by Beth Cato
“Can I help?” Alonzo asked. The wagon creaked as he eased off, and as she turned to advise caution, he came down the embankment. Down, hard. He all but tumbled head over heels and practically decapitated Octavia with a swipe of his crutch.
“Sorry about that,” he said, gasping. He somehow managed to land on his working leg.
“Please be careful, Alonzo!” She frowned at him. He looked suitably chagrined. “When you look at the leaves, get ones that are fully red. The slightest tinge of green to the tip, they’re not ripe.”
“Understood.” He began to pick leaves. His fingers were fast, and the bag quickly filled as they both worked. Alonzo shifted slightly, reaching over her, and the crutch found a soft spot. She sensed his loss of balance before it happened. The bag fell from her hand as she leaned to catch him. He had moved to catch himself as well, relying on the most stable object within reach: Octavia. One hand landed on her shoulder and the other on the narrowness of her waist. Her hands slammed against the solid warmth of his chest, the crutch hitting the earth with a soft thud.
“Oh.” She gasped. That particular cinnamon smell wafted across her nostrils again, stronger due to the proximity of the pampria, and she breathed in deeper.
Alonzo’s face hovered inches above hers. “Balance is an art form I have taken for granted. My apologies.”
Her fingers pressed into him through the cloth. His chest was as firm as it had looked when she had seen him shirtless aboard the Argus. She was keenly aware of how his hand curved against her waist as well, like interlocking puzzle pieces. Heat crept up her neck and to her cheeks.
“Oh. Uh. There’s no need to apologize, but you should certainly be more careful. If I wasn’t here to catch you, you could’ve broken your hand or arm when you struck the ground.”
He grinned. “Perhaps ’tis a way to earn your continued attention.” His lilt was soft, dangerous.
Instead of fading, the warmth in her face worked downward into her chest and belly. She swallowed drily. “Surely there are ways to attract my eye that don’t involve maiming oneself.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Truly? Do tell. It may come as a surprise, but I am not keen on self-injury.”
He’s a Clockwork Dagger. He wants to take charge of me in Mercia for my own safety. Being this close, wanting to be this close, is absolutely idiotic.
“You could always do this.” She eased a hand from his chest, slow to make sure he had regained his balance, and did a tentative wave in front of his face.
“Yet that seems so . . . common.” His breath was hot against her cheek as he leaned closer. She placed her hand against his chest again, her fingers curling.
“Sometimes . . . sometimes common approaches are surprisingly effective.”
“I must keep that in mind. I suppose it would not always be convenient to fly laps over the Saint’s Road at night.”
“Oh. No. The road—that was extraordinary, but afterward . . .”
Alonzo’s lips quirked. “I promise, if ever we fly over the Saint’s Road again, it will only be pleasantness.”
“You mean, I won’t be thrown out of the window?”
“I promise.” His hand found hers and their fingers twined together. Octavia’s heart threatened to lift off like a dirigible.
It was at that moment that a sharp beep emanated from his pocket. She jerked back with a yelp.
“Oh! It beeped,” she said, stating the obvious. She was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice.
“Indeed.” His blue eyes searched hers for a long moment and then he stepped back. His breathing, his heartbeat were rapid, his song quickened. “We must move along. Do you have enough?”
“Enough what?” She blinked. “Oh, yes. The pampria. Of course.” The bag had snagged on the lower branches of the shrub. She checked the amount, nodded, then stuffed the bag inside her satchel.
Alonzo stooped to pick up his crutch. “Here,” Octavia said, holding out her right hand. Leaning her left arm against the embankment, she practically dragged him upward. His crutch was useless against the loamy soil.
They sat on the seat, maybe a little closer than before, though not quite meeting each other’s eyes.
They rode on. The beeps grew louder and closer together mile by mile, and the silence between them deepened. Finally, with the sound from the device almost continuous, she drew the wagon just off the road and secured the reins to a tree branch. Alonzo worked his way down from the seat and grabbed hold of his crutch. The instant he placed weight on it, a solid six inches of the crutch sank into the earth. He tipped forward. Octavia leaped to throw out an arm and catch him by the sleeve.
