Bronze Gods

by A. A. Aguirre

  Perhaps he thinks he’s wasted behind the scenes, a natural performer. Or his dear auntie is ill, and he needs time off to tend her . . .

  Waiting for Mr. Gideon to frame his request, Aurelia stepped into the cool night air. Though it was still warm during the day, the long summer was wending its way to an end. To her surprise, the tech turned the other way, going about his business. With a philosophical shrug, she strode down the alley until he disappeared from sight. She felt pleasantly surprised at being wrong.

  The shortcut navigated, Aurelia emerged on a main thoroughfare, five blocks from the underground. Tonight, she didn’t sense the presence that had hunted her for the past months. Perhaps it was your imagination. Or madness. With effort, she set aside her worries. It was a lovely night, and after she returned to the club to change, she meant to lose herself at a Summer Clan revel. In a pretty dress and a colorful mask, she could pretend to be someone else for a while.

  But first, an errand. Feeling vaguely guilty, she stopped at the post office and sent an anonymous message to the CID. Ask Elaine Day what she knows about Leonidas. Her friend would be furious, but better his pride took a hit than the CID wasted days investigating him to no avail. Surely, that would be counterproductive.

  As she stepped out of the building, the clouds broke, drenching her in sheets of rain. She’d be washed away before reaching the station at this rate. Her budget would stretch to a hansom, so she ran, hailing one with both arms. Gaslight shimmered in the puddles, and as she ran, her feet left patterns wavering in their wake. The carriage stopped with a metallic screech; the driver gestured for her to climb in.

  She did.

  To her astonishment, the carriage was occupied. Theron pulled her inside, dry and elegant in black evening wear. After he spoke the club’s address, the vehicle shuddered into motion. She herself was breathless, cold, and a trifle worried. This wasn’t like their initial encounter. It was too premeditated, too private.

  “Am I being abducted?” she asked.

  “Do you wish to be?” He didn’t await a reply. “It would be odd of me to kidnap you by transporting you to your residence.”

  “True. How do you know that’s where I was going?” She listened to him with all her senses, including the one that registered deception.

  “Weren’t you?”

  Fleetingly, Aurelia wondered if he ever lost his icy detachment. “I wish you’d cease this game. You have some purpose in mind, so it would be to our mutual advantage if you would stop trying to beguile me. I’m not susceptible to such tricks, no matter how skilled you are with them.”

  He laughed quietly, seeming amused. “You appear to reckon me some master seducer. I assure you, I’ve spent the last century in seclusion, quietly working on various botanical projects.”

  Truth. No doubt, shades, or prevarications. She stared at him, bewildered. “Are you some blandishment of my father’s, meant to tempt me back to House life?”

  Dark eyes peered at her, incredulous. “Do I appear as one who could be . . . purchased, like a sweet?”

  His dismay is real. Her frustration mounted.

  “And yet,” he went on. “I’m flattered that you think me charming enough to enjoy a measure of success in that role. Perhaps I was merely passing and saw you stranded in the rain.”

  False.

  “You were not,” she said with conviction.

  His brows went up. “You know this? Fascinating. As I told you the other night, I’d like to make your acquaintance, Aurelia Wright.”

  Truth. Perhaps nobody put him up to it.

  “Are you an aficionado of my work?”

  “You’re very gifted.” That wasn’t what she’d asked, but the words rang true.

  She was tired of asking the wrong questions. “I wish I knew what you want.”

  “The same thing as other men, I expect.” The small bulb in the coach flickered, casting long shadows. His gaze lingered on her face, but whatever he saw remained unspoken. “You seem determined to read me, as you would a beloved book. What, then, intrigues you so? Or do you treat all thus?”

  “Most are easily read, apparent to those with an eye for such things.”

  “There is truth in that.” He sounded almost weary. “And yet, most of those writings are not worth the time to read them. There is something you cannot see in me, though. Or such I gather.”

  “True enough,” she said, studying the deep of his eyes. Something more than darkness hid there. He possessed some secret agenda, involving her, but she had no idea what it might be.

