Mirrors and Magic: A Steampunk Fairy Tale (The Clockwork Republic Series)

by Katina French

  He couldn't think of an alias. He couldn't think of any name other than the one he'd been calling all night. He couldn't think about running anywhere except the direction she might have gone.

  Brendan had been caught by something stronger than the law. Love clutched him tight in its grip. He had to obey its command.

  "Are you going to come in, young man, or just stand on the threshold all night? Or is it morning already?"

  He started in surprise. A woman stood in the middle of the tent. The Mirror's living quarters were inside her performance area. If she had ever been spotted outside this tent, no one he knew was aware of it.

  Not that she'd be recognized, if she always looked like this.

  She dressed in black and grey, in the full skirts and high collars of a bygone era. Gloves, billowing sleeves, bonnet and veil concealed every inch of her skin.

  He wondered if she'd been burned by acid or something. He'd heard such a fate often befell alchemists, who worked with volatile substances.

  "Sorry to trouble you, Ma'am, but Lang said you could help. You're my only hope at this point."

  "You've lost your princess, eh? And found something else I think."

  The woman's voice had an Eastern European accent, difficult to place. Perhaps he wasn't the only person in the carnival who'd rather leave his real identity behind?

  "Been found out is more like it. But that hardly matters now. Neve's been lost. Taken, more likely. If I don't find her soon. . . ." He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

  There was a long pause. The Mirror seemed to be observing him, considering her words before speaking.

  Maybe she could see what he'd done to his father. If so, he couldn't blame her if she didn't trust him. He couldn't blame her, but he also couldn't let her refuse to help. He struggled to think of what might change her mind.

  The Mirror broke the silence at last.

  "I will help you. I was expecting you, as a matter of fact. You can save her. I believe you will save her. I have foreseen it. But it won't be in the way you think, or at the time and place you think. There will be a price. It may be more than you are willing to pay."

  Brendan glared at her. She was quibbling about stupid coin, when Neve was in danger? He turned, headed to his tent to collect whatever money he might need.

  "Your money is not the price I am speaking of, Ronan Malone, son of Collum Malone. In fact, I am not even the one who will demand the price for you to help Neve."

  "Then who do I have to pay, and what do I have to give them?"

  "The price is that which you guard most dearly," she replied. "And it will be required by Neve herself."

  Pursuit to a Dead End

  He was being followed.

  When he'd first suspected it, he'd been careful not to alter his body language or pace. After several twists and turns down a number of Chicago streets, he was certain of it. But who was it? Bella? Big Max? Another lackey?

  At this point, he was fairly sure they'd hired some thug in Joliet to get rid of Neve.

  A slow, steady stream of criminals and miscreants flowed out of Joliet prison upon their release. While the idea of Neve snatched by of one of them nauseated him, it also reassured him she might still be alive.

  Brendan knew better than most what it took to kill someone, even in self-defense. Even in a fit of rage. While a convict might have taken Bella's money to make the young magician disappear, ending an innocent life in cold blood was harder than it sounded.

  Neve was brilliant and strong. After almost two days of searching, he believed she may have escaped whomever had grabbed her in the cemetery. He should have caught up to them hours ago. It was difficult to move quickly with an incapacitated woman without attracting attention, and if Neve were awake and able to resist, it would've been even harder.

  He squinted down the street. The trail was fading. He'd need to take another dose of the tracking formulae soon.

  The Mirror had given him three vials of followfellow formulae. She'd tried to find Neve in her mirror, but nothing appeared in its surface but smoky haze. His breath had caught, fearing the worst.

  "It only means she is not nearby. Which should encourage you, my young friend. Killers rarely cart along the bodies of their victims when they leave town, thus she left town alive, although probably not of her own choice. You will have to use the formulae instead.

  "The effect wears off over time. If you do not find her after using all three vials. . . ." The woman's accented voice trailed off, refusing to voice what both already knew.

  If he couldn't find Neve by that time, it was unlikely he could find her at all.

