Ultimate Nyssa Glass: Nyssa Glass

By H. L. Burke

Get all five Nyssa Glass Adventures in this omnibus collection.

Nyssa Glass is a reformed cat burglar turned electrician's apprentice, settled into a life repairing videophones and radio-sets. However, when her past comes calling, she finds herself on the run for a murder she did not commit. As her quiet life goes up in sparks, she must face killer robots, menacing villains, and sarcastic computers in a race for survival. Nyssa has her hands full just trying to stay one step ahead of the police, but she still has time for adventure, humor, and even a taste of romance.

The Realm Award Winner for Young Adult Fiction, 2016

 "With the combination of action, humor, suspense, romance and even a bit of horror, the Nyssa Glass series is a page-turner that has something for everyone and not just for its YA readers. " Lit Amri for Readers' Favorite

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. L. Burke
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224699308

Book preview

Chapter One

L ate, late, late . .. Nyssa Glass nearly bowled over a wind-up paper-vendor as she emerged from her boarding house, her ruffled skirts swishing around her knee-high, buttoned boots. She clutched her leather satchel to her chest and inhaled the comforting, nutty smell of the flaxseed oil she’d polished it with the night before. The satchel was her most prized possession, carefully constructed with pockets for all her various tools, but stylish enough that she could wear it to church functions without drawing attention.

Mr. Calloway, her employer and mentor, always insisted on escorting her to church functions, but being away from her tools made her anxious, a throwback to keeping lockpicks in her back pocket, she supposed. If Mr. Calloway had made that connection, he probably would’ve tried to break her of the habit. He seemed to see it as a harmless quirk, though.

Nyssa searched her brain for an excuse for her tardiness. It wasn’t really one thing that had caused her to be late. More of a series of minute annoyances. Laces snapping on her corset, for instance. She hated her corset. It hadn’t been a required part of her wardrobe until the last year or so. Before her enrollment in Miss Pratchett’s School for Mechanically Minded Maids, no one had cared if she dressed like a boy. Now that she was a graduate of that prestigious school, though, she had to dress her status and age.

Turning sixteen seemed to have only brought on more wardrobe restrictions and pimples ... the pimples being the second thing to go wrong that morning, though she supposed it was her own fault for letting them distract her. Normally she wouldn’t bother with make up, but the size of the red spot on the bridge of her nose had sent her begging her roommate for powder. Then breakfast was burned, keys were misplaced, and their elderly landlady had caught her in the hallway and wanted to chat.

Should’ve just shouted, ‘sorry, late,’ and ran for it. Nyssa shook her head at her own weakness. No, you had to not only say 'I'm doing fine, thank you,' but ask her how her parakeet was faring as well.

The air was cool, but hazy with the exhaust from the nearby steam-power plant. The click of the inner workings of New Taured's automated button factory rose above her footsteps, causing her to walk in time with that rhythm. A few folk lingered on the sidewalk, milling about; however, most shops wouldn't open for another hour. Mr. Calloway liked to open early to make the most of the day.

Nyssa liked to stay up late then sleep until her alarm clock screamed at her.

The clock tower at the end of the street clanged for seven o’clock. She clenched her teeth.

As she turned onto Clockwork Row, the timepiece store on the corner erupted in a cacophony of chimes, bells, and cuckoos. She wasn’t sure how the keeper tolerated that going off every hour on the hour. Nyssa needed silence to work ... well, silence except for the sound of her own voice. Talking to herself was another of her harmless quirks.

Lights shone through the windows of Mr. Calloway’s shop, the painted letters declaring his ability to repair all forms of videophones, radios, and signal sending devices. The sign in the door already read open.

She pushed open the door, triggering a mechanism which chimed out the first several bars of a lullaby, and Nyssa smiled in spite of herself. It was a new tune today. Mr. Calloway liked to mix it up every so often.

The old man pushed down his magnifying goggles and smiled at Nyssa from the other side of the counter. Ah, there you are. My watch must be fast.

Your watch, the clock tower, and the two hundred or so timepieces in the store next door? She raised her eyebrows.

I know. Coincidences abound. He bent back over the inner workings of a radio.

