The Monstrous Citadel

by Mirah Bolender

  Laura rubbed her face, suddenly tired as she thought over their options. Their only Sweeper building was now off-limits. Albright couldn’t take them. Even if Morgan and Cheryl happily accepted the presence of crystal people—doubtful—they might talk and the information would get around the whole city in an awful game of telephone. Perhaps they could create a space. She had some savings squirreled away with the idea of funding herself later in life: emergency money, college fund, rent for her own apartment. Whatever half-baked plans she had were flying out the window.

  “Should we rent someplace?” she suggested, but her voice was forlorn. She was stingy and apartments were expensive these days.

  Okane tugged at his hair some more, frowning at the floor. “I don’t like the idea of them being far away. I want someone to keep an eye on them.”

  “That might be impossible.”

  “Still.”

  They lapsed into silence. After a while, Laura heaved a sigh.

  “Tomorrow we can start looking at options.”

  * * *

  The next day was Saturday. Laura would typically be on call on weekends and not go in to the shop at all, but since today was Juliana’s first full day she felt obligated to go. Laura left at her usual time, arrived at the shop at eight in the morning, to find the blinds down on the windows. Strange. She rolled her bicycle up the steps and knocked on the door. A long pause followed. She started to wonder if Okane was even awake this early on a Saturday, but a muffled voice called through the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Laura.”

  A shorter pause, a clacking and shuffling at the lock, and the door opened. Okane blinked at her, very much awake.

  “Good morning?” He sounded confused. “What are - - - doing here?”

  “I thought I’d come over before the MacDanels do. What are you sneaking around for?”

  He glanced around, then opened the door wider and beckoned her inside. Raising an eyebrow, she hauled her bicycle over the threshold.

  The room felt hot and humid as if the Kin equipment had been going, but none of the usual gold could be glimpsed inside it. The floor of the shop, however, was cluttered: green Puer Eggs, more Bijou, more guns and bullets, along with bags, straps, masks, goggles, and tens of other things she couldn’t identify. Okane sat on one of the stools and resumed his earlier activity, trying to load one of Clae’s old pistols with Puer bullets. He’d gone through three varieties, and the fourth didn’t fit either.

  “Juliana said we can take what we want,” he said.

  “So she did show up,” Laura muttered. “I’m sorry. I wanted to get here before she had a chance.”

  He shrugged. “It was uncomfortable, but it’s not as if I expected them to hurt me.”

  “Will they be coming back soon?”

  He shook his head and pointed; a note had been left on the Eggs.

  Hi, Laura! Sorry if it feels like we’ve ditched you. Lester and I are on our way to the Council to get a full report of the city and what’s expected of us. With the situation as is, I expect we’ll be gone most of the day. In the meantime feel free to look through these presents from Puer! All this equipment is top of the line. Our kin formula and accompanying devices are all the product of years of scientific refinement; even cities as far south as Canis swear by it. I recommend giving them a try and seeing just how strong Sweepers can be!

  “The first full day of the job and she’s already avoiding us.” Laura caught sight of his expression and snorted. “That was a joke.”

  “I know,” he mumbled. The fifth bullet slid in clean and he popped the cylinder back into place. Almost immediately he hastened to get it out again. “Not good!” he squeaked. “Very much not good. That’s a disaster.”

  “Didn’t it fit?”

  “I get the distinct feeling that it won’t when it needs to. It feels like … like standing on the Quarter wall and looking down.” He eyed the bullet once it was out, expression defeated. “I don’t think our equipment’s compatible with Puer assembly lines.”

  No, Laura agreed, it wasn’t. When she finally selected a sturdy supply bag, it was only to find that its compartments were designed for Puer’s rounder Eggs, with their greenish kin; the yellow, Amicae variety were too oblong and threatened to spill right out of the slots. Cursing, she went upstairs to raid the old sewing basket for stitch rippers and new thread. She set it all down before her and paused. Yellow Eggs on the right, green on the left. Dusty material worn soft but sturdy, versus the glossy reddish sheen of something new off the assembly line. Somehow she felt lost. She looked up at Okane, only to see him looking back.

