Machine

by K. Z. Snow

  “How does it work?”

  “Knowing that would do you no good, Fanule. The Hag will be recalling all my gifts. That means the wagon, too.”

  Fanule didn’t want to disabuse him of that belief. If Zofen knew the Spiritorium would stay behind after he, the Spiritmaster, faded into oblivion, he might try to damage or destroy it out of spite.

  If he had any spite left in him.

  “I suppose you’re happy now,” Zofen muttered.

  “No. I’m not happy at all. I got nothing I came here to get.” Impulsively, Fanule reached out and traced the lines of his father’s ear, lightly holding its soft edge between his thumb and forefinger. So beautiful. And so reminiscent of his own once-glorious ears.

  At first Zofen flinched. Then he simply lowered his eyes and let the touch continue. “Why were yours docked?” he asked after Fanule withdrew his hand.

  “When I was taken to the Truth and Justice Building to be marked, something happened that enraged me. So I sucked the light from the hallway in the subbasement. Shattered every electric bulb.”

  The corners of Zofen’s mouth quirked up. “Good job,” he whispered.

  Fanule felt a ridiculous blaze of pride at his father’s approbation. His eyes burned. He pinched his fingers over them.

  Snowflakes began drifting through Howling Wood’s canopy. They fell lazily, almost reluctantly, as if knowing they’d melt on contact with man or wagon, tree or ground.

  As if knowing nothing could last forever.

  “It’s rather a shame that no one will mourn my second passing. At least the first time there was Pebblesworth.”

  “My old schoolmaster?” Fanule asked in surprise.

  “Yes. He was quite the sycophant. Went in search of me when he retired, determined to become my personal assistant.”

  “Is he the one who brought you to—”

  Brusquely, “Yes. But I made him swear to leave as quickly as possible after his final task was completed, and to take up residence overseas and never come looking for me again. His presence in my new life would’ve proved more of a hindrance than a help. Truth be told, I found him exceedingly banal.”

  Always the user, Fanule thought.

  “How will my passing make you feel?” Zofen asked neutrally.

  Fanule couldn’t interpret the tenor of the question. Like a cardsharp, Zofen was adept at concealing his hand. Still, Fanule decided to be frank. “I’ll mourn what it represents, all the missed opportunities. Beyond that—” He almost said, “Good riddance, Papa.” But he decided to voice a nobler thought. “My heart is with William. My mind is on making him whole again. Clancy Marrowbone, too.”

  Zofen nodded and rose from his seat. Fanule followed. “I imagine people consider you a good man,” Zofen said. “I’m not sure I understand goodness, except in the abstract, but I think if I still lived in Taintwell, I’d hold my head a bit higher because you’re my son.” He braced a hand against the Spiritorium. “Go now. I prefer to be alone.” He took a deep breath and expelled it. “I do wish I could’ve seen your mother again. Just glimpsed her. Those remarkable green eyes….”

  Rising wetness made Fanule’s vision waver, but he would not, would not let himself spare so much as a single tear for Zofen Perfidor. This man had taken untold numbers of people from their loved ones.

  He walked away.

  “Good-bye, Fanule,” he heard at his back. Or thought he did.

  Then, in a recess of his mind, the Hag’s words surfaced. “I have granted you more of an opportunity than you realize, sir.”

  He turned but couldn’t quite make out Zofen’s form in the clearing. The snow had dropped a veil between them. “I always wanted so much to love you,” he confessed.

  And that was the end of it.

  Now it was up to the son to reverse the sins of the father.

  Chapter Seventeen

  FANULE RODE to the edge of the wood and gathered up the remaining compass flowers. A legend, he reasoned, always had an umbilical connection to fact. When he returned to the clearing, Zofen was gone. Gone without a trace. The Hag must somehow have known of the conversation between father and son, and reclaimed the father as soon as their talk was over.

  The Spiritorium still stood in the clearing. Snowflakes continued to fall around it.

  Fanule wished Lizabetta could be with him, but she was at his house, sitting with William. He had no familiarity with Zofen’s specialized Machine, had no one to provide guidance or make suggestions. He had only himself.

