The 7th of Victorica

by Beau Schemery

“We’re going to try to figure out the bastards’ plan,” Roth answered. “Then we’re going to do what needs done and start a war.”

  Brown shivered at the crooked smile on his partner’s face. “What’s the plan?”

  “First, I’m going to go let my wife and kids know that I’m going to be away for a bit. Then we find the limey bastards and join up. And if that doesn’t work, we end ’em.”

  Brown wanted to argue but couldn’t. He had his orders, no matter how crazy they seemed. For better or worse, there was no turning back now.

  SEV STOOD in the darkened warehouse. It was empty, only the carcass of a building. He knew everyone had abandoned it, but where had they all gone? He sensed something just at the edges of his perception, but he couldn’t hold on to it, couldn’t figure out what the sensation meant. He walked slowly toward the big bay doors, and they melted, separated, peeled away. His skin crackled as he stepped out onto the street. No lights shone anywhere along the lane, but Sev could see every detail of the surrounding area just fine. Everything looked blighted and ruined as though a giant fire had burned it away. The frames of buildings stood like charred skeletal remains.

  He wore nothing but his trousers. His bare feet felt the uneven surface of the cobblestones beneath a layer of ash. Without warning his body rose, his feet leaving the ground behind. He floated into the air above the city. Ruined buildings quickly receded below him. He watched their rooftops grow small beyond his bare toes. He rose into the night sky with stars sparkling around him.

  “This is a dream.” Sev didn’t open his mouth, but he said it nonetheless.

  “Oh very good,” a disturbingly familiar voice said at his side. Sev turned his head impossibly slowly. Fairgate drifted upward next to him in a suit that looked like it was woven from starlight.

  Sev paddled the air, distancing himself from Fairgate. “What are ye doin’ here?” he thought-spoke at the wizard’s ghost.

  Fairgate swooped closer to Sev. “What are you doing here? Where is here? You’re so sweet and naïve, Sev.”

  The stars grew scarce around them, thinning out until they were engulfed in total darkness. “What is this?”

  “This is the space beyond,” Fairgate answered. “The space where the elder things dwell.”

  “Ye’re not makin’ any sense.”

  “I’m making perfect sense, Sevvy. They’re older than the world, and they may be imprisoned here for now, but they’re coming back, Sevvy. They’re coming back for you.”

  Fairgate reached out for him, and Sev shoved him back, sending them both floating through the darkness. Sev noticed movement above him and looked up. Enormous tentacles, blackish-green, moist-looking, and disgusting undulated from a void above. He headed directly toward them, and he paddled furiously to stop himself, hearing Fairgate’s condescending laughter below him.

  One of the tentacles unfurled toward him, and he knew he never wanted that blighted appendage to touch him. There was no way he could prevent it, and when it touched his skin, he burned, hotter and more painful than all his fire-filled dreams, than the reality of being branded by Fervis’s red-hot iron. He screamed and felt like his throat would tear.

  SILAS THREW his arms around Sev’s shoulders when he awoke, screaming. Silas shushed him, tried to calm him, and Sev finally stopped himself. “It touched me. Dear Lord, it touched me,” Sev panted. His entire body trembled in Silas’s embrace. “Sorry,” Sev mumbled. “So sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Sev. You’re safe. What happened? What were you dreaming about?”

  Sev shook his head, unable to describe the dream, unwilling to lend it any credence by speaking of it aloud. Somewhere deep in the core of him where ugly truths lived—the truths men knew but were reluctant to admit even to themselves—he knew, knew without a doubt that it hadn’t been just a dream, and if he described it, if he admitted to anyone that the creature had touched him, felt him, he might go completely mad. Because that infernal beast had looked strikingly similar to the one they had forced out of their queen over a year ago, only the one in his dream was almost inconceivably larger. “I’m sorry. It was only a nightmare. Just a nightmare.” Sev took a deep breath and rested his forehead on Silas’s shoulder.

  “It’s fine, Sev. Everything’s fine now,” Silas whispered. Sev wasn’t so sure everything would ever be fine again. Silas held him close, and eventually Sev felt a bit better. He didn’t think at first he’d ever sleep again, but not long after, Silas’s warmth and embrace lulled Sev back to sleep.

  “WHAT IS it now?” Rat asked the next morning. “I thought he was goin’ t’wake up all o’New York, above ground and below.”

  “I ain’t never heard screamin’ like that, Si,” Teddy added, looking distinctly worried.

  “Nor I,” Michelle added. “Not even when we was down south and the masters’d whip folks. Not even when they took the girls int’the shed.” Michelle didn’t elaborate on that piece of insight, and Silas was glad for it.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, friends. I just don’t know. But I’ll tell you this.” He leaned closer. “He used to have nightmares about his family, how he lost them.”

