“Sadly, the train leaves soon,” he said. “So instead of”—he bent to whisper close to her ear—“lifting your skirt, pulling down your drawers, and kissing you there until you can’t stand…” He straightened, brushing back his hair casually, “We should get our tickets.”
And while Beth was fanning herself with both hands now in an urgent effort to stave off internal combustion, he opened the door to the booking hall—
And stumbled back, shouting in alarm, as the booby trap Herr Oberhufter had predicted hit him in the face, literally.
Beth glimpsed a flash of yellow and white, a furious blur of wings, and identified Sula dactylatra sicarius, the masked assassin booby, with a speed that proved just how clever indeed she was when it came to birds. Unfortunately, that cleverness did not extend itself to avoiding said bird; it swooped at her, slamming a webbed foot against her shoulder before flying out of reach again. Hot magic spiked through her nerves, and Beth staggered in pain, almost dropping the caladrius’s cage. An inch higher and that blow would have knocked her unconscious.
“Everyone run!” Devon shouted as he turned, arms crooked defensively over his head, to track the bird’s movement.
“Hey, you’re those orthologigs!” someone shouted.
“Has she got the caladrius in that cage?” someone else shouted.
Nobody ran. In fact, they clustered nearer, voices rising with enthusiasm, as the booby emitted a high-pitched whistle and dove again. Beth ducked, holding the birdcage protectively against her legs, and Devon hunched over her. She enjoyed only the briefest delight in his gallant behavior before he grunted with pain as the booby struck his shoulder blade. Magic speared right through him to crackle against Beth’s skin. The bird soared up and they straightened, looking around for some means of capturing it.
“Use your special net, Professor Pickering!” someone in the crowd suggested.
“I’ve got an umbrella you can have!” another called out.
Devon began removing his coat. “I’ll try to catch it,” he told Beth. “Worst-case scenario, I have Oberhufter’s gun. Stand back, keep the caladrius safe.”
She nodded, smiling encouragement. The vitality of the past few days flashed between them, the laughter and the passion, making that brief moment feel like an eternity of perfection. Then Devon smiled quickly, brightly, in reply before turning away. Taking the coat in his hands, he gave it a brisk flap.
The crowd cheered. “Catch that bird!” began a general chant, accompanied by rhythmic clapping. “Catch that bird!”
Wincing at the noise, Beth backed up, all the while trying to unhook the latch of her satchel one-handedly so she could hunt for something that might subdue the booby. But someone tugged on her arm.
PEEP! the caladrius complained as its cage jerked.
Glancing around, Beth discovered Hippolyta standing close behind her, a great deal more colorful than the lolly stand, and significantly less sweet. “Hello, Elizabeth dear,” she said, smiling viciously as she clamped one hand around Beth’s wrist.
“Let go!” Beth demanded (proving that even the most intelligent woman can be hopelessly naive at times). Hippolyta only chuckled and gripped more tightly.
Eeeeeeee!
The booby’s piercing whistle sounded as it attacked again. Devon flung his coat over it with perfect timing and the bird tumbled, crashing into him in a chaos of wings and cloth. As he staggered, the crowd cheered again with a rather bloodthirsty enjoyment of the show.
“Time to go,” Hippolyta snarled in Beth’s ear, and began tugging her through the crowd. “Gladstone’s waiting for you.”
Beth gasped. “How could you do this?!”
“An ornithologist has to play the long game. You’ll understand one day.”
“Never!” Beth declared. “Help! Help!”
But her voice was lost in the hullabaloo of the crowd as Devon wrestled the booby safely to the ground. Glancing back, Beth saw his face dripping blood, his jaw clenched as he worked to firmly but carefully wrangle the bird inside his coat. He was hurt! In a rush of panic, she began kicking Hippolyta, but the woman’s skirts were so layered, it was like kicking a cloud. Suddenly, one of Gladstone’s servants appeared before them.
“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the train.
“No!” Beth shouted. It didn’t matter. The servant snatched the birdcage from her and both he and Hippolyta hauled her across to the open door of a first-class compartment. Professor Gladstone sat within, smoke billowing serenely from his pipe. Beth increased her struggle, but the servant just shoved her through the doorway. She landed hard on her hands and knees on the compartment floor, hair falling around her face. Shaking it back, she glared up at Gladstone.
“Tsk tsk,” he said, tipping his spectacles so as to frown over their rim at her. “D-minus for attitude, Pickering. A Birder of the Year and tenured professor deports herself more elegantly than that.”
He snapped his fingers, and the servant hauled Beth up, placing her on the seat opposite Gladstone. The caladrius’s cage was set beside her, and she immediately laid a protective hand on it.
“Make way,” Hippolyta ordered majestically, lifting her skirts so as to enter the compartment. But the servant pushed her back, and she did not even have time to take Jove’s name in vain before the door was slammed shut. The servant yanked the window’s curtain closed and positioned himself before the door, feet apart, arms crossed. One look at his bulging triceps, to say nothing of the pistol strapped to his thigh, and Beth knew she had no hope of escaping. Outside, Hippolyta bashed on the door, hollering furiously, but then apparently decided on a new tactic. Silence fell. The world shrank to one small train compartment filled with the smells of pipe smoke and bird guano.
“Kabelo, run and tell the engineer that his clock is slow,” Gladstone ordered. “We want to be gone before Lockley realizes what’s happened and tries to play hero.”
“I’m the one you should worry about,” Beth said with a fierceness she actually felt.
But Gladstone only laughed. “You talk as if I don’t know you, Pickering. You wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”
“I beg your pardon, but that’s not true. There was a goose in Liberia that I—”
Peep! cried the caladrius at that moment, wings fluttering madly. At once, Beth forgot everything but her concern for it. Lifting the cage, she peered beneath its cover. The bird was clinging to the vertical bars, scraping its beak against them. Its tail fanned out, twitching; its feathers were fluffed up; and wet splotches of guano littered the cage floor. Even as Beth watched, leaf buds began to appear along the wooden perch.
Setting the cage down, Beth gave Gladstone a somber look. “The bird is distressed.”
He shrugged. “It will be fine.”
“Its magic has become unstable, thanks to whatever you’ve been doing to it. I fear that if it doesn’t fly soon, to release the thaumaturgic energy, it will become ill or die. We must set it free in a safe place.”
“Set it free?” Gladstone sputtered, his bushy goatee twitching. “Why would I be so stupid? I will be using my finely honed behavioral training techniques to get it into good performing shape, then touring it around England to demonstrate its healing abilities.”
Beth gasped with shock. “But it’s only a juvenile!”
“Best time for training. I’ve had good success with other thaumaturgic birds thus far, and I anticipate plenty of funding to come my way because of it. But the caladrius will be the star in my crown.”
