Breath of Earth

by Beth Cato

  “Dearest Ingrid,

  “I write with the sincerest hope you will never read this letter or the contents of this box. Today, we survived the explosion of the Cordilleran Auxiliary. I do not believe this to be a mere boiler explosion but sabotage, and an act we certainly were not intended to survive.

  “Who the culprit is, I know not. As much as I disagree with the Unified Pacific, I do not believe they would willingly endanger an American city in such a way.

  “I am far more suspicious of Japan acting of its own volition, but I cannot persuade myself of their guilt. The city would not concern them, but the loss of so many geomancers, adepts, and kermanite is a blow they cannot afford at this critical juncture of the war.”

  She wondered what he would think of Mr. Thornton’s disappearance and the kermanite theft. She couldn’t see the British conducting such an attack on San Francisco either. The brutal battle against the Thuggees should have their full focus—and why invite the wrath of the Unified Pacific? The British victory against the Thuggees looked as certain as the UP’s against China. It only took time.

  “Of one thing I am certain, and that is that you must understand more of your power and from where it comes.

  “Twenty years ago, I assisted your father in faking his death. At the time, I knew he had a wife whom he rarely visited in Oklahoma Territory, but he said nothing of private matters. He was reserved in nature; a brooder, to put it plainly, and one who never behaved with the discretion of a married man. He could store earth energy with far more fortitude than his peers. His capabilities seemed to increase with age.

  “In this, you surpass his skills by far; I have chided you often on this subject, but I should note, I am grateful for your rebellion this morning, as you saved both our lives.

  “I digress. Two decades ago, I became keenly aware that your father’s channeling skills had evolved in a manner that appalled even him.

  “We were together on duty in Charleston, South Carolina, that balmy summer. New factories in the Lowcountry required massive quantities of kermanite, and as there are several local faults, we stayed there to harvest energy.

  “Abram fell ill. His sickness and agony worsened over several days and culminated on the night of August 31, when he nearly died. You know well what happened.”

  “The Great Charleston Earthquake of 1886,” interrupted Cy. “I remember it. I felt it clear in Alabama when I was just a boy.”

  Dry-mouthed, she continued: “Every time he suffered a bout, an earthquake occurred. I realized this was no coincidence. It wasn’t the fever that caused a reaction; we geomancers suffer fevers often, after all. It was the pain. The earth shared in his agony, as if in sympathy. As he recovered, it became clear that our adepts had also noted the correlation.

  “Abram was determined to flee. He was horrified that he had somehow caused so many deaths, even indirectly. At the time, Japan was beginning its full campaign against China, and the news abounded with stories related to the war. The factories we powered were to engineer weapons for these efforts. Abram could foresee, and I agreed, that he would be the ultimate weapon for use against our enemies abroad.

  “Therefore, I became the sad witness to his death, while in truth he was smuggled out on a Porterman bound for the Azores.”

  Ingrid paused. “This is a lot to take in. Good God. He caused the Charleston earthquake.”

  She could cause a San Francisco earthquake. With the made ground and density of the population, it would be all the more devastating. Maybe she’d already hurt people because of her pained contact with the selkies.

  “You know the tale of how your mother brought you to the auxiliary. I realized you channeled the earth’s magic, and more. My academic interest in deviant geomancy became personal as you grew, as both you and your mother claimed my household and my heart.

  “I have wondered about where Abram’s skills arose—if perhaps his mother and father were both geomancers, enabling their progeny to be all the more strong. There must be some reason—in all my research, I can find no mention of a mortal woman such as you, born with earth magic; though certainly old tales do recall goddesses and other feminine fantastic beings of magical might. To my frustration, Abram has always refused to speak of his parents; all I know of his youth is that he came to California at age ten, was listed as an orphan, and enrolled at the Cordilleran.

  “Raising you on the San Andreas has had risks, I will not deny, but you have also benefited from having so many geomancers and adepts in your proximity to balance the danger. That balance is no more.

  “You have just returned home from your errand. I must bring this to conclusion.