  “It’s different,” he said simply.

  “Alien,” she agreed. “It’s better quality. I don’t know why I’m hesitating.”

  “I like things staying the same,” he said, spinning the cylinder. “When they’re the same, they’re predictable. They’re safe. I don’t … I don’t really want to switch the gun, even if Puer’s is supposed to be better.”

  “‘Better’ may apply to some things, but not others.” Laura stood and buckled on the new bag. There were four different buckles and chains, and by the end of it she was sure that not even a typhoon could pull it all off. “What do you think? We can mix the equipment and make it work. There’s more than enough bullets in storage to cover that gun.”

  He perked up a little. “- - - think so? I don’t think we have the budget to replace them.”

  “Even if the office itself doesn’t, once you get your share of Clae’s estate, there should be more than enough to cover anything you need.”

  “My share?”

  Why did he sound so surprised?

  “Yes, your share. Albright was just talking to us about it.”

  He grunted in disbelief. “Clae didn’t look like he was rolling in money. If he couldn’t replace his stove, what makes - - - think he had anything in his estate to cover anything?”

  “His family owned Gin underground, and charged people to power amulets from it,” she pointed out. “That’s expensive, and he didn’t have to pay income tax on that.”

  “But the stove—”

  “Maybe he was a miser.”

  Okane gave a short huff of laughter. “I could see that. Still, I don’t think he left me money, or if he did, not a lot. So we shouldn’t count on it.”

  Laura frowned. “Why do you think that?”

  “I’m not important enough.” He folded his hands in his lap as he said this, expression sad but earnest. He believed it.

  “Okane. Okane.” Laura mimicked Morgan’s pitying tone as best she could. “Okane. You’re not that stupid.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He gave the time and effort to get you out of trouble. You have his name. Of course you were important!”

  “But—”

  “But nothing.” She crossed her arms and frowned, daring him to question her. “I guarantee it. He left you a lot.”

  “Hmm.”

  Still unconvinced. Laura rolled her eyes.

  2

  FOOLS, WARY

  She’d never said anything about it to anyone, but Laura was still bitter about schooling.

  Part of her blamed Morgan and Cheryl. Being a nearly fulltime babysitter on limited funds did nothing to help her studying or obtaining supplies; her best friend in middle school always brought extra pencils and extra notebooks, and took notes religiously on the days Laura couldn’t go to class. She remembered many mornings standing grumpily by the door with Cheryl in her arms, uniform on but schoolbag abandoned while Morgan rushed out the door, apologizing for another last-minute job. None of the neighbors then would even speak to such a disreputable woman, let alone take care of an “angelina’s” child for the day. It might’ve been different if the job paid better—“day care” was a mythic place out of reach—but to earn higher pay one needed a higher education. Few women had one, leaving them to the whims of their bosses if they wished to climb the pay chain or even keep their jo
bs. It took Morgan eight years of clawing her way up the ladder to get steady hours and decent paycheck.

  This, like many things her poor aunt went through, showed Laura very well that she had no interest in the “traditional woman” box.

  At the time the existence of Sweepers seemed just as dubious as the prospect of day care, so she had to find her own way to break out. University seemed like the best choice. She liked school, liked learning new things and piecing them together, so additional years in a classroom didn’t bother her. University streamlined someone for the grander parts of the workforce, and even if a graduate didn’t go into their studied field, the simple fact that they had a degree ensured good pay and reasonable hours. She just needed to study hard, place into the right graduating class in high school, and get a scholarship.

  Simple.

  Except it failed.

  She still had all the old university pamphlets and flyers tucked away in her closet under her Coronae Sweeper book and the Sinclair journal. Back then she’d told herself she could apply properly once she’d amassed some funds. After the recent events, she knew it would never happen.

