Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic

by Maureen L. Mills

  I did not wait to hear what he wanted my former friend to bring. As soon as Fairlane’s eyes left me, I balled up my fist and let fly a solid punch to his jaw.

  The cables underfoot made for a shaky stance, and the tightness of my sleeves lessened the blow even more. I felt rather than heard the line of stitching at my underarm give way as my fist met Fairlane’s pretty, detestable face.

  He didn’t go down. But he did stagger, leaving me an opening for escape.

  I darted to the right, avoiding his one-armed grab, and made for the door as fast as my restrictive skirts allowed.

  Freedom lay within a few feet. I reached for the doorknob, and Fairlane leapt on me from behind and bore me to the ground. He landed squarely on the center of my back, and all the air exploded out of me. Once more, I lay face down in the filth covering the ground.

  My chest felt as if I’d been stabbed clean through, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I was not certain whether he’d broken my ribs or merely knocked my breath out. Either way, I was much too busy gasping to fight him further.

  “Reuben!” he called, hauling my wrists to the small of my back and holding them securely. “Bring some cord and the poker, if you please.”

  The poker? I’d forgotten he’d asked Reuben to heat the poker.

  Oh. Oh, no. The alchemical strength test. He meant to brand me.

  Cracked ribs or no, I struggled in earnest.

  Chapter Thirty

  Struggling was useless, of course. Fairlane had every advantage. Greater size, superior position, he had control of my hands, and I could hardly catch a single breath. Still, I could not help but make the attempt.

  I threw my body to the side, hoping to cast him off. He wrenched my arms upward, forcing my face down into the accumulated coal dust of decades. My shoulders screamed from the strain.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I gritted out through teeth clenched against getting a mouthful of grime. “You already know I’m a pyromancer!”

  “But I don’t know the extent of your capability. I can’t have you undermining Falcon’s Flight by pretending to be weaker than you truly are. No,” Fairlane said, taking a length of cotton cord from Reuben, who had scurried into view moments before. “I need to know exactly what you can do.”

  He trussed my wrists together fully as efficiently as I would expect from an airman and flipped me onto my back. The muscles in my shoulders ached with the continued strain, and my spine arched to accommodate my restrained hands.

  I tried to catch Reuben’s eye, but he fixed his gaze steadfastly on his toes. “Reuben,” I pleaded. “Help me! Don’t let him burn me!”

  “Now, Mel,” he said. “It won’t be that bad. And I’ll take care of you afterward. You’ll be right as Sunday muffins in no time.”

  My reply caused even that rough and ready airman to gasp.

  Fairlane merely laughed. “Such language! I always suspected you were merely a guttersnipe.” He grasped the torn edges of my bodice and spread them wide, exposing my summer-weight linen corset and fine lawn chemise—no protection at all from any of Fairlane’s schemes. Why could I not have chosen to wear my leather corset today? But it would not have mattered, I suppose. Fairlane would simply have cut it away.

  Fairlane ripped the neckline of my chemise and tugged down my corset until my breasts nearly came free. Reuben shuffled uncomfortably and looked away.

  “The poker, Reuben,” Fairlane said, and Reuben held out the two-foot length of iron.

  The tip glowed cherry red.

  Fairlane took the poker and knelt astride me, settling his weight across my hips. My collapsible bustle collapsed finally and completely. “It’s really quite safe, Amelia. Branding you here, there are no major blood vessels to rupture or muscles to injure, and you have enough flesh to absorb the heat well.”

  He prodded the upper swell of my breast experimentally. “Well, let’s begin, shall we? Reuben, hold her shoulders down so she will not injure herself with struggling.”

  “As if you cared anything for my safety. You are going to thrust a red-hot poker into me!”

  “Don’t worry, my dear. I shall remove it the instant I smell burning skin. You’ll hardly scar at all.”

  Oh, hell. This was going to hurt. I could see no way out of it. But perhaps I could prevent at least some of the damage. I had some natural resistance to heat. All pyromancers did. But I’d never tested my limits. I’d never even analyzed how, exactly, that natural resistance functioned. Was it something I did, or merely something I was? Could I boost my immunity in some way?

  If only I knew how.