  He'd struggled to trust her assurances that Neve was still alive. He was desperate to believe there was still time to save her.

  Following the fortune teller's instructions, he'd taken one of the company horses back to the cemetery and her parents' graves. He'd activated the alchemical potion by dropping a hair from Neve's hairbrush into it. He still carried the brush in his pack to activate the other vials.

  The concoction had bubbled and frothed and put off a terrible smell. He'd drunk it down in a single gulp. Dizzyness had overwhelmed him for a few moments. At first, he thought it had done nothing. Then he'd spotted the sparkling lights, trailing off into the light of the early dawn.

  The formulae created a glowing path wherever Neve had been.

  The luminescent path had led to the river bank near the bridge, where he had nearly despaired. A fist of panic had clutched his heart, when he feared some reprobate had killed her and dumped her body in the Des Plaines.

  But when he'd reached the river's edge, he'd seen that the path continued, bobbing and bouncing upstream in the very middle of the river, above the deep channel where steam barges passed. A killer would have weighted the body. It would have gone no further than a few yards, and downstream at that.

  Neve's iridescent trail had gone straight upriver, towards the city. Perhaps she'd escaped and leapt to safety on a passing barge. Or possibly, he'd taken her to the city to avoid being caught when she was discovered missing.

  He'd boarded the first steam ferry upriver to the city. Standing at the very front of the paddle wheeler, he'd stared in fear and wonder at the sparkling path hovering over the water before him. It had promised him the woman he loved was waiting for him at the end of it.

  The words of the Mirror turned over in his mind even now. He could save her, but not in the manner or the time and place he thought. He could help her, but she would demand a price the Mirror doubted his willingness to pay.

  He wished the surreptitious soothsayer had just said what she meant. But they never did that. He was shocked she'd given him straightforward instructions for using the formulae. Fortune tellers rarely offered clear directives.

  He'd disembarked at the docks, where he'd seen the trail leave the central channel of the river. The trail had led him from the docks to a nearby warehouse that had seen better days.

  A vivid glow of presence illuminated one room. It looked as though someone had made the place a temporary hide-out. Possibly several people. But it was abandoned now. Neve and whomever else had occupied the space had cleared out.

  Brendan had grunted in frustration and kicked a crate. So close. He had to be getting close now.

  The trail left the warehouse, pulling him deeper into the city. He'd been wandering all over town. The trail from the warehouse had lead to a law firm. No one admitted seeing her, but he could tell they were hiding something.

  After only a few minutes, they'd insisted he leave the premises. He was hardly in a position to attract the attention of the local police. Lang had confirmed by wire the address was Neve's estate attorney.

  If she'd escaped her captor, he wasn't sure why she hadn't sent a message back to the circus. It seemed unlikely her lawyer was in league with the kidnappers.

  Had she offered to pay her captor more to release her than he was being paid to abduct her? The trail had led from the attorney's offic
e to a bank, and then a hotel.

  He'd arrived at the hotel only to be thwarted by the concierge, who'd sworn he'd seen nobody of Neve's description. At any rate, the trail lead right back out the door. She'd already left by the time he'd gotten there.

  Now he'd spent the entire day following the trail from one end of the city to the other. He'd wired Lang an hour ago and he'd still heard nothing.

  If Neve was safe and free, there was no reason she should still be missing. If she wasn't, he should have caught up to them by now.

  Late into the afternoon, as the trail was starting to disappear, he'd realized he was being followed. He just wasn't certain who was following him.

  It seemed unlikely Bella and Max would leave the circus with all the suspicion swirling around them. Possibly it might be the same man they'd hired to abduct Neve. Maybe he'd lost her in Joliet.

  What if he was following Brendan, thinking he'd lead him to her? What if the plan was to eliminate them both all along? Brendan was exhausted. At this point, nothing made any sense and anything was a possibility.

  He slipped a hand into his vest, running a finger across the ends of several throwing knives. A deep breath settled him into a calmer state, quieting those speculations. Regardless who was following him and why, he was about to find out.