  Now, too late, Fanule thought of what he could have done and probably should have done. Such as force his way into the Spiritorium while Zofen was still present to answer questions about it. Or demand the name and location of the Machine’s inventor.

  Make the best of it.

  Fanule slowly walked around the wagon, studying its fantastical exterior. It clearly was meant to attract crowds. But some of the figures looked slightly out of place, as if they weren’t original to the wagon but added at a later date. All were circular and evenly spaced, like medallions on a belt: moon, sun, clock face, hex sign, cat’s head, orange slice, eyes of every color, the faceted head of a diamond, the petaled head of a flower.

  Fanule stopped in front of one and worked his fingers around the edge. The figure, which proved to be hinged, popped open like a lid. All he saw behind it was a tunnel of darkness.

  A tube?

  Heart thumping, he walked to the front of the wagon and peered up at its double doors. A short flight of portable wooden stairs led to them. He ascended the steps, unlatched one of the doors… and nearly tumbled backward onto the thin brown grass.

  Fanule raised an arm to shield his face. Swirling clouds of mist and glowing color filled the wagon’s interior. A faint, atonal hum cut through the air. Scent twined through scent—pinecones and jasmine, black walnuts and linen and sweet ale. And more. Many more. Warily lowering his arm, he blinked against the dizzying assault on his senses. Solid forms began to take shape.

  The most noticeable, a gold-plated chair, sat on a low, round platform roughly in the middle of the floor. A lever angled up beside it. On the other side lay a heap of bedding and a coldbox, so Zofen must also have slept and eaten in the wagon. Glove-like structures were attached to the chair’s arms, wires writhing from the fingertips, and shoe-like structures, also bristling with wires, were riveted to the floor at the base of the chair. Some kind of metal cap or helmet affixed to a bendable arm was centered over it. The headgear resembled something one might see at a masque. Decorative as much as practical, it extended to the middle of the nose and conformed to the structure of both face and skull.

  Most telling was the large brass-and-bronze structure sitting before the platform, attached to a capsule-shaped metal container: the infamous Machine, no doubt. In addition to a whirlwind of wires, telescoping tubes of various widths wound all throughout the Spiritorium, so the Machine resembled a tentacled, metallic monster ready to attack whomever entered the wagon and sat in the chair.

  No, it was actually attacking whomever was outside the Spiritorium, being drained of his or her essence. Each tube could somehow be directed to one of the cleverly concealed holes in the wagon’s walls and, from there, into whatever place was inhabited by the Spiritmaster’s victim.

  “Gods,” Fanule breathed in disbelief. He imagined one of those tubes nosing its way into Marrowbone’s sleeping nook. He imagined one slithering through a window at Elva Scrubb’s boardinghouse. And he imagined Zofen in that throne-like chair, concentrating so hard he shook all over, while the dreadful Machine amplified his power.

  Zofen’s Machine was a steam-powered vacuum pump with, apparently, a psychic dimension. Fanule had been to Simon’s repair shop often enough to recognize its shape, the flywheel and cranks, the belt driving the governor. He had more difficulty tracing the paths of the looping tubes. Not only were some positioned in front of the walls’ holes, where they squirmed as restlessly as gape-mouthed snakes, others led into large glass j
ars and bottles secured to shelves that were bolted to the walls.

  “That’s them,” Fanule whispered, squinting against the luminous, shifting colors. He was about to flatten his hands on the bubbled glass of one receptacle and peer inside, but he flinched away at the last moment. Who knew what could affect these trapped essences, or in what ways?

  Damn it, how could he safely free them?

  Then one jar caught Fanule’s attention. Its etheric contents, bright and beautiful, swirled as if they’d been jostled. Ribbons of light blue and green, yellow and orange pulsed, expanded, contracted, and intertwined. Lobes formed and withdrew. Occasionally, a filament of white appeared, curling through the hazy edges of the bands like gleaming silk thread. When Fanule approached the jar, the hues both misty and brilliant crowded against the glass.

  “William,” he whispered, irresistibly compelled to cup his hands on either side of the jar.

  A distinct tingle prickled through his fingers and against his palms. His hands were soon limned by layers of blue and purple, and the white thread, widening, encased the other colors like angelic gloves.

