Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly #1)(13)

I knocked. As the moments ticked by and no one answered the door, my determination faded and frustration wormed in.

I pressed at the handle to check if the door was locked. It flew open and promptly hit something—presumably glass, judging by its spectacular crash.

This was followed by a furious bellowing, sounding much like I imagined an enraged bull would.

Steeling myself, I stepped inside and peered around the door.

“Didn’t you see the sign?” shouted a lanky man with tousled, corn-blond hair. He stood beside a table, his shirtsleeves rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt undone. All his exposed skin sent an embarrassed warmth through my face.

As if he wasn’t frightening enough with so much profanity, he also wore the strangest set of goggles I’d ever seen. They covered half his face and were made of shiny brass with thick, clear lenses that made his eyes look like grass-green croquet balls.

And he was looking at me as if he expected an answer.

“P-pardon me?” I asked.

“Didn’t you see the sign?” he snapped.

I glanced behind. “Well, yes.”

“So?” He rolled his hands in a quick, wheel-like movement as if to say “Now what?”

“I knocked,” I said sheepishly, “but no one answered.”

“Because I’m busy.” He stomped toward me, and I shrank back, ready to retreat through the open door should his expression turn any more menacing.

“S-sorry,” I stammered.

“You should be,” he said. “You’ve contaminated my grave dirt—look!” He thrust a finger toward the floor. I flicked my eyes down. Soil and glass covered the ground.

I opened my mouth to apologize but clamped it back shut at the sight of his blinking, goggled eyes and sharp frown.

“See that?” he barked. “D’you know how hard it is to get dirt from Laurel Hill? I ought to make you get more! Make you face the Dead and...”

I stopped listening. His hands flailed up, down, and side to side as he declared me reckless, thoughtless, and I even think I heard rude mentioned.

I took his foulmouthed moment to examine the room, which was no bigger than my bedroom, all the edges crammed with books, flasks, and trunks. There was just enough space at the center for several people to move about (albeit closely). Light shone from a single, tall window at the back. Behind the goggled young man, a table stood covered with wrenches, screws, wires, and other equipment one might find in an inventor’s lair.

My breath caught as my eyes rested on a telegraph like the telegraphs at the fire stations—telegraphs that spring to life when a fire alarm sounds. This one must be connected to the Dead alarms.

“And,” the young man said, interrupting my thoughts with a forceful fist in the air, “I needed it to calibrate my goggles!” His chest heaved as if he’d just fought a boxing match, and I decided silence remained my best response. After several empty seconds, his hand dropped and he cleared his throat. He slid off the goggles’ strap and gently eased the lenses from his face.

I blinked in surprise. The lenses were no longer clear but a murky brown. How had the glass changed color? My surprise grew when I noticed that, with his face fully exposed, the blond man was quite young—perhaps only a few years older than me. He had red dents on his face from the goggles, and his formerly bulbous eyes were now normal and entirely too predatory.

He folded his arms over his chest. “You’ve ruined my experiment.”

I took a weary breath, lifted my hands, and purred, “I’m truly sorry, sir.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re a kitten.

“I thought it might calm you.”

“I don’t need calming,” he snapped. “If you’ll just leave, that’ll take care of everything.” He pointed to the door. “There’s the exit.”

I blinked. Part of me wanted to flee his short temper and take refuge in well-bred manners. But another part of me wanted to let my indignation loose. I hadn’t come all this way to let some green-eyed, scruffy-faced boy stand in my way.

Indignation won. “Now see here, I’ve come to see the Spirit-Hunters.” I jabbed my parasol to emphasize each word. “I won’t leave until I speak with them.”

“What would a lady”—he drew out the word like “laaaay-dee” and waved in my direction—”possibly need the Spirit-Hunters for?”

“That is none of your business.” I pushed my shoulders back, bristling at his snooty superiority. “I will speak with Mr. Boyer and Mr. Boyer only.”

“Is that so?” He rocked his weight onto his heels and examined me from head to toe. My face burned under the scrutiny.

He stepped close to me. I had to roll my head back to see his face—he was at least half a foot taller—and he gazed down with barely concealed distaste.

“I have grave dirt to sweep,” he said, “so if you’ll be stayin’ around for Mr. Boyer, could you at least stand somewhere else?” He gripped me by both arms and pushed me backward out the door. I was so shocked to be touched I couldn’t even protest. All I could do was skitter back where he directed. Even if I’d wanted to stop, my eyes were locked on the very near and very disturbing open collar and exposed throat.