She froze as he kneeled down in front of her and placed his hands gently around her wrists.
“I don’t want to be your wife. I want nothing to do with you.” She shuddered at the memory of his lips brushing across her skin. How could she have enjoyed that? How could she have been so blind?
Richard stroked his thumbs over her skin. “I won’t hurt you. You and I will rule this new country together. You will be the queen at my side.”
“You are insane!” Thrashing her arms, she tried to break free from his grip, but he was too strong. He shoved her wrists tight against the armrests. A metallic snap echoed through the room as two cuffs flipped over, capturing her in the chair.
“Now, now, Amelia,” he cooed and rubbed his forefinger down the side of her face. “I admit I was hoping to spend a few years with you first just the way you are, young and naïve. But sooner or later, you would have developed your own opinions, and I would have been forced to do this anyway.”
He reached up, grabbed the brass bowl and pulled it down over her head. “It won’t hurt, not like it did on the first six. I had to make a few fine adjustments, but as you saw yourself, the Senators downstairs didn’t notice a thing,” he grinned wickedly.
“You—”
“Used my machine on them? Of course! Why else would I invite all of them to attend tonight’s celebration? I am sorry that I didn’t give you the attention I should have, but I think you can understand I had more important things to attend to. My…rather, our conquest begins tonight, my love.”
“No!” she screamed, but her voice was lost behind the roar of a sudden explosion.
Wooden splinters rained down from where the door had once been. Richard was thrown back against the desk. A thick cloud of smoke billowed into the room as a large figure came through the doorway. The light from the raging fire in the oven glistened against a gun. It was much larger than anything Amelia had ever seen before, more of a cannon than a gun. It stretched over the man’s entire arm, encasing his shoulder as if the weapon had tried to swallow him up.
Amelia screamed as it jerked back, sending a storm of pellets blasting through the air. Richard dove behind the desk just in time to take cover from the deadly onslaught. As the smoke dissipated, the figure came into view. With a flick of its head, the golden hair flew back from its face. Amelia gasped. “Gabriel!”
He waltzed into the room like a gallant knight from British history, but flanked with the modern inventiveness she’d seen in Richard’s devices. As Gabriel turned toward her, she noticed the thick leather belts bound around his chest to support the weight of the enormous firearm. But they only captured her attention for a quick moment. It was the full array of muscles beneath the belts that caused the air to stick in her throat.
Gabriel stepped toward her, lowering the weapon. “Are you all right?”
Before she could answer, Richard appeared from behind the desk. A click echoed through the room as Gabriel swung around, bringing his cannon closer to Richard’s chest.
“Hello, brother. I didn’t expect you, although I should have guessed you wouldn’t approve of my plan.” Richard’s voice was calm, almost friendly.
“Neither does Jefferson,” answered Gabriel. “Nor anyone else with half a brain in his head.”
“You’re wrong.” Richard leaned forward, resting both hands on his desk. “You’ll find that there are many who agree with me. John Adams has often argued many of the same points as I. Go downstairs and ask the senators. I guarantee that every single one will stand on my side.”
Gabriel stepped forward, bringing his weapon within inches of Richard’s nose. “Give up, Richard. Your little daydream is over.”
“You don’t really think I’ll surrender that easily?” A grin formed on Richard’s lips.
Amelia saw his hand slide down the back of the desk to a small knob. “Gabriel, watch out!” she screamed.
A small click was the only warning. A metal crate crashed down from the ceiling, crushing Gabriel into the floor. Amelia screamed, but no one could hear her over the sound of breaking wood. She stared at the hole in the floor. Only the weapon on his arm was still visible under the edge of the crate.
“Don’t worry, Amelia. This will all be but a terrible memory soon. First, however, I think it would be wise to call in some reinforcement.” Richard pushed down a lever on the side of his desk, and the wall behind him slid open, revealing a hidden staircase. “I won’t be long.” As soon as he stepped through, the wall closed behind him.
