Wicked Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 3)

by Jordan Elizabeth

  “Alone? In that big thing?” The soldier attendant whistled.

  “I’ll be back,” Jonathan said.

  “Sure, sure.”

  The gate parted and Jonathan pressed on the acceleration pedal, allowing more steam to exit the fuel tank and propel the vehicle forward.

  Hot breath brushed his neck as Clark whispered, “Good job, Montgomery.”

  Clark watched through the tinted windows as the town faded along a dirt road. The long steam jolted over a rut.

  “I take it Jas never took this far beyond the town,” Clark said. “Want to bet on how long it holds up?”

  “Who is Jas?” Jonathan growled the statement.

  “That’s what I call the prince. Jas. Didn’t get to know him before you dragged him off in irons?”

  “Not irons,” Jonathan muttered.

  Clark chuckled, turning his attention to the window. Screw the government. They could all rot for the good they did the country. Let them all wither, suffer. The officials could know what it felt like to starve in the desert.

  To keep running, even though you’d cut your leg on a trap and had only a rag to staunch the bleeding.

  His mother’s image flickered in the window. He saw her sitting on the rocking chair Eric had gotten for their front porch. The white wicker shone bright in the sunlight, and she’d draped a yellow woven blanket over the back. The last time he’d visited her, she’d had black silk stockings on, moccasins, and a striped tunic.

  Her face had been clean, no makeup to hide her rarity.

  Judith’s words toyed with his mind. “Don’t wish ill on everyone. Each person has his or her own story. Every shadow has a background.”

  He couldn’t hate all of the government, just… those he’d met so far. Garth made the exception.

  “Hello, my boy.” Amethyst’s Uncle Albert appeared in the seat beside him. “My darling niece sent me to check in on you. She’s worried about you. You know how she worries.”

  Clark wiped his hand over his mouth. “No warning, huh? I never get a warning for you guys.”

  “What?” Jonathan called.

  The long steam struck a rut and jolted sideways; he slid across the black leather seat and his shoulder bumped the opposite door. Jonathan swore from the front seat as the steam engine sputtered. Something beneath the vehicle clanked.

  The tires rolled to a halt.

  “Brass glass.” Clark lurched forward, knocking on the roof. “We break down?”

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Jonathan pushed his door open and stepped out.

  Clark rushed after him. Heat baked through his bare head and perspiration smoothed across his face without the automatic fans inside. Uncle Albert floated out after him and frowned at Jonathan as the man bent to check under the vehicle.

  “Something under there is looking loose.” Jonathan straightened and wiped his face with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.

  Clark hooked his hands through his belt loops and studied their surroundings: empty road that stretched from woods behind them and forward into a new patch of woods. A church loomed against the setting sun, its spire like a compass needle pointing north. Wind blew, offering relief from the sun, and a broken shutter on the building smacked against the clapboard siding. Spirits appeared along the ditch, as if drawn to him, but none of them approached.

  “What are you going to do with me now?” Jonathan asked. “Don’t suppose you’ll be lenient now that we’re stuck out here.”

  The plan had been to escape. So far, that had succeeded. Clark had hoped, deep in the back of his mind, that he could convince Jonathan of the government’s evils. That wouldn’t happen in the middle of the road next to a broken vehicle.

  Clark dropped to his stomach to see better underneath. One of the pipes connecting the engine to the pistols had snapped loose.

  “You worked with machines before, didn’t you?” Uncle Albert asked. Right, he had the ghost, too, sent by his wife. Of course Amethyst would be worried, but she had to trust him. He had life under control.

  He was an outcast and had a captive. Yup, completely under control.

  “I don’t know if I can fix this.” Snapped metal required soldering, not just a quick tightening. Clark sat up and squinted into the sun to see Jonathan, who hadn’t attempted to flee. Good, the pistol should keep deterring escape.

  “Fix it,” Jonathan said. “Because you’re a mechanic. Right.”

