"Rife with Steampunkian Elements, this Urban Fantasy in an Alternate London Promises a Damn Good TIme"
Reviewed by Diana Troldahl
Posted June 16, 2011
Fantasy Steampunk
When the archivist for the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences,
Wellington Books, finds himself awaiting torture at the
hands of a dark secret society his life is saved by an
explosives-loving heavily armed member of the Ministry who
also happens to be a very attractive (although quite
violent) member of the fairer sex. Eliza D. Braun is far from an ideal agent. She tends to
adapt the Ministry's protocols to the needs of the moment
which has landed her in the archives herself. She and her
new partner Books manage to find adventure beyond the tomes
and artifacts when they uncover new leads in a case Eliza's
former partner was pursuing (before he was forcibly retired
from the Ministry). In her opinion the case should never
have been dropped. Any force or organization that was
leaving bodies lying about without bones or skin was
dangerous and directly related to the mission of the
Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. She need only whip Books
into proper field-agent shape and she can do a final service
for her former partner. Rife with Steampunkian elements, PHOENIX RISING is an
eminently satisfying adventure into the world of an
alternate Victorian London, one ruled by the power of steam
mixed well with arcane forces. I can't remember having such
a good time caught up in a story unless it was seeing
Indiana Jones for the first time. Books and Braun will
linger in the back of my mind until their next adventure
(Cogs and Corsets) comes to my greedy hands.
SUMMARY
Evil is most assuredly afoot--and Britain's fate rests in
the hands of an alluring renegade...and a librarian. These are dark days indeed in Victoria's England. Londoners
are vanishing, then reappearing, washing up as corpses on
the banks of the river Thames, drained of blood and bone.
Yet the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences-- the Crown's
clandestine organization whose area of expertise is the
strange and unsettling--will not allow its agents to
investigate. But fearless and exceedingly lovely heroin,
Eliza D. Braun, with her bulletproof corset and disturbing
fondness for dynamite, refuses to let the matter remain
unquestioned. And she's prepared to do whatever it takes,
including dragging her timid new partner, librarian
Wellington Books, along with her into the perilous fray. A malevolent brotherhood is operating in the deepening
London shadows, intent upon the enslavement of all Britons.
And this dynamic duo of Books and Braun--Wellington with his
encyclopedic brain, and Eliza with her remarkable
devices--must get to the twisted roots of a most nefarious
plot...or see England fall to the Phoenix.
ExcerptChapter One
Wherein Our Intrepid Heroes Meet for the
First Time and Start Off with a Bang!
Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, had never heard an
explosion that close before. Considering the ringing in his
ears, he would most likely never hear another one like it
again. Splinters, both of the wooden and metal variety, pelted his
face, but he was far too distracted to notice anything
painful. Perhaps they were from the cell door; perhaps they
were from the contraption which held him fast. Was the
engineer responsible for this torture device still where he
was before the explosion? What of the guards? Time slowed,
seeming to creep and flow as in the languid dreams of a
deep sleep. Two strange pops rang in his ears through the hum the
explosion had left in its wake. He still could see nothing,
but was grateful that he had been kidnapped by a gentleman—
one that had seen fit not to strip him of his clothes
before shackling him to the wall. Only a complete cad would
practice such ungentlemanly behaviour. His clothing had
served him well as a minimal shield from the debris, but as
his wrists were bound over his head, all he could do was
turn his head, screw his eyes shut, and hope for the best. Creeping through the hum in his ears was another sound—the
undulating blaring of klaxons alerting the complex to the
intrusion. Considering the very liberal amount of dynamite
used on his cell door, he assumed this was a fullon assault
from the Ministry. He felt a swell of pride. It felt good
to be so appreciated. A lady emerged from the smoke and debris—though her
improper fashions indicated she was unworthy of the title.
