by Jeff Wheeler
In the soft light from the Leering lamps, she saw him better. Saw the sweat trickling from his brow. Saw the almost feverish look in his eyes, the shadowed smudges of sleeplessness beneath his eyelids. The scar that ran down the left side of his face was long but not jagged; it looked like it had been made by a saber slash or a knife. His hair fell just past his shoulders. He wore a merchant’s outfit, but his bearing was militant.
“Look at you,” he said with an angry voice. “Look at you now.”
“Who are you?” Cettie demanded, experiencing a strange swelling inside her heart. There was something familiar about him.
“I’m taking you away from here,” he said with determination. “You don’t belong in this place. I’m taking you home.”
Cettie began to control her breathing, just as Raj Sarin had taught her years ago. She was frightened and weak, but her body was under her control. With determination, she exhaled slowly and then breathed in through her nose. Her mind sought out the Leerings in the room, and she willed them to brighten like noonday. She hoped the change in lighting would serve a dual purpose: that it would both call attention to her plight and blind him enough for her to rush past him.
The Leerings obeyed, and suddenly the room was blazing. She heard and felt a hissing sound of agony and pain. Cettie knew the room by habit and instinct. She could travel it blindfolded. Squeezing her eyes shut, she rushed to the man’s left, moving as fast as she could.
The room was plunged into darkness as another will overpowered her control of the Leerings. She collided into his body and fell to her knees. Panicked again, she opened her eyes. The only light in the room now came from the window. The man looked down at her coldly. She clenched her hand into a fist and struck him in the side, trying to knock him off balance.
A deeper darkness crept into the room, one that pulsed with dread and despair. She tried to get back on her feet, but her captor pulled her up and threw her roughly against the small sofa. The room was spinning, and the feeling of darkness grew more and more terrible. She looked up and saw that the intruder’s eyes were glowing silver.
And she heard a voice inside her head say, She is the one. Bring her outside.
Horror broke through her will. She recognized the sound of that voice, that whispered thought. It was the tall ghost, the one with no eyes. The one that had tormented her at Miss Charlotte’s hovel in the Fells and again under Mrs. Pullman’s reign of tyranny at Fog Willows. For nearly four years she had escaped it, and she’d thought Muirwood would protect her. Until now it had. The creature was still hunting her. It was still seeking her.
Cettie screamed. Yes, she was terrified. Yes, she was weak. But she would use what weapons she had to escape.
The man’s silver eyes flashed, and suddenly her scream was silenced, her speech robbed from her throat. He rushed forward and dragged her off the sofa. She struck the edge of her hand against the underside of his arm, knowing there was a painful nerve there, but the man merely grunted and then wrestled her arms behind her back. She thrust her head back into his face and felt it strike. His grip on her released as he reacted to the pain. She no longer thought of running. No, her blood was enraged now. She would bite and claw and attack him any way she could. She would attack this man who had brought the ghost back to her.
Suddenly she was on the floor, facedown, her arm torqued back into an agonizing hold. Her shoulder seared with pain. She heard him breathing hard with the exertion.
Bring her now. Before they come!
Cettie swung her other elbow back and struck some meaty muscle. Her time at the archery butts had increased her strength. He was using all his force to try to still her—there was still hope she could escape. She jerked her elbow at him again, only to find his arm suddenly clamped around her neck. She dug her nails into his wrist, knowing this hold would send her tumbling into unconsciousness in a matter of seconds. Tugging on his arm proved fruitless, and her chest began to hunger for air. She elbowed him in the ribs again, multiple times, earning grunts from him as he wrestled her into submission. White spots began to dance before her eyes, but she bucked against him, unwilling to yield. She reached her fingers for his face, trying to get his eyes and finding only hair.
There, there, there, there . . .
She felt the tall ghost’s glee at her weakness. She felt its presence, felt its touch through his.
Cettie tried once again to claw his face, and then her strength failed her completely.