Nyssa mulled over her options. Just because Mr. Calloway wasn’t going to make a big fuss over her being late didn’t mean he didn’t deserve an explanation, but as she’d hashed out on the way over, there wasn’t really an explanation, not a concise one anyway. It won’t happen again, she said simply.

Hiking her skirts to just above her knees, she vaulted over the counter.

Mr. Calloway pushed a schematic towards her. Dalhart & Rivera is launching an upgraded version of their videophone next month. They sent out advanced schematics this morning, so we can be prepared for questions and complete any repairs.

Nyssa unrolled the fresh white paper, inked in blue. It took her a full three minutes of scanning to spot the first difference between the new and the old. Is this all? A slightly larger viewscreen and one or two new vacuum tubes? That hardly seems worth the trouble of a relaunch.

Ah, but you know every wealthy patron will wish to upgrade their in-home system, just to say they have the latest and the greatest. Mr. Calloway gave a wry smile. His watery blue eyes looked huge through the lenses of his glasses.

Nyssa looked away to avoid laughing.

It’s a shame, though. When the company was just ‘Dalhart Incorporated,’ they built things to last forever, not to be replaced every six months. He waved to the wall behind him where a bronze-framed screen rested. I purchased that model almost a decade ago, when I took the shop over from my father. Still works like a charm.

If by like a charm you mean makes the caller sound like they are under a foot of water and look like they’re standing in front of a carnival mirror. Still, you have to admire the simplicity of those first models. Made to do one thing forever and do it the best. A lot of people could learn from that.

Mr. Calloway dabbed at his bald head with a handkerchief. I want to do a quick inventory. You have the counter. Don’t scare off any customers, young lady. He winked and left through the swinging door into the back.

Nyssa glanced over the counter. Mr. Calloway’s tools were scattered everywhere, completely ignoring the outlines she’d made to mark each instrument’s designated place. She clicked her tongue, and hung her satchel on a hook behind the counter.

For as much pride as he has in this shop, you’d think he’d keep it in better order.

I heard that! Calloway called from the back.

She chuckled. Sorry, I forgot you weren’t deaf yet, just senile.

Hardy har har. If it matters so much to you, clean it up yourself.   

Nyssa laughed, shook her head, and began lining up wrenches, spanners, and crimpers. She sorted the spools of wire by gauge and the vacuum tubes by size before spinning around to polish the reliable, old videophone’s screen.

Trusty old Dalhart 2. She swiped a muslin cloth over the raised lettering declaring the maker and the model number.

The lullaby chimed, and she turned with her best smile pasted across her face. Not that she didn’t like people, in small doses, but she was told her default face made her look cold and indifferent. People could be so darn sensitive.

A man with dark glasses and a top hat shadowing his pale face strode in. He wore a black raincoat with the collar pulled up to the corners of his thin mouth. He grinned at her as if she were a tasty leg of lamb and he a slavering dog.

Nyssa’s smile melted. She forced her lips back into an appropriate expression, but her hands gripped the edge of the counter. Can I help you? she asked.

A charming little shop. You are the saleswoman, yes?

I can also do repairs. I have an electrician and mechanic's license. She waved towards her own framed diploma, resting next to the yellowed one belonging to Mr. Calloway.

The man stepped to the wall and squinted at the document. "Ah, then you are Nyssa Glass."

That’s the name they printed on the certificate anyway. Nyssa shrugged, beginning to feel impatient. Did you need a repair or are you looking to purchase a device? We will be discounting our videophones soon to make way for the new models.

The man grunted and paced towards the door.

Nyssa’s shoulders relaxed. Thank God, he’s leaving.

The man stopped, his back to her. Something glinted on the band of his top hat. Two somethings ... Nyssa squinted then flinched back. A pair of yellow eyes blinked at her from the back of his hat. Her breath caught in her throat, and she resisted the urge to rub her eyes. She wavered for a moment between calling for Mr. Calloway and running to hide in the back room before drawing herself up and clearing her throat.

Shocks and sparks! It’s a trick. Some sort of robotic mechanism opening and shutting glass eyes. Nothing more. Look at him, posing so theatrically. He wants a rise. Don’t let him get one.

You’ve come a long way since your days of breaking into houses for trinkets. The man didn’t turn around.

