Soleil

by Jacqueline Garlick

  “Wait. What? No!”

  But it’s too late, I’ve already launched myself, and drop into his bewildered arms.

  “Bloody hell!” He squeezes me tight about my thighs, sloppily catching me, as he stands. “You could have broken a leg—”

  “But I didn’t, did I?” I smirk, feeling the buzz of love in the concerned way he’s gazing up at me. The sizzle of adventure in his eyes.

  “You know, we really do need to start discussing these things.”

  “If we had, you’d have only told me to stay where I was.”

  “Correct.”

  “What good would that have done? Me up there,” I point, “and you down here.” I let my dropping finger graze his lips.

  “What good it is, both of us in this pickle?”

  “At least we’re together.” I grin. “Besides, you should know better by now than to think I’d go anywhere without a plan.”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Let’s hear it.”

  I run a light finger over his quizzical expression, smoothing out the worried lines. “Well, logically, if the rabbit’s due at the party and he’s taken this route, then surely we’re going the right way.”

  “And if he isn’t? Due at the party, I mean. If that’s all just a fable—”

  I cock my head. “Well, it’s the rabbit we’re really after anyway, isn’t it?”

  “Point well taken.”

  “Very good, then. If you please.” I tap Urlick’s straining bicep, indicating he should let me down. Urlick smirks as I slip through his tensed arms, sliding slowly down along his muscled frame. Our warm bodies chafe as I’m lowered, every centimetre of me sparking. Like phosphorous being dragged against flint, I helplessly ignite. When at last our lips meet, our breath is heavy.

  He clasps me tight again. “I don’t know about you,” he says, “but I could do without meeting up with a Hatter who’s apparently gone mad, and an unpredictable Black Queen.”

  “I second that.” I stare into his eyes. He stares back at me, our breath racing. It’s all I can do to keep myself from kissing him.

  “Perhaps we should get on with the chase,” he says weakly.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Before he gets too far from us.”

  “We probably should.”

  “Yes, we probably should.” I leave my lips parted. He lowers me to the floor, and I lean in and kiss him, long and slow and hard. His breath hitches when I pull away.

  He stares. “Now, we’ve really got to go.” He backs away. He takes me by the hand and tugs me forward.

  “Wait.” I rock back on my heels, my eyes settling on the large glass capsule tucked in the corner behind us. “What is that?” I walk over to it. The engine gently whirs, keeping its contents moving. Inside, sheets of a roiling grey cloud twist and turn and spill over, like the stygian storm I found trapped within the bell glass jar on the mantelpiece, back in Urlick’s study.

  Urlick stares back at me. “Do we really want to know?”

  “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re not the least bit curious?” I stand on my toes and peek through the capsule’s window, making sure not to touch the glass. “What do you suppose it is?”

  Urlick joins me. His brow crinkles. He stares at the humming gauges at the capsules’ rear, then stalks over. “It can’t be.” He examines them, checking their readings. “It just can’t be.” He looks back to me.

  “Can’t be what?”

  “Four hundred and sixty parts per million,” he gasps.

  “What does that mean?”

  “That’s over ten times the worry line, that’s what that means.” He jogs across the room to check another set of gauges. “Two hundred forty-nine.”

  “I don’t understand. What is it measuring?”

  “The Vapours’ deadly scale. If this is what I think it is”—he points to the writhing wind inside the capsule—

  “Vapours. You think it’s Vapours.”

  “Yes. And if it is, and it gets loose, we’re all good as dead.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, noting a second measuring device, affixed to the side of the capsule’s main tube. Urlick stalks over, examining it closely. His face is unusually white when he turns. “Radon,” he says, “It’s measuring radon. It’s a radon metre. I’ve seen it in books.”

  “As in the off-gasses of radium.” The storm thrashes.

  “As in, that very thing.”

  “So it can’t just be the plain old Vapours.”

  “Or worse than that, it is.” Urlick presses an alarmed-looking face up close to the observation window. He cocks his neck and peers deep within it. “Look,” he says to me. “The capsule. It’s enormous, extending well on up past this room.”

  I step up beside him to take a look, and gasp at what I see. “It’s bigger than this entire building.” I look up then down. “And it starts below the ground.” I tip up on my toes, accidentally touching the glass. An alarm bell sounds. A shrill, heart-stopping honk, followed by a bellowing beep. We both spring back.

