Fawkes

by Nadine Brandes

  Kit and Jack ran outside, masks on. Jack sprinted to the well and it exploded with a gush of water, flooding the line of oncoming soldiers. The first line fell, tumbling over each other in the wave of water.

  Kit used his Green power to send the grassy lawn roiling and churning. Impossible to stand on.

  Then a mask rose from the fray, lifting and balancing on the arm of an oak tree, as though cradled in the hand of a giant.

  A multicolored mask.

  Dee fisted two pistols, held them straight in front of him, and . . .

  Pop. Jack fell. Pop. Kit folded.

  From that distance, Dee must have used color power to direct the bullets. The Wright brothers writhed on the ground for a moment. The roiling green earth stilled. The water from the well settled. I stared at their fallen bodies. Blood flowed from their chests . . . and then came the Stone Plague. It rolled from the wounds toward their faces and throats.

  I yelled, but the plague consumed them. Dee’s weapons left no wounded.

  Two of his witnesses were dead.

  Wintour crawled toward the house. He was alive! With a glance over his shoulder, he got to his feet, clutching his sword arm. He picked up his weapon as he ran and made it into the house just as another one of Dee’s bullets blasted into the wood frame.

  Blood pulsed from Wintour’s wound, dripping on the floor as he fell into the room. Catesby helped him up. “Stand by me, Mr. Tom, and we will die together.”

  “I’ve a cracked mask and have lost the use of my right arm,” Wintour grunted. “I fear that will cause me to be taken.”

  In the minds of the plotters, to be taken was a fate far worse than death.

  A fate that my father had drawn.

  And so they stood side by side for their last stand. Percy joined them. To see them in a line, facing their deaths, drew me in, like all heroic feats seemed to do. I wanted to be part of something great. I wanted to stand alongside them.

  But they no longer stood for something I could fight for.

  Movement from the door caught my eye and I spun, finally drawing my sword.

  It wasn’t a man. It was the Stone Plague from Dee’s bullet that had struck the wood in pursuit of Wintour. It crawled from the hole and scrabbled at the wood like an animal seeking flesh. The beam of the door crackled like a log in the fire as the stone overtook it.

  I stared. How . . . ? How could the plague spread across something inanimate? My gaze slid from the beam to the dead bodies of the Wright brothers, only to see more plague flowing like the well water from their corpses to the lawn. Across the grass toward the lines of soldiers. The soldiers backed away, breaking any semblance of formation.

  I could see the whites of Dee’s eyes even from his spot on the oak branch.

  He’d gone too far. And now his new weaponry was spreading plague through the earth. To the king’s men.

  A soldier screamed as the plague snagged his boot. He ran away, but with every other footprint, plague was left behind. Spreading from new puddles of death.

  Mayhem struck.

  Soon the plague would crawl down their throats and suffocate them. Stop their hearts, petrify their lungs.

  I darted from the room as the glass from the window shattered. I spun in time to see both Percy and Catesby fall—a single bullet blowing through Percy’s chest and into Catesby’s neck.

  Wintour let out an anguished cry and dropped to Catesby’s side. So be it. I turned away from the scene and ran. I tensed for a shot to find me—to pierce my back or my head. For a sword to meet me around a corner.

  I stuck my mask to my face. Hopefully the White would prove me to be an ally. Heat burst into my veins from the mask. The color voices surrounded me—calling for help, wishing to be commanded. Wanting to obey.

  I knew the moment Dee spotted me from his branch because the oak lowered him to the ground, depositing its master onto the chessboard as the queen.

  To stop this spreading plague, I’d have to stop Dee. I was the pawn making a dash for the other side.

  Dee spun upon my approach and threw so fast I barely registered the small knife that stuck in the forehead of my mask.

  As though repulsed, the mask writhed and pushed the blade out. It tumbled to the ground, the tip melted halfway to the hilt.

  “That’s a neat trick,” Dee growled.

  “White Light has all sorts of tricks up its sleeves.”

  “What are you doing, boy? I’m on your side.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you when you throw daggers to infect me.” Dee was good at playing both sides, but there was only one side to which he was truly loyal—his own. “I fight for White Light.” I advanced with my sword point first. “You spread the plague.”