Amelia yanked her arms again and again until the edge of the metal cuffs cut into her skin. “Gabriel!” She had to do something, anything to save him or stop Richard, but she couldn’t get free. She couldn’t do anything!
Wood snapped. One of the boards below the crate shifted, and a human hand appeared.
“Gabriel?” Could he have survived?
He heaved himself out from underneath the debris, pulling himself free of his belts and gun as he slung his arms around.
“Gabriel!” She wanted to throw herself around his neck, but the metal cuffs kept her in place. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and she gulped for air. “You’re alive.”
“More or less.” With a ferocious growl, he threw the rest of the wood to the side and hurried to her. He snapped the clasps around her wrists away and frowned. “You’re hurt.”
Hurt? Her mind was muddled, confused. Was she hurt?
“Your wrists are bleeding.” He rested his hand on her leg, peering up at her with concerned eyes.
She glanced down at her hands. Yes, blood was there—her blood. And as she stared at it, she felt tears flowing down her cheeks—her tears. Blood. Tears. It was all there, real, but somehow part of a bad dream.
“You need to stop Richard.” The words scratched against her throat. They sounded strangely detached, even to her. But she had to tell Gabriel. Someone had to stop Richard. “He’s used the machine on the Senators. That’s what he said. He said his conquest is starting tonight.”
Gabriel’s expression was icy. “The eagle on the roof is a type of transmitter. It will feed his commands to the Senators. They’ll do everything he wants them to. Everything.”
“You’ve got to stop him.” She pointed to the spot in the wall where Richard had disappeared—an action which cost her more effort than it should have.
With a roar, he charged at the wall and rammed his shoulder against the hidden door. It didn’t budge. “There has to be a way to open it.” He rubbed his hands over the smooth wood, searching the cracks in the woodwork with his fingers.
“There’s a lever.” Grabbing her skirts to stop her hands from shaking, she went to the desk and pulled the lever. Nothing happened.
“He must have disabled it.” Gabriel thrust his fist against the wall. The whole room shook at the impact. A rectangular grate above the hidden door rang like a captured bell.
Amelia stared at it. It was small, just right for someone her size. “I could slide through there.”
Gabriel gazed at her with an expression she couldn’t read. “Maybe, but you don’t stand a chance against Richard.” He climbed up onto the desk, pulled off the grate and studied the opening. “It’ll be tight, but I might be able to squeeze through.” The floor shook as he jumped down. With a disgruntled huff, he scanned the room.
“What are you looking for?”
“Do you see a small bottle of oil or grease? There has to be something here.”
Amelia hurried to the shelves along the wall. There were all sorts of tools and mechanical parts lined up into neat rows, but nothing she recognized. Then she saw a small glass on the bottom shelf. Inside was a black substance. “Is this it?”
“Yes. Quick, spread it all over me.” He held out his arms, letting his naked chest bulge in front of her.
She dropped her eyes, forcing her mind to concentrate on the bottle. Her fingers still shook as she poured the slick fluid into her cupped hand, but now for a different reason.
“Everywhere?” She swallowed
hard, not wanting to look up at him.
“All over.”
Taking a deep breath, she slapped the grease onto his skin and rubbed her hands across his chest and arms. Her fingers trembled as she glided over his hard muscles, inadvertently tracing the lines as she crossed. They fascinated her, mesmerized her. It took all her self-control to remember what she was doing. By the time she poured the last bit over his skin, she could hardly breathe.
“Done.” She stepped back. The dark substance made his chest glisten. Her fingers itched to touch him again. “Hurry. You’re running out of time.”
The warmth of his hand cradled her cheek. She closed her eyes, taking it in—a beacon of hope in an emotional flood. Then it was gone. She watched Gabriel’s legs disappear through the space overhead.
She stared at the opening, waiting for something to happen. Anything. But nothing came. Not a single sound.
It was too much! She couldn’t just stand there. What if Richard had captured Gabriel? Or worse yet, what if he’d… She forced the thoughts away as an icy shiver raked through her.
Enough was enough.