  “We’d better go.” Urlick checks over his shoulder, grabs my hand and turns to run. Below our feet, a trapdoor in the floor gives way, dropping us through it, where we slide belly first down another dark corridor, and out in a checkerboard room.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  C.L.

  Beeeeeep! Beeeeep! Beeeeep! Beeeep!

  Livinea’s eyes spring wide. “What is that?” She runs across the room to me. Wanda flies in from the parlour, looking worse for wear than she did when Eyelet collapsed at the swearing in. Iris rushes in from the kitchen. The foyer doors slam shut behind them. The emergency lock down plan, activated.

  “Where’s Masheck?” My mind briefly skips to the idea ‘e ‘ad this morning, of goin’ out to fixin’ those last few mills, after Sadar ‘ad ’is vision. “‘Ave any of you seen ‘im?”

  “No,” says Livinea. “Not since this mornin’. Why? What’s the matter? What’s goin’ on?”

  “You?” I turn to Wanda, then Iris. Both girls shake their ‘eads.

  A sharp guilty chill courses through my veins. I should ‘ave gone with ‘im like we discussed.

  “What is it? What’s all the noise about?” Livinea shouts.

  “Warning bells. An alarm system.” I shout above them.

  “Alarms for what?” Livinea twists around, ‘er eyes searchin’ the ceilin’.

  “The Vapours.”

  “Vapours?” She claps ‘er ‘and to ‘er chest.

  Iris swallows.

  The aether lighting above our ‘eads flickers then dips, spiking fear in me ‘earts. The girls shriek and chatter, as the wind outside slams the walls of the castle like a runaway steamplough. Wanda races into Iris’s arms.

  “Listen to me.” I grab Livinea by the shoulders and turn ‘er toward me. I stare deep into ‘er anxious eyes. She looks dazed, somewhat bewildered. Oh, God, no. Not now. This is a terrible time. “Are you with me, Livinea?” I try to capture what’s left of her mind before it exits, completely, and she forgets ‘oo I am again.

  Livinea nods, tentatively. The crinkled eyebrows tell me otherwise. “Take the others and go to the bunker at the bottom of the stairs in the basement. Don’t come out no matter what. I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

  Her lips part, ready to object.

  “Someone has to go find Masheck.” I shout over the ongoing alarm. “Now be a good girl and run along, will you?” My voice falters. “And take the others with you.”

  She looks completely befuddled, as if my words have not registered.

  “Iris!” I shout. “Come get ‘er!” Iris barrels across the room.

  I burst away, then double back to kiss Livinea on the forehead. Iris grabs ‘er by the arm and yanks ‘er away, but Livinea plants her feet solid. She refuses to move, so Wanda sweeps in and scoops her up in her great hairy arms, and they race away.

  “Iris!” I shout back over me shoulder, running. “Find Martin and Sadar and take them with you too.”<
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  She nods and darts off in the opposite direction from Wanda, racing down the hallway toward the Academy.

  I take the stairs in blunderous twos, then race down the corridor hall. I slide to a stop in front of the whistling barometer gauges.

  One hundred and forty-nine parts per million. “Oh, great gazoos,” I gasp. That can’t be right. It just can’t be. I cross meself with a foot, and stare at them again. “They must be broken—” I tap the gauges.

  “They’re not.” Masheck shoots up behind me, causing me to jump. “The Vapours,” he pants, doubling over at my side, “they’re ‘ere in rising force.”

  “It’s true,” Martin gasps, falling in behind him. “We’ve just barely outrun them.”

  “Where were you two?”

  “You’ll know soon enough.” Masheck’s eyes swing to the gauges. “I ‘ope.” I spy the tool belt buckled to ‘is ‘ip.

  The gauges twitch and sputter. Their needles fall’ some… but then rises again, steadily and miserably upward.

  “Dammit.” Masheck pounds them with his fists.

  “We tried, sir.” Martin pats ‘is back.

  A retch-worthy sick creeps up me throat. “What are we gonna do?”

  The alarm upstairs continues to scream. Masheck’s gaze lifts to it then darts back down. “Whatever we decide, we need to do it fast.”

  “What about Eyelet and Urlick?” Martin says, his eyes two dampened flares. “They’ll never withstand this.”

