The Franklin Deception (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 4)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  "I'm not sure," I said, tapping my chin.

  "Ask me, I'm certain I can." She seemed to sense I was playing her and bared her teeth. "I want something from you as well."

  "But you know I can do it," I said, taking a guess on Zentrii's intentions.

  The she-demon laughed, though it sounded more like air escaping a pipe than a human emotion. She paced back and forth, twitching, eyes round and black.

  "What is it you want?" she said, eventually.

  "I want you to train me to control my magic." I paused. "If you're capable."

  Zentrii exploded into black mist; the cloud shot to the other side of the room, and she reformed. "I'm more than capable."

  "Good. And you wish to know something, don't you?" I said, remembering Zentrii's interest in questioning me at Cutter's Spring.

  The she-demon squinted one eye almost closed, holding up her forefinger and thumb a hair apart, and hissed out a response. "A little something."

  It had to do with the prophecy. I wondered what she wanted to know and why it was important.

  "In exchange for your help, I'll give you the answer you desire," I said, speaking in an authoritative voice.

  "Deal," she said, a little too immediately for my comfort.

  "When shall we—"

  The words caught in my throat as the storm-kin turned into a black cloud and snatched me from the room. I was aware of the ground passing rapidly beneath my feet, though it was quite some distance below. Mostly, I kept my eyes clamped shut and tried not to flail, thinking I might dislodge myself from Zentrii's grip. While the likelihood of that happening seemed quite remote, logic crumpled in the face of overwhelming fear.

  We landed far from the city on a charred and broken hilltop. Not a single light could be seen in the distance. Only the stars and the moon provided illumination. I was chilled in my thin nightgown and wrapped my arms around my midsection.

  Something terrible had happened on this hill. The trees were burnt and the ground uneven, mangled by an unknown destructive force. Yet, grass grew in tufts between the black trunks, indicating it'd happened a few years ago. I moved to the edge of the crown we stood upon, noting that the destruction went nearly halfway down the hill.

  Suddenly, I knew what had caused the destruction. This was the hill that had taken a sorcerous impact from the Brave Eagle.

  Zentrii was watching me carefully, uncharacteristically still, except for her slender tongue playing across her teeth.

  "You were here," said Zentrii, jabbing her finger in my face. "On that airship. I see it in your face."

  "As were you," I said. "That was your storm, wasn't it?"

  Zentrii preened. "It was a beauty." Then she growled. "Until that damned ship sucked the energy from my storm, laying waste to this hilltop. I had plans for that storm. It was mine."

  "Well, I wasn't the one to steal it," I said.

  "Then who did?" she asked.

  I gave her a conspiratorial smile. "Helping me will get revenge on those that stole your storm."

  "I like the sound of that," she said, black eyes glittering with the reflections of the stars. "But if I'm your teacher, you have to do what I say and when I say it. I'm not wasting my time with a student who defies"—she drew out the sibilant sound—"me, or won't listen. These are my rules, and if you won't abide by them, then I won't be your teacher very long. You owe me an answer."

  I thought about it for a few moments. I wasn't going to find a better deal anywhere else, even if the storm-kin seemed rather mercurial. "Fair enough. Let's begin, I'm getting cold."

  Zentrii frowned as she stalked away. "Pfft. You don't say when we start. I'm the teacher."

  "Then when shall we start?" I asked, adding a flourishing bow.

  Her eyes briefly widened. "Now."

  "Good—"

  The words barely made it out of my lips before a buffet of wind hit me in the face, forcing my arms up. Then a collection of charred braches flew at me like a dark web. I screamed and tried to dodge them, but they broke across me, leaving welts and black marks across my midsection.

  "What was that for?" I said, containing my rage.

  "You said you were cold. I'm warming you up." The she-demon grinned, and I wondered if I'd made a mistake.

  Another stick, this one larger, about the size of a broom handle, flew across the hilltop. I barely threw myself to the dirt in time, coming up with grass in my mouth.

  "Why aren't you doing anything to stop me?" asked Zentrii, lips curling back. "Use your magic."

