Thunderstruck

by Shannon Delany

  Jordan pressed her lips together. “This army of yours—they will not fail? You are certain their membership is vast enough … And that they will come when you call?”

  “Yes. Beyond any doubt.”

  Evie grumbled something under her breath before snarling, “Numbers. I would prefer higher numbers.”

  Jack said, “Agreed.” Then, perhaps more for himself and Evie than the others, he added, “That’s the best I can do until I solder some bits….” He held the contraption up for Evie’s inspection and she grinned.

  Bran recognized it by shape alone. “A gun.”

  Jack grinned, nodding. “Yes. Once I get this part …” He pointed to a particular piece near the grip. “ … properly attached I’ll have a long-range weapon like none other.”

  “Like none other,” Rowen said, arching an eyebrow.

  “Another weapon,” Marion whispered. “Can we not do this peacefully? Can we not finesse this revolution without bloodshed?”

  Jack, Evie, and the Wandering Wallace exchanged a look.

  “I will also have at least one lightship repaired…” Jack tried.

  Rowen glanced down at the table and Jordan pursed her lips. Miyakitsu quietly traced a finger along the inner edge of her kimono’s collar.

  Marion rapped his knuckles on the table, beating out a frustrated rhythm. “I want this to be a bloodless revolution. A coup d’état can be that, can it not?”

  The Wandering Wallace turned to face him. “Yes, but only if the opposition allows that sort of overthrow. Frankly, such a thing will be up to them. If they allow a peaceful transition, I will certainly accept it.”

  “You will … ?” Jordan twitched in her chair. The clouds darkened around them. “Please do remind me just how it was determined that you would be the one in charge?” she whispered.

  The Wandering Wallace bridled at Jordan’s insinuation. “Do you wish to take the reins then, young Lady Astraea?”

  She shook her head, short dark hair rippling in the air’s caress. “No, I want no such responsibility—I feel no such calling. But even I am wise enough to know there should be more than one man leading things.”

  “And there will be,” the Wandering Wallace soothed. “There will be what we establish in Philadelphia and what still holds in other major cities as we sort things out. There will be a new, more inspired and forward-thinking Council.”

  “The last Council surely believed they, too, were forward thinking,” she challenged. “Even if they held on to some of the past—even the worst bits—still I believe when those men entered the Council they hoped to make a better and brighter future.”

  “Perhaps for themselves,” the Wandering Wallace murmured.

  Jordan’s fingers rolled into a fist. “My father was a part of that Council….”

  “Was,” the Wandering Wallace emphasized.

  Rowen’s hand reached out for Jordan’s, perhaps in an attempt to soothe—but she pulled her fist away, still seething.

  Marion shifted in his seat. “Surely you do not think the current Council succeeded in crafting the brighter future you suggest they desired …”

  Jordan’s head snapped up. “No. Not at all. Certainly not for our kind. But replacing a group with one man makes no sense—it returns us to a kingship—a sovereignty. We should not have slaves, but we should not have that either.”

  “I said I would include others….” The Wandering Wallace said, his tone going glum, like a boy pouting.

  “You will,” Jordan agreed. “We will see to that.”

  “And to a peaceable revolution,” Marion added, giving the Wandering Wallace a firm look. “As peaceable as we can make it, yes?”

  From within the depths of his rhino mask, the Wandering Wallace seemed to glance down at the table. “Yes, yes. Of course yes.

  “If you have additional forces,” the Wandering Wallace said, looking at Evie, Jack, Marion, and Rowen, “rally them. I do not care where they come from, nor their heritage—I only want assurance that they fight for us.”

  “I only want everyone to get settled in their cabins and get some rest,” Jordan retorted. “Yes, we are on the brink of revolution, much must be done, but sleepless nights will come soon enough.” She stood and looked at all of them—except for Rowen. “Go, eat, drink, sleep.” She stared at them until they rose from their seats.

  The Wandering Wallace, of course, had something to add. “I must deliver the headlines and sing,” he said. “We must maintain and build trust.”

  Jordan shook her head, but, resigned, she pointed toward the small communications center with its flywheel and its horn intercom. He spoke into the horn, relating the headlines and news to the people stuck and static in locked cabins.

  In all of her life, Jordan had never heard headlines such as the ones he delivered, things that sounded more fantastical than the reality she’d always been part of—things that seemed so foreign in form they might as well be dreams. Throughout Europe it sounded as if steam contraptions were on the move—and moving far more safely than the government of the United States wanted citizens to think was possible.

  “And, in international news, The Baba Yaga has traveled into Moscow to discuss the terms of her surrender, leaving her steam-powered house to stand on its chicken-like legs outside of St. Basil’s Cathedral.”

  The rest of their group made their way toward the elevator, while Jordan adjusted the ship’s controls and listened to the Wandering Wallace’s song. Finally she, Miyakitsu, and the Wandering Wallace joined the last few of them riding the elevator into the Artemesia’s gut.

  ***

  Philadelphia’s Below

  George slapped his hands together, looking up and down the street. All was quiet here at the edge of the Below. Wiping his brow with a rag before pressing the cloth back into his waistcoat’s pocket, he headed home.

