by Beth Cato
Mr. Jennings said nothing for a few minutes. Their wheels rattled across the cable car tracks at Howard Street. “It is peculiar for a Durendal to be mobilized in an American city.”
“It seems like overkill. They could have driven over in a caravan of trucks.” Her voice sounded thick to her own ears.
“Durendals hold three set purposes. They’re to kill, awe, and intimidate, and if you can do all three at once, all the better.”
That sounded like Captain Sutcliff, all right. He probably had his shoes shined before interrogating her and Mr. Sakaguchi. He’d have driven a tank across the peninsula from the Presidio and parked it at their curb, too, if it showed who was in control.
“You seem to know a lot about Durendals.”
“To my regret, yes.”
She studied him in the intermittent gas-lamp light. He had to be a few years older than her, probably not past thirty. Certainly old enough to have fulfilled his conscription time in the Philippines or China or some other Southeast Asian isle that earned brief mention in newsreels.
He turned them away from the docks and into the older blocks known as South of the Slot, as they were below the main cable car lines along Market Street. Leaning power lines and older factories flanked the quiet avenue. Haphazard metal sheeting and planks reinforced holey brick walls. A building up the street churned out plumes of steam so thick she imagined cupping a hand and scooping it from the sky like whipped cream.
He guided the car up a short gravel drive and behind a slatted fence. “Here we are.” Mr. Jennings shut off the car and hopped out to close the gate behind them.
She was slow to move. Even with the fresh tingle of power in her veins, a terrible sense of exhaustion weighed on her. She should be with Mr. Sakaguchi, not here.
Lee’s Uncle Moon had to save Mr. Sakaguchi. He just had to.
Ingrid groped beneath the seat for her shoes, and after a moment joined Mr. Jennings outside.
Heaps of machinery walled off the back of the warehouse. Piles of parts mounded taller than her five and a half feet, and as she stepped around the autocar and looked closer, she noted everything was organized. Wheels, axles, and other parts she couldn’t even name, all together in distinct stacks.
“Miss, follow me if you will. All this metal around, it’s not safe for anyone in the dark.”
Mr. Jennings walked her to the back of the warehouse. A flickering light above caused the brim of his hat to shine like a halo. At the sound of that first gunshot, he must have grabbed his accessories from the hall. He was not as fastidiously attired as Captain Sutcliff, but he had his vanity, too—and a lot of common sense. She certainly couldn’t have walked barefoot through a place like this, not without the risk of lockjaw.
“Thank you for thinking to grab my shoes,” she said.
He shrugged. “Sometimes old habits come in handy. If you have to skedaddle, know what you need to survive.”
Yes, he most definitely had been a soldier. She followed him inside. Scant lighting revealed a winding pathway through more machinery. Tables weren’t set with dinner plates and napkins, but with dismantled engines, the chassis of an airship’s stub wing, and the extended canopy of an autocar.
Mr. Jennings motioned around them. “My partner believes in the high art of disorderly organization. It makes sense to him.”
“You two keep busy.” No wonder they could afford a piece of kermanite large enough for a Sprite-class engine.
“We do try.” Pride warmed his voice. “Fenris! Where are you, Fenris?” Mr. Jennings’s yell echoed against the high ceiling and bounced through gnarled metallic canyons.
“Working on the Bug! About time you showed up with my kermanite, damn it.” The high voice was muffled in its echo.
Chuckling, Mr. Jennings led the way through the labyrinth and to an airship. Well, parts of an airship. A pulley system hitched to the ceiling supported the massive copper-toned hunk of the orichalcum cockpit. Filled gasbags the color of vellum hovered just above. Sporadic ropes and weights held it down.
She couldn’t help but gape in fascination. Sprite classes always looked small in contrast to other dirigibles, but she’d never been up close to any craft. If a Sprite made her feel this way, beside a massive Tiamat-class airship, she’d be like krill before a whale’s maw.
She stooped to pick up a piece of orichalcum. The golden metal was the length of her arm, and about as light as a bouquet of flowers. She set it down again, amazed at how metal so strong could weigh so little.
Two oil-smeared legs stretched out from beneath a big piece of something. An engine, judging by the empty kermanite chamber.