I’m reformed. Nyssa stuck her chin out. She wasn’t sensitive about her past—too much. Still, she didn’t like the man’s tone.

You aren’t afraid your past will catch up with you? The man turned back, raising a thin eyebrow over his glasses.

Nyssa’s throat constricted. She didn’t recognize the man, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have some connection to her past life, to old partners or someone she’d robbed. Could she owe him money? Her bank account barely held enough for next week’s rent.

Nyssa felt under the counter for Mr. Calloway’s revolver. She couldn’t find it. Drat Mr. C and his constant need to move things around.

My past is resolved. My employer is aware of it, and I’ve received an official pardon in return for completing attendance at Miss Pratchett’s and finding gainful employment. She stared into his reflective lenses. Obviously you have no intention of purchasing anything. I think you should go.

The door to the backroom clacked open.

Mr. Calloway crossed his arms. My employee is correct. We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, so please leave.

The man smiled. So you received a full pardon?

Cleared of all charges. Nyssa gave a sharp nod.

As far as the east is from the west. Mr. Calloway stepped further into the room. Now go.

You can’t be pardoned if you’ve never been accused. The man reached into his coat.

Nyssa stiffened, but a moment later the man drew out a black disc about the size of a compact. He flipped a switch on its side and a holographic projection flickered to life above it. Nyssa paled as a younger version of herself slipped through a window and rummaged about a large, wooden desk.

The Lanchester Heist. Still officially unsolved. No charges ever filed, which means in spite of what pardons you may have received for other crimes, your tab is still open. He flipped off the projector and shoved it into his pocket.

How did you get that? Nyssa whispered. If there was proof, why hadn’t it come to the authorities’ attention? Why bring it up now?

It matters not. The man shrugged.

What do you want? Mr. Calloway slid behind the counter.

Nyssa tried not to think of the revolver. Don’t do anything stupid, Mr. C. The man’s not robbing us. Just being a jackass.

I have a proposition for you, Ms. Glass. I wish for you to return for one last job, a simple heist, really. In return I’ll hand over the copies of this recording and allow you to destroy them.

Nyssa’s stomach twisted. Back in the day, she’d taken on assignments for less cause, just to survive. However, now she was finally doing more than surviving, working a job she loved with a man who respected her in spite of her past, not seeing her as a tool. That’s not who I am anymore. It never was. I was just a scared kid who didn’t know any better. I’ll take my chances in court rather than return to that life.

They won’t prosecute her based on a technicality. The crime may not have been mentioned in her pardon, but the spirit of the decree was for all her past crimes. Mr. Calloway motioned for Nyssa to come towards him. She hovered near his side. I’ll speak on her behalf.

The man’s mouth curled into a sneer. You think you can be rid of me that easily? You don’t know who you’re dealing with, girl. He stepped forward.

Mr. Calloway’s hand shot under the counter. He whipped out the silver-handled revolver. I don’t like to live by the sword, but I will not let you harm this young lady. Get behind me, Nyssa.

Nyssa’s pulse throbbed in her ears like the ticking of a clock. She squeezed between Mr. Calloway and the wall, so tight she could feel the raised letters on the Dalhart 2 imprinting on her back.

The man laughed. Really, old man? Really? He extended his seemingly empty gloved hand.

Mr. Calloway leveled the gun. You’re unarmed. I don’t want to shoot, but I will. The hammer clicked back.

I don’t need guns. The man made a fist. Wires shot from his knuckles and sank into Mr. Calloway’s chest. The gun went off, but the bullet flew over the man’s shoulder, shattering the window into a rain of glass. The air crackled as Mr. Calloway convulsed.

Nyssa screamed. A smell of charred flesh singed her nose. Then he collapsed at her feet, his eyes staring blindly up at her.

The man grinned. Now, girly, looks like you just killed your employer. Sure, you can say it was a mysterious man you've never seen before, but why would they believe a ‘reformed’ cat burglar?

Nyssa swallowed. The revolver glistened on the floor beside Mr. Calloway. She dove for it, but the man lunged at her. His hand clawed at her arm, and she stumbled back. With a snarl, he scrambled over the counter. Nyssa grabbed the closest thing, her own satchel hanging from a hook in the wall. With all her might, she swung.