  “Aye,” Rat said with a quick nod. “He told me that as well.”

  “This was something entirely different.” Silas threw a quick glance around the kitchen area to make sure Sev hadn’t emerged from the lavatory. “I wager my entire salary it has something to do with that bloody, accursed book he refuses to destroy.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinkin’ as well,” Rat admitted. “Filthy old thing.”

  “But look at all the good he’s done with it, fellas,” Teddy suggested. “We’d be havin’ a bear of a time findin’ livin’ space for our revolution. Hell, we’d probably already been found out by now, if it weren’t for that book o’magic.”

  “Aye, but ye don’t have t’remind us o’such, Ted.” Rat scowled in Teddy’s general direction, then huffed out an acrid plume of smoke. “Ye’re right, though.”

  Silas answered with an almost imperceptible shrug. They might be right, but he wouldn’t admit it, and he didn’t have to like it. They weren’t given any more opportunity to discuss it because Sev shuffled into the room. Silas frowned even deeper when he saw Sev’s bloodshot eyes and the dark bags beneath them. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and they all knew it. He offered them all a smile.

  “All right, fellas? Michelle?” He pulled out a chair and sat with them.

  “Walt made a pretty decent breakfast if you’re hungry,” Teddy said, standing. “I’ll go fetch ya a plate, if ya want.”

  “No thanks, Teddy. I think I’ll just fix a cuppa.”

  Teddy rushed over to the kettle almost before Sev finished speaking. He poured the hot water into a cup and arranged sugar, cream, and a spoon on a small serving tray, then placed it on the table in front of Sev. “Ye’re too kind t’me, Teddy. Thank ye.” Sev stirred sugar into his tea as he looked around the table. “What’s on the agenda fer t’day?”

  Destroying Fairgate’s journal before it could destroy Sev sat firmly at the top of Silas’s list, but he knew Sev wouldn’t allow it, even if it would be for his own good. That seems to be a theme with my dear Seven, Silas thought. But what he actually said was, “I’m going round to the offices and making an appearance as Jameson. I’ll see if Mr. Lincoln has responded to my letter. This evening we’re meeting with some of the folks who oversee the Underground Railroad. To my knowledge that’s all we’ve got.”

  “That ain’t too much, then. Good thing too, ’cause I’m feelin’ a bit under the weather,” Sev said. He sipped his tea. The china clinked as he rested his teacup on the saucer. Silas detected a slight tremble in Sev’s hand. He wondered if the others had noticed.

  “I was going to ask if you’d care to join me,” Silas said to Sev. “But I think you might be better served taking the day off and getting some rest.” He worried that his varied tasks had caused him to overlook Sev’s fatigue and wondered just how long h
is love hadn’t been sleeping well.

  “I hate t’admit it, but I feel like I need it.” His body seemed eager to punctuate the point by dragging a gaping yawn from him.

  Silas rose from his chair and patted Sev on the shoulder. He retrieved a glass and poured Sev a shot of whiskey. He almost handed it to Sev, reconsidered, and snatched a stoppered bottle from the cupboard. He dripped a few drops of laudanum in the amber liquid then served it to Sev, who tipped it back in a smooth motion. “Let’s get you into bed,” Silas said, urging Sev to his feet and guiding him back through the office.

  Sev collapsed onto the bed. Silas could tell the laudanum had already taken effect when Sev grinned and reached up, grabbed his lapel, and pulled him in for a sleepy kiss. “Ye spiked me whiskey, didn’t ye, ye filthy beggar?” Sev slurred his words slightly.

  Silas pressed his lips to Sev’s forehead and pulled the blankets up, tucking him in. “You’ve found me out,” he said quietly. “Now get some sleep.”

  “Aye,” Sev mumbled. His eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing grew steadily rhythmic. Silas watched Sev slip into sleep. He hoped the laudanum would help Sev rest dreamlessly and without anxiety. Silas couldn’t help but smile at his lover’s peaceful sleeping face. He bent down and planted a kiss on Sev’s closed eyelid, earning a small, satisfied noise.

  Silas spared one last glance at Sev before he returned to the kitchen area with Rat, Michelle, and Teddy. “I’m off to the offices,” he told them. “Keep an eye on Sev, will you?”

  Rat nodded, Michelle smiled, and Teddy answered, “We will, Si.” Satisfied, Silas exited the warehouse. Once on the street, he saw a newsboy selling the local paper.

  “Breakin’ news! Highwaymen! Theft! Murder! Read all about it!”

  Silas walked up to the boy and offered him a shilling. The boy shoved a paper into Silas’s hand. He scanned the front