  “Ing-chan, you are your father’s daughter. I can only imagine your grief, your legitimate sense of betrayal, if you have the misfortune to read these words, as you understand the full danger of your own potential. You must comprehend how vital it is that you leave San Francisco. You must go to TR.” She paused. “He means Theodore Roosevelt.” Brow furrowed, she continued. “He is aware of your skills—barring our new revelations—and will assist you. The schism of our friendship was a feint as it became necessary for me to make certain opinions public. I could not endanger his position as Ambassador. Too few of the Twelve hold true American loyalties. I worry what will come after China is conquered.

  “As you will find in the second set of letters, the Unified Pacific captured Abram sometime this past Christmas. His aptitude was not forgotten. He was transported to China, where I believe he was used as a weapon in Peking. This genocidal application of deviant geomancy is named the Gaia Project.

  “Godspeed.”

  “He abruptly ends the letter there.” Ingrid pressed her fingers to her lips.

  “Those Peking earthquakes killed hundreds of thousands of dissidents, maybe millions,” Cy murmured.

  Papa did that. Ingrid’s head felt as if it floated, and she set her shoulders against the wall to regain her bearings. The military had Papa. They used him. That meant . . .

  “They tortured him. They made him hurt, to cause earthquakes like that.”

  “Ingrid,” said Cy. “Think on what Mr. Sakaguchi said. You’re your father’s daughter, and more powerful than him at that. You could be a more potent weapon than any airship or Durendal. You.”

  She raised her eyes to meet his, afraid of what she would find.

  CHAPTER 12

  Cy’s expression was grim. Ingrid drily swallowed. Would he condemn her as a monster? She couldn’t entirely blame him if he did.

  “The earthquake in the ocean. You caused that,” he said.

  “It seems so.” She tangled her fingers together. “In the past day, with all the other geomancers gone, I noticed the timing of some of the earthquakes. Not all of them. Not the big one in Chinatown. But the others . . . yes. That’s why I wanted to get this box and leave. I don’t want . . .” To be a weapon. To be like Papa. Tortured. Used. “I’ve always been told that I don’t handle pain well. Mama and Mr. Sakaguchi coddled me over the slightest thing. Most of the other wardens regard the notion of geomantic Hidden Ones as ancient hogwash, but Mr. Sakaguchi is obsessed with the subject. All his research was because of me. Me and Papa.”

  “I don’t know much about these sorts of Hidden Ones,” Cy said. “They’re monsters that live in fault lines, correct?”

  She studied him, trying to gauge his mood. “Sometimes. Many ancient cultures describe giant creatures that hold up the land and toss and turn to cause earthquakes, but they might live in a fault or in the sea. Wherever they are, they’re bound to earth’s magic. Some tales are about the same fantastics, even though the storytellers are continents apart.”

  “Ingrid. You needn’t look at me like that.” Cy scooted closer, brown eyes thoughtful as he gazed over his glasses.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’ll turn on you like a rabid dog. This power isn’t something you chose. I’m not judging you.”

  “I don’t want to be a weapon.” Her voice lowered
to a whisper.

  “You aren’t going to be.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed. A giddy spike of heat went straight to her chest. Here she was, completely improper, garbed in his cast-off clothes with her hair looking like it was styled by a cyclone.

  “Just yesterday, Mr. Sakaguchi made a comment that he should have sent me away but he was selfish. I was angry when he said it. I didn’t understand.”

  “There’s not much there to misunderstand. He loves you.”

  “I know that, but . . .”

  “There’s no buts about it, Miss Ingrid. I wouldn’t want to send you away either. Matter of fact, I plan to leave the city with you, soon as you’re ready. We’ll go to Mr. Roosevelt together.” His hand felt so right in her grip. His expression was sincere, betraying not even the slightest hint of ungentlemanly behavior. Cy Jennings would always be proper to the core.

  Ingrid was not so restrained.

  “I’ll be damned if I wait for you to make the first move,” she said as she leaned into him. Her fingers gripped his neck to draw him closer. Their lips met, her eyes open wide to take in his reaction.