  The falling rain, falling only Tuesdays and alternating Fridays, ran into his face again, undaunted.

  There was nothing easy about his job. Not the searching out of the renegades and rebels who made steam contraptions, not the finding them at times no one else would be around, not the wanton destruction, not the fire-starting, not the need to cover his tracks.

  He patted the belly he’d started to grow. All for a good cause. He assured the safety and sanctity of his son through his secret dealings with the Council. He assured his son would not be taken away, that what was left of his family would not fall due to Harboring a Witch.

  Though, what could you fall from when you lived like church mice in an old woman’s attic? There was no great honor left to his family name, no power he wielded in neither market nor government, nothing special about him unless one counted his son.

  Todd was all he had—a clever child with a mind for artistry and design and a curiosity that George had never seen rivaled. Why, he’d be an inventor great as any, if George knew anything about anything. Which he was certain he did.

  If only there were more inventors to model himself after …

  George knew of da Vinci and his flying devices, of Franklin and his—everything. Franklin tried it all, from printing to music-making with his glass armonica, to devising the postal service itself! Da Vinci’s ideas were all used up, if you asked anyone in the businesses of building and design. And George had. The men he had spoken to assured him. Either da Vinci’s ideas failed when tested or they had already been used to their full potential.

  All good and godly things that could be invented had been invented—now was a time of revision, not creation.

  And Franklin’s remaining ideas were deemed worthless, Franklin earning himself quite a diabolical reputation—causing his inventions to be locked away in a cellar beneath his prized post office, if the rumors were to be believed. Locked away to be forgotten.

  It was hard enough protecting a son who was a Witch, but a boy who might invent things akin to those that destroyed Franklin’s reputation and eventually his life? To be guilty of diabolical dealings—how else did
man manage such strange things as Franklin made except by dealing with devils or Wildkin? Had he not taken some Native as his lover at nearly the same time he’d been Ambassador to France? That was where the temptation and taint were found—the Wildkin or French.

  Both had quite the reputation.

  It was wiser—safer—to follow the crowd than test the government. Wiser to stay the path than stray and test your own abilities.

  Far better he encourage his boy into something that brought no questions and no debate than something that raised eyebrows and made people look at him more closely. Because the more fiercely you examined someone, the more likely you were to find fault with them.

  He opened the door, shouted greetings to the old woman sitting in the corner, humming as she rocked in her wooden chair, and heaved himself up the stairs to the attic.

  At the top of the staircase he raised his hands over his head and pulled on a knotted rope hanging overhead. The ceiling opened, a ladder sliding out to nearly scrape the floor by his feet and, holding the sides as he went, he climbed his way home.

  Rain slid down the eyebrow windows set at both ends of the attic and, by flickering candlelight, he saw his boy seated on the floor, playing.

  He crept up behind him on tiptoe, heart swelling in his chest at being home, his son in view. No one but a parent understood such a sensation.

  He clapped his hands down on the child’s shoulders and the boy nearly jumped free of his skin, gasping, “Father!” His round cheeks flushed, he stood, turning to face his father and wrap his arms around him in a hug.

  George squeezed him so hard he lifted him off the floor and Todd kicked out his feet, laughing. Set back down, Todd immediately began to lead his father away from where he’d been focused so intently on something.

  “Whoa, whoa,” George said. “First show me what you were playing with that had you so enthralled.”

  “It was nothing, Father,” Todd insisted, slipping his hand into his father’s and turning them toward the door in the attic’s floor.

  “No,” George said. “It must be something grand.” He pulled free of the child’s grasp, picking him up and carrying him back to investigate.

  Seeing the contraption there, George froze.

  On the floor in fluttering light, stood a small and delicately wrought automaton in the shape of a cat. From its quivering wire whiskers to the tip of its long, jointed tail, it was all feline and fire. Beside it sat a small bag with tiny bits of crushed coal. A coal-powered steam cat.

  George focused on breathing, trying to ignore the fact his son, a Weather Witch yet to be discovered, was playing with the very sort of thing George was hired to destroy.

  A thing George had not given him.

  He pushed breath in and out of his lungs, trying to fight a rising tide of panic. Just below his skin, a shudder raced, making the hair on his thick arms stand up.

  Someone set up his son.

  Someone had set him up.

  And someone would be at their door by morning at the latest to make their discovery known.

  In his arms Todd merely said, “Imagine if these were available for Christmas, Father. No child would ever regret being given coal by Old Saint Nick, would they?”

  George stayed silent, stunned.

  Perhaps no child would regret the gift of coal, but their parents most certainly would have regrets when they were discovered. And with men like George on the job they were sure to be found out.

  Setting the boy down, George gave him his best smile and said, “I’ve got a surprise for you, boy.” He ruffled Todd’s hair until it stood straight up. “We’re taking up residence elsewhere tonight.”

  “Moving?”

  “Yes, my lad. Surprise!”

  ***

  Philadelphia

  The rain slowed—it did this, falling in patterns that, if one was observant, could be anticipated.