  “When you learn something, do not shout it for the world to hear. At least, not if you intend to unearth aught else.” He touched her cheek with cool fingertips. “And I am not one to be read, I think. My secrets are best left alone.”

  “And I would find that a tragedy.”

  “Tragedies are some of the more memorable tales. But if it pleases you to interpret whatsoever glyphs you can within me, so be it.” His gesture was baffling. “The attentions of a young woman are never to be scorned.”

  Sometimes he spoke like an old man, as if inside, he had silver hair and wrinkled skin. He carried the weight of more years than her father, if such a thing were possible. It made her uneasy, even as he lured her with his half-truths and demon-dark eyes.

  The hansom stopped before she realized they’d traveled so far. “I think you’re past being flattered by a woman’s interest. And your silence on the questions I pose offers its own answer.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Declining his aid, she alit onto wet pavement. The rain had abated, and everything shimmered. “Will you walk? I won’t be able to sleep so early. I love nights when the moon hangs like a ripe yellow apple in the sky.”

  He paid the driver and joined her. “Luna. She’s a fickle lady. As are all ladies, in my experience.”

  “You must have been frequently disappointed to feel so.”

  “Disappointment is not something I feel oft, and when I do, the remedy’s rapidly undertaken.” His tone was almost curt. “Or have you something particular in mind?”

  “Only the pleasure of your company.”

  It was impossible to determine what he wanted. Possibly, he hoped to win her affections and thus ensure an alliance with her family. Safely wed and removed from undesirable associates, it was possible for a House scion to climb back into society’s good graces. Her return to respectability would endear Theron to her father, guaranteeing the Architect’s support in whatever scheme he had in mind, but there was only one way to be sure of his intentions. Therefore, she’d keep the man close until she puzzled them out.

  Aurelia plucked a branch of evergreen and drew deep of its scent. This man’s secrets would be wooed from him in quiet moments; she could not read him if he was unwilling. Or take what he would not give.

  He spoke after a long silence. “No one has asked that of me in a long time.” Beside her, he was dark upon dark, olive skin hued to shadows broken only by the jet of his eyes.

  “I am sorry to hear that.” In that moment, Aurelia felt very gentle toward him.

  It didn’t matter what his agenda was; she didn’t think he meant to harm her. More likely, he had some plan to use her, and she was accustomed to that. Being the Architect’s only living child had its drawbacks.

  As a small girl, she’d had no notion of his power or importance. She simply ran to him with scraped knees or for a sweet. That changed the day a maid mustered up the courage to ask, “Did your father truly close the Veil? There will be no more crossings?”

  Aurelia had no idea what that meant, so she’d gone to her father to pose the same question. He’d gazed down at her, explained the world beyond Hy Breasil, then offered a simple, somber nod. Everything changed that day.

  Theron was saying, “No need. Had I required company, it could have been arranged, but I found other matters more crucial.” He gazed into her face, traced its lines in a complex look. “Come.”

  It cannot, actually. Sincerity is on
e thing that cannot be bought. His reply struck her as strangely sad, as he did not see any incongruity in it. Unlike Leonidas, he apparently didn’t see any shame in paying for companionship. But then, Theron was an appealing male, not a disfigured one. So perhaps therein lay the difference; if he cared to bother, Theron could woo and win a woman whereas Leonidas feared discovering that the damage to his face rendered him unlovable for all time.

  “The view from this place . . . it is truly worth the trouble to find it.” He guided her, easily as if under the noon sun, through the narrow passages, fragrant with life. “You are curious to me, Aurelia. In more ways than one.” Within a few heartbeats, though, they left the maze, stepping into star-filled night.

  “Curious, in that I wish to know things? Or curious, in that I make you wonder about me?”

  Before them, the city sprawled, glittering like a strand of gems. Arches and buttresses; spires and towers; lights, shadows, and darkness mixing, struggling, and merging. “Both, perhaps. Does it matter?”