  Reuben knelt by my head and pressed me against the dirt floor. “Ready, sir.”

  I had to get myself under control, or I’d have a charred hole in my breast the second Fairlane touched me.

  Fairlane fished out his pocket watch and set it beside my head, where he could see it easily.

  If I were truly brave, I’d hold back and allow him to burn me. Refuse to use my abilities at all, thus proving I was not what Fairlane believed me to be.

  I wasn’t that courageous.

  The test had been cleverly designed. How could anyone accept that degree of pain without putting up any resistance whatsoever? Even if one had the mental fortitude to attempt not to fight the burning, very, very few could stop their body’s automatic defenses against the assault.

  I could not even determine to make the attempt.

  I stared at the evil red glow as Fairlane lowered the poker closer to my unprotected flesh. Calm. I had to stay calm. I could do this. No fire such as burned on any hearth could harm me. Wasn’t that what I had thought just this afternoon? Well, now was the time to prove it.

  The tip of the poker pressed into me, right above my racing heart.

  No pain. Not yet, anyway, and only a slight hissing. It made sense. A red glow indicated less heat than the white flames I was accustomed to handling. However, flames were insubstantial and airy, dancing lightly over my skin, landing in no one place for very long. The iron poker was solid, and Fairlane held it firmly against my breast for five seconds, ten seconds, twenty…

  The poker grew warmer. At least, it felt that way to me. Logically, I knew the iron actually was cooling slowly as it lost its heat to the air surrounding it—and to my flesh. However, whatever science or magic made me heat-resistant seemed to be wearing out.

  Sweat broke out all over my body, but particularly where the poker touched me. Steam puffed up in a tiny cloud as the drops rolled into the divot the poker made in the flesh of my breast.

  “One minute. You’re doing well, my dear.”

  The heat became distinctly uncomfortable. I cursed, attempting once more to throw Fairlane off.

  The poker never budged. “Hold her, Reuben!” Fairlane snapped.

  Reuben’s hands pushed down on me like ballast weights. No chance of moving, now. All I could do was think cool thoughts. Damp thoughts, like I did when banking the flames aboard the Mercury when we needed to lose altitude quickly. Slow down, calm down.

  Sweat trickled in little rivulets down my temples and throat. More white puffs went up as the liquid hit the hot metal, until a steady trail of steam rose between my face and Fairlane’s. I clung to thoughts of the snowy peaks of the Alps and the icy rime that grew on the deck fittings on December nights.

  “Two minutes,” Fairlane said, a note of satisfaction in his tone. “And her skin has barely begun to redden.”

  Maybe I’d barely begun to redden, but the discomfort had rapidly progressed to pain. I bucked again, spitting curses at Fairlane and his entire lineage.

  No useful results from either of those actions. The pain in my breast grew, and my grasp on the images of cool, dewy meadows and frosty mornings began to slip. Perhaps I should have been more sympathetic to my co-workers when they complained about the sparks from the fires hitting them. I would never have believed such a small burn could hurt so much!

  “You’re starting to blister, Amelia,” Fairlane told
me. “Surely, you can hold on a little longer. You haven’t even made it five minutes, yet.”

  Not even five minutes? It felt much, much longer than that. If I were not absolutely certain it would do no good, I would have begged Fairlane to stop. January slush, the Norwegian fjords…

  Tears now joined the sweat pouring from my body. I heard a sizzle as something—I did not wish to contemplate what—began to burn.

  And then I heard someone pounding on the door, right above my head.

  I screamed. I couldn’t help it.

  “Amelia!” someone shouted from the other side of the hangar door.

  No, not someone. Josiah. How he knew me from my scream alone, I’ll never know.

  Fairlane cursed and reached inside his pocket, drawing out a wicked-looking pistol.

  “Josiah! Watch out! He is armed!” That is what I intended to say. What came out was another scream. It felt as if Fairlane were shoving that blasted poker through my chest, even one-handed. Once I started screaming, I could not stop.

  The door rattled as someone shook it violently, but Fairlane had locked it.

  I felt the blisters pop, like knives stabbing into me. The lymph ran and pooled at the base of my throat. The rattling stopped, leaving only my screams and the thump of the steam engine to fill the echoing hangar.