  Before I could answer, clumps of dirt came swirling from a mound about thirty feet away. The cyclone was about twenty feet high and ripped up the grass and earth it passed over. Specks of dirt stung my face as it neared. I backed away, but quickly realized I had little room to maneuver, as the ridge on the hill fell away to a scree of jagged rocks that would tear me to shreds.

  Dust and grass whipped at my face. Holding my arms up to block did nothing to slow them down. My skin felt like it was being flayed off.

  "Stop! Stop!" I screamed, my flesh burning.

  "Make me," laughed the storm-kin.

  The light inside my head was right there when I called. It was like I'd punctured a hole in a steam engine, and the sweltering sorcery came bursting out like a tendril of purple-black steam, blasting away the cyclone and knocking Zentrii onto her rear.

  The she-demon got up laughing, while I was bent onto my knees, gasping for breath. The explosion of magic through my body was like I'd been burned alive from the inside out.

  "Far to the west of here, in the lands held by those men you call Indians, there's a place that shoots water out of a hole," said Zentrii. "It comes without warning, and the water flies high into the sky before crashing down in a misty spray. Then the hole does nothing afterwards for a long while. Now, I know why. It's like you; it must recover its strength."

  "It's not that," I gasped. "It hurts. It's like my soul is being flayed by knives."

  "Of course it hurts, you ninny. You're letting everything out at once. You're body's not ready for that much power. It's like a callus, you have to build it up," she said.

  "How?"

  "By using your magic, you bag of flesh," said Zentrii, grinning. "Using it again and again until it doesn't hurt anymore."

  I slumped onto my elbows. I didn't know if I could do it. When the pain hit, the severity made me want to throw up.

  "Get up, you lazy girl," she said, repeatedly curling a scaled finger.

  I thought about staying down, but I could sense the storm-kin's smirk. I struggled to my feet, feeling raw and tender. Beneath it was an agitation, as if I hadn't really released the full brunt of my power, leaving me unspent.

  "We've seen your power, now we're going to test your control," she said, tongue tapping against her teeth.

  With a swirl of her hands, Zentrii commanded a trio of winds, lifting a pile of burnt sticks into the air. The pieces of wood spun and danced in the air, momentarily forming ideograms, until they landed into a small tower. The structure was made of overlapping pieces set at right angles, much like logs set up for a fire.

  "I hope you're not expecting me to do that," I said, grimacing as I climbed to my feet.

  Zentrii plucked a piece of grass about as long as her arm from the earth and set it across the top of the tower. The piece bent across the structure.

  "Now, my little land walker, you're going to knock that piece of grass from the tower without knocking over the sticks," she said.

  "You know I can't do that," I said.

  "The little hedge witch can't do it? How disappointing," said Zentrii contemptuously.

  Containing a growl in my throat, I turned on the pile of sticks with fists at my sides. Cautiously, I called the light, trying to let only a little bit loose so I might complete her task. Concentrating was like trying to thread a needle that glowed orange.

  I saw the piece of grass vibrate with intention. I'd tickled it with my magic. Then a gusher of sorcery came fl
owing out, and the sticks were disintegrated by a rolling wave of purplish-black mist.

  It took me quite a while before I was able to open my eyes again. I pressed my palms against my forehead and rocked on my feet until the pain went away.

  When I could see again, I found a second pile with a piece of grass on top waiting in the same location. A bit of bile came up my throat in reaction. I swallowed it down.

  Zentrii was grinning wickedly. She was enjoying my misery with every bit of her body.

  I was waiting for her to tell me to try again. I would do it, but I didn't think I'd stay conscious for long. The last attempt had brought spots to my vision.

  The storm-kin turned her head as if she'd heard something. She frowned a little, just on one corner, then seemed to remember I was standing there.

  "First lesson is over," she said, stalking towards me. The black wrap she wore swirled seductively around her body. "I almost forgot about something I have to do."

  I tried to hide my relief, but Zentrii's narrowing gaze caught it.

  "How long will this take?" I asked. "To train me to use it safely and without pain."