The bag impacted against the man’s face, causing him to shout. He crashed into the shelf of tools behind the counter. Wrenches clattered to the floor and over his head.

Nyssa sprang over the counter, crossed the floor in two great leaps, and flew through the broken window. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet. She turned towards the busy Main Way, but a horseless carriage blocked her path. What if he has a partner in there? Spinning on her heel, she headed off in the other direction, towards a back alley.

The man’s cursing chased her down the street.

Chapter Two

Nyssa’s footsteps pounded down the cobblestones of Clockwork Row. Mr. Calloway opened his shop an hour before the other businesses bothered, and no one emerged to investigate the shattered morning calm. Nyssa glanced back. The dark figure in the top-hat darted out of the shop. She clambered over a fence.

Policemen ... large crowds ... somewhere to hide ... Her mind scrambled for potential places of refuge, but each turn seemed to take her further away from the Main Way. I need to stop, think, find my bearings, find help. Her satchel slapped against her side.

Coming around a corner, her boot heel caught something and she stumbled. Her hands skidded across the cobblestones, scraping off a layer of skin. Her palms stung. She leapt to her feet and darted into a narrow alley.

Behind a stack of barrels which smelled strongly of fish, she flattened herself against the brick wall.

They can’t think I did it. No one would think I did it. Oh Mr. C, why’d you try and protect me?

A sob pushed through her clenched teeth. Nyssa slipped to the ground, her knees against her chest, her head on her knees. She drew a long breath. Closing her eyes, she counted her heartbeats, rapid fire at first, then slightly slower, finally normal pace.

Think, Nyssa, think. Some place safe.

Faded lettering on the side the fence read, Albion Packing Co. She knew where that was, where she was.

The police station is all the way across town, but my apartment is just around the corner. I can use the videophone there and call for help, report the murder, tell my side. The police don't particularly like me, but they have to believe me. Right? Those convictions aren't on my record any more. They won't hold it against me. It’ll be fine ... how can anything be fine? Mr. C is dead. Not fine, but safe. God please help me be safe.

Nyssa didn’t pray often, but Mr. Calloway had been fond of the practice, and it seemed to calm him. That was what Nyssa needed right now. Calm. What would Mr. C say now? Turn to the rock, Miss Nyss, turn to the rock. She almost smiled. He’d been fond of that sentiment, telling her to draw on spiritual comfort when she became frustrated with a particularly difficult task ... or human stupidity. Mostly human stupidity. Nothing ever seemed to frazzle him. She drew one more steadying breath and stood.

She dug into her satchel for a compact mirror. Her wiry brown hair leaned towards the right, already mostly out of her bun. Removing the last few hair pins, she brushed it over her face. She took off her peacoat, revealing her white blouse and gray vest beneath, and donned a pair of round-lensed, dark glasses. Not exactly a disguise, but perhaps enough to fool someone from a distance.

Nyssa took a maze-like route home, darting down alleys and even dropping into a milliner's shop to pretend to browse, just so she could watch the street for any sign of the top-hatted man. No one seemed to be following her. The store’s clock chimed eight. Clockwork Row would be open for business now. Soon someone would notice the broken window in Calloway’s shop, find the body, and raise the alarm. The authorities would wish to question her at that point. She needed to get to them before it turned into a manhunt.

Or girl hunt, she mumbled, pretending to try on a hat but really watching the street behind her in the mirror.

What was that, miss? the young woman manning the counter asked.

Nothing. I just realized I forgot my purse. Nyssa hung the hat back on its stand and whisked out the door.

Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she kept her pace only slightly faster than the other pedestrians. A gray, three-story home with high-peaked gables stood sentry at the end of the street. A weathered sign read, Mrs. Mayberry’s Boarding House in large scrolling letters, and Females Only in smaller but bolder print beneath.

A quick scan of the street showed no sign of her pursuer. Nyssa's shoulders relaxed. She'd half expected him to be waiting, and her best back-up plan was to beg a complete stranger to use their videophone or trek the almost three miles to the police station, knowing the whole time that the man in the top hat could be just around the corner. Neither option appealed to her. She started towards the house, thinking of what to say to the officers, how to explain the attack and Mr. C's death.