  “Good-bye, Royal Academy of Sciences,” she said dully, picking up the pamphlet from the uneven pile on the table. With a swish and clunk, it landed in the trash bin with a pack of similar papers.

  “Good-bye, Arbor Branch.”

  Swish, clunk.

  “Good-bye, Prima College.”

  Swish, clunk.

  “Good-bye, Amicae Grand University.”

  She paused at this one. The Grand University’s magnificent façade looked back at her from a state-of-the-art brochure. This had been her favorite prospect. With its sprawling museum and top-notch faculty, it was the destination for many history majors, alongside multiple other distinguished courses. History had been her favorite subject; after all, it was only a step removed from fairy tales and myth, and learning the exploits of Terulian queens and their current impact on Orien was so much more interesting than adding up numbers. She sighed, fingering the dog-eared corners.

  The front door rattled open, making her jump. Cheryl charged into the kitchen, a single mitten stuck in her mouth. As she attacked the bread box, Morgan hurried after her, waving the other mitten.

  “I’m serious! It’s cold outside, you have to take your scarf! And what’s wrong with your old coat?”

  “It’s got too many holes,” Cheryl replied, in the brief moment of swapping mitten for food.

  “I just mended them!”

  “Well, it ripped again.”

  Morgan slumped over the table. It took a moment for her to take in the stack of paper, but when she did she brightened.

  “Rutherford University? Isn’t that Charlie’s school?”

  “No.” Laura slapped the Grand University’s brochure back over it.

  “Yes, it is! Were you considering a job there?” Morgan shone like the sun. Charlie had been making every effort to get into Morgan’s good graces. Laura had called him out on his behavior not long ago, so this might’ve been an attempt to prove her wrong. It made Laura’s blood boil, but redoubled Morgan’s matchmaking schemes. “I’ve heard there are secretary positions open, and even a school switchboard! It should be easy for you to get into, and then you’d get to see Charlie every day!”

  “No. Not happening.”

  Laura scooped up the whole pile and dumped it in the bin. Morgan plucked the offending item back out and flipped to the next page.

  “Look, see? They have plenty of opportunities for the enterprising young woman! Oh, but this one’s a few years old. Twelve twenty-nine? Have you been thinking of it that long?”

  “I haven’t been thinking about any of it,” Laura snapped. “That’s why they’re going in the trash, where they belong.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Morgan hummed, eyes still fixed on the pamphlet as she trailed back to her room. Laura groaned and buried her head in her hands.

  “Of all people, why’d she have to get hung up on Charlie?”

  “Because he’s going to be rich,” said Cheryl. “Plus he’s nice to her.”

  “Maybe to her face,” Laura grumbled. She still hadn’t forgiven Charlie for the nasty way he’d spoken about Morgan, as if their near decade of acquaintance and all the times she’d helped him meant nothing. What kind of ass called their most helpful neighbor a worthless whore?

  “She should give up. It’s obvious you don’t like him,” said Cheryl.

  “Exactly! How long do you think it’ll take her to realize?”

  Cheryl’s face scrunched, and Laura took that to mean never.

  “I’m leaving before she comes up with another grand matchmaking scheme,” said Laura, standing and grabbing her bag. “If you get the chance, ditch that pamphlet for me.”

  Maybe Laura would use her funds to rent a new apartment after all. Gain some distance from Charlie and Morgan’s ridiculous plots, and keep the Sinclairs there for safekeeping. She’d have to check the newspaper listings when she got to the shop.

  “You’re going already?” Morgan ducked back into the kitchen and followed her toward the door. “I hope you’ll be working hard and, of course, thinking hard.”

  Laura turned, giving her a flat look as she buttoned up her coat. Morgan completely ignored it and fluffed up Laura’s scarf, the smile still glued to her face.

  “Make a good impression with your new boss, okay? If you end up moving jobs they could give you a good recommendation.”