Cettie was roused by the swaying motion of being carried. She was slung over the man’s shoulder, her face thumping against his back. Blood had rushed to her head, and her cheeks and neck were throbbing. She opened her eyes and saw the cobblestone street. They were still in one of the thin alleys in the village. The light from the town square was fading in the distance, but she could still sense the Leerings of the fountain.
He hadn’t tied her hands. His urgency to leave had made him careless.
Although she was still weak, she felt her strength returning quickly now that she could breathe. She didn’t know precisely where she was; some of the alleys led to porter doors that exited the village grounds. It was forbidden for students to leave without permission, but she and Sera had occasionally left to wander through the countryside. She knew how vast it could be.
Fighting this man had proven useless. She reached out to the nearest Leering.
Aldermaston. Can you hear me?
She felt his response immediately.
Cettie, where are you? We are searching for you.
A thrill of relief coursed through her. She was still bumping roughly against her attacker’s back but managed to strain her neck and gaze down the mouth of the alley.
Someone is taking me. We’re off the main square. She took a long, deep inhale. I smell the butcher’s shop.
We are coming that way now. We are coming, Cettie. Don’t be afraid.
I am afraid. I don’t want to leave.
We are coming. Be ready to flee.
“Stop it,” the man grunted to her, jostling her. Had he heard her thoughts too? She’d done her best to mask them from him.
When they reached the end of the alley, her attacker shrugged her off his shoulder and set her down against the wall near the porter door. She wanted to scramble back away from him, but there was only stone behind her.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. She had her voice back, but her words were rough and throaty.
He knelt, his face near hers. His eyes were no longer glowing, and his breath was hot against her skin. He looked enraged.
“Because I’m your bleeding father, and I’m not going to let them turn you into a heretic!”
Her insides shriveled. “You are not my father,” she whispered.
He sneered at her. “You think George Pratt is? Oh, he doesn’t know the first thing about you. Yes, you are my blood, and I am yours. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this world at all.” He turned his head, hearing noise coming from the head of the alley. He pitched his next words as a whisper. “This isn’t the time or the place. I’m getting you out of here. They’ve no doubt warped your mind, but there’s hope for you yet. Now run with me to my ship, and I’ll tell you all. Come, Daughter. I can’t carry you all that way.” He rose and held out his hand to her.
Aldermaston? Cettie pleaded with her thoughts.
We are coming down the alley now. I see you through the Leerings’ eyes.
“What is your name?” she asked the man. She wanted to delay him any way she could.
He looked back down the alley, his face scowling. “I don’t have a name anymore. Call me Kishion.” He put his hand against the door and bowed his head. His eyes began to glow silver once more. She felt the Leering resist him. She sensed the Aldermaston’s presence, felt his mind begin to overpower the door. Cettie joined her power to his.
“You cannot get out,” Cettie said, starting to push herself up. “You cannot leave these grounds. Please, come with me to the
Aldermaston’s manor. We can talk there. Please, Kishion. I want to know who you are.”
There was a crack and a zipping sound as a ball ricocheted off the stone frame of the door. Cettie flinched.
“Hold fast, man,” ordered a voice from the alley. “The next one won’t miss. Step away from the girl.”
“Step away, step away,” her attacker muttered darkly. She felt the throb of the ghost’s power inside him.
He reached into his belt and withdrew a small handheld arquebus. Before Cettie could act, he aimed and squeezed the trigger. A loud explosion came from it with a flash of brilliant fire that blinded and stunned her. She had seen the shooting ranges at the abbey for the students who studied the Mysteries of War. Their weapons were quiet, the shots coming out with a hissing zip. This was unlike anything she’d experienced. Smoke filled the air, flavored with something alchemical, and her ears squealed loudly.
She felt the Aldermaston’s command of the Leering fail. Cettie shoved the stranger aside and bolted from him, running down the alley, fleeing toward the light.
She didn’t look back, but she heard the door groan as it opened. Her attacker was fleeing.