  His eyes were lost in the world below them. He drank it in; he embraced it. She saw the hunger in his eyes and in the set of his mouth. He made no effort to conceal it.

  “It matters,” she said quietly. “You matter.” To her surprise, Aurelia found it was true. And the honesty rang in her low voice, unmistakable in its music.

  They had only met twice, so he shouldn’t. But even if his persona had been created tailor-made to intrigue her, well. It was working. She wasn’t ready to fall into his arms, but she wanted to spend more time with him. His secrets and his quiet intensity drew her.

  “Does it? Do I? I would know why.” His eyes torn from the metropolis below, the hunger took a long moment to fade. “What is it you seek, then, Aurelia? In truth?”

  Turning from the city that lay like a penitent on its knees before them, Aurelia met his obsidian eyes, reflecting starlight. “What I seek, I have.” Prevarication wasn’t one of her principal gifts, but she’d learned it at her father’s knee. Rubbing her hands along silk-clad forearms, she gazed at the cityscape. “What is it you see when you stare out?”

  “I see people. Souls. Potential, blood rushing from countless hearts; I see streams and rivers of possibility. And you?” His tone was near enough a whisper that she had to lean closer to hear him.

  Ah. Now that is truth. And it told her more than he realized; he no longer saw the individual lives or the stories they represented. He was too old, and it was a wonder he hadn’t gone mad. He must be ancient beyond reckoning if he claimed only one name, no ties to House or kin.

  “I see all the stories being told at once, right now.”

  “Stories.” He frowned as if she were a mythic creature crawled from some tapestry. “A different manner of looking at it. Would you hear said stories?”

  “I would know them all, yes.” Aurelia bent, then stood, a pebble in her palm. Softly rounded, as if it might have once lain in the bed of the sea. “Imagine,” she murmured, “what we could learn from this if it could speak? Where it lived, what it saw. And how it came to be here.”

  “Perhaps. And yet, who is to know what a stone holds important?” There was no mockery in his tone, however. “But who is to say that what we hold important . . . is important?” He allowed a purring chuckle. “What would you hear from the stone?”

  Puzzled, Aurelia knit her brows together, closing long fingers over the pebble. It was, as it happened, quartz. “Naught but truth, as you must know by now.”

  “Truth. Such a thing to value. You are a strange one, Aurelia. The stories below, then, you would have their truth? And mine, as well?” Humor twined through his voice.

  “Such things come in their own time.” Yielding to the impulse to make a connection, Aurelia brushed the knuckles of her free hand against his cheekbone, hardly more than a shimmer of warmth. “So then, it would be my turn to ask a question of you, having answered all yours. What is it you see when you look at me?”

  “A woman who has seen enough mysteries to wish for more. Too much, perhaps, for her own good. That said, will you considering dining at my villa, Aurelia? Knowing it may not be in your best interests.”

  I know, she thought. Oh, Theron, I should not be so intrigued by you.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  As Aurelia knew, women had ever been drawn to dangerous men who whispered in the dark.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE MORNING AFTER MIKANI CORNERED LEONIDAS AT THE theater, he tackled the unenviable necessity of asking Saskia for additional help. He made his way along Strand Avenue though this time he didn’t stop for coffee or to chat with Electra. Siren Trading bustled with service people rushing in and out. He skirted past them and waited until Saskia noticed his arrival.

  “Twice in as many days, after two years. Are you trying to tell me something?”

  He offered a teasing smile. “I’ve seen how prosperous the concern is. You’re quite the catch these days.”

  Saskia nodded. “Indeed I am. But I collect you didn’t come entirely for the pleasure of my company.”

  “You know me too well,” he said.

  “Let’s hear it. Do I get to add another mark to the debt between us?”

  “I hope not. You were pretty shaken the other day, but I wanted to ask—do you have any idea who could’ve done something like that?”

  “Nobody I know would.” She broke eye contact quickly.

  She only does that when she’s telling me half-truths.

  So he prompted, “Then who would?”