Taking a piece of metal from Richard’s desk, she jabbed it into the thick layers of her skirt. The once-beautiful dress was ruined, smudged with the dirt, blood, and grease of Richard’s greed. She ripped and tore until the cloth fell in folds at her feet. Stuffing the make-shift knife into the top of her dress, she climbed on top of the desk and pulled herself up into the hole.
It was dark and slippery. The smell of oil and steam filled the air. Amelia squirmed through the small space, listening for any familiar sounds. A light flickered ahead, but the unchanging silence made the darkness loom heavier than before.
She poked her head out into a strange room, with a makeshift balcony that had been constructed out of wood. The feather-shaped metal plating surrounding it made it clear that she was inside the giant bird. She shimmied out of the hole and quietly landed on the wooden boards below. Off to the side, Richard bent over a row of knobs and handles. Her heart leapt as she saw Gabriel crouched down behind him, alive and well.
Neither of them noticed she was there.
She dropped to her knees and crawled along the outer edge of the room. As she came closer, the reflection of something metal behind Richard’s lapel caught her eye—a knife. The corner of his mouth crept into a sneering grin as he turned a knob on the board in front of him with his left hand. He grabbed the knife with his right.
“Watch out!” Amelia screamed. But it was too late.
Gabriel sprang forward.
With the knife held over his head, Richard turned to meet him. He aimed for Gabriel’s chest.
Amelia closed her eyes, unable to watch. There was a crash, the sound of cracking wood and a painful, roaring scream. The floor vibrated as one of the men collapsed only a few feet away. Oh, Gabriel!
She shoved her hands tighter over her ears and buried her head between her knees. If only the world would stop! If only it would all go away! Muffled footsteps came across the room. The scent of grease and sweat moved in above her. She balled her fists, knotting her hair between her fingers. Richard had to be stopped. It would cost her life, but she didn’t really care. She’d never let him put her or anyone else in that insane machine again.
Reaching down, she slipped the piece of metal from her bodice and leapt forward.
A pair of arms caught her. She fought to get them off, to thrust the metal into the chest only inches away. But he was too strong. She couldn’t move.
All power escaped her, and she slumped, defeated, in his hold.
“Amelia. It’s me, Gabriel. Everything’s all right. It is over.”
The angelic voice glided through her mind. For a minute, she didn’t know if it was real or if she was dreaming. But as she felt his arms pull her tighter against him, she knew she was safe.
“Gabriel.” She opened her eyes to his warm smile beaming down on her.
“Richard’s dead.” He rubbed his thumb across her cheek, erasing a last tear. Then, as if making an important decision, he tilted back her head and pressed his warm lips against hers.
Red Sky At Night
Carmen Tudor
In my mind’s eye, the memory of color and hue, of soaring heights and cavernous depths, washes over the emptiness before my sightless eyes. It is all there in my imagination; the air hangs heavy and red. Not the sort of red that appears on the horizon at sunset, but rather the red of an open wound that weeps and bleeds. Dysart City’s coastline forms the backdrop to the Gothic-styled house on the hill. Many gables and shuttered windows look out over the terrace lawn, and even now, years after the house’s construction, the garden is well-tended.
Black climbing roses trail over the façade and peek in at the marbled windows; each little spike of a thorn glints with the sun’s warm rays. The octagonal turret towers over the roofline and sways a little each time the wind blows, and the spindled porch over the front door is anything but level. The house, in a word, is beautiful.
“Are you sure?” The picture I’ve formed in my head is clear, but sometimes Stacey elaborates.
Stacey, my dearest friend for the past two years, coos. “I described it in detail, Lissie. You trust my judgment, don’t you?”
I have no doubt that she thinks it is grand. The lilting cadence of her voice tells me so, even if her words don’t. She takes me by the arm and leads me up, five, six, seven steps. Nervous about the horrific killings that have been taking place recently, Papa has asked Stacey to accompany me to all of my appointments. I’m beginning to forget what solitude is. The deep groan of the opening door sends a shiver up my spine.
