Chapter One
With an inner squeal of glee, Jessamine flung herself away from the loosened window. The air rippled her shapeless tunic as she flew away from the paned wall. She tucked her legs in and executed a perfect flip. Below her, rising up quickly as she fell, was a mountain of packing materials. The only soft place to land in the Galerie des Machines.
Sheets fluttered as Jessamine dropped with a muffled whump into the softest part of the mountain — the cloths and cushions that would be used to protect the machines on their return to whichever country had sent them to the Paris Exhibition.
Jessamine waited, buried in the pile, to be certain no one had noticed her.
There was no sound of running feet, no guards yelling for her to stop. With a twist, Jessamine wrenched herself from the top of the pile and rolled to the floor.
Machines spread throughout the Galerie, some towering meters over Jessamine’s head. The walkways between the displays gave the building the feel of a town built entirely of mechanical devices.
It was an inventor’s dream.
Jessamine grinned and reached out a hand to caress the machines as she passed, the metal cool against her fingers. The smell of machine grease and oils filled her nose. It felt like home.
Into the deeper shadows she went, carefully weaving her way through the familiar exhibits. Her near-silent footsteps were loud in the deep silence.
She worked her way to a crossroads and paused, waiting for the guard she knew would be passing on his rounds.
After two minutes of tense breaths, Jessamine felt her skin begin to crawl. Either she had misjudged the time, or the guards had changed their routine after the final day of the Exhibition. She cursed quietly. Henry had promised her the guards would keep their schedule, but the human element was the least predictable aspect of planning an adventure.
With a quiet curse, she moved on, more mindful than before.
At the next corner there was something on the ground, a lump that hadn’t been there on Jessamine’s practice run the previous evening. Curious, she peered harder through the gloomy near-darkness.
She cut off her gasp before it could fully form.
A guard’s boots protruded from around the corner. His toes pointed up and to the side.
Jessamine glanced around the exhibits, watching for any movement nearby. There was nothing.
She crept through the shadows to the man’s shoulders, carefully nudging aside the bits of glass scattered around his broken lantern.
Dark blood pooled around the guard, spreading outward. Jessamine gathered the hem of her tunic in a fist as she stooped to a crouch. She reached out and touched his hand. It was still warm.
She looked at his face and choked back a retch. His throat had been torn out.
She pressed her eyes closed and tried to breathe. She’d seen slit throats before, but this — this was brutal.
Her fingers trembled against his. This shouldn’t have happened. Avoiding guards was the first rule of entering places unlawfully. Whoever killed him must have been desperate. Thieving wasn’t without risk, but resorting to murder was a faster walk to the gallows.
Jessamine rose to her feet, looking everywhere but at the man by her feet, and bit her lower lip while she thought.
The unknown attacker — the careless fool who contributed to the bad reputation thieves had — could be anywhere in the building, after any display. The fact the break-in had happened on the same night she’d chosen to commit her theft didn’t bother her overmuch — it was the best night for it . . . but her partner would have her running back to the window she’d jimmied if he knew.
Henry wasn’t fond of deviances from his carefully laid plans. But even Henry couldn’t foresee every possible thing that could go wrong.
She could be sensible and turn back, but it was her last chance to nab the device. The military wouldn’t pay them if she didn’t deliver the clockwork cube. She’d already spent most of her coin on the airship to Paris. If she returned empty-handed, with an empty purse, she would face a hungry fortnight while she found another client.
No, that wouldn’t do.
As long as Jessamine didn’t stumble upon the other intruder, no one need ever know she’d been there. And this other thief would likely be blamed for her theft as well.
With a final glance at the dead man and his tattered throat, she turned into the British displays, her steps quickening. At the end of the first exhibit, the flickering light of a lantern threw its pale glow on a machine. Gears and wheels cast long shadows, and another guard slumped against the machine, fresh blood crawling out from under the corpse.
A hiss escaped through Jessamine’s teeth. The other thief was taking the same path she had planned for herself.
Staying to the shadows, Jessamine flitted down the aisle as quickly as she dared. She made her way to the display pedestal, the darkness deepening as she moved away from the light of the guard’s lantern.
Jessamine reached for the device, the velvet cushion brushing her fingertips. It only took a moment for her to be certain. The cushion was bare.
The other thief had stolen her device.
Damn.
She spun on her heel, hoping to catch a glimpse of a retreating figure. She couldn’t be too far behind the thief — the guard hadn’t been dead more than a moment or two when she’d found him, or the blood would have spread more.
There was nothing.
She thought through the different exits she and Henry had considered, wondering which the thief would have chosen.
The deeper shadow to her left seemed to tremble. Jessamine froze, hope rising in her chest. Perhaps she was closer than she’d thought.
Then a shadow across from her rippled.
What the bloody hell, to borrow a phrase from Henry, was going on?
Slowly, she moved her hand toward her back, where her dagger tucked into the waistband of her loose trousers. Before she could grasp it, the shadows all around converged on her.
The air began to vibrate, and the darkness lessened. The shadows took on the shapes of men. They wore loose, black trousers similar to her own. Their black shirts were open to the chest. Their feet were bare, and they moved forward with a sinewy grace.
She cursed under her breath. There were half a dozen Agents surrounding her. Her mouth went dry. Forget fighting, it wasn’t worth it. Jessamine looked for a gap to slip through. If she ran hard, she could hide in the maze of machines.