She was wearing pinstripe breeches tucked neatly into boots
that stopped just above the knee. More disturbing than the
fact this "lady" was wearing trousers were the sticks of
dynamite strapped around her thighs. The boots also had
several sheaths for throwing knives. The bodice she was
wearing was a black leather device, which not only served
to lift the petite woman’s bosom up but also provided a
secure surface for the baldric she wore across it. All this
was accented with an impressive, fur coat that flowed
around her like a cape. The stillness she engendered in the moment seemed odd to
Wellington. Her gaze fixed on him, and there was no relief
in her expression. She looked to be sizing him up. Her pistols finally lowered as she spoke. Wellington’s ears
had cleared enough that her voice was discernable. "You Books?" she asked, sheathing her weapons. Wellington coughed and spluttered before managing a
choked, "Yes." "Jolly good then—I’d hate to have come all this way for
nothing." She applied a queer-looking key to the restraints
holding his wrists. Wellington was relieved to hear the
metallic ring of iron snapping open and again as she freed
his ankles. She knocked away from him the array of needles
that had almost turned him into a human pincushion. A few
quick, hard blinks, and Wellington observed his
interrogator on his face, the remains of the door
protruding from his back. There was a touch of poetry that,
in falling to the ground, his tray of blades, needles, and
other vile instruments had toppled on top of him,
decorating his corpse with the tools of his trade. Close by
his tormentor’s body were two guards, freshly shot. A deceptively delicate hand grabbed a handful of
waistcoat. "Introductions later. Running now," she said,
yanking him off the wall. Wellington would have liked a chance to examine this Angel
of Destruction more closely, but she was correct in that
they had to get away—and, from the sound of distant voices
adding to the clamor of the klaxons, rather quickly. While
he felt exhilarated to step out of his prison cell, the dim
lighting and smooth stone surfaces enveloping him only
served as a reminder that he was deep within the stronghold
of the House of Usher. As he followed his savior into the
torch-lit passageways, Wellington still struggled to
ascertain how this secret society of ne’er-do-wells was
able to deduce his position within the equally secretive
Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. Presently unable to write anything down, Wellington made a
mental note nonetheless to inform the Director they had a
serious breach of security somewhere. After the third left
into another identical stone corridor, into another row of
prison cells, he wondered if he would live to share his
deductions with anyone. "Do you know which way you are going?" he asked, his voice
cracking slightly. "Yes, we’re going"—she paused at a junction, her head
whipping to either side—"this way." Her hand on his jacket
once again jerked him firmly after her. They came upon another junction, identical to the other
four they had already taken, when she immediately scooted
back into the passageway and shoved him hard into the curve
of its stone wall. On feeling the back of his skull kiss
rock again, Wellington realised with horror he was being
managed! This would not stand, he thought, even in such
outrageous circumstances. "Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire," he blurted, sticking
out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Agent..." One hand slapped across his mouth as the other one drew one
of the earlier-sheathed pistols. A regiment of foot
soldiers ran by them, but her cold, hard gaze kept him as
still as she had been in his cell. After a few seconds, she tore her palm away and glared at
him. "Introductions?" she whispered sharply, "Are you mad?" Wellington stared at her, and repeated, "Wellington
Thornhill Books, Esquire and Chief Archivist at the
Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. And you are?" She let out an exasperated sigh. "Eliza D. Braun, Field
Agent." Her eyes darted behind him, and the gunshot echoed
through the crypt. Wellington turned to see the foot
soldier crumple to the ground, still clutching his rifle.
She smiled slightly. "Currently saving your arse for the
Ministry. Come on!" Wellington tried to will his heart to pump faster, his
lungs to take more air so that he could run a little bit
longer. The world began to dissolve, picked apart by a
fatal rainstorm that fell around them both. Agent Braun reached behind her to remove a small cannon
strapped on her back. "Just stay on this path, Books. I’ll
be right behind you!" The gunfire managed to strike only rock and earth. Then
came three heavy detonations. They were hardly enough to
cause a cave-in, but the cave did an ample service in
amplifying and containing their individual shocks.
Wellington, through the next volley of heavy fire, kept
running forward.