  As if any new employer could see the name “Laura Kramer” and think anything positive.

  “Cheryl’s going to be late for school if you take much longer.”

  “Of course! Cheryl, honey, I’m serious about the scarf. If your coat’s got holes, that’s all the more reason—”

  Morgan hurried away, prompting a loud, annoyed noise from Cheryl. Laura rolled her eyes and pushed the door open. Chill morning air blew against her face, but she barely felt it. She was too focused on the woman standing directly in front of her. Laura didn’t recognize her, but the woman certainly knew her. She pushed herself up from her previous recline against the banister and smiled.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” said Laura. “Sorry, are you here for Morgan? I can get her, it’d be just a moment—”

  “I’m here for you, Miss Sinclair.”

  The tone rang sweet, but the words felt loaded. God, could this be one of her critics, come to badger her in person since they couldn’t get her on the telephone?

  “Miss Sinclair?”

  Laura’s trepidation shattered at the new voice. Charlie had stepped out of his apartment—presumably leaving for university—and now looked at them both with a sullen expression.

  “I’m a Sinclair Sweeper,” Laura said icily. “If you expect me to remember every boring detail of your life, you could at least try to do the same for me.” She turned on her heel, bared her teeth at the woman. “Why don’t we talk as we walk? I’ll buy you coffee.”

  She’d rather deal with someone screaming half-truths than an outright backstabber. Luckily the woman followed without further prompting.

  “This isn’t about titles and you know it,” said Charlie.

  “Why not? Titles are all you care about, you buzzard.”

  His face went red in anger and embarrassment, but it kept him quiet long enough for Laura to escape.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Laura fretted, one floor down. “I’m not usually so—” On second thought, that was a lie. She backtracked. “I have a personal problem with him.”

  “Enough to call him a buzzard,” the woman laughed. “Oh, that’s such a pity. I came here to hate you and you’ve made yourself personable.”

  Laura raised a brow. “I didn’t think that went over as a pleasant appearance.”

  “I never said pleasant. You’ve just revealed your humanity is all.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Laura said slowly. “You seem
very positive for someone who hates me.”

  “I’m a wonderful actress.”

  That answered nothing.

  “So, why’d you come calling so early? It would’ve been easier to catch me at the Sweeper shop, and probably more appropriate if this is about the job.”

  “It’s about Sweeping, but on the other hand it’s not. Follow me?”

  Baffled, Laura did so.

  Upon leaving the Cynder Block, the woman led her down one of the nearby roads. It was a route Laura knew well, even if she no longer frequented it. She’d taken this path for three years of high school. She knew where other children came in off the branching streets, knew which stores opened earliest to entice students who’d skipped breakfast, knew which canal-spanning bridges were steepest. School was in session today, so they were soon crowded by high schoolers and book bags. A pair of girls walked in front of them, whispering the same ghost story about the Sylph Canal that Laura had gossiped over in her time on this path. Between this and the discarded brochures, she was in a bittersweet, nostalgic stupor and almost missed it when the woman spoke again.

  “Have you been following the Dead Ringer?”

  The familiarity of this place no longer comforted her.

  “Of course,” said Laura. “It would be stupid to ignore what people are saying about me.”

  “And does it please you to see what they write?”

  “Not really. I never agreed to any sort of mob alliance, so if they come knocking for favors, they’ll be disappointed.” The woman hummed, thoughtful. Laura sucked in a breath, gathered her courage, and continued, “That being said, I don’t think anything they’ve printed is wrong. Petulant maybe, but still. The Council is making weird decisions for Sweepers, and citizens are focusing on the wrong things. I don’t care whose authority steers the Sinclairs, if it’s me or Juliana or even someone else, but I do care about it all functioning well and being sure we can protect against infestations. As far as I can see, the Dead Ringer and Mad Dogs have the same priorities.”

  She’d meant to make a critic think deeper. She clearly made the wrong decision. The woman’s expression plunged into something entirely chilling.