I will find you again, she heard the voice promise her.
There were two men lying on the street. She thought she recognized one of them as the Aldermaston’s pilot, the one who flew the abbey’s zephyr. He was groaning, clutching a huge red stain on his shirtfront. Blood was spreading on the ground beneath him as well. The second man who had fallen was the Aldermaston. Adam Creigh knelt by him, examining the red welt that had bloomed on his front. The young doctor’s face was transfixed with a mixture of horror and determination. He applied pressure to the wound, trying to stanch it, but there was so much blood . . .
Cettie gazed at the Aldermaston, taking in his waxy pallor. His spectacles had fallen off and lay broken in the street. Her ears were still ringing from the blast of the pistol. The smoky haze filled the alley, its acrid smell clinging to her clothes, her skin. What could it be from?
“It went . . . it went through me!” gasped the pilot, disoriented. He tried to sit up and couldn’t. His body started to convulse. He groaned with pain. Had one ball truly wreaked this much damage?
“Cettie, get help,” Adam said, looking at her in desperation. His hands were wet with blood. “I think the Aldermaston is dead.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROGUE
When the door swung open, Cettie stopped her frantic pacing. She was still in the care center, unable to leave until she knew what had happened. The expression on Adam’s face as he entered her room was guarded as she searched it for information. The first blush of dawn was appearing, turning the sky to an impossibly vivid shade of blue, a color that seemed to mock the dreadful terrors of the night preceding it. For hours she had paced and prayed and worried that the Aldermaston had passed on to another world. It was her fault. If she had gone with the villain who had tried to abduct her, this wouldn’t have happened. Surely her life was not a fair exchange for Thomas Abraham’s.
“I thought I might find you sleeping,” Adam said with a weary sigh. She finally noticed the splotches of blood on his jacket, vest, and sleeve.
“How could I sleep without knowing?” Cettie answered. She was weary to her bones, but she had to know. “Is he still alive?”
“His breathing is shallow still. Too shallow.” Adam raked his fingers through his hair. “I wish I could do more to help. Doctor Redd has been teaching here for ages, and he’s performed more surgeries than he can count. This was the first time I got to help with a real one. The doctor has a special power with the Mysteries, and he can sometimes heal with his touch. But no such miracle happened this night.” Adam shook his head, his eyes looking sad. “I don’t understand why. The Aldermaston is a good man. Why wouldn’t he be healed?”
“But he’s alive,” Cettie said in relief. “That’s better than you feared last night after he was shot.”
“True,” Adam said with a tone of defeat. “Mr. Neal bled to death while we carried him to safety. The ball punctured his spleen, damaged his liver, and severed a major artery. If he had not stepped in front of the Aldermaston when that killer raised his arm, then Thomas Abraham would certainly be dead right now instead.”
A chill shot down to the soles of Cettie’s feet. This man, this monster, who had claimed to be her father had tried to kill one of the most revered men in the kingdom. His actions had been devoid of respect or deference. Hadn’t he called Cettie a heretic?
“Well, it is a blessing Doctor Redd came so quickly,” Adam said, drawing nearer. He touched her arm. “Thank you for what you did. If you hadn’t kept your wits about you and run for help. Well, it may have been too late.”
Cettie was close to weeping, and his praise only added to her guilt. Why was it that she seemed to attract such darkness? What if that man really was her father? Did that mean her blood was bad? Spoiled?
“I did very little,” Cettie replied, staring down at the floor, trying to keep tears from spilling out.
“Come into the light,” Adam said worriedly. Gripping her arm, he led her to a chair near the window and then helped her sit in a beam of sunlight. The cushion felt good, but uncomfortable awareness shot through her as Adam knelt in front of her. “You have bruises on your neck. May I?”
Her feelings of self-consciousness increased dramatically, bringing a wave of confusion because she heard herself saying “Yes, of course,” before realizing what that meant.