  He turned and bolted down an alley. He knew it was a dead end. That was the whole point. He heard his pursuer pick up the pace and run after him. He readied one of his knives in his hand as he ran, then pivoted and found himself facing . . . a nine year old boy?

  He started to lower his hand and the knife, but found he couldn't move. He was frozen in place. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see a light dusting of powder on his shoulders.

  A formulae?

  An angelic voice fell on his ears from above, drowning his surprise in sweet relief.

  It was Neve.

  "A knife, Brendan? Really? He's a child, for heaven's sake!"

  He was so happy to hear her familiar scolding tone, he could have leaped for joy. Except for the fact that he couldn't move at all.

  He wasn't even certain he'd be able to move his mouth to answer, but apparently the effect was confined to the neck down.

  "I didn't throw it at him, love. For all I knew, he was an incredibly light-footed assassin." He twisted his head up, straining to see her.

  Neve snorted down at him from an awning. No wonder he'd almost lost the trail. She'd moved to the rooftops. He wondered how long she'd been following him from above.

  "How did you find me?"

  Somehow, he'd been hoping she'd ask him that question breathless with joy at seeing him again. Possibly, while throwing her arms around him for a passionate kiss.

  As it was, it sounded more like an accusation than a declaration of gratitude.

  "Our friend The Mirror of Destiny. It seems you're not the only alchemist in the troupe. She gave me a tracking formulae. I've been trying to find you since you disappeared."

  "Seems only fair since you were the one who lost me. Tell me, was it Lang who sent you to retrieve his star performer, or Bella who sent you to finish the job?"

  Her voice dripped acid and accusation. Brendan couldn't believe it. She actually thought he was in league with Bella? Or that he wouldn't have come without Lang's prompting? He wasn't sure what hurt more, his heart or his now-aching arm, still holding the throwing knife near his ear.

  "You believe I was involved? Neve, you know me! Surely you know how I feel about you?" His voice was tinged with betrayal.

  "No, Brendan. I don't."

  She dropped down lightly from the awning. Reaching behind her, she pulled something from the waistband of her skirt and held it out for him to see.

  It was one of his knives.

  The boy who'd been following him drew protectively close to her. From various hiding spots in the alley, more children appeared and huddled close to Neve. One very small child had a slingshot aimed at Brendan's left eyeball.

  A little girl clutched a rag doll in one hand and a length of rope in the other, watching him uncertainly.

  So this was the den of thieves she'd stumbled into off the boat? A ragamuffin clan of street urchins?

  "Maybe I could have known you, Brendan. I probably should have. Yes, I knew you had feelings for me. But for all I knew, they were no deeper than your feelings for Stella or half the women who attended your shows. I enjoyed the attention. I enjoyed the flirting. So I was afraid to ask you if you were serious. I started to, that day in my caravan, but you didn't answer and I didn't press.

  "I didn't confront you. Like everything else in my life, I hid from it. I didn't ask the questions because I was afraid of the answers.

  "My whole life, I've played things as safe as I knew how, and I still ended up stuffed in a burlap sack and dumped on a steam barge. I'm probably supposed to be dead, and it's just the grace of God and dumb luck I'm standing here breathing.

  "Well, I'm done hiding, Brendan. I'm done avoiding. I'm done trusting people blindly. I don't want to join my parents back in that cemetery."

  She looked into his eyes, searching. He could feel the guilt clouding his expression, but not for the reasons she probably thought. He should have told her. He should have trusted her. If he had, maybe she wouldn't be struggling to trust him.

  "Well, good. It's about time." It came out of his mouth harsher than he'd intended. But he meant it.

  She looked at him, stung. By the look on her face, she'd expected him to pour on the charm or plead innocence. He'd caught her off guard with his sharp reply.

  "You're right. I wasn't honest with you. I was keeping a secret. You're not the only person to have lost your father. But at least I did mine the honor of valuing my own life.