  “William,” he whispered again, resting his forehead against the glass. It was surprisingly warm. “Forgive me. Come back to me.”

  Don’t attempt to use the Machine, Fanule. It could do more harm than good. Leave it alone. You don’t need it. You’re a lightsucker.

  He jerked back, gulping air, and looked around. No one was in the wagon with him. Had the voice been inside his head? He couldn’t identify it, didn’t even know if it was male or female. As he steadied his breathing, he closed his eyes, hoping to hear more.

  The Spark is a form of light. Draw each Spark out of confinement, then release it from your hold. Give it a compass to guide it home.

  Fanule had no idea how sucking in these “Sparks” would affect him. And where was he to get—?

  His bafflement fled within seconds. The flowers! He checked his pockets for them, found them still tucked within. But how could he offer a flower to an insubstantial mass of energy?

  “Just do it,” he muttered to himself. “And start now.”

  Of course he turned first to William’s prison. Don’t overthink this. Don’t get sidetracked. Treat the Spark like any other light.

  Fortifying himself with deep breaths, he stared at the swirl of glowing colors and steadily sucked it in.

  The effort made his whole body tremble. This wasn’t like drawing in simple light. The complex brilliance seemed to sear his corneas and pound against the inside of his skull. Then it did something regular light never did: it slid into his chest.

  Swaying, he made a fluttering sound. For one scintillating moment he felt William inside of him, felt every aspect of William’s nature blooming within him—especially the power and purity of William’s love. But… it was stained a damp gray with confusion, sadness, loneliness. And worry.

  Fanule blindly pulled a compass flower out of his pocket. He knew instinctually when he’d drawn in all of William’s essence. It flooded his own spirit and overwhelmed his senses. He briefly closed his eyes, which terminated the suctioning process, and held his cupped hands before his face. Within them lay the compass flower. His gaze was directed at it when he lifted his eyelids.

  “Go home,” he whispered.

  With a dizzying rush that knocked Fanule backward, William’s spirit swept over his hands in a torrent. Fanule reeled. The inside of his body seemed to collapse like a popped balloon inside a papier-mâché form. When he could focus again, he saw the compass flower was gone.

  Gulping air, he blinked. Smiled. Began to titter. All the dismal desperation that had bloated him began to trickle out. It was still too soon to know if he’d been successful, but he certainly felt heartened.

  Now, where was Clancy?

  Guilt stung Fanule at the thought. He shouldn’t be playing favorites. He should just go from bottle to bottle and jar to jar in turn. But, he reminded himself, Marrowbone’s situation was possibly the most dire. His physical body was in danger, as was Simon’s.

  A larger jar held the most likely aura, a cyclone of red and black and greenish brown, along with violet, orange, and silver. Fanule approached it and touched it. “Clancy?”

  The colors blazed into agitation. Blackness dripped through them all, throbbing. Fanule’s fingertips burned.

  Marrowbone was distressed and infuriated. Given half a chance, he’d do to Zofen what he’d done to Fanule’s would-be assassin.

  “You need to relax,” Fanule murmured, “or you’ll shred my eyes and mangle my brain.” Tensing, he began to suck.

  Drawing in Clancy’s Spark was both agonizing and exciting, like trying to contain sexually charged lightning. Fanule’s balls tightened. He could’ve sworn he felt his ribs crack. In spite of the pain, his arousal mounted. The pressure within him was intense and relentless. Just as he began to feel faint, he knew he’d drawn in all there was, and his eyes snapped shut.

  Flushed with exertion and embarrassment, he readied the compass flower.

  “You made me come, you bastard,” he mumbled as he opened his eyes. “Now go home to Simon.”

  The wagon rocked. Fanule’s legs shook as Marrowbone’s essence gushed over his palms. He felt an effervescent tickle of humor, saw a devilish smile. His cock, sticky from his own shocking release, pulsed at Clancy’s departure.

  Well, he thought, that was unexpected.