  Panic threads through me like a snake. “Pan,” I say, rememberin’ ‘er face this mornin’, after Sadar’s vision. “Where is she?”

  Masheck and Martin drop their ‘eads. “She went out to do a sweep of the forest while the winds were low,” Masheck says. “Said she refused to lose a second member of her family to the Vapours.”

  “And she’ll be lost to them herself.”

  Martin’s mouth falls open. “But she was so distraught. You should have seen her.”

  “And well she should have been. Good Lord in ‘eaven, ‘ave mercy.” I cross meself again.

  “Perhaps something’s overridden the system?” Martin offers, looking haunted. “Perhaps it’s not as bad as we think.”

  “We saw them ourselves, Martin. Chasin’ up our backs.”

  “Yes, but perhaps…” Martin grapples with the idea.

  Masheck’s colouring morphs from tan to grey. He turns and hurries for the side palace door.

  “Where are you going?” I shout over the ongoing alarms.

  “To find out how bad this really is.” He throws open the door.

  “Are you mad?” I shout, chasin’ after him, but ‘e yanks ‘is shirt up over ‘is mouth and charges out into the blusterin’ winds.

  Martin runs for the gasmasks hangin’ on the side of the corridor wall, straps one to his face, tosses me the next, and takes down another for Masheck. He stuffs it under his arm, then lunges out into the storm, where he stands next to the two of us, lookin’ just as completely stunned.

  On the horizon, Vapours dance, thunderin’ down in great wafts of fury over the ridge of the escarpment, crashin’ through the forest in a great tidal wave of white tumblin’ froth, bowlin’ over trees and topplin’ stones, flattenin’ all in its path.

  I chase after Masheck up the back, castle, corridor, Martin behind me, after a lengthy battle to secure the side palace door shut behind us. We never should have ventured out in that storm. Together, we catapult the stairs and race out into the foyer, moving at whip-like speed.

  “Summon Parthena,” Masheck shouts, leapin’ up and snaggin’ a steam crossbow from its display mount on the wall. He loads it and draws it back. “Tell her meet me at the square.” He lets the arrow fly. Me eyes follow it ‘till it meets its target, killin’ the alarm dead.

  I hesitate, astonished. “How did you know that was where the alarm wa—”

  “Tell ‘er we need ‘er ‘elp.” Masheck carries on.

  “Why? For what?” I scramble after him.

  “Urlick left me in charge in his absence.” Masheck palms the doors to the underground tunnels that lead to the centre of town. “It’s up to me to protect his people.” He turns and sucks in a wary breath. “And I sense I’m gonna need all the help I can to get ‘em to listen.”

  “Right,” I say, and bound toward the communicay box in the corner. I clutch and jiggle all the wires, searchin’ for the one that connects with Madhouse Brink.

  Somethin’ bangs the front doors, stopping short our motion. Masheck draws back into the room, as Martin and I stall. Me stomach drops to the floor.

  The something flogs the doors again and again and Masheck starts toward it. “No! You can’t.” I rush after ‘im, but ‘is ‘ands are already gripping the ‘andle. The slammin’ continue and Masheck ‘hesitates, then throws open the doors. A great, gust of foul-smelling wind thunders across the threshold, carrying a floundering Pan along with it. She crashes to the floor, toppling to a stop across the tiles.

  I gasp, and run to her side as Masheck struggles to shoulder the front door shut. He falls on his knees beside me. “Is she all right?”

  “I dunno.” I stroke ‘er back. “Pan?”

  Weakly, ‘er ‘ead rises. She flutters ‘er eyes, then she drops ’er chin back down. In her beak, she holds the Neo Locator device I’d given Eyelet…Its light has been extinguished—its connection severed.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Eyelet

  My chin snaps up from the black-and-white checkered floor of the room we’ve just been cast. Urlick skids to a screeching stop beside me, his eyes as wide as pies. I turn to see a tall pair of playing-card doors—a laughing pair of jokers—slam shut behind us.

  “At last,” a voice booms. Fists slam a table.

  My head jerks around. My eyes travel up the slanted squatty legs of a metal table to the inhabitants that sit around its top—a variety of woodland creatures, all mechanical, engineered from junkyard scraps.