  “What are we going to do, sir?” I heard Reuben say, as I drew in breath between screams. “What if he goes for the police? I don’t want to hang!”

  I tried to muffle my shrieks and use my energy to throw Fairlane off and get that hot poker off me!

  “Hold her, Dodd!” Fairlane snapped. His words barely registered through the growing agony on my breast. “No one can connect us to either death except this little phlog. And she won’t say a thing, will she? Or she’ll end up in far worse circumstances. Hah! Passed the five-minute mark! I knew she was a strong one!”

  Get it off! Get it off! Get it OFF!

  I heard a shouted roar louder than fanned flames, Fairlane’s weight flew off me, and the poker disappeared.

  Too bad the pain didn’t go away along with the instrument that had inflicted it.

  The room had gone too dark to see what was happening, and as yet, I could not bring myself to care. Reuben’s hands left my shoulders, and I curled up on my side like a burnt candle wick, trying to soothe the bone-deep ache.

  A sharp cry rang out—and the thunder of a pistol shot.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The echoes of the pistol’s retort danced around the corners of the hangar, ghosting back to my ears again and again. Had I heard the cry first, and then the shot? Or had Fairlane shot Josiah? For I recognized Josiah’s shout as surely as he had recognized my screams.

  My eyes snapped open, and I realized the hangar had not gone much darker than it had been a quarter of an hour ago when this whole debacle had begun. I just hadn’t noticed I’d shut my eyes.

  But now, pain or no, I had to help Josiah. I rolled to my knees—an awkward proposition with my hands fastened behind me and when each movement sent up sharp protests from the raw, broken blisters on my chest—and lifted my head.

  Josiah and Fairlane grappled hand-to-hand not five feet from where I crouched. If they fell, I’d have to look sharp that they didn’t land on me. Josiah’s initial charge must have carried the pair of them right over me, deeper into the hangar.

  Fairlane’s weapon lay two feet away; smoke still drifted from its barrel. The sulfurous stink of the powder filled my nostrils. I scrambled to the weapon, managing to throw a knee over it to hide it from view under my skirts. Neither of the combatants appeared injured. Perhaps the pistol had gone off when it hit the ground. And where was Reuben?

  Fairlane wrenched a hand free and swung at Josiah’s ribs. It landed with a thud, but I could tell the blow carried no power behind it. Josiah’s riposte held little more. The pair seemed evenly matched.

  Rough hands settled on my upper arms and hauled me to my feet. I shrieked with the new pain lancing through my breast. My right foot landed on the pistol, and I nearly tumbled back down.

  “Hold still, Mel,” Reuben whispered. “I’ll get you out of here.” A cold blade slid along my wrist, sawing at the cords that bound me.

  “Help him, Reuben. You’ve got to help him!”

  “Nah. We’ve got to run. Come on!”

  The cords dropped from my wrists, and both my hands flew up to hover over my breast, hesitant to touch the wound, but unable to leave it unshielded. They quivered like pennons in a high wind.

  Reuben grabbed my elbow and yanked me toward the door. “Come on!”

  I gasped at the stab of increased pain. “Damn it, Reuben!” I jerked free. “Go if you want. I’m helping Josiah.”

  Reuben hesitated, licking his lips nervously. He glanced from me to the men exchanging blows behind me and back to me.

  I turned to the battle, dimly aware of Reuben slipping out the door into the night.

  I stooped and picked up the pistol. Perhaps because we were inside and sheltered from a cleansing breeze, the sulfur smell of the gunpowder had not gone away. In fact, it had intensified.

  I had no time to worry about that. I pointed the pistol at Fairlane, but he lunged at Josiah and tried to wrestle him to the ground, and I could not get a clear shot. Not with my hand shaking from the grinding, unending burning on my left breast.

  “Stop it or I’ll shoot you both,” I said. I knew little of firearms, but I assumed all I had to do was aim the thing and squeeze the trigger. Or did I need to pull back the hammer first?

  Josiah’s head whipped around to stare at me, and I froze at the fierce anger in his eyes.

  I may have hesitated, but Fairlane did not. He took advantage of Josiah’s distraction and shoved the man straight into me.