  He heaved a sigh. “No one ever thinks grand enough. I created it, boy. I was barely older than you—that should give an idea of what you’re up against.”

  Created it. “You murdered Luther?” He had started the war. “And your wives?”

  I watched his hands with hawk eyes in case he tried to throw something again. But the attack came from behind. Something wrapped around my neck. A noose. I reached to tear it away and felt leaves. Vines. They were tight, but I was stronger. I tore them away. They responded with a burst of new arms, coiled together to create an unbreakable noose.

  “They couldn’t give me children to whom to pass on my legacy.” Dee stood over me. The vines yanked me to the ground. I released my sword to fight with both hands. No, no, no! I couldn’t break them. I was choking.

  My vision darkened, blood pounding behind my eyes.

  Hello! I’m RIGHT. HERE.

  “Then do something!” I hollered with my last breath.

  Why do you even have a mask?

  If the White Light had been a physical person within reach, I would have throttled him. But then I understood. I’d succumbed to my own power in my moment of panic. I calmed and thought a command to Green. Release me. You have no power over me.

  Dee was controlling the Green vines with his own color speech. It was more powerful than I’d ever seen. But I commanded Green with White Light’s authority.

  The vines recoiled as if struck and heat poured into my face from the inside of my mask. I scrambled back to my feet to see Dee send another dagger into the chest of a young soldier no taller than me who had been trying to yank the vines away.

  The soldier fell, grabbing at the dagger.

  I stepped between Dee and the boy and sent my focus into my mask. I felt the flutter of grass beneath our feet, in my skin. I heard it humming and my veins throbbed. You will obey me now.

  The Green will bowed. And then, with a snap, the grass sent Dee onto his back, like the flick of a rug. I advanced, sword drawn. Dee’s mask hung askew—his round eyes startled. He saw. He knew. White Light would win.

  A bullet whizzed by my ear and I lurched back. A body interrupted my advance, sword aloft. “At last. No more school sparring, Cyclops. This duel will reap blood.”

  “Henry, you idiot!” I deflected his blade as easily as when we sparred as schoolmates. “I’m on your side.”

  “Well, I’m not on yours.” He lunged and I sidestepped, keeping one eye on Dee. He went for a thrust, a slight inhale giving him away. I jabbed with my sword—too far away to strike him, but close enough to affright him into a sloppy defense.

  Dee had gained his feet.

  Henry’s breath released in white clouds and he licked his dry lips. When he went for another strike, I executed a swift contra tempo—gaining control and stepping forward with a quick jab to the soft crook of his shoulder.

  The blade sank.

  He hissed.

  Blood splashed.

  It happened so fast, I wasn’t sure how deep I’d jabbed. For a moment, I feared I’d sliced clean through him.

  I took two steps back, lowing my rapier as a bright-red stain spread along his shirt. But he didn’t lower his sword—not even when he grimaced so fiercely his eyes shut.

  He raised
his sword again, but then his eyes left our duel for a moment, so alarmed I almost looked over my shoulder. But I’d fall for no feint. Henry’s gaze snapped back to me, then back to a spot behind me, and he abandoned our battle, running around me and back toward the house.

  I let the fool go and pursued Dee.

  But then Henry screamed from behind me. “Dee!” The panic in his voice sent its own shard of concern into me. I shouldn’t look. I should stay focused on my target, but then, “Dee, Dee! Help!”

  I looked over my shoulder. Henry knelt over the downed soldier boy. Stone Plague spread from the blade in the soldier’s chest like a drop of ink in a bowl of milk—up the boy’s light clothing, toward his scarf-covered throat, and disappeared beneath his smooth Brown mask.

  A Brown mask with a white rose over the eye.

  The world slowed as I caught the stray dark curl that had escaped the cap, the bulky gloves over the dainty hands, the feminine touch to the frightened gasp.

  Emma.

  “No!” Ice slid through my body.