Had the bullets stopped? He could no longer hear the
soldiers or their rifle fire. Darkness enveloped him for an
instant, and then he saw a light ahead of them, pouring in
an open peephole set in a cast-iron door. It was blinding
white, more brilliant than anything he had seen before in
his life. His hands pressed against the hatch, and he felt
its chill. This was it: the way out! The sound of something heavy dragging across the dirt
snapped him back to the reality colder and harder than
theoutside world. They were still trapped inside the
fortress, and Field Agent Eliza D. Braun was making a
barricade for each of them; placing barrels right in front
of the locked door. They settled in between these, resting their backs against
the wall. Wellington looked across the corridor at her. "What are you doing?" he finally asked, the klaxons still
distant but the sounds of soldiers growing louder. "Thinking." She began loading bullets into her pistols, the
imposing cannon she was wielding earlier now lying by her
feet. Satisfied she had enough, she snapped them shut and
gripped the pistols firmly, framing her rather sweet face
with the two weapons. Wellington crooked an eyebrow. "Thinking?" A bullet ricocheted not two inches from her head. "Yes,"
she replied calmly, "I always think better when I am being
shot at." Agent Braun leaned out, spraying the space before them with
bullets that either found their mark or served to keep
Usher’s henchmen at bay. Wellington’s eyes darted from one
side to the other, catching only a shadow of a helmet or a
rifle barrel. "Wouldn’t you think better if you used that?" he asked,
motioning to the cannon. "Katherina there is an experimental model from the Armory,"
Agent Braun said, considering the impressive gun. "I’ll
have to tell them three shots just isn’t enough!" Blasted clankertons. Wellington managed not to let the
swear escape him. She came from the top of their barricade on this volley,
finishing off what was left in both pistols. Braun leaned
back against the wall, her satisfied grin fading the longer
she looked at him. "Books," she snapped, "where’s the bloody rifle?" "What rifle?" Through her gritted teeth she replied, "The rifle the
soldier I shot in the corridor was carrying!" "Oh, was I supposed to pick it up?" Her deep breath was interrupted by more bullets tearing
into the earth. She snapped both pistols open and reloaded
them. Agent Braun considered Wellington for a moment. One
of the pistols twirled in her grip, and then she tossed it
to him, handle first. The weapon bounced in Wellington’s hands like it was fresh
from the forge. He immediately cast it back to her. Barrel first. "Bloody hell," she gasped, making certain it was pointed
away from her. "Madam, I am an Archivist for a reason!" "I need another gun, Books! What bloody good is a librarian
down here at present?" "Archivist!" he retorted. The howl from outside made Eliza’s head snap up, as she
leaned to the left to let out another volley of gunfire. He
peered into the blinding white of the world outside.
Freedom. It was theirs, merely a single turn of a handle
and they were— "Don’t!" Agent Braun snapped, causing
Wellington to start. "Just keep away from the door, Books." "Whatever are you on about?" Why weren’t they having this
conversation elsewhere, say, the other side of this door? "We’re almost—" "Dead, that’s what we are," she stated, so final and
certain that Wellington furrowed his brow. "The door is a
deathtrap. Look at the lock." The mechanism appeared as a thick metal box the size of a
man’s fist, a large man’s fist. Two cast iron coils came
from the door frame and ran into the dial-decorated cube
with four metallic tentacles reaching upward and
disappearing into the stone ceiling above them. He adjusted his spectacles on the tip of his nose to get a
closer look at the numbers within the dials. He knew there
were bullets still biting at the rock walls, and even a few
struck above his head, the sparks lighting their little
alcove for a moment. These bullets, though, were far less
important than this puzzle.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Braun extending
her leg. His throat grew dry. "What are you doing?" "The door’s armed to blow, right?" She grasped a stick of
dynamite. "I’m going to help it along." The woman was quite mad, and he was going to have to treat
her as such. "But the rest of your team is on their way,"
Wellington said as calmly as the situation allowed. "The Ministry remains rather underfunded by the Crown,
Books, and I was given the choice of either backup or more
dynamite." She held up the stick. "I went with what I could
trust." Bullets ate away at the barrels shielding them. One or two
planks buckled. Their makeshift barricade would not last
much longer. "Throw it," he shouted over the gunfire. "What?" "Throw it!" he insisted. "I can solve this lock." She cocked her head, her eyes narrowing just before another
spray of bullets danced along the walls—one even ripped
through her chemise sleeve. "Trust me. I can do this, I just need a moment to—" Agent Braun grabbed from her baldric what appeared to be a
lapel pin comprised of clockwork gears and cogs,
fractionally larger than his thumbnail. She pierced the top
of the stick and flipped an unseen switch on the tiny
device in one smooth motion. She had a good arm, but even so the explosion rang
Wellington’s head like a bell in Westminster Cathedral.