  “Hey.” Clark rolled to his feet. “Look, I didn’t do what you think I did. I’m a good guy. I’m an honest man now, and I haven’t done anything to piss off anyone except for being me.”

  “Language,” Uncle Albert interrupted.

  “Proof is coming out that the government has been behind testing on children to foretell the future,” Clark continued.

  Jonathan flared his nostrils. “That’s impossible. Magic isn’t—”

  “Is seeing the dead magical? ‘Cause right now there’s a ghost next to you.” Clark pointed at Uncle Albert, who waved unseen at Jonathan. The man paled and took a step sideways. He believed that then.

  “There is no proof,” Jonathan whispered. “Fortune telling is for charlatans.”

  “Just wait until you see the proof then. I say we head to that church and see if I can find any tools.” Clark hooked his thumb toward the building. “Stick with me, Jonathan, and I’m going to tell you all about a new side to your precious government.” Clark swung his gaze to the ghost. “I’ve got some messages for Amethyst, too.”

  Uncle Albert bowed his head. “And I have one for you. She’s going to one of the mental asylums to free the fortuneteller’s sister.”

  hunder echoed across the empty field between woods. Clark closed his eyes, imagining the pebbles in the road trembling beneath the force. Rain pelted against the roof and droplets splattered against the warped pulpit.

  Jonathan sat on one of the three remaining benches and rested his forehead against his clasped fists. Did he pray? Clark had never been a strong believer in religion, but he’d said his prayers, and he’d been thankful for everything good he’d gotten.

  “You say your thanks,” his mother used to tell him at night. “You make sure you’re grateful or you’ll lose it all.”

  Jonathan lifted his head, his eyes closed. “When I read about you in the papers, I was impressed. You didn’t allow the powers to get to you.”

  Clark turned away from the doorway where he’d watched the rain pummel the weeds in the yard before studying Jonathan. “What?”

  “How do you know who to kill?”

  “I don’t kill people.” The lie burned his throat. “You mean with my powers? I have killed before. When I’ve needed to. When my family was threatened.”

  “Yeah, with your powers.” Jonathan swiped his hand across the bench and lifted it to show a coating of gray dust. “You seemed grounded, but you can bring people back and you can take a life.”

  Clark’s gaze drifted over the rest of the church. Ghosts sat around Jonathan, their faces all turned toward Clark as if they too awaited a response. The spirits had to feel complete, for they didn’t ask him for favors. They didn’t move from the benches, as if those seats brought them comfort.

  “Amethyst’s better at taking lives than I am,” Clark said.

  “But you can bring people back. How do you know who to bring back?”

  I just know. How pathetic that sounded. Clark swallowed. When he shifted his stance, the rotting boards underfoot creaked. “Its hard to explain. It depends on the situation.”

  “It would give me a nervous breakdown.” Jonathan let out a dry chuckle. “Seriously.” He’d taken off his jacket, laying it over his legs, despite the dampness in the must-ridden air. A ghost collie ran by him, passing through his body, and disappeared into the small room behind the pulpit.

  “I grew up in Tangled Wire. That place is dusty as all get out, and you got to be tough to make it down the street. Guess it isn’t like that now.” Wind blew through the c
hurch and with it came a march of soldiers dressed in deerskin fringe with rifles slung over their shoulders. Clark shut the door to seal out a bit of the wind; the soldiers continued through the building as if following the collie.

  “That’s an awful excuse.”

  Clark shrugged. “I don’t know. The bad guys have always been pretty clear.”

  “Aren’t you a bad guy?”

  The words chilled him more than the rain. Was he the bad guy? Hadn’t the villain always been the one after him? Jolene didn’t deserve a “bad guy” for a father. “That’s not what I want.”

  “What do you want?”

  Clark leaned against the back bench and a little boy with blond hair curling around his shoulders looked up at him, but the ghost remained silent. “Its like this. I’ve always wanted what made sense. Capturing me to use me as a soldier. That didn’t make sense. I didn’t want to fight someone else’s war, and I didn’t want to use my powers because someone else told me to. I hate the thought of the government torturing kids by making them tell the future. Forcing someone into that kind of life doesn’t make sense to me.”