  "At least I didn't waste my life biding my time, tapping my toe and impatiently waiting to fall into the grave after him. So whatever else happens, I'm glad you finally realized your life's worth living, even without your parents."

  Neve offered him a hard, cold stare behind tear-glossed eyes.

  "I left Ireland wanted for murder. That was my secret. But I swear on my father's grave, I've never meant any harm to you. I came after you because I love you. I was terrified you'd been hurt. And I'd have murdered again if I'd found anyone had done you harm."

  "So you really did it? Murdered someone back in Ireland?"

  "Aye." He hung his head, and slumped where he stood. The effect of the formulae acted like a set of stocks, holding him up to be mocked and shamed. He supposed that was fair enough. He'd avoided the shame of his past long enough.

  "Why? What happened?"

  Brendan considered a moment, then decided it was time to tell Neve about his past. If she didn't want to be with him knowing what he'd done, he couldn't blame her. But if she stayed, he wouldn't worry any longer how she'd feel if she found out the truth.

  The Knife Thrower's Tale

  "My father was a tinker named Collum Malone. He wasn't the finest craftsman, but a good, reliable journeyman with a shop that served the needs of our farming village near Limerick. He lacked the imagination for great invention, but he could repair most anything except his own heart, which my mother broke when she left him. Still, he made the best of things. He was a simple man happy with a simple life.

  "It was never enough for me. I envied the wealthy son of the local landowner. He was rumored to be a mad man, but at least he was a wealthy mad man and his son had the means to leave and seek his own fortune as soon as he was of age. I was convinced I was doomed to spend eternity trapped in my father's hometown.

  "I refused to learn his trade. I spent my time practicing darts at the local pub and bemoaning my fate to anyone who would listen. I disparaged his small ambition on a regular basis. I wanted to leave our village, see the world, join a theater troupe. But the fee for apprenticeship with any traveling company was far beyond what we could afford.

  "One day, he came home and told me that he'd taken on a commission with the local landlord. The commission
would pay my apprentice fee. I never even bothered to ask what he was to build. I should have known it was too good to be true. Deep down, I did know it. But I didn't care. I didn't care what my father had sold or promised. I didn't care what the mad rich landlord had asked of him. I only cared that I got what I wanted.

  "I joined a traveling theater company. I learned fencing and acting, a bit of singing and dancing as well. When the director of the company saw me throwing darts, he took it upon himself to teach me to throw knives as well. It was over a year before I returned to my home village. I don't know if I even thought of my father once the whole time. He never wrote, but he was not a man of letters so I paid it no mind.

  "But after a year, we returned. I went to my father's tinker shop and discovered it closed, the windows boarded up. I asked around town, trying to find him. No one wanted to tell me. But their eyes blazed at me with silent accusation. I heard the tongues click behind my back. Felt the glares as I searched through the town. Whatever had befallen my father, the people who knew him and valued him blamed me.

  "Finally I went to the manor of the man who'd supposedly offered him the commission. His servants refused to let me in the front, so snuck in the back. It took me a few hours, but I finally discovered the secret entrance to the man's laboratory. Ha! Might as well call it by its right name: dungeon. Torture chamber. Hall of horrors.

  "The man was a fiend. He'd been conducting experiments, illegal abominations of alchemy. He'd been attempting to reverse aging and imbue humans with godlike strength and vitality. The commission was no device or machine. It was an experiment for which my father had volunteered. Had volunteered, and then died painfully in its failure. I found the notes in the monster's journal.

  "The man stumbled upon me in his lair. He attacked me, desperate to hide his secret. We fought and I struck him down, but in the struggle we knocked over a volatile formulae. It set the room ablaze.

  "I barely escaped. My father's killer did not.

  "When the constabulary arrived, they didn't care what accusations or justifications I made. No tales of self-defense or righteous vengeance would be heard. He was a dead man, and a wealthy one. Whatever the townsfolk suspected, all the evidence of his evils had burned away with his grand manor.