Small bits of rock rained down on them for a few seconds
and then the shock subsided. Dimly he discerned her muttering, "Bugger." Her eyes
shifted back to him as she started to pull from other
holsters pistols varying in size and caliber. "Right,
you’ve got your moment, Books. Solve the lock." Braun continued to produce sidearm upon sidearm from her
shoulder baldric. This was where they would make their
stand apparently, and it was up to Wellington Books to make
sure it was not their last. There was not much light to work with, but some compound
inside the cast-iron box gave the numbers a phosphorescent
glow. He looked at the range of numbers, letters, and
symbols on the dials, twenty-one by quick count, all of
them appearing random. If they were in seven sets of three
or three sets of seven, this would be a simple cipher; but
he needed a key. A simple key. It had to be simple for
those here to use regularly. Devilishly clever, he thought to himself. He admired its
chaos, its non-sequential anarchy which, one could argue,
reflected what the House of Usher—"You said you could solve
it!" Braun was firing into the dust and debris—so obviously
someone had survived.
"Time is a bit of a luxury here, mate!" A key. That was what he needed for this puzzle—something
that would make sense of the dials. Wellington glanced up
to the small window looking out to freedom, even if the
freedom consisted of a vast wasteland of ice. That
certainly explained her coat. A veil of snow obscured his
vista, and the howl of the wind intensified. He needed to
know more. Where the hell were they? Yes, it was a rather silly question but it did
matter. "Agent Braun—where exactly are you from, may I ask?" Braun shot him an incredulous look. "Beg your pardon?" "Where are you from, Agent Braun? I can tell by your
dialect that you are not from any district of England—" "Well, I’m not a Pom!" she spat before unleashing a volley
of bullets. Books glanced over his shoulder to see the
shadows stir and then grow still, but only for a moment as
the dark moved again, this time shooting as they advanced. "It would be jolly nice," she shouted over the gunfire she
shared with the oncoming soldiers, "if you’d do something
useful!" "Where—are—you—" Wellington insisted. "New Zealand!" she shouted as she sheathed both spent
pistols and then picked up two more from the ground, "More
precisely, Wellington, if you must know!" It made perfect sense. Send in a specialist—one familiar
with the region. "Where is our pickup to take place?" "Just outside!" she shouted, firing off three
rounds. "Airship is going to swing by the fortress and pick
us up!" "And did you give them coordinates?" "Why bother?" she scoffed before shooting again. "This is
the only dark fortress within sight of Mount Erebus. Would be hard to miss!" Wellington quickly turned back to the door and began
muttering to himself. Geographic location. Height. Summit
elevation. Yes, he was certain. This was what he did, after
all, for Queen and Country. And then finally, his fingers
began turning dials. He had dialed the final entry—"E"—into the lock when he
heard a pair of dull thuds behind him.
Wellington looked over his shoulder to see his Angel from
the Colonies pick up the last two pistols, the ones she had
been brandishing when she first appeared in his cell.
Beautiful things, they were: the barrels were of gleaming
brass and their handles appeared to be ivory inlaid with a
deep green stone. Others might have mistaken the decoration for jade, but
Wellington recognised they were the sacred stone of New
Zealand—pounamu. Before she grasped them completely, he
noted the design: a Hei-Hei, a powerful good-luck symbol.
The wearer of this tiki was considered clear thinking,
clever, and dedicated to a cause, their greatest strength
being character. "What’s with the smile, Books?" Yes, he was smiling at her. Fancy that. "I thought it would be nice to catch an airship,"
Wellington said proudly. "No need to keep the hired help
waiting." The latch came down with a quick groan and sharp thud.