  He gasped as their lips touched—oh, his lips! Wide and soft, a touch chapped. Hot. A current zapped from their lips and surged to her chest and belly, where it squirmed, all sizzling and cozy and demanding of more.

  A kiss really did feel a bit like geomancy, but better. The softness of his skin, the sandpaper roughness around his mouth, the way his angular nose pressed against hers—those were all infinitely preferable to wiggling her toes into dirt. The very thought caused a giggle to vibrate through her lips. Something about that seemed to affect him, as that’s when he decided to kiss back.

  Oh.

  His lips moved against hers, and it was like a lever was pulled and an engine roared to life. She moaned deep in her throat, the sound of her own body so strange she didn’t recognize herself. His broad hand cupped the back of her neck and shifted their bodies closer together. With a jolt she realized that she didn’t even have a camisole on beneath the baggy shirts she wore. He had to feel the full curve of her breasts, but she didn’t stop kissing him. She didn’t want to.

  Not until she heard a throat clear rather loudly from the far side of the desk.

  “Pardon me for interrupting. Or don’t pardon me. Either way, good to see you’re back and alive, though by the state of your clothing, I apparently missed out on more adventures. I suppose you’ll need to update me on everything, once you’ve untangled your uvulas.”

  Fenris took care to slam the door as he left. Ingrid and Cy’s lips parted but their faces remained close.

  “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a pacifist,” Cy said. His glasses looked the slightest bit askew, his breath rapid. “But whatever made you think you had the right to do that?”

  In her belly, the giddy warmth turned lukewarm. “Oh.”

  His smile, however, stoked the sparks again. “I’m the one who won the wager. I got you past that tank, didn’t I?”

  “You did.”

  “Exactly.” One eyebrow arched. “That kiss doesn’t count.”

  “Well, don’t expect me to apologize.” Her hand slipped down to clench his again. Their fingers knotted together. The very look on his face was enough to make her want to shimmy free of her borrowed apparel and do things she should never have learned from any dime novel.

  Cy’s grin was crooked and more than a little silly. “I figure Fenris’s lurking right outside the door. We erected these walls here, and the material is awful thin. Right, Fenris?”

  “I chaperoned the lady down to Chinatown.” The voice was muffled. “Does she need a chaperone in our building as well?”

  Well, that was a right put-off. Blushing a bit, Ingrid scooted back, her hands brushing the letters in their bundles. “No, thank you, I think we’ll manage. We’re about to get back to work.”

  “While you do your kind of work, I suppose I’ll get back to my Palmetto Bug.”

  Ingrid opened her mouth to scold Fenris, but Cy gave an abrupt shake of his head. “It won’t do any good,” he said. “He could be in total traction and he’d still find a way to work a bolt and pliers. If he hurts too much, he’ll stop.”

  Pain. Hurt. That brought her right back to the subject at hand. “There are a lot of letters here. There might be something we need to know before we leave. Do you want to take one bundle? If anything seems pertinent, we’ll tell each other?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said. He picked up the letters Mr. Sakaguchi had referenced. Ingrid gnawed on the inside of her lip and hoped there was nothing too personal or embarrassing inside. She tugged another letter from her stack.

  The blue fog on the floor had deepened a tad, flowing over the floor like a layer of delicate tulle. It eddied around her feet. There still was no heat to it, not even the electric spark she felt during the magic of Reiki. It was just there. Waiting.

  She didn’t want to be here when the waiting came to fruition. Disconcerted, she began to skim the letters. Minutes passed.

  “These aren’t written by your father,” said Cy. “These are about him.” He fanned the pages in his hand.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Abram Carmichael was arrested and they confronted your Mr. Sakaguchi about letting him escape years ago. Instead of fighting the charge or keeping quiet, Mr. Sakaguchi lobbied most everyone he could about Mr. Carmichael’s imprisonment. It’s not public record, but it’s by no means secret either.”

  Papa fled twenty years ago. That’s what Captain Sutcliff had referred to when they spoke in the Reiki office. He knew what Mr. Sakaguchi had done.

