all the rain, undergone a dramatic expansion in the last century. Eleanor swerved to the south, flew almost to the end of New Gaulis limits then spotted her destination, a belfry of brickwork and stone cladding with a giant clock on one of its five faces. She was landing on the topmost turret, a framed spire of cast iron, when the clock chimed the hour with its two-octave carillon. The profound sound traversed her belly, made her cringe. After securing her dragon with its mooring line so it would not topple from its precarious perch, she opened the door leading to the wrought iron steps, which she took two at a time.

Mr. Clarence already waited in the salon. Smoke from his longhorn pipe rose blue in the gas lamp light. He poured her tea from a long glass and silver carafe then set it back on its heater. Steam hissed from coils of copper pipes underneath the porcelain plate.

He is gone? Mr. Clarence asked, even if he must have known already.

Her colleagues of the Mechanical Rose Society prided themselves on their connections and vast network of informants and sleeper agents. She had often wondered if they also spied on full members, of which she was part. Probably.

Everything went as planned.

Mr. Clarence nodded, his brown eyes sad, wrinkles forming over his dark brow. Unfortunate. I was hoping he would come to his senses before we had to act.

He proffered the thin white cup, which she accepted before removing her gloves. Unfortunate, yes, but inevitable, I am afraid. Even in the end, when he realized who I was, he would not sign the peace treaty. Tea burned her lips, but she welcomed the small discomfort for it chased the lingering cold that had seeped into her clothes and bones on her way to the meeting. She shivered. I would enjoy a few days to myself, I think. Somewhere warm.

That will not be possible, my dear Eleanor. A pressing matter requires your expert touch.

She had not wanted to show her displeasure but could not stifle the long sigh. Yes?

Mr. Clarence nodded. I know you have pulled more than your fair share lately. But our Society is needed now more than ever. He reached inside his jacket pocket and retrieved a small tube he set on the table. Despite his age, his hand looked supple and possessed the rich color and shine of coffee beans. He must have been a striking man in his youth.

Eleanor took and uncapped it so she could unroll the sheets of paper and read. Some of her hairthe red tint gradually giving way to her natural blackspilled on the sheet. She blew it out of the way. The picture of a teenager occupied the top half while the intelligence the Society had gathered on the young man took the lower part.

A child, Mr. Clarence? Has it come to this? She had little qualms about engaging full-grown men or women, but an adolescent? What could he have possibly done to warrant the Societys interest?

He shook his head. Read the date. This picture is almost twenty years old. Leeford Gunn is a man of thirty-nine now.

From the Gunn family? The Gunns?

The same. My guess is that Mr. Gunn, a brazen young man and now a social disaster, embarrassed them one time too many with his inventions and eccentric behavior, and so they have exiled him to their seaside estate. He takes care of a cousin there as well. He is a decent fellow, this Mr. Gunn, from what I have heard. If only he had better judgment with his business associations.

What has he done? What danger does he pose? Those blue eyes spoke to her.

Mr. Clarence rose, stretched his long frame. Out of desperation, he accepted money from the wrong man. It is all in the file. Read it. Learn it. Tomorrow you leave for the coast. Fresh air would do me good as well, but I am afraid this requires your personal touch.