With gentle fingers, he touched her chin and tilted it to one side, exposing her neck to the light. His touch brought intense jolts to her skin, and she felt her heartbeat begin to thrum erratically. He’d never touched her like this before . . .
“Did he . . . did that man choke you?” Adam asked, his words throbbing with anger. “Look, there’s an abrasion on your temple as well.”
“Yes,” Cettie murmured, her hands in her lap, her skin tingling as he continued to examine her.
Then his hands touched hers on her lap, his fingers gently lifting hers. He was looking at her nails, which was how she finally noticed the blood beneath them.
“You scratched him, didn’t you?” Adam said with a flush of respect. Then his eyes hardened into stones. “Did he . . . did that man—”
“No!” Cettie interrupted, her cheeks flaming as she realized what Adam was likely alluding to. “He didn’t . . . assault me, not in that way. No, he tried to abduct me and was surprised that I fought back.” She’d not told anyone what her attacker had said to her. The knowledge that he might be her father weighed heavily on her heart.
“You clearly fought him,” Adam said with an approving grin. “And hurt him too, I’d say. He probably has some gouges in his skin that will pain him greatly. Good. Did you manage to throw him, Cettie?”
She flushed even more. “I don’t think so.”
He chuckled again and then shook his head. “He must have subdued you with a choke hold. That’s the most effective way to render someone unconscious. Or kill them. But why did he attack you? Maybe someone hired a ruffian to abduct you in the hopes of stealing the secrets of your storm glass? It makes no sense to me, but some people do become desperate.”
Cettie licked her lips. He’d finished examining her fingers, but he was still holding her hand. She had never told him about her ghosts, especially the one that had tormented her in the Fells. She already felt awkward enough around him, and if he knew all her ugly truths, surely he would think worse of her.
“Has someone told the prime minister, do you think?” she asked. “About the Aldermaston?”
“Yes, he has been apprised of the situation. I’m expecting to see Fitzroy at any moment. No doubt he’ll come immediately to make sure you are well.” He finally released her hand and lifted his to brush some stray hairs back from her brow. He was looking at her cheek.
“There’s something else,” he said. With the back of his fingers, he nudged her chin again. “The skin is pink her
e. Like from a sunburn.”
Her cheeks were already flaming, making her feel even more awkward.
“It is a burn, isn’t it? Is the skin sensitive when I touch it?” he asked, grazing his finger lightly across it.
“A little,” Cettie answered, swallowing. For more reasons than one.
He came close to her, so close their cheeks were almost touching, and he sniffed. “Curious. Your hair and skin have an acrid odor . . . like brimstone, though not as pungent. It’s definitely alchemical.” He drew closer again, his thumb still pressed to her eyebrow, and examined her face closely.
“Did you see what he was holding? Was it an arquebus?”
“A small one, a pistol,” she answered. “But it exploded from his hand. There was fire and then smoke.”
“That explains the soot on your shoulder and sleeve,” he answered, drawing back. “You were very close when he fired. It was deafening from my end of the alley.”
Her ear had rung for a long time afterward. She nodded.
“Is there anything else you remember about him? Any details that might be helpful? It’s best to revive as many memories as you can now. Those clues may help us find the man.”
Cettie wasn’t about to tell him about the man’s claim of parentage, but she remembered something else she could share. “I don’t know how he got into my dormitory.”
“He was in your dormitory?” Adam asked with startled surprise. “I thought he’d attacked you in the street.”
“No, he was waiting for me. I had dinner with Anna last night,” she added, “and he was already inside when I came back. The Leerings didn’t warn me as they should have. I just . . . sensed him. You know, sometimes you can feel it when someone is behind you or watching you.”
“Go on,” Adam said encouragingly.
“I tried to summon the Leerings to come to my defense, that’s how I got those burns, but he overruled them. I don’t know how.”
“Was he a trained maston, then?” Adam asked with disbelief.
“No, I don’t think so. When he attacked me, his eyes began to glow.”