  Henry screamed Dee’s name louder and louder, tearing at the plague, wrenching the dagger from Emma’s chest, pulling her mask away and revealing her beautiful dark skin. Wide eyes. Tears of fear. “It’s getting her! Dee, stop it!”

  I. Just. Stared.

  Emma . . . my Emma . . . was dying of plague.

  Dee sprinted across the courtyard, across the plagued ground away from us. He reached the stone outer wall. The giant squares of rock lifted into a crude arch to let him through. Once he crossed to the other side, they slammed back into place with a tremor that jolted me out of my stunned state.

  Emma’s hands clutched at her throat, the plague weaving and slithering into her skin. Henry screamed enough for the both of us. There was only one thing to do—one way to stop that plague.

  I bolted after Dee.

  No, Thomas.

  Emma was dying. I couldn’t look back. I couldn’t bear to see the stone slipping down her throat. Suffocating her. Why was the plague even affecting her? She was bonded with the White Light just as I was—even more than I was!

  I reached the portion of stone Dee had passed through and slammed against it. “Open up, Grey.” The stones shuddered. “Open. Open!” I pounded the stone with my fist. White. White! Move the stones!

  No response.

  “Do something!” I bellowed.

  My concern is not in that direction.

  I scrabbled against the stone, trying to scale it by sheer willpower.

  Dee is not the answer.

  I looked back to Emma and Henry. He held her in his arms and sobbed into her neck. She wasn’t moving. All I saw was stone. And I understood.

  I sprinted back to them and pulled her from his arms. Tears smeared behind my own mask. I couldn’t think straight. “Emma. Emma! I’m here.”

  She didn’t look like herself—all pale cracked stone and wide-open, unseeing eyes. My mask grew hot before I even sent a command to the plague. “Remove yourself from her.”

  I sensed the plague shake its head, still under Dee’s color Compulsion. My inner eye dove into the plague’s heart. Where do I go?

  To the left.

  I navigated the cracks and the infection.

  Here?

  Deeper.

  I saw the plague’s grip over Emma’s heart. Its knuckles pinching her veins and stilling her blood.

  There.

  I ground my teeth against the screaming. “You. Will. Release. Her.”

  The plague shrank away. Resisting. But its defiance held no power, because against Dee’s will and even its own will, the stone receded from Emma’s nose. “Faster!”

  It slunk back like a sulking child, pooling around the blade.

  Her limp body slumped on the lumpy ground. “Emma.” I shook her. “Emma!”

  “Get off her!” Henry shoved me and I almost lost my grip.

  But my mind was spinning. Analyzing. Examining her body with the color power.

  Lungs. Heart. Breath. Death.

  My mind’s eye returned to her heart. It pulsed weakly like a fish too long out of water. She was alive, but barely. The heat from my mask sent sweat sliding down my temples. And I sought the Red of her blood. The Red of her tissue.

  I placed one hand over her bleeding chest and one hand over mine—feeling for my own heartbeat.

  Every time it struck my palm, I sent a command to hers. “Pulse.”

  Tha-thump. My heart.

  . . . th . . . u . . . m . . . p. Hers.

  “Pulse. Pulse.”

  . . . tha . . . thump. Her heart picked up, like a stallion in a race. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Faster. Faster. Thathumpthathumpthathump.

  I reeled back with a gasp, releasing Red from the commands.

  Emma sucked in a sudden breath through her nose. Then another. Her eyes fluttered open. And I fought the urge to weep. She was alive. You did it.

  We did it.

  She saw me and time seemed to stop. For one synchronized heartbeat, I was all she saw. She was alive. She was safe . . . for now. Despite the dagger wound. She was so beautiful that my chest felt like it was the one with the dagger in it.

  Her attention slid to Henry. She lifted her hand and rested it against his trembling, sniveling face. “It’s well. I’m all right.”

  He nodded and wiped a sleeve across his face.

  She returned her sweet gaze to me. “D-Dee . . .”

  I bowed my head. “He got away.”

  Emma’s eyebrows crashed together. “Where is he?”

  “He escaped through the wall.” I waved to the stones. “There. A few minutes ago.” A hundred years ago, it felt.