  The wagon still held nine trapped spirits, including Ulney’s and Yissi’s. Fanule suspected that Zofen had drawn in many more over the years but, for one reason or another, had released most of them. Some had probably proved of no interest to him. Others, he’d likely grown tired of. The ones remaining were either recent “catches” or essences that especially fascinated him.

  With some trepidation, Fanule wondered how pulling in the rest of these spirits would affect him. He only hoped he wouldn’t liberate someone truly, violently evil. As soon as he had that thought, he felt strangely confident all would be well. But he could tell from the way his forehead and temples ached that he’d have to rest a bit between drawings-in. Sucking light alone drained his energy. This was a hundred times more taxing.

  Fanule was rubber-limbed and dripping with sweat when he finished releasing the last spirit. Pain pounded at the inside of his skull. For the hell of it, or maybe for the heaven of it, he stumbled around the Spiritorium, slapping at its snaking tubes and shivering wires, knocking them askew. He half expected them to turn on him, claim him as their final victim. He imagined the tubes coiling round his body like ravenous pythons, their mouths latching on to his flesh. He imagined the wires drilling into his enemy eyes.

  None of that happened. The tubes and wires, all in disarray from his swatting, hung around him as limply as crepe-paper streamers. Fanule kicked at the lever beside the gold-plated chair. With the ponderous click-click-click of interlocking gears, the chair, or rather its disc-shaped pedestal, made a single revolution and ground to a halt.

  Fanule draped his arms over his head and closed his aching eyes. The whites were probably red, awash in blood from ruptured capillaries. Forcing them open, he checked his coat pocket. One compass flower remained.

  Maybe it’s for me, he thought with a tired smile. Maybe it will keep my spirit on the right track.

  After casting a final look at the glass containers to make sure all were empty, he shuffled to the wagon’s double doors and clomped down its wooden steps.

  The snow fell more heavily now, flakes dancing through the wood like tiny faeries and collecting on every surface save the roof of the Spiritorium. Fanule looked up, blinking as they landed on his eyelashes. Their light, cold kisses felt like blessings on his eyes.

  “Fare thee well,” he said to the spirits that wafted homeward across the leaden skies.

  Good job, the wind seemed to whisper through the trees. Good job.

  Bemused, Fanule turned in a full circle. An uncertain smile tugged at his lips.

  As he completed his ro
tation, the Spiritorium shimmered like a mirage and melted, spangling the snowflakes with gold, into the wintry air.

  Chapter Eighteen

  TAINTWELL’S GASLIGHTS hissed in the darkness as moisture gathered in their jets. Lizabetta was waiting at Fanule’s house.

  She gasped when she saw his eyes. “Dear goddess, what happened to you? You look like you sucked the light from the sun!”

  “I feel that way, too.”

  “Let me take care of it.” Betty’s head leveled itself with Fanule’s. She passed her hands over his eyes, then blew very softly on each one. “There. The redness is subsiding.”

  “Thank you. How is William?”

  Betty assured him William was physically fine and sound asleep. “You can tell me tomorrow or the day after how things went,” she said.

  “Have there been any signs that he’s—?”

  “No questions. I’m leaving now. Just go in the bedroom and stay there until he wakes up.” Betty drifted toward the back door and stopped. “Your father?”

  “Gone. For good. Along with his wagon.”

  “And the Machine?”

  “It was inside. So it’s gone too.”

  Betty nodded. “Did you reach any kind of peace with him?”

  The question gave Fanule a start. He hadn’t had the time or mental space to give the matter much thought. “Maybe, partially,” he said. “In a way. Not all reunions are happy ones, Betty.”

  “Or families,” she added, then smiled with sad empathy. “Well, at least ‘maybe, partially, in a way’ is better than ‘hell no.’” She turned toward the door but once again turned back. “You know, dear Fan, you’ve not only earned your title, you’ve infused it with meaning. ‘Eminence of Taintwell’ no longer sounds pompous and silly. It sounds majestic. And it suits you.” She touched her fingers to her lips, although her hand seemed more to pass through her face, and blew him a parting kiss.

  “SIMON?” THE muffled voice punctuated a furious pounding. “Simon, damn it, have you lost your mind? Let me out of here before I smash these fucking doors to smithereens!”