“Damn it.” He tried to stand erect and the crutch only sank more.
“Hold on to me,” she said, her tone quiet. Alonzo pivoted to grab her. Her face was at the level of his shoulder, his hand a warm weight.
Octavia stepped back so that he could lean on the wagon. The crutch stood straight up like a sapling. She uprooted it, the mud gushing in an obscene way, and threw it into the bed of the wagon. The detector continued to squeal. She motioned for him to pass it over, and she tucked the device into her apron.
“Pardon my language, but if I feel infantile without my leg, and in a swamp . . .”
“I understand it’s quite frustrating, but you’ll work yourself into a fury if you try to manage on your own.” To think, that was his original plan. He’d have died out here. That awareness sent a terrible chill through her. “You have two choices: you either wait at the wagon, or you lean on me.”
He grumbled beneath his breath. “You do not mind? We will have to be in rather close proximity.”
“I’ll try not to grope you without a legitimate medical excuse.”
Alonzo barked out a laugh. “Perhaps I should fall down more often, then.”
Mud squished beneath Octavia’s boots as she stepped into the water. She cringed at the repulsive sound. Alonzo’s hand was steady on her left shoulder as he hopped alongside her. The foulness of the place increased.
“Let’s be honest, Alonzo. This isn’t an ideal place for wooing.” She kept her steps slow as she tested the ground. The tree behind them faded behind tall stands of tule reeds.
He grunted a reply as he fought for balance. Their breaths huffed as they slogged onward.
The detector beeped from her pocket, but soon the sounds waned, so they turned to walk north again. The beeps increased in volume and frequency. Water lapped just above her knees and stank of things dead and dying. Alonzo’s hand draped to grip at her elbow, his weight often heavy against her side. The mud sucked on his boot, causing them to take slow, wobbly steps together.
“Tell me, Octavia, what would be a good locale for wooing you?” He spoke between heavy breaths. Sweat and swamp water had soaked him through.
The words stopped her in her tracks. “What?”
Alonzo’s expression was as mild as if he had inquired about the weather. “You said a swamp was not ideal. What would you prefer?”
“Goodness.” She staggered onward. “Someplace green, with trees. I love to work in a field, or forage in a forest. I need space to breathe, to feel the Lady breathe. I suppose that I’m happiest when I’m busy and no one is hurting.”
“You despise cities.” He spoke loudly to be heard over the device.
She glanced at him in surprise. “Is it that obvious?”
“I have watched you in Vorana and now Leffen, how you react at the mention of Mercia. You seem far more at ease here, even with me as a burden.”
“You’re not a burden. Not much of one.”
He looked at her in a way that sent a jolt of heat straight to her belly. Something in the water snared her foot and she jerked her gaze away as she caught herself on reeds. The detector beeped without ceasing.
She forced her dry throat to swallow. “It’s rather cruel to ask questions about wooing me considering the temporary status of our relationship.” Medician and patient; passenger and steward; prisoner and
jailer. Her gaze went to a cluster of cattails ahead and she sucked in a sharp breath. “Also, rather inappropriate with dead bodies about.”
The arm dangled over the reeds at about her shoulder level. They hobbled closer, and dread filled her stomach. Not that she was perturbed to face a dead body; no, it was the manner of his death. The corpse sprawled facedown on its prickly bed. Several reeds impaled him completely, their soft brown heads drenched in blood that did not scream.
“He was likely killed the instant he landed,” she said. Good. He didn’t suffer.
“ ’Tis a shame. He could have wallowed in his misery for a little while,” Alonzo growled. She stared at him, speechless. He let go of her arm and clutched the thick reeds as he hopped around.
“Do you think the leg’s under him?”
“No. More likely, they drifted apart as they fell.”
Octavia stepped away from Alonzo, all the while keeping an eye on him in case he stumbled. She studied the surface of the water and wondered how likely a leg was to float. The detector paused in midbeep and she turned back toward Mr. Grinn.