  Zentrii walked past me, running her scaly fingers through my sweaty hair, ruffling it a bit. She chuckled under her breath.

  "For those with the gift that start young"—the she-demon sneered—"they can practice safely and without pain by the time they're in their third decade."

  I choked when I heard how long. My next question came out barely above a whisper. "And how long for someone who starts late in life?"

  She squinted, tilting her head back and forth as if she were weighing the question. "You appear to be, what, in your third decade?"

  I shrugged noncommittally.

  "Well." She smiled. "It's good you're not much older. At your age, it'll probably take fifty years, if you can manage it at all."

  I swallowed. "And what, hypothetically, would happen if I was older?"

  "For your kind, I've never actually heard of anyone past the age of thirty-five or so surviving it. Usually, they tear themselves apart from the destructive forces or go mad from the pain. I understand it's much worse as you get older." She paused and motioned for me to move near. "Don't worry. You've started in time that you should be capable of controlling it, eventually."

  "Yes," I muttered in a daze, "with time and practice."

  Winds swirled around us in a misty black cyclone. It wasn't the fifty years of practice that bothered me. Rather that, despite my youthful appearance due to Franklin's powder, I was actually fifty-eight years old and probably wouldn't survive the use of my magic.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day, Ben Franklin met me near the Bingham Estate. The Roman architecture lorded over the nearby buildings, commanding the street like a general.

  Ben was wearing a black jacket and cravat, an unusual uniform for the inventor, but I knew he had a part to play, much as he'd worn a fur hat when I met him in Paris so the Parisians would think him a colonial rube and underestimate him. I wore pantaloons and a white flowing shirt with a vest overtop and kept my hair in a judge's ponytail.

  Upon greeting, he tugged on his jacket and snapped his heels together in a soldier's salute, eyebrows waggling.

  "We make a mighty impressive sight," he said.

  I wrinkled my nose at him. "In this? I've worn finer clothing to bed."

  "As conspirators," he said in a loud whisper, then added a wink.

  "Can you take nothing seriously?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

  "I've decided to practice the virtue of mirth on this day. How is it faring?" he asked.

  "Mirth is a virtue? Have you been sniffing Djata's gasses again?" I asked.

  Ben touched his finger to his nose. "Shall we visit Mr. Bingham?"

  "I thought you said he wouldn't be here?"

  "Of course, the urgent note he received a bit ago had him rushing to the government center to learn more about Russia's war with Napoleon," he said. "His black carriage sped away only moments ago."

  "But there is no—? Ah, I see," I said. "Well served, good sir. We shall be as mummers on display."

  As we made our way to the door beneath the atrium, surrounded by white columns, Ben whispered, "Our Mr. Bingham is quite smitten with you. He'll be quite disappointed that he missed your arrival."

  "I won't be," I said. "The man makes me want the pox."

  Ben snorted right as he lifted his hand to bang the knocker. After a long wait, during which Ben knocked two more times, the door opened. A wide woman in a servant's outfit greeted us with mumbled welcomes.

  "Good day, Madam. Mr. Bingham is expecting us. Temple Franklin and Lady Morwen," Ben said.

  The servant's eyes widened before she looked to the stairs as if she expected someone to be coming down. When no one appeared, she ushered us inside, leading us to the parlor.

  Entering the room gave me brief flashes of our last visit, many years ago, when we’d defended the Binghams from the memory thieves. Oh, how things had changed.

  The maid mumbled again, barely making eye contact long enough to relay that Mr. Bingham had stepped out and would be returning after a time. Then she left.

  "How long will he be gone?" I asked.

  "Not too long once he realizes the news is false. No longer than an hour, I imagine," said Ben. "But time enough for us to get a look around and find this Mr. Bridgewater."

  "I believe he's the head of the servants," I said.

  Ben followed my train of thought. "Yet, he didn't come down to greet us. How odd."

  "Yes, the maid seemed quite distraught that she was forced to deal with us," I said.

  "I can't blame her. We're a handful," he said, cupping his hand against the door to listen. "But the lack of etiquette is our boon."