  Jonathan squinted at him. “Everything you said about that is true?”

  “Yeah. The proofs are coming out.” Clark felt his body tense. They weren’t near newspapers; the proof might have already been disseminated. Uncle Albert had said it had made it to Garth before he’d returned to Amethyst.

  “So…” Jonathan rolled his shoulders. “What are you going to do now?”

  Clark moved to Jonathan’s bench and leaned against the end of it. “I guess help Amethyst free that kid from the asylum. Figured the people would rebel against the government without me helping.”

  Jonathan stood. “I believe you, Clark. Paint me insane, but I believe you. The government should be for the people, not using them to better those in power. I joined the service to make life better, not take away freedom.” He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Who knows if you might not be our next president.”

  Clark held out his hand. Nothing in Jonathan’s face or posture gave away that he lied. “You’re on my team then?”

  “For now.” Jonathan shook, his skin frigid. Thunder shook what remained of the church’s broken windows.

  “Clark won’t like this.” Eric shook his head as he swiped the polishing cloth over the last metal feather. They reflected the sun like a glowing ball, a radiance that could blind her if she stared too long, but Amethyst couldn’t blink, couldn’t turn her head away.

  A gorgeous set of brass wings lay before her. Eric had shown her how to wear them, adjusting the leather straps across her body. She’d put on a special corset over her white blouse that allowed the straps to attach better. If she dipped a certain way and tugged the laces, the wings could be a weapon.

  Back in New Addison City, she’d never expected to have metal wings on her back or a pistol hanging from her waist.

  Amethyst touched her fingernail to one of the feathers. “This is beautiful.”

  “He won’t like it,” Eric repeated.

  She lifted her gaze. “My father didn’t like it, either, but I’m doing this. I’m saving that poor girl from the asylum.”

  “Why?” Eric tucked the polishing rag into the back pocket of his denim slacks.

  “Because I can. Because it’s wrong to keep her locked up in there. Because… because her brother helped with Jolene.”

  “Ah.” When Eric smiled, lines formed around his eyes. “I’ve known your type, Amethyst. Your old type. I grew up in the city and I hated it. Dancing and music. Parties. They don’t always change when they become a parent.”

  Tears gripped her throat and pressed against her eyes. “He helped us get Jolene.”

  “You still don’t know who was behind it,” Eric murmured.

  Flies buzzed around his work shed. Judith sat on the front porch of their home embroidering pillowcases with flowers. A groundhog waddled toward the woodpile by the stable.

  Amethyst folded her arms. The fortuneteller had helped her. She had to help him.

  “You could wait for Clark.” Eric folded the wings and set them into a leather satchel.

  Who knew how long he would be gone. Uncle Albert had claimed he was safe, and she had to trust that. “I came to you because I couldn’t wait. You had just what I needed.” Prairie wind stirred her gray skirt, and a curl slid loose from her chignon.

  Eric handed her the satchel before touching his finger to her chin. “No. You have what you need. Be safe, Amethyst.”

  She had metal wings so she could swoop down on the asylum roof and sneak in through a trapdoor that would hopefully be there. Of course she would be safe.

  Clark nudged Jonathan into the train seat beside the window and slid in next to him. Cigar smoke thickened the air.

  Jonathan needed to be kept within watch.

  “Don’t hate me if I make sure you don’t turn me in.” Clark winked.

  Jonathan turned his face toward the window. “I gave you my word. Unless you do something I don’t trust, we’re together in this.”

  How comforting. People passed by in the aisle, voices bouncing off the stiff seats and metal walls.

  “Good,” Clark said. “Welcome to my world.”

  methyst straightened the cameo on the lace collar of her blouse. Was the cameo, with its pearlescent white face and blue background, the golden scrollwork around it, out of date?