  When my gaze reaches the head of the long, luxurious table, I shudder. Seated on an automated adjustable throne is an automaton in the likeness of Professor Smrt—a reconditioned partially mechanical version of him. His facial features twitch and tick with a modicum of whirling clockwork parts. Repurposed hammers, levers, springs, cogs, and gears, all rudimentarily cobbled together to recreate his missing features. Melted skin seeps from what’s left of his bones, tacked up with clock pins to keep it from sliding completely off.

  I blink, praying my eyes are wrong…that I’ve struck my head and this is all a dream.

  He glares at me through a makeshift eye fashioned out of an old carriage lantern, the door flung open to expose the half-shattered, antique carbon bulb that serves as his eyeball, its filament his winking iris. He blinks, and the camera lens lid on his other eye clacks closed, then opens slowly again. Only the eyeball itself on that side is original, along with his cheekbone and half his smile.

  “What’s the matter, Eyelet?” He drums a set of fork-pronged fingers. “Not what you were expecting?” He opens his mouth, jaw hanging on a rusty hinge, and uses a prong-finger to pluck a seed from his teeth. He flicks the seed and tweaks his twisted wire moustache, drawing it out into a sharp turned-up end.

  In his lap sits the silver rabbit, which Smrt is calmly stroking with his other hand. Around the rabbit’s neck hangs the necklace—my necklace—flashing green in time with my bounding heart.

  I scramble to sit up.

  Maniacal laughter fills the room. It reverberates off the red and black paint-splotched wallpaper and shoots back at me, worming through my ears.

  Urlick sits up beside me and reaches for my hand.

  “How quaint.” Smrt lurches forward on creaking elbows. “Partners to the end, are we?”

  Atop his head, he wears an inordinately tall, tattered black top hat trimmed in a black and red, water-damaged sash. A weather-beaten tag dangles from its brim. Sir Official Mad Hatter, it reads.

  I scramble to my feet, preparing to grab Urli
ck and run.

  “I’d think twice about that if I were you.” He snaps his fork-prong fingers and guards pop out of every corner of the room. “The more the merrier I always say,” he laughs, and his non-existent eyebrows jump. “You’re late.” He leans forward and growls in a low, echoing, sinister voice, pursing his buggy spring lips. “The Black Queen does not take kindly to tardiness. Isn’t that right, Queen?” He flits a hand to the curtain behind him, and it unfurls, revealing another two massive playing-card doors. Queens, this time—of spades, of course. They crank slowly open, and plumes of dark black smoke billow out. Along with… The Ringmaster.

  I swallow down my fear.

  He sweeps out from behind the wall dressed in a pair of women’s high-heeled jackboots, thigh-high fishnet stockings, ruffled black bloomers, and a matching leather corset. His hairy chest pops out of the front, laces screaming over his barrel-sized ribs. Over his shoulder he carries a doubled-headed battle-axe, like those of medieval times.

  “He’s supposed to be dead,” I whisper.

  “And so am I.” Smrt laughs.

  The ringmaster laughs with him, their inhumane jaws creakily unhinging, clattering up and down. The ringmaster throws back her—his rust-bucket head, revealing jaws lined with metal bolts in place of teeth. He glowers through fuse-box eyes at me and twirls the ends of his melting waxed moustache.

  His famous top hat is perched atop his head, sitting sideways due to his metal fry-pan skull plate. Beneath it, what’s left of his brains pulses and gyrates every time he breathes.

  “I’d introduce you to the Princess, but I believe you two have already met.” Smrt laughs again, and I clasp my hands to stop them from shaking. Urlick looks at me perplexed, But there’s no time to explain.

  “Sit.” Smrt taps the back of the chair next to him with a long, ebony cane. The skin on the good side of his face buckles then slides from the bones as he smiles. The skin hangs there, dangling, like a bead of wax about to drop from a candle, and I feel sick.

  He reaches up and swipes the chunk of skin away like it’s a pesky bug, and I nearly vomit. His arm clicks as he does so. A lone flywheel attached as a shoulder whirs, activating all the mechanical parts below. Ropes and pulleys complete their duties, pulling his ball bearing swivelling, mechanical hand to his face. The assortment of pulsing camshafts serve as muscles, and rods form tendons, while a brass piston does the job of an elbow. Together, they create the illusion of effortless movement.