Mr. Jennings planted his fists on his hips. “Pop out of there for a bit, Fenris.”
“Bah. Okay. Give me a minute to connect this.” Something rattled within the metal block, followed by indecipherable muttering, and then the body rolled out into the light.
The figure was slender and slathered in oil and God-knew-what, and reminded Ingrid of fairy photographs sold by Victoria Rossi. The body was shaped like a lowercase l, with no hips, cropped hair, bug-eye goggles, and a scowl that suggested they interrupted him in the midst of something very important. A black-gloved hand pried up the goggles. Clean skin around his eyes created a reverse raccoon effect.
“That’s a woman, not kermanite.” His voice was high and raspy; a smoker, she guessed.
“Congratulations,” said Mr. Jennings. “You are correct.”
“Cy. We already had a talk about you feeding half the stray cats in the neighborhood. Now you’re bringing home women, too? Couldn’t you fill a saucer of milk for her and leave it by the rubbish bin?”
Ingrid folded her arms across her chest, tucking her meager possessions near her heart. “If I’m not welcome here, I can go back home.”
“No. You can’t.” Mr. Jennings’s voice was gentle and warning all at once.
She rubbed at her face. She wanted home. She wanted her reading chair and a hot fire. She wanted to hear the whisper of Mr. Sakaguchi’s slippers as he paced between his desk and shelves as he did his evening work. Instead, her household probably resembled a kicked-in anthill of soldiers in blue, and Mr. Sakaguchi—no, she wouldn’t think of him, not right now.
“I need my kermanite, Cy,” said Fenris. “I can’t piece together the engine compartment until I can wire it in.”
“We have more immediate concerns, Fenris. We just escaped from a Durendal full of soldiers.”
There was a dramatic shift in Fenris’s expression. “Oh. Are you okay?” He glanced back at the mechanical debris. “If we can get the kermanite, I can assemble the Bug and be ready to go by morning if you pack up—”
“Not that sort of trouble. Not yet anyway.” Mr. Jennings sighed and looked to Ingrid.
“Wait a second. You mean you rescued her from soldiers? You put yourself at risk because of her?” Those strange raccoon eyes appraised Ingrid and obviously found her very, very wanting.
Ingrid stiffened. The very notion of weakness on her part brought a flare of power to her skin. “He didn’t rescue me. He . . . well . . .”
“I was an avenue of escape, that’s all.” He said it in such a gentle way that she was placated. “Fenris, don’t look at her like that. Here’s what happened.”
Mr. Jennings proceeded to summarize the day’s events while strategically leaving out the matter of Ingrid threatening to shoot him, or the fact she’d flung him back into a wall and almost brained him with a clock.
That made her think. If Mr. Jennings had been concussed by his strike into the wall, it certainly didn’t show in his driving or wits after the fact. He had seen what she did, but hadn’t said a thing. Why? Did he intend to hold it over her as blackmail?
Fenris listened to everything, acknowledging points with the occasional nod. Once Mr. Jennings was done, he said, “So you’ve brought home the person who can get my kermanite.”
“Rather myopic, aren’t you?” Ingrid snapped.
He showed no re
action to her attitude. “When I’m in a project, I need to finish it.”
“Well, just about everyone I know was killed today, and Mr. Sakaguchi might be dead now, as far as I know.” Tears threatened again. She did not want to cry in front of these strange men.
“You’ve dealt with a terrible trauma today, Miss Ingrid. My apologies that you must endure my partner’s acerbic nature atop that.”
Mr. Jennings adjusted his glasses on the arch of his nose and offered her a soft smile. He cared. The knowledge caused sudden warmth to bloom in her chest, and it felt so much like the tingle of an earthquake that she almost dropped to the ground to pull in energy—but the origin of this heat was entirely in the wrong place.
Damn it all. If he kept looking at her like that, she might not care a lick if he blackmailed her.
“I can get kermanite for you.” She almost regretted the words as they slipped out, but she desperately needed allies, even if this Fenris acted like he sat on something spiny.
“You can? Tonight?” Fenris perked up, and then abruptly scowled. “Goddamnit! If the auxiliary’s gone, the ready supply of kermanite is nil. Prices are going to go cirrus-high. What sort of rates are you charging?”