  She flinched. New Addison City tugged at her, a whisper luring her back into its world of soirees and shopping. Even on the outskirts, the sound of honking horns and music reached her ears. She only had to walk a few blocks to reach some of the more artsy cafes, where obscure paintings decorated the walls and street musicians wandered around the tables playing their violins.

  No. She turned back to the asylum gate. A girl known as Samantha St. Clair needed her.

  How much Hedlund had changed Amethyst… she’d almost forgotten about fashion. Yes, she liked new clothes and dressing her best, but she’d lost touch in real fashion, where one item was in style one week and tableau the next.

  Behind her, the hired steambuggy churned down the street, the wheels clanking over the cobblestones. Two women strolled the sidewalk with lace parasols.

  First, she had to get a grasp of the land. Clark would do that. She walked to the gatehouse, where a man sat in a booth with his cap pulled forward, a newspaper open in his lap. Beyond the wrought iron fence that reached two-stories tall lay a green, manicured lawn with trimmed bushes along the brick building.

  The asylum, that which her people had whispered of, but had never seen, as far as Amethyst knew. Sometimes they would joke about it. “Don’t be so crazy or they’ll lock you up.” “Be careful they don’t seal you away in the asylum.”

  A girl from the boarding school Amethyst attended had a sister who’d been locked away.

  “She got with child,” the girl had whispered, “but it’s her humors. That’s what we have to tell everyone.”

  Humors. Amethyst shivered. Girls were always warned to “guard” their humors. Amethyst had always felt that over-acting, exaggerating her perkiness, would keep her from the fate of a faulty humor.

  She flipped her parasol over her shoulder and twirled it as she approached the gatehouse. “Good day, sir! I’m here to make a calling.” Amethyst lifted one of the false calling cards from her silk reticule. Eric had printed it to read “Katherine Paterson.”

  The guard sighed as though doing his job troubled him and reached beneath the glass enclosure to accept the embossed type. “Where’s your chaperone?”

  Amethyst lowered her eyelids so she could watch him through her lashes. “I’m afraid my brother isn’t one for this place. Frightful place, you know. It is only me today. My poor cousin. She needs all the visitors she can have. Her doctor recommends it for her humors.”

  The guard snorted as he slipped her calling card into a tin box on his desk. “Careful in there. Don’t see many women without a chaperone.” He pulled
a lever and the right door opened on hinges that puffed steam into the cloudless sky.

  She curtsied to him as best she could in her pencil-tight skirt with the bustle flouncing over her buttocks, and entered along the pebbled path. As the gate puffed shut, a thickness seemed to coat her. The brick houses across the street from the asylum contained the aura of the living, with flags and flower-boxes and unlit candles in the windows. Within, hatred and sadness created a shield she had to fight through. Each step fought against her instincts to find the fun life, connect with some of her old friends.

  The path veered, the wider end circling around the stretching building, most likely to stables, and the narrower path took her to the front steps. White pillars thrice as thick as her body held up the black-shingled room. A woman in a simple brown dress planted tulips in ceramic pots near the double doors. She kept her head down as Amethyst passed her.

  Could she be a patient? Did they allow patients to work?

  An automatic servant opened the left-hand door and stepped out to allow Amethyst passage inside. Goose bumps rose across her skin beneath the cotton of her shirt. It was safe. They wouldn’t take her. No one cared about poor Katherine Robson who wanted to visit her cousin.

  The marble floor of the entranceway reflected Amethyst’s image back at her. She snapped her parasol shut and held it in front of her as a proper lady would. Hedlund had allowed some of her manners to slip. No one out west cared much about how a girl held her handkerchief, let alone her parasol.

  A woman with her black hair pulled back in a severe bun sat behind a mahogany desk working at one of the new typewriters Zachariah had been raving about months before.

  “Excuse me.” She could channel innocent, fumbling Zachariah, or smooth Clark. Amethyst smiled and lowered her gaze. She couldn’t look threatening, so Zachariah won out. “I would like to see my cousin please. Here is my card.” She slid it across the desk.

  “Who is that?” The receptionist’s fingers continued striking the typewriter keys, even though she tipped her face upward.