“I found it!” Alonzo held on to the reeds with the leg in his other hand.
She hurried over, water sloshing against her thighs. “Wonderful! How does it look?”
“Wet through, but the boot looks good. I would hate to lose one of my favorite boots.”
She opened her pocket and shut off the blaring noise. The sudden quiet was a surprise. She wiggled her head as if to adjust her ears. The sound of buzzing lingered, along with the persistent nagging of her life debt. Perhaps she had sustained temporary hearing damage from that obnoxious device.
“Well, let’s get back to the road and I can take a thorough look at your leg,” she said.
Alonzo frowned and gazed up. The skies were pale blue with infrequent clouds. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“It sounds like a buzzer.”
“Oh.” Octavia looked up again. “I thought it was an echo from that device.”
“No. ’Tis definitely a buzzer.” He hopped forward and away from the tules, and Octavia caught him against her side.
“Probably someone following the road?”
Alonzo pointed. She could see the craft now. The lower part of the buzzer resembled a bicycle, though broader and flatter with a three-wheeled design for landing. On a high shaft, the propeller whirled about five feet above the sitting pilot.
Alonzo’s hand stilled on her arm. “The sun, the way it glints on the front passenger seat. ’Tis wrong. It looks like the military version of the rig.”
Yellow lights flashed at the front of the buzzer. “Get down!” yelled Alonzo, throwing himself over her as bullets pinged around them.
CHAPTER 11
Octavia stumbled backward and they both went down, water splashing to her shoulders. Stones and debris stabbed into her derriere. Bullets zipped past and sliced into the nearest stand of reeds. Alonzo sputtered in the water and managed to regain his footing. His hat had vanished but his grip on the leg seemed quite secure.
“Are you well?” he asked, panting. Water dripped from his face.
“No, I’m not well! Someone’s shooting at us!” Cold dread trembled through her veins as they both scrambled for the shelter of the thicket of reeds. The buzzer whirled overhead again.
“Hold me steady.” He set the leg in the water and unholstered his gun. Octavia placed her hands on his waist, gripping at his flesh beneath sopping layers of cloth. The buzzer passed overhead and began to turn. Alonzo brought up the gun, squinting, and fired. Her eyes caught the glint of the bullet bouncing off the chassis of the craft hundreds of yards away.
“You’re a crack shot!”
“Or I would be, if I had my damned balance.” He glared at the sky, holstering the Gadsden and picking up his leg again.
Octavia took in a deep breath to calm her fluttering heart. “How much diesel do buzzers hold?”
“Probably six hours’ worth. If it took off from Leffen, they probably have four hours’ worth left.”
The sound of the buzzer faded as it made another loop. Octavia sidled forward, half dragging Alonzo by one arm as she shoved through the reeds. The sour smell of the water caused her stomach to roil. She hooked her arm to hold back the tules as she checked the area ahead, revealing a patch of clear water. Dozens of elegant white egrets glided across the pool. She glanced up. The buzzer was making another direct approach.
“Lady, forgive me,” she said, touching a wet finger to her lips as she shrugged off Alonzo’s hold. He grasped hold of the reeds. “Hold this, please.” She shoved her satchel’s strap into his hand. In a snap, she had unfastened the parasol.
“Octavia, what scheme are you hatching?” The buzzing grew louder.
“One that works, I pray. Wait here.”
Leaving him clutching the reeds, she sloshed out into the exposed pool, all too keenly aware that the shimmering white of her uniform would lure the craft in like a beacon. A few egrets fluttered their wings. She marched forward and then the ground was gone. Octavia went under, the world turning black and fetid. Gasping, she kicked out her legs and found solid ground again, the parasol still clutched in her hand. She spat out water, gagging at the taste, and flared out the dripping parasol. She dug her boot soles into the mud to propel herself forward and screamed as she stampeded the egrets.