“Fenris,” snapped Mr. Jennings. “If she asks market value, then we’ll pay what we need to.” He turned to her. “Miss, you’ve already been through quite enough today. There’s no need to fuss over—”
“You helped me. You helped Mr. Sakaguchi. I won’t inflate the price, but I do ask for a favor in return. I can’t . . . I can’t go home. I hate the idea of hiding from my own government’s men, but . . .”
Mr. Jennings nodded. “Once the military’s decided something, it can be as single-minded as Fenris here.”
“Hey!”
“If you can get me to the Bank of Italy over on Davis, I can access Mr. Sakaguchi’s stash of kermanite.”
“The bank can’t be open now?”
“No, but the manager lives next door, and I’ve often fetched parcels for Mr. Sakaguchi at this time of evening, even on holidays.” She and Mr. Sakaguchi had been visiting the bank often to fill up a particular piece of kermanite that was about head size, perfect for a Sprite. The heat currently brewing in her veins would be adequate to finish the crystal. “You’ve been especially kind, Mr. Jennings. This is the least I can do.”
“We live as bachelors here, but providing you a refuge is the least we can do.” Mr. Jennings turned to his partner and glared. “Right, Fenris?”
“Seems she’s already dropped us waist-deep in manure.” Fenris shrugged. Sweat and oil seemed to have lacquered his shirt to his shoulders. “If she can get my kermanite and avoid bringing any more gunfights or explosions here, then fine. I just want to get my work done.”
“It’s a deal, then.” Ingrid looked to Mr. Jennings. “Let’s go fetch that rock.”
CHAPTER 7
APRIL 16, 1906
“Hey.” Something hard nudged Ingrid in the shoulder and shattered the blackness of sleep. She blinked. Ahead of her was a mottled metal wall with rusted bolts staring at her like albino eyes. She shifted on a mattress so thin that the bony knobs of the bed frame left imprints on her body. Unusual stiffness lingered in her back and down her legs. The events of the previous day flooded through her mind. The auxiliary. Mr. Sakaguchi. The soldiers. Mr. Jennings.
That’s whose bed she occupied. Mr. Jennings hadn’t shared the bed with her, of course. He had grabbed a few blankets and said he’d make do on a car seat down in the shop. His scent lingered, reminiscent of a spilled bottle of ink.
Awareness circled in her mind. She had slept in a strange man’s bed. She was still in it. Her hand grazed the thin mattress and wondered how his body fit against it, tall as he was, and smiled at the thought.
Something cold jabbed into her shoulder. She lurched upright with a gasp. Her forehead collided with a wooden shelf. The audible thud ricocheted through her skull. She bounced backward onto the bed as it squawked in indignation.
“He warned you about that.”
Rubbing her head, Ingrid rolled to find Fenris standing about five feet away, a long metal pole in his grip. The bedchamber was little more than a storage closet tucked away in the warehouse loft. Light poured through the window and caused her to wince.
“Did you just poke me?”
Fenris looked at the pole in his hand. “Yes, well, I didn’t want to grab your shoulder.” He nodded toward her. “You like him, don’t you? Cy?”
She scowled as her cheeks flamed. Somehow, the observation sounded worse from him than it did from Lee. “And if I do?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, that’s all. We’re hopeless wanderers. With his pretty little accent, Cy always has girls fawning over him. He leaves broken hearts wherever we go.”
She masked a flinch. “I don’t fawn over anyone.” Cy’s voice could probably calm a horse enough to walk through a fiery barn, but she didn’t want to think of him with other girls. Or leaving.
Not like she’d made much progress on that goal of world peace yet.
Ingrid swung her legs around to the metal floor, taking care that her skirt behaved itself. The stiff pleats of her pseudo kimono had held up surprisingly well. She reached for her shoes.
“What time is it?” she asked, avoiding direct eye contact.
“Past nine.”
Fenris wore the exact same clothes as the previous night, or maybe all of his clothes were in the same stained condition. His face, however, had been washed, revealing caramel skin lighter than Ingrid’s. He could be mixed like her, or of Latin descent. His spindly arms crossed his chest as he watched her, making no effort to grant her modesty.