Before she could break into a sprint, an Agent stepped directly in front of her and spoke, his voice hardly more than a rasp. “Where has the power source been taken?”
The words wormed into her, like an itch left to spread and begin to hurt. She shook her head and pitched her voice low. Men like the Agents — it was best they didn’t learn she wasn’t a man. “I don’t know.”
“Tell us where your associate has taken it.”
Her associate? They thought she was working with the killer? Jessamine bristled. Perhaps the Agents weren’t as brilliant as rumor claimed. “It was no associate of mine. If I knew where it had been taken, I wouldn’t be here, would I? I’d be waiting for the sneak thief so I could finish my job.”
The Agents exchanged glances, as if gauging her truthfulness. They wouldn’t be distracted long. She darted to the side, cutting between two of the figures.
One of the Agents moved with extraordinary speed, flinging his arm in front of her. She ran into it, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her ribs ached as if she’d run into an iron railing.
Jessamine landed on her back. A foot pushed against her chest, holding her down. She pulled on the man’s toes and tried to squirm out from under his foot. The Agent pressed harder, smashing her against the floor as the other Agents surrounded her again, kicking at her when she flailed.
Pain blossomed in her side as she felt, more than heard, the snap of her breaking rib. Jessamine howled in pain. The sound echoed through the Galerie.
Through the tears in her eyes, Jessamine could see the terrifying grin on the face of the Agent who held her down. He dug his heel into her, and it slid across her breast and down along her broken rib. Jessamine fought the blissful darkness trying to take her into a faint.
The Agent above her raised a hand. The other Agents stepped away, without so much as a word. The man standing over Jessamine reached down and pulled off her cap.
Jessamine’s scalp relaxed as her hair fell from its loose knot and spilled over the Agent’s feet.
The man’s teeth flashed in the faint glimmer of light as he leered at Jessamine. She was in too much pain to care. He twisted his hand painfully in the locks at the nape of her neck and yanked her to her feet. “A woman. You’ll break easily.”
In the years Jessamine had scratched out a living in the back streets of London, she’d seen depravity and cruelty. But the evil of the queen’s Agents was beyond anything she’d dealt with. She dug deep for courage, then spat in his face.
He dropped her back to the ground. The floor seemed to hit with more force than it should have, and she gritted her teeth as her broken rib screamed in agony.
The Agents waited patiently for Jessamine to catch her breath. Slowly, achingly, she came to her feet. The room tilted as she tried to find her balance.
She couldn’t run. The speed the Agent had shown in stopping her — she had no chance. They wouldn’t let her escape.
“What do you want from me?” She hardly recognized her voice, filled with such pain.
The Agent in charge forced his lips into what could have been a smile. Jessamine shuddered.
“A quarter hour ago I just wanted the power source. Since it’s not here, I’ll have to settle for you. Your pain, and your screams.” He leaned in close. Trailing his nose up the length of Jessamine’s neck, he breathed in deeply. He drew back just enough for her to watch his tongue play across his lips. “Your blood. You’ll tell us everything before we’re through with you. All your secrets, your hopes, your desires. We’ll give you many, many dreams, and we’ll help you live the most interesting of them.”
“Why?” Jessamine’s voice shook, drawing out the single syllable until it became three.
The Agent shrugged and grabbed her hair again, pulling her up until her toes barely touched the ground. “It’s what we do.” He dropped her back to her feet.
Jessamine tried not to flinch, but a tiny whimper escaped her lips. She’d heard the stories of people taken by the Agents. The few who were ever seen again were hardly identifiable, found in small bits spread throughout London.
The best she could hope for was to be killed quickly.
Jessamine’s mind calmed at the thought, and her pain and terror receded. To escape the torture chambers she would need to encourage her death.
She gathered what little strength she had left and began to run. Pain lanced through her side with every step, and she staggered.
In a practiced motion, each of the Agents drew a short wand from his sleeve. A hum of power surrounded them. Jessamine’s skin prickled and her hair began to raise. The power in the air turned to lightning and darted between the wands, the lightning turned to flame. The flames grew as the men tightened their circle around her.
Then one of the Agents stepped forward. The fire closed behind him, a wall of hungry flames blocking Jessamine’s path.
She stopped her pathetic attempt to run and focused on the man. In his hand was a short club with rounded studs dotting the final few centimeters. He swung it easily, as if testing the weight.
Jessamine stared at the club. Her mind filled with horror. With relief. A solid hit to her head would kill her easily. All she needed to do was fight enough to be rewarded with such a blow.
She drew herself as tall as she could. She met the Agent’s gaze, held it while her hand fumbled to pull the knife from the back of her waistband.
Laughter and jeers echoed through the Galerie.
Jessamine grinned, a feral snarl punctuating the expression. She knew as well as the Agents did — the blade wouldn’t save her.
In one smooth motion, she threw the knife. She heard the thud as her blade drove into the Agent’s neck.
His only reaction was to swing the club. Pain lanced through Jessamine as it hit her ribs. She doubled over, unable to breathe, unable to scream. She attempted to blink the blackness from her eyes so she could see her fate coming.
Before she’d caught a breath the club landed again. It smashed against her spine, forcing her back to arch and her broken rib to creak with the sudden motion. She fell to the ground.
Jessamine ignored the spots in front of her eyes. She fought to get up, to force the man to end her quickly. The best she could manage was a glare as she tried to raise herself to her elbows.
The club hit the side of her head, and she knew nothing more.
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