  "Yes," I said. "You take the bottom floor, I'll check the second. I think he'll be less put out if he finds me digging through his smallclothes."

  Ben's lip twitched with a smile before he slipped through the door and disappeared. I went back towards the front and up the wide carpeted staircase. As I reached the top of the stairs, I checked the pistol I had hidden in a secret pocket in my vest. The light weapon rested against the small of my back.

  The hallway was as I remembered it. Portraits of prominent Federalists hung on either side. When I passed the room where Martha Washington and I had spoken, I leaned my head in the open door. The tall cushioned chairs waited on either side of the window, with an empty glass vase on the table between.

  From down the hall I heard a patient scratching. Stepping lightly across the wooden floor, I moved to investigate.

  In a sunroom at the back of the house, I found a man standing at a writing table, his quill dancing madly across a page. An open window let in gentle breezes and the scents of flowers from the garden in back of the house. A balcony behind the sunroom was wrapped with a wrought iron railing.

  The man had sandy blonde hair and a neat beard. He wore a dark gray coat and breeches.

  His forehead wrinkled as I watched him. He knew I was standing in the open doorway, though he did not pause from his work.

  "Miss Morwen, I presume," he said in a heavy English accent. "Shouldn't you be waiting in the parlor for Mr. Bingham to return?"

  The tone of command briefly made me turn towards the hallway to leave. When I realized what I almost did, I gritted my teeth together.

  "Mr. Bridgewater, shouldn't you have greeted us, as you are Mr. Bingham's head of house?" I asked.

  He lifted his gaze, spearing me with a pair of steely gray eyes. My hand twitched towards the small of my back where the pistol was hidden.

  Mr. Bridgewater was appraising me as if he were a predator. Without a doubt, I was certain we'd found the murderer of Sally Hemings. I just had to prove it.

  "Mr. Bingham allows me time in every day for activities of my own fancy. You are intruding on that time," he said dismissively.

  "Are you an engrosser?" I asked, wanting to defuse the tension.

  He l
ooked down upon his document and frowned with disappointment. "I practice the many arts of the quill."

  Which includes painting arcane symbols on dead murdered girls. I smiled graciously.

  "What a wonderful hobby," I said. "Might I see your lovely work?"

  "No," he said sharply, "and it's not a hobby."

  "You're speaking over my head," I said vapidly in a lilting voice, leaning heavily on my French accent.

  He bared his teeth. The one in front had been chipped slightly.

  "A hobby connotates frivolousness and a lack of discipline. This is a serious art," he said.

  Mr. Bridgewater's shoulders were taut like a bowstring pulled back. By the way he kept glancing at the finely painted walls, I had the impression that if we weren't in the home of his employer, he would have already leapt over the table to attack.

  "A serious art?" I laughed as contemptuously as I could. "Is that not an oxymoron? Art is as frivolous as a game of jacks between boys."

  His knuckles cracked as he gripped the writing desk with both hands. He was deciding if I was taunting him on purpose or as an ignorant woman of high society. I could see him considering the choice of my clothes and the style of my hair. It was the same when I wore men's clothing in Russia. The nobles were so taken aback they couldn't think clearly. Not that I'd worn them for that purpose, though it was a benefit. I wore them because they were comfortable and I damn well wanted to wear them.

  Eventually he sensed the game and relaxed his grip on the table and loosened his tight shoulders. He lifted his chin.

  "Madam, I would ask again, politely, please return to the parlor, where Mr. Bingham will greet you upon his return," he said.

  "Where did William go?" I asked.

  Mr. Bridgewater blinked, both at the impropriety of using Mr. Bingham's first name and that I had not acquiesced to his demand.

  "He is an important man, and should he wish you to know his business, he will tell you," he said. "Now, will you please return to the parlor, or I will be forced to tell Mr. Bingham that your accent is not Parisian as you wish him to believe, but of Saint Petersburg."

  Mr. Bridgewater smiled triumphantly, thinking he'd defeated me easily.

  "Accents are like clothing, we wear them when we want," I said.