“You haven’t been to sleep yet?” Ingrid asked.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead. In the meantime, there’s coffee and work to do. Oh, and there’s a Chinese boy downstairs waiting for you.”
“What?!” Ingrid jumped upright, only at the last second leaning forward to avoid the shelf.
“Come on, then.” Fenris left. Cursing, Ingrid shoved her feet into her shoes and hobbled after him, at the last second remembering to grab her hat from the floor. It was hopelessly creased and battered from its misuse the previous day, but she needed some sort of head cover.
Her feet pounded out a metallic drumbeat down the staircase as she looked around the sprawling warehouse. Mr. Jennings had taken her on a quick tour after they returned from their bank errand the night before. He had insisted on paying for the work outright, and she hadn’t argued with him that much. Considering everything that had happened in the past day, possessing hundreds in ready cash seemed wise.
The open section of the warehouse was the men’s personal playground. The airship, dubbed Palmetto Bug, had been made from scrap. How and where a person could find something as expensive as orichalcum as scrap, she hadn’t a clue.
Fenris had the brisk pace of a man with a to-do list the length of his arm, but with her urgent stride, Ingrid quickly caught up. As they passed through the door to the front office where Lee awaited, she slowed down, suddenly overwhelmed with dread. Was Mr. Sakaguchi still alive?
She desperately read Lee’s face for clues. He looked suitably blank, a proper errand boy.
“Miss Carmichael.” Lee granted her a low bow.
She didn’t care one whit for propriety. “Lee, how is he? Is he alive?”
Lee looked sidelong at Fenris, and Fenris flicked a dismissive wrist and showed no sign of leaving. Lee faced Ingrid again. “He’s alive. But it was a grave wound. Uncle almost lost him a few times.” His voice sounded even, but Ingrid detected the anxiety underneath.
“But right now, how is he?”
“He won’t be walking out of there anytime soon. He’s still on the edge. If infection sets in . . .”
Mr. Sakaguchi could still die.
She closed her eyes, wavering, as she remembered when Mama died. Ingrid had stayed at her bedside through hours of that long and awful labor. Dr. Hatsumi had visited and don
e what he could, all the while muttering about discordant energies. A Pasteurian had come and said much the same, but in regard to sepsis and bacterial infections. Mama hadn’t helped matters as she insisted she’d be fine, even as her skin took on a white and waxy sheen, and she outright refused to go to the hospital.
Mr. Sakaguchi had been on a trip to Atlanta and was on the fastest Porterman home. “By the time I land, I’m sure the labor will be done and she’ll scold me for returning early,” he’d told Ingrid over the telephone before he boarded the airship. Mr. Sakaguchi, ever the optimist.
The next call Ingrid made was for an ambulance carriage. By the time it arrived, Mama had slipped away. The hand in Ingrid’s grasp turned limp as a cut celery stalk left in the sun.
Mr. Sakaguchi returned home and made it to the doorway of Mama’s empty room before sinking into a puddle of grief. Ingrid had grasped his hand then. It had also been limp, but still carried the quiver of his pulse.
She needed to hold his hand, know that heartbeat.
Ingrid took in a shaky breath and opened her eyes. “Take me to him, Lee. Please.”
“Ingrid. No.” Lee’s gaze flicked to Fenris and back to her. “I’m just here to tell you how he is. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come back.” A peculiar emotion flashed over his face. Fear?
“Then that’s all the more reason for me to go. Mama—you were there when I lost Mama. You know she kept saying she was fine, and then she went to sleep, and . . .”
“Damn it, Ingrid. Don’t put me in this position. Please.”
“I’ve been to Chinatown to go shopping plenty of times along with you and Mama and Jiao.”
“We’d have to go off Dupont for this.” Lee’s expression was hard. “You don’t belong there.”
Dupont Street acted as a neutral zone where different skin colors mingled for the sake of business. While Ingrid had surmised that Lee’s uncle likely didn’t practice in a certificate-adorned establishment, leaving Dupont meant discarding money, morals, and any remaining shreds of virtue. It meant entering the full domain of the tongs that had filled the power vacuum left by the fall of China’s government.