A horn blared, and the traffic parted. A black motorcycle with a sidecar squealed to a halt in front of the boarding house. The driver was a uniformed officer in a custodian's helmet. The passenger wore a suit jacket and bowler hat, but Nyssa had developed an eye for plain-clothes-men in her time as a thief. Instinctively she shrank back. She hadn't summoned them, so why were they here? Could they have found the body on their own already? What conclusions had they drawn?

Her conditioning to run from the police warred with her knowledge that she hadn't done anything wrong.

I need to at least know what they are up to. In the back way. They won't expect that.

Nyssa took a side alley, then three turns, before coming out behind the boarding house. No sign of watching eyes. They might have a guard on the kitchen side door, but if she were quiet, that wouldn't matter. Her window was the second one in. None of the other residents should be home. They were all career girls like herself. Taking out her screwdriver, she wriggled the latch until it popped open.

Told Mrs. Mayberry we needed better latches, she mumbled. Hoisting up the window, she slipped into her room.

She set her ear to the thin wall separating her room from the parlor, another thing she'd often cursed but now found herself grateful for.

I can't believe it. Mrs. Mayberry's flutey voice sounded sharp and clear. She seems like such a nice girl ... you say her employer was dead? Are you certain she wasn't another victim rather than the culprit?

I suppose we could hope so, Ma'am, a male voice answered.

"Well, we certainly shouldn't hope she's a victim." Mrs. Mayberry's tone sharpened.

No, ma'am, certainly not ... Well, it seems as if she isn't here. If you hear anything from her, please let us know.

Nyssa drew back. She rubbed her suddenly aching forehead. I have to tell my own side. The longer I'm gone, the more suspicious it looks, but what if they don't believe me? A mysterious man with electric gloves? Who I can't even name? ... I could go back to the gang. Thieves' honor means they'll protect me.

The door to the house slammed shut, suggesting the police had departed. Each passing minute added to her perceived guilt. Indecisiveness wasn't an option. But would they believe her?

She stood and paced to the tiny washroom. Under the basin, she'd hidden a set of lockpicks and the scrawled address of a former compatriot. They'd take her back. Keep her hidden from the police. She'd just have to work for them.

I'm not a thief anymore, she whispered. A board creaked behind her, sending a jolt of terror through her.

Nyssa whirled about.

The man in the top hat smiled at her from the foot of her bed. Once a thief, always a thief.

No! Nyssa grabbed the basin and flung it into the man's face. He staggered backwards, falling onto the mattress.

You little hussy! he snarled.

Who is in there? Mrs. Mayberry called out. Nyssa?

An image of Mrs. Mayberry, murdered like Mr. C, flashed through Nyssa's head. I have to get him away from her!

Nyssa pushed past the still floundering man and slipped through the open window. She darted down the alley.

The man staggered after her. I'll fry you! he shrieked.

A horn blared and a horseless carriage jerked around the corner like a runaway train. The passenger door flew open. A woman reached a hand towards Nyssa. With me, quick!

Who are you? Nyssa flinched back.

He's coming! Move! The woman pointed past Nyssa.

Nyssa glanced back. The man snarled and raised his gloved hand.

She dove into the carriage. The door slammed shut behind her, and the carriage jolted forward. She steadied herself and glanced through the rear window. The top-hatted man ran behind them, waving his arms. Nyssa collapsed against the leather seat.

The back of the carriage had two benches, facing each other, but so close Nyssa’s knees bumped into her fellow passenger’s. A tinted glass window separated the passenger compartment from the driver’s compartment. The whole contraption moved with jerks and bumps, forcing Nyssa to clutch the edges of her bench to avoid flying into the woman’s lap.

I fear you’ve had an upsetting morning. The woman’s voice had a syrupy tone with a hint of a laugh. She wore a gray frock and had a veiled fascinator hat perched on her blond pompadour.

That’s ... an enormous understatement. Nyssa scowled, leveling a fiery gaze at the woman. That man killed my employer. My ... my friend.

The woman’s lips pursed. I am sorry for your loss.

We need to go to the police station, file a report, get that criminal off the streets. Nyssa’s fingers tightened around the straps of her satchel until they hurt.