  “I hate it when you do that.” Her rueful expression spoke volumes, but her eyes hinted she was reluctant to divulge whatever she knew.

  “I’ll cook dinner for you some night next week,” he promised.

  Mikani saw when she weakened. Women were always charmed that he knew his way around a kitchen. They took it as a sign of impending domestication when the truth was, he preferred not to starve, and takeaway grew tiresome.

  “Only if you make your special ragout.”

  “Deal. But if I’m called away—”

  “You have to answer. I understand.” There was a quiet sorrow in her eyes; she was one who had professed to love him before the demands of his job and the invisible wall between them grew too much for her to scale on a daily basis.

  “That much hasn’t changed.”

  “Be careful. These are dangerous people. And I’ll be expecting a note about dinner, Janus.”

  She scrawled an address on expensive stationery. At the moment, there were two junior clerks waiting with documents in hand, presumably for Saskia’s perusal. She gestured them into her office to wait, but Mikani feared if he lingered, she might decide to come along.

  “Soon,” he promised.

  He left without looking back, had been doing so for as long as he could remember. Mikani strode the five blocks to the nearest station, the paper safely in his pocket. The underground carried him to Iron Cross; there he had to switch to a ramshackle old train that would take him beyond the borders of the city proper. Mikani had rarely traveled beyond the end of the line, but the address he sought lay among the saltwater tenements that clustered along the cliff’s edge on the other side of the bay. Here, the buildings were no more than worn scrap wood with tin roofs, hammered together with hope and rusted nails. The windows were rough-cut, covered in skins, and the smell combined all the worst aspects of the sea and unwashed humanity. It was a fierce enough stench to bring tears to his eyes, but if people could manage to live here, he could tolerate the smell for an hour or so.

  There were no numbers on the houses, but Saskia had added some landmarks and descriptives to help him find the place. In Dorstaad proper, this would be considered a warehouse. But Mikani saw no goods as he poked his head inside; instead, it was more of a longhouse, a larger structure where citizens gathered to talk, out of the wind, away from the sharp bite of the sea. It was cool today, but not cold; winter had yet to unleash its fangs, so the fire pit in the center of the room was unlit. People
lounged on rough-hewn furniture while others practiced a knife-fighting technique Mikani identified as unique to some of the northern Summer Clan. In the back corner, a young man in a harlequin’s vest was unmistakably casting a glamour. The air glimmered silver around him, sharp and bright to Mikani’s enhanced senses. He wondered what effect the boy was trying to invoke.

  Conversation halted.

  Mikani had been the cynosure of unfriendly eyes before, but this was the first time he believed everyone present was weighing the odds of successfully disposing of his corpse. Impressions of shock and rage bombarded him. It usually takes more than this for me to enrage a room so fully. Before anyone could react, he flashed his credentials. Hopefully, that will give them pause.

  “I’m Inspector Mikani . . . and I’m looking for a magical expert.”

  That seemed to free everyone from their shocked stillness. A titter ran through the room, then someone called, “Yer mum thinks I’m both magical and expert.”

  He ignored that. “Perhaps I should’ve led with the fact that I’m investigating a murder. I’ll make it worthwhile for anyone who speaks with me.”

  “Who got it?” a woman called out.

  “A young girl.” He omitted mentioning that she came from one of the great Houses, feeling pretty sure that would make it impossible to get any information.

  “I’ll talk to you.” It was the boy in the vest, who had been casting.

  He had lank dark hair, and as he strode before the windows, Mikani saw that he was younger than he’d initially estimated, no more than thirteen and gaunt to the point of emaciation. But he carried a faint shimmer, as if he had magic in his skin. The others turned away, appearing to return to their business, but Mikani sensed that they were listening to every word.

  He didn’t insist that he needed an older expert; sometimes street rats knew surprising things, a lifetime of being overlooked and sneaking into places they shouldn’t be. Instead, he explained the apparatus that had killed the girl and produced sketches. Succinctly, he summarized the circumstances and how there hadn’t been sufficient time for Miss Aevar to die, at least not without paranormal intervention.