The birds squawked and rustled as they rose in a mass. The sharp whine of bullets pierced the air. Octavia threw herself into the water and opened her eyes. Everything was black and she couldn’t see far, but she did spy several perfect trails of bubbles. The wakes of bullets. She yanked down on the parasol handle but the cursed thing was too buoyant, marking her location with all the clarity of skyward beacons and glittery dancing girls. She emerged, gasping, flung the parasol away, and hurled herself into the nearest thicket. Reeds sliced at her arms but she barreled her way inside the shelter. The ground was higher here, and she sank to her knees to rest. Gasping for breath, she needed several seconds to realize how quiet it was. The buzzing had gone away.
She thrashed her way out of the thicket again and into thigh-deep water. Her parasol was upside down in the pool, lazily circling. She searched the sky.
“The birds took him down,” called Alonzo. She looked toward him, and then past. A black plume of smoke rose into the air.
“Excellent!” she said, wading to her parasol. She dumped out the water and held it overhead as she made her way back to him. The guilt hit her then, followed by the backlash of adrenaline. She had, after all, forced innocent and beautiful birds to die in her stead. Closing her eyes, she paused in the middle of the water.
“Lady, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Please, take them to your branches. I pray they didn’t suffer.”
She reached Alonzo and found herself quivering without control. Saying nothing, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her lips pressed against the soggy cloth of his jacket and she took in the reassurance of his embrace.
Even without a leg, he’s solid as an oak. She pressed closer against him, trembling as if boneless. After a long minute, she pulled back.
“Thank you,” she said softly. His arm rested on her shoulder to keep him upright.
“You were very lucky,” he said. He pointed up at her parasol. Two neat holes had pierced the fabric.
“Oh.” She took in a rattling breath. I’m well. He’s well. Thank the Lady.
Octavia accepted her satchel and draped it over her shoulder again. With Alonzo holding tight to his leg, they worked their way toward the plume of smoke in the west. Toward the road.
“Here,” he said as they got closer. She accepted the leg and had her first good look at it. Most of the mechanical limb was covered by a black leather boot. At the top was a shred of cloth—from a union suit, perhaps—and an inverted cone of metal. Divots and gears showed where it would lock in place with the rest of his leg. It all looked quite intact. Whether the internal mechanisms worked was someth
ing else entirely.
Alonzo unholstered the Gadsden .45 and hefted it in his hand.
“Are you shooting to kill?” she asked.
“The pilot may well be dead already, but I would much rather bring him in alive. I have a few questions to ask.”
“True. The dead aren’t quite so forthcoming.” She paused. “If we’re under fire, don’t hesitate on my account. The Lady understands matters of self-defense. So do I.”
He nodded. His queue of hair was a dark lump on his back, several curling strands dangling free to frame his face. They trudged forward, taking cover behind rushes as they approached. The raised bank of the road was visible not far ahead—thank goodness—and the buzzer had crashed beneath a small cluster of big-leaf maples. It smoldered in a heap of metal.
“No movement,” Alonzo muttered. “Proceed with care.” They worked their way up an embankment and onto dry land for the first time in hours. Octavia yearned to flop down and rest, but not yet. Not now. She could feel the tension carry through Alonzo’s hand, as though he were a cat ready to spring.
Upon their arrival at the buzzer, it was clear why there had been no movement. No one was there. Blood and charred tissue smeared the cockpit where the legs would rest. The burns were serious, but evidentally the pilot could still walk.
Nausea struck her like a hoof to the gut. The stillness of a purple dawn. The house a crisp shell. Mother and Father’s bodies blackened, embracing. My bare feet lodged in mud as though I’m a tree. The air: smoke, ash, and the faint scent of cooked meat.
“Lady, spare me,” Octavia whispered, forcing her mind to the image of the Tree. The branches swayed, stroked by light rain. She breathed through her Al Cala exercise and straightened, casting a glance back at Alonzo. His focus was on the wreckage. Calmer, she considered the smoldering heap as well.
Our attacker was seriously injured in the crash, the legs in particular. Burned flesh radiates a particularly loud song. If this person tries to strike at close range, I might have some warning.
“Damn.” Alonzo glowered. He clenched his jaw and he holstered the gun again, staring at the empty craft as if he could make a body magically appear.