  “Papa was captured around the holidays. It was at the start of the year that Mr. Sakaguchi and Mr. Roosevelt ceased their friendship. Publicly, anyway. I’m guessing that Mr. Roosevelt fought for his sake behind the scenes or Mr. Sakaguchi wouldn’t have stayed free at all.” Mr. Roosevelt had sent a note warning of Captain Sutcliff’s arrival as well, not that Mr. Sakaguchi had taken advantage of it.

  “The UP’s certainly killed men for less, and Japanese men at that. Possessing a powerful ally had to make all the difference. These papers say that Japan formally censured Mr. Sakaguchi, revoked his passport, and ordered him to remain in San Francisco.”

  He’d disobeyed that order now. Wui Seng Tong took care of that. Why had Mr. Sakaguchi been working with Wui Seng Tong at all? It had to be because of Lee, but why? With the suspicion Mr. Sakaguchi was under, no one in the Unified Pacific would think he was with the tong against his will. Not even Roosevelt could change how bad it looked.

  A sob caught in her throat.

  Cy drew her close. She tucked her head against his neck, breathing in the lingering sea salt from his skin, and let his fingers rest on her hair. There was such solid comfort in his mute presence. After a moment she pulled back, granting him a teary smile.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “I’m here.”

  She nodded, soothed, and returned to her own letters.

  Papa wasn’t much of a writer. His missives were curt, rather like a child checking in with a parent simply out of obligation. He spoke of good and bad beer, of the aggravation of frequently cloudy skies in Portland, of the boardinghouse where he resided. No questions about Ingrid or Mama. He made one brief comment on Mama’s death—“good that Ingrid’s grown up so that it doesn’t matter to be an orphan.” She had a hunch that Mr. Sakaguchi hadn’t related the details behind Mama’s death.

  Ingrid wondered if she should feel more anger toward Mr. Sakaguchi for his web of lies. Instead, she felt perturbed, and more than anything . . . grateful. Everything she learned about Papa as a person made her all the more glad he was out of their lives. Mr. Sakaguchi and Mama had truly loved each other, and Ingrid couldn’t have had a better father than her ojisan.

  “Ingrid.”

  She looked up, realizing that she had been silent for a long stretch. “I’m sorry, Cy, this is all just—”

  “The Gaia Project? My father’s
company, Augustinian, is somehow involved.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Augustinian? Your father? You’re an Augustus?”

  The Augustinian Company was the largest American manufacturer of airships, war machines, and most anything of orichalcum construction, including Durendals. Kermanite engines were its special expertise. No wonder Cy was a brilliant engineer. He’d been born into it.

  “Bartholomew Cypress Augustus.” He cringed. “You see why I go by Cypress.”

  “That’s a mouthful of names so thick I could chew on it. You—your family—”

  “My family.” Cy stared down at his lap. “I haven’t seen them in almost half my life. When I deserted the A-and-A, I had to leave everything behind.”

  “Except Fenris.”

  “That’s right.” He rubbed at the evening shadow thickening on his chin. “This Gaia Project. It’s about kermanite, about how it stores and uses energy. My father’s one of the most knowledgeable men in the world on the subject. It . . . it doesn’t surprise me that he’s involved, though I wonder . . .”

  “You miss your family dreadfully, don’t you?”

  He nodded as he stared into his hands. “Yes. We were very close. Strangely so, I suppose. Mother tolerated society balls, but she was happiest painting calla lilies in the garden, or reading in her library. Father thought nothing of letting me build automatons as I played beneath his desk when I was young, and my sister . . .”

  Ingrid recognized the grief in his eyes. “She died last year, you said?”

  “Yes. Maggie—Magnolia—she was my twin, you see, and smarter than me by leagues. She could do anything. Make anything. Maggie was a mathematician in the league of Newton, Fermat, or Euler, though as a woman, she could never work outright. Everything was done through Father. She practically ran the company by age thirteen.”

  “Now I understand why you accepted me and Fenris as we are. You saw your sister deal with the same kind of thing.”

  He frowned and nodded. “A brain’s a brain. The parts attached don’t seem to matter as much. I beg your pardon. That’s rather crude.”