  I hastily lowered the barrel, and Josiah crashed squarely into my breast. Into my burned, blistered, seeping breast.

  I dropped the pistol, and lost track of what was going on around me. It hurt. It hurt.

  Someone put his arm around my waist and half-dragged, half-carried me to the edge of the hangar. The rotten eggs smell was getting stronger. Odd.

  Another shot rang out, but whoever was conveying me in such an unorthodox manner did not stumble, and my own pain failed to increase, so I assumed the bullet missed us both.

  I blinked to clear the darkness from my eyes. It had no effect. The darkness must be real this time. We were moving rapidly toward a heavily shadowed nook underneath the catwalk that ringed the hangar. The pair of man-high, cubical wooden tanks that made up a hydrogen generation system, one containing a weak sulfuric acid solution and the other iron filings, sat close to the wall, leaving a narrow sort of alley behind them. A handy place to hide.

  I looked at the man holding me to see if I were being rescued or kidnapped.

  Oh, good. It was Josiah. I was being rescued.

  He thrust me into the small space between the tanks and the hangar wall. “Stay there,” he ordered. I nearly missed it under the chugging of the coal crusher and the ringing in my ears.

  I responded automatically, if a bit breathily from pain. “Yes, sir.”

  He turned, preparing to rush out and face Fairlane—and Fairlane’s pistol. Heroic? Yes. Smart? No. Suicidal, perhaps.

  I grabbed the back of his coat. “Don’t you dare, Josiah. He won’t hesitate to kill you. He is the one responsible for your father’s death, and wants nothing more than for you to be dead, too.”

  Josiah went still. “He killed my father? How do you know? Why would he do that?”

  We didn’t have time for lengthy explanations. “He blames your father for driving his father to suicide. He hired the assassins. Can you see where he is?” I tried to keep my voice low, but frustration and fear made that task difficult.

  “No. How could my father drive his to suicide?”

  “Winged Goods succeeded while Fairlane’s father’s company failed. He blames us—uh, your father, I mean, for that failure.”

  “Us?
You and my father? Why would he blame you?”

  “Amelia! Rollins! Now where did you two get off to?” Fairlane’s voice echoed around the building. I couldn’t tell from whence it came. Somewhere at the front of the hangar, I thought, by the main doors.

  I stepped farther behind the tank, dragging Josiah with me. How could I tell him I was a pyromancer? He despised me enough for those things he already knew about me. “He knows I am a good engineer. Perhaps that is it.”

  “Obadiah Butterfield was the engineer, not you.”

  I came out on the other side of the tank and into a reflected beam from the arc lights shining upon the bright paint of the airship’s hull. Josiah’s eyes dropped to my torn bodice and the burn upon my breast. I was fully illuminated, while the shadows hid his expression.

  “That’s a testing brand, isn’t it? He thinks you’re a phlog.” Josiah’s voice stayed even. I couldn’t tell what emotion lay beyond the simple words.

  I could think of no curse strong enough for the situation. How angry was he? Would he leave me to my fate with Fairlane or turn me in to the authorities? Did he regret saving me in the first place?

  Splinters exploded from the corner of the holding tank directly above my head. I heard the bark of Fairlane’s pistol an instant later. Or was it the other way around?

  This time Josiah dragged me behind the tank, but not before I caught a glimpse of Fairlane rounding the curve of the airship’s hull, leading with his damned pistol. How many shots did the thing contain? How many had already been expended?

  My footsteps splashed as I scraped between the wooden slats of the tank and the hangar wall. The only liquid around was the sulfuric acid solution in the tank beside us. Thank goodness my walking boots were constructed of sturdy leather, but even that would not protect me for long. “Josiah! The acid…”

  “I know,” he bit off sharply. “The tank’s leaking.”

  Now I understood why the rotten-egg smell was increasing. Fairlane’s stray bullets must have breached the sulfuric acid tank. If the tank containing iron filings also began leaking, this very bad day could get even worse, for all of us. I thought of the open flames of the furnace roaring away on the other side of the hangar. Surely, that was too far away for any piddling amount of hydrogen to reach in sufficient concentration to ignite.