Agent Braun blinked at the sudden light flooding their
corridor. The wind was colder and sharper than he could
have expected, but it was an exhilarating feeling. "How did you—" Wellington motioned to the dials, now clear in the blinding
white of this continent’s eternal winter. The lock display
read 77°31'48" S, 167°10'12" E. "Bloody hell, Books," Braun shook her head, replacing the
cannon she referred to as Katerina back into her back
holster. "Did you just pull those numbers out of your arse?" "Madam, this is what I do. I am an—" A bullet struck the
open door, showering them with sparks. Eliza answered the
shot with three of her own. "I got it the first time—you’re
an archivist! Move it!" She slapped a pair of tinted
goggles into his stomach. "You’ll need these or you won’t
see a bloody thing. Lucky for you I carry a spare." The climate had a sobering effect. Needles of cold tore
through his suit pants and shoes. Agent Eliza Braun and her
entirely unfeminine garb, however, made easy work of the
snow. "You didn’t happen to bring a spare coat with you, Agent
Braun?" Eliza didn’t reply. At first. "Sorry, mate. I needed to
travel light." Travel light? A small arsenal of handguns, throwing knives,
sticks of dynamite, and that small cannon strapped to her
back was traveling light? Wellington’s discomfort dissipated at the sight of the
airship rumbling towards them, a rope ladder dangling from
the bottom of its cabin. He spared a glance behind them to
see the fortress’s massive main doors opening like some
great maw, expelling soldiers properly attired for the
weather and armoured transports rumbling alongside them. Atop the stronghold’s battlements, massive cannons were
coming to bear. Wellington shook his head, looking up at the
airship. "They’ll shoot us down before we can—" Her grin was both wide and unsettling as she snaked her arm
into the rope ladder. "Just hold on to me, Welly!" Welly? Agent Braun pulled his arms tight around her waist. She
then fired up at the airship, her bullet striking close to
what appeared to be a purposefully painted bullseye. With
the ring of a distant clunk, they were both hoisted through
the cold, the speed of their ascent quite knocking the
remaining breath out of Books. The ride upward suddenly
stopped, and Wellington felt himself slip free. He
scrambled to avoid falling to his death, latching onto what
was immediately at hand. It was only when Braun called out "Lads, pull me in quick,
or this bookworm is going to ruin my favorite bodice!" that
Wellington realised what he was hanging onto. He was caught
between etiquette and death for quite the longest moment of
a rather extraordinary day. A sudden heave from the crewmembers, and Wellington was
finally able to free his grip. The redness in his cheeks
would take far longer to subside however. The only hint of
cold now was the floor they remained sprawled across. In
Wellington’s ears came a low rumbling sound. Engines.
Propellers. The airship was now listing sharply. He looked up to see Agent Braun looking out of a porthole.
The bodice appeared to be stretched a bit, but it was still
intact. For some reason, Wellington took relief in that. Groaning, he picked himself up from the floor of the hold
and joined her at the window. "That was quite invigorating." She pulled out the two
vanity pistols and chuckled. "Between them, four bullets
left. You know how to show a lady to a good time." "One moment, Agent Braun," Wellington said, trying to
regain something of his composure. "You said you chose
ordnance over additional Ministry-sponsored personnel. So
where are these explosives?!" "Where I left them, naturally." The stronghold’s centre erupted as Mount Erebus would have
done in its heyday. The cannons threatening to pluck them
from the chilly heavens instead toppled back as plumes of
fire and black smoke bellowed upward. Wellington could make
out enemy soldiers attempting to flee, but a second
explosion rocked the fortress. Another gout of fire tossed
debris in all directions; and then in what appeared to be
the opening of Satan’s Dominion itself, the fortress
vanished in a ball of orange fire and pitch-black smoke.
Their airship listed again, only to right itself moments
later. Through the porthole, they both could see the icy
landscape of Antarctica scarred by darkness, destruction,
and death. Wellington looked at Agent Braun as if for the
first time. "Good Lord, woman. You are an idiot!"
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