That isn’t advisable. My competitor’s methods are barbaric, but he has an unsettling amount of influence. With little more than your word against his, he’ll never see punishment for his deeds. He’s done far worse in the past.

Your competitor? Who is he? Who are you?

My name is Albriet. That man represents a rival interest, after the same thing as my employer.

Nyssa flattened her shoulder blades against the back of her seat. Did I jump into a trap?

What do you want with me? The man said something about a job, but I don’t do that any more. I’m not a thief.

What that man wanted from you was thievery. What I want is simple ‘asset recovery.’ And you will be richly rewarded.

Thanks but no thanks. Please stop this car. I’ll take my chances with the police.

Albriet’s blue eyes narrowed. That would be a mistake. As I said, my competitor has influence. If he has his sights set on you, there’s no safety for you anywhere in New Taured. Your only chance is to get out of the country, flee, leave your name and your life behind and don’t look back.

Cold washed over Nyssa. How?

My employer can finance that.

I don’t see how your employer is any different from the competition, if you’re after the same thing. Nyssa removed her tinted glasses. She folded them and slipped them in her vest pocket. You want me to rob someone, don’t you?

The difference is in the right of possession. Have you heard of Professor Dalhart?

Of course. Everyone has. He invented half the machines in Mr. Calloway’s shop. The mention of her employer’s name sent another pang through her chest. She clamped her mouth shut and lowered her eyes. Not going to cry now. Not now.

Indeed he did. A brilliant mind, but incredibly eccentric. No head for business. In fact, in spite of his brilliance, his company lost money for several years until he took on my employer as an investor and partner. A cold smile flitted across Albriet’s lips.

Your employer is Mr. Rivera? Of Dalhart & Rivera? Nyssa tilted her head to one side. What could the richest man in New Taured want with me?

The same. You see, Dalhart became a recluse in his later years. After his wife passed, he moved himself and his young son, Ellis, to a large estate at the edge of the city and became a virtual shut in, cared for by an army of servants. However, after a few years, he dramatically reduced his staff in favor of a mechanized approach. Albriet smoothed her skirts with white-gloved hands.

Mechanized? Nyssa leaned forward.

Yes. While Professor Dalhart is best known for the videophones that bear his name, he had a passion for computers and robotics. In fact, he promised Mr. Rivera inventions that would revolutionize both fields. Imagine, no more factory workers crushed under dangerous equipment or coal miners forced to slave underground to supply our steam plants. Albriet’s eyes glinted. If Dalhart’s promises had come to fruition, manpower would have been replaced by machine-power.

But they didn’t. I guess I was under the impression that Dalhart had passed on.

He might have. Albriet shrugged. No one is sure.

Nyssa’s eyebrows drew together. What do you mean, 'no one is sure'?

A little over four years ago, all traffic in and out of Dalhart Manor ceased. Up until that point, Dalhart had been reclusive, but his staff and son were often seen going about their business. Then one day, half the staff was unexpectedly let go, and the remaining half ... well, one of them resurfaced about three years ago. A passing motorist nearly hit her in the road outside the manor. She was raving incoherently about monsters, passed away in an asylum a few month’s later. The carriage went over a bump.

Three years ago? And no one investigated? Nyssa shuddered.

Oh people tried, but Dalhart Manor is like a fortress. Few dare to brave it. Albriet gazed out the window. Houses and shops flew by. Nyssa didn’t recognize this part of town.

Nyssa chewed her bottom lip. She had a lot of questions but didn’t wish to be drawn into this mess. Showing too much interest wasn’t an option. What does this have to do with me?

As Dalhart’s business partner, Mr. Rivera has a right to all his papers. Even incomplete, his research is worth a fortune. We have made several attempts to recover it, but the manor has defeated our agents. We need someone with specific skills.

Burglary skills. Nyssa nodded. So I’m assuming someone is still alive inside that manor, stopping your men from getting what they want?

Maybe. Albriet shrugged again.

They didn’t tell you what they found? If the place looked lived in or abandoned? If they saw anyone? Nyssa raised her eyebrows.

Albriet reached up and adjusted her fascinator.

Realization crept over Nyssa. They didn’t come back, did they?