  Emma struggled to her feet with a cry, then clutched her chest. Blood bubbled from the wound. “Emma!” Henry gasped.

  “I’m well,” she choked. “The layers . . .” No matter how many layers of clothing she wore, there was still blood streaming out of her chest.

  “Blast it all, Emma.” I barely registered the madness around me. I barely gave a thought to the plague or the bodies or the plotters.

  But then Emma swayed and stumbled toward the wall. “Hurry, Thomas.”

  I returned to the moment. To the war. And then I saw Holbeche House—consumed by the plague. It crawled along the lawn toward us. And while I no longer feared for either of us, I saw it latch onto Henry’s boots. He stabbed at it with his rapier, but the blade clanged uselessly.

  “Go, Emma!” he shouted. “Hurry! Stop him!”

  The stone crawled up his calves. Past his knees.

  Emma and I rushed to the wall. Did she think she could move the stones like Dee had? No. She couldn’t. Because her mask lay in the plagued grass behind us.

  “We should go around!” I hollered. “Where is the horse?”

  Emma reached for a stone that had been left loose by Dee and stuck out a few inches. Was she trying to climb over? I hoisted her up until she balanced on the stone with her tiptoes. The top of the wall reached her chest and she clutched at it with one arm. With the other hand, she pulled her musket over her shoulder and leveled it on the top of the wall.

  She was going to shoot him? Could she even see him?

  I hauled myself up on the stone lip, using my body to steady Emma, but also for a view. Far afield Dee ran away from the battle with the irregular gait of an old man unaccustomed to physical exertion.

  He was too far. Barely a speck.

  I remembered how he’d taken down Jack and Kit. How he’d shot Wintour.

  Emma cocked the trigger.

  I thought of my mother, taken by the plague. Norwood.

  She pressed her eye to the sight. Trembled.

  I pictured the plagued woman in the graveyard.

  I closed my eyes and sent my consciousness down into the barrel of the musket, past the flint and the pan, until I found the ball. Until I saw the grey metal, molded and smoothed.

  I felt Grey’s obedience. I felt its response to the White on my mask. Its bow to its sovereign.<
br />
  So when Emma breathed out slowly and squeezed the trigger, a command slipped through my lips with the barest whisper.

  A color command to the bullet.

  “Fly true.”

  Forty-Six

  The aftermath of battle was as bloody and revolting as the flop of Dee’s dead body mid-run.

  The Stone Plague cracked and crumbled off the walls of Holbeche House into dust. Henry shook himself free and spat the dust from his mouth. Some downed soldiers rose with coughing fits.

  Most did not rise at all.

  Emma had lost a lot of blood, so I lowered her to the now-safe ground. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” But I could tell she was weak.

  Henry ran straight over and tended her. I’d never seen him act so gently toward anything or anyone.

  He looked around and then moved to place Emma’s mask back on her face. I stopped him. “No. Let her be.”

  He slapped my hand away. “You are why she’s out here. You are why she’s injured and almost died!”

  Never mind that I’d helped Emma save his life. “She came of her own will. You can’t cage her.”

  “Leave us!” he shrieked with wild eyes, fumbling for his rapier. Emma stilled his hand. “What?” His angry demeanor crumbled. “What do you need? Water? A healer?”

  “I need you to let me go.”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  “No. But I am going with Thomas.” She closed her wound with her own mask, then sat up and winced.

  He acted as though he hadn’t heard. “I’m taking you back to Hoxton!”

  “When he comes for me, I’m going.” Emma lifted her eyes to mine. “I’ll be ready.”

  Soldiers plundered the battlefield, stripping the boots and silk stockings off of Jack’s body, rummaging through Catesby’s pockets, trampling lifeless fingers and yanking off rings.

  The soldiers who had survived Dee’s plague touched their skin, their faces, their chests—pale with open mouths. They knew. They knew the plague had claimed them and somehow left. Several of them wandered in awe, trying to understand.

  The plague was no longer. Not on the blades, not on the soldiers, not on the musket balls—all were free. It had been snuffed with the extinguishing of Dee’s life. Such havoc caused by a single man.