The tap-tap of our boot heels on the wooden floor echoes throughout what must be a large vestibule. Papa’s footsteps recede and Stacey pulls me along after him. Clacking typewriter keys still, and Papa announces that I am here for my appointment. The receptionist politely asks us to take a seat in the waiting room. She is a bio-golem. I recognize the eerie, metallic twang of her voice, so unlike Papa’s warm and soothing tone.
“You’re clammy. You’re not nervous, surely?”
I shake my head. “Of course not. I’m merely trying to gain my bearings. I’ve never been to this clinic before.”
“It’s grand.” I hear the rustle of Stacey straightening her flouncy skirt. Her knee-length dresses always have twice the netting mine do and are inclined to bunch up—or so she says. My own skirt feels heavy and prickly against my skin. As delicately as I can, I reach forward to pull my stockings up. Stacey elbows me.
“Is there someone present?”
“No,” she whispers back. “Only the golem at reception, but you never know when another patient might arrive.”
I nod. Stacey has my best interests at heart, and if she finds my behavior unbecoming, there is probably a good reason why.
“It’s raining.” I say.
“It is?”
“I can hear it. It’s light, just a few drops. Wait.” My love of the rain is a special secret I keep to myself. It reminds me of days spent on the seashore as a child. Papa and Mama always lived by the water. It wasn’t only for Papa’s profession; I think it held all three of us in thrall with its mystical beauty. My favorite memory is of waves crashing against the shore during a storm. Something about the complete freedom and mystery of the waves, of the tempestuous dissent, still tugs at my heart, even though it has been so very long since I’ve seen such a spectacle.
Stacey’s quiet breathing fills the silence between the clacking keys in the other room and the gentle drops of rain outside. After a moment I notice her sudden intake of breath, mingled with the fierce downpour as the clouds open.
“You’re right,” she says excitedly. “I wish I had your senses.”
Papa’s exaggerated page-turning says, If you were a brighter girl, perhaps you would. I don’t need to see his face to understand his meaning. His thoughts on Stacey are clear—he’ll tolerate her for her usefulness in accompanying me, but her mother’s
ties to the Omega community, The Ω, never quite leave his thoughts. My father was a Commodore in his Navy days. Though a good man, he hasn’t fully learned to shake his distaste for the lower class. But it is his dread of anything ever happening to me—his only child—that causes him the greater concern.
Stacey’s words ring in my mind. She envies the heightened senses I’ve developed since losing my vision. Four years ago, my mother took me along to a rally in the main streets of Dysart City. What was meant to be a peaceful protest arguing for the rights of The Ω had turned violent. I don’t remember the scuffle that knocked my hand from hers, or the moment my head hit the cobblestones. All I remember is the instant my world turned dark. The doctors were unable to cure my blindness, and so my hearing and sense of smell have compensated. Since the day of the rally, I might not be able to see something as simple as a person’s approach, but I can hear their arrival from quite a distance. And if, like Papa, that person happens to favor pipe tobacco over cigars, or peppermints over boiled sweets, I’ll know that as well. To Stacey it’s a thing to be marveled at; to me it’s simply my reality, and a reminder—a sad one. For it also marks the day my mother died.
My muscles tense as the clacking of the typewriter ceases. After a moment, footsteps approach.
“Dr. Job will see Miss Webster now.”
Papa leads me to the office. His grip on my arm is warm and steady, if a little too tight. Stacey follows slowly. I can hear the uncertainty in her steps; I haven’t realized how squeamish she is before now. A flash of a breeze courses over my face as a door groans on its hinges; within an instant, I am in the office of Dysart’s most renowned bio-golem practitioner.
“And how do you do, Miss Webster?” His voice, which I’ve already anticipated as coarse and false—like the receptionist’s—is surprisingly smooth and kind.
“How do you do? And may I introduce my father and Miss Allan?” Clutching my cane, I lower myself onto the edge of a seat. I might answer the doctor in earnest and tell him of my abject terror, but something stops me. For as long as I’ve been requiring treatments, anything to do with eye procedures frightens me to my core.
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