No. If you must know, several agents have failed to return. We’re assuming our competition is making similar attempts, in spite of their lack of legal claim to the information, but so far the manor has refused to give up its secrets.

And what makes you think I can succeed where they failed? Goosebumps prickled beneath Nyssa's sleeves. She reached into her satchel and re-donned her peacoat.

Would you like a blanket? Albriet arched an eyebrow.

I’m fine. Why me? I’m not the only burglar in New Taured, plus I’m only sixteen and out of practice.

Yes, well, when I realized you’d caught the attention of the competition, I looked into you to see why. Your record as a thief was quite impressive, but since then, you’ve added electrician's training and videophone repair. I assume you know your way around a basic computer system?

I suppose I do. Nyssa buttoned the dozen black buttons, but the wool coat failed to warm her. Must be my fading adrenaline.

We need someone to recover the files from the main computer. Albriet crossed her legs and set her hands on her knee. It may no longer be functional, so repairs may be necessary. We will provide you with memory wheels and all the tools you will need.

I have my own tool kit, though I don't have any lockpicks ... Nyssa bit her tongue. I haven’t said yes yet.

Albriet smirked. No, but what options do you have?

Are you going to pull a gun on me? Threaten to have me killed or arrested like your competitor? Nyssa scowled.

No, we can both see how that worked out for him. Albriet waved a dismissive hand.

Nyssa glanced back out the window. A row of sickly looking trees lined a neighborhood of large but rundown houses with overgrown gardens and shuttered up windows.

The police think you did it. They're looking for you even as we speak, Albriet said. Also, even if they believe you, they can't protect you. I meant what I said about my competitor. He will hunt you relentlessly. For now he wants you alive, but if you prove too stubborn, he’ll kill you rather than risk you telling what you know about him, however little that might be. He has committed murders for far less.

Nyssa’s stomach clenched. That she believed. He’d killed Mr. C with a smile.

I can offer you a way out, an escape, a new beginning. Albriet reached under the seat and pulled out a black case with silver filigree edges.

I don’t want a new beginning. I have ... I have a good life.

"You had a good life. That’s gone now. The latches on the case clicked open. Albriet removed a small leather case from the larger one. She exhibited a gleaming set of lockpicks. The best money can buy. She smiled. You’ll be doing a good deed, preventing a brilliant man’s legacy from dying with him, recovering valuable information that technically belongs to my client. Nothing illegal, nothing immoral even. Just good, honest work. In turn, we will get you a ticket to anywhere in the world."

Nyssa shivered and stared out at the gray sky above the trees and city skyline. Someplace warm and sunny where it rarely rains.

And if I say no?

I let you out in front of the police station. You can take your chances with them, I suppose, but they probably already have your face on a wanted poster.

Not the first time. Nyssa snorted. She took the lockpicks from Albriet and traced them with her fingers. Nice set. Well made, better than anything she’d worked with during her professional days. Not that there was anything professional about a preteen desperate not to starve.

Is there anything to go back to? Mr. C was the only one who really cared about me. Without him, this might be my best chance.

Nyssa cleared her throat. All right. I’ll do it. How do we get to this mansion?

Albriet slid back a panel on the seat and flipped a silver switch. The brakes squeaked as the carriage came to a halt. We’re already there.

Chapter Three

Nyssa glanced to her right. An ivy-choked brick wall blocked the view from the window.

The gate is around the corner. Albriet flipped another switch, and the door swung open. She handed Nyssa a slip of paper. This is the address where you’ll be able to find me after your venture. She then passed her a small box. "Memory wheels. Enough to download the main files. We’re also interested in any information you can discover about the security system. If we knew what was preventing our agents from completing their missions, we might be able to disable it."

Nyssa tucked everything into her satchel. And if I change my mind?

Nothing I can do to stop that, but as I said, you’ll be on your own, and your options are limited. Albriet patted her lips as if muffling a yawn. Besides, I know your sort. You want to know why. Once you start scraping away at the puzzle of that house, you won’t be able to stop until you’ve excavated its last secret.

Nyssa grimaced. Possibly true, but she didn’t like the fact that Albriet had discerned that after a mere half hour in her presence. She slipped out of the carriage and glanced into the driver’s cab, intending to thank him for the ride. The compartment was empty except for a series of gears and levers. Nyssa blinked. Albriet winked as the door shut between them and the carriage jerked away.