  Huddled in shadow under a dripping roof’s edge, John heard them before he saw them: a strange crying song rose out of the water and drifted across the edge of the land.

  Cynda sat up straight, her eyes fixed on the water.

  Footsteps sounded and John saw light glint off a gun barrel.

  The song grew louder, slower, and sadder as the Merrow were singing a funeral dirge.

  The water created a continuous blur—an ongoing sheet of moisture. John squinted against its onslaught, watching as something rose out of the water—something as liquid as the sea, as colorful as an oil slick and as beautiful as …

  He swallowed.

  They were beautiful.

  Shimmering and cloaked in rainbows, three sirens rose from the water, their faces transcending human—unearthly—angelic—an array of fleshy spines fanning out from the tops of their heads, crowning them. Their song shifted and changed as they neared the water’s edge and the words—

  —weaving, undulating words—

  —the water streamed into his eyes and threatened to plug his ears and John thought for a moment he understood what they sang.

  Wide are the waves that keep me from you

  Far will my spirit now travel

  Without fear, without strain,

  Devoid of horror and pain

  Now will I move ever on, on, on …

  He shook his head, clearing the water from his ears, and their words returned to a weaving and weird otherworldly chorus.

  Their heads part headdress and part nearly human hair, they swayed their way to land, long hands with webbed fingers reaching and pulling them up.

  Onto land.

  John jumped back, seeing how those waterbound angels flopped onto land, long coiling tails twisting behind them, mouths filled with rows of sharp teeth as they sang. Windows were shuttered and the light faded further in the already dim alley.

  John remembered he was just an old man.

  With bad knees.

  Something slithered past his feet.

  Cynda screamed.

  The gun flashed, firing.

  Another scream tore through the air and John counted three loud splashes.

  A man snapped, “Do your duty!” and Cynda gave a startled scream. Then came the wet slap of footsteps and finally even they were swallowed by the rain.

  Unnerved and exhausted, John slid down the wall, sitting in the cold and damp, joints aching.

  ***

  Aboard the Artemesia

  “I think I shall call that my nightly lullaby to the liner. What think you, my love,” the Wandering Wallace asked Miyakitsu as she helped him tug off his boots of buffalo hide and contrasting stitching. The coin-silver buttons winked at him. They were the boots of a performer—not the boots of a revolution’s leader.

  Miyakitsu smiled at him, setting the boots down by the trunk that traveled everywhere with them.

  He studied her, a man obsessed. Every line of her body and glimpse of her soul colored his world. But tonight there was something different about her.

  She always moved with a fluid and animal grace—with good reason—but when she turned back to face him he wondered if her nose wasn’t the slightest bit more pointed.

  She reached out to take his rhinoceros head mask. Were her fingernails longer—a touch more like claws? He helped her tug the mask and accompanying hood free.

  For a moment she stood there, cradling the head in her hands, staring at his face. Staring at his multitude of scars. He shouldn’t have lived. He’d been told that many times. But he had been a child when he’d been set on fire along with his illegal contraption—along with his home and his family—he was too young to know he was supposed to die.

  He had known pain.

  But he discovered tenderness and healed under the determined hands of a young violinist in the Night Market. She took him in and nursed him, raised him as her own. In the Night Market he might be an oddity, but there oddities thrived. He learned magick against her will. And one day, years later when he thought himself wise enough and man enough, he left her.

  She p
robably blamed magick for his disappearance.

  He shook his head. He loved her like a mother and he left her with not even a note to explain.

  But no one ever explained his parents’ leaving him either. They were murdered, and why? Because they bought him a toy that was steam-powered.

  Miyakitsu’s eyes roamed his scarred face a moment more and then she dropped the mask on the bed beside him and fell into his arms.

  If his adoptive mother thought magick had stolen him, in a way, she would be correct.

  Miyakitsu was magick personified. He held her close, wrapping her arms and legs around him and pushing the collar of her kimono open to bare one ivory shoulder. She snapped at him, clicking her teeth together with a giggle and knocked him back on the bed.

  Magick had claimed him and he intended to stay hers for as long as he could, no matter her magick condemned her to not remember him come morning.

  Chapter Four

  For evil news rides post, while good news baits.

  —John Milton

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Morning found the Artemesia’s rebels tearing into a meal of scones, porridge, and dried fruit and waiting for the Wandering Wallace and his woman.

  Rowen stopped eating when Jordan excused herself from the table, returning to the dais to Conduct the ship. The wanted posters had left his hands for longer than a few minutes only while he slept and now, under the table’s edge, he unrolled them and thought.

  If Jordan wanted to get away, to escape, he would do whatever was in his power to provide escape for her.

  He promised resources to Evie to unite the rebels in their cause of freeing the slaves, but resources could come as readily in men as in money. Evie would not doubt his intentions if he pushed to go ahead of them on the way to Philadelphia.

  Two birds, one stone. He rolled the posters up again and headed for his captain.

  She and Jack had left the table to sit, heads nearly touching, on the very edge of Topside, arms slung over the banister, feet … Rowen slowed, realizing. His stomach lurched.