Exhaling, Nyssa paced along the wall. An empty field with a few overgrown paths and lopsided benches lay across the street. An abandoned park? The area had obviously once been a nicer neighborhood. Turrets of houses stuck over the edge of walls, though most had faded paint and missing shingles. Moss covered the once stately street lamps which stood frozen like guards along both sides of the avenue.

So what lies behind this wall? Nyssa touched the bricks. She could easily scale it here. A dozen or so possible footholds presented to her trained eye. Still, she’d like a look before she made her final decision. She followed the sidewalk around a corner and stopped in front of a towering iron gate. Behind the bars, a brick path stretched towards the largest house Nyssa had ever seen. The entirety of Clockwork Row would  fit comfortably in the front lawn, and the house itself was five stories of black windows, balconies, and towers. She leaned against the gate and nearly toppled over when it swung open.

Steadying herself, she examined the gate. Someone had cut the chain, and not recently either, for rust had crept into the marks left by the tools. She supposed it made sense. Albriet had said others had attempted this; though trying to enter by the front was an amateur mistake. Nyssa eased the gate back to its original position and continued along the sidewalk as if on a stroll.

They apparently approached it as if no one lives here, and from the street that certainly appears to be true, but there could still be eyes. The man invented the videophone. Surveillance wouldn’t be beyond him ... sensors ... Let’s see what we’re dealing with.

She unshouldered her pack and fished out a pair of goggles. Adjusting them so they sat comfortably over her hair, she turned the dial on the side. They had several settings—from simple night vision to limited x-ray—but right now she needed the one that would detect electro-magnetic fields. She scanned the area around her. Yep, the streetlights had a gentle glow around them through the lenses. They were still operational. She turned to the wall. The whole thing glowed like a theater marquee.

What the heck? She stepped closer. The gray-green glow followed the ivy in web-like patterns. She bent closer. What she’d mistaken for plants, she now realized were wires, ornately designed to mimic ivy, but definitely man-made. She touched a leaf then yanked her hand back at the bite of electric shock. The leaf quivered, sending a pulse of energy through the wires, like a message zipping through a pneumatic tube. Still active, but dang, that leaf feels real. Ignoring another shock, she broke off the leaf and crushed it between her fingers. The green scent of chlorophyll rose to her nostrils. She dropped it in surprise. "Sparks and shocks, it is real."

Nyssa continued walking down the sidewalk. Whoever had set up this security system had somehow incorporated biological and man-made components. She’d heard such things theorized, but no one had even come close. At least she’d thought they hadn’t.

How to get over without triggering an alarm, then? Getting down on her haunches, she opened her satchel, dug out a pair of rubber gloves and slipped them on. Nyssa touched the wires again. No pulses went out. She smiled. Rubber gloves, rubber soled shoes. Just have to be careful not to touch anywhere where I can cause an arc.

The rubber gloves helped her grip the wall as she climbed. Towards the top, the ivy net thinned. With a great huff of breath, she pulled herself onto the wall and to her feet, balancing for a moment.

A large overgrown garden stretched below her like a jungle. A hedge maze lay at her feet, and beyond that a rectangular pond reflected patches of gray sky but with a slight tinge of green. Nyssa aimed for the top of the nearest hedge and jumped.

Branches crunched beneath her, but she caught hold, swung, and landed in a crouch on the garden path. For a moment, Nyssa listened. Nothing stirred, not so much as a bird. Her heart pounded painfully. It’s the exertion of the climb, she assured herself. She dabbed with her sleeve at the sweat beading on her neck. You’ve been in worse spots. Places with guard dogs and men with guns. This place is as dead as dice. Nothing safer to rob than a grave, if you can push past the creep factor.

Straightening, she peeled off her gloves and tightened the satchel’s straps. What would Mr. C think if he could see me now? What’s the verse? The shepherd comes in by the gate, anyone entering any other way is a thief. Well, that’s me, a thief. Call it asset recovery if you want. You’re not fooling anyone. She shook her head.

Hedges rose like walls before and behind her. She’d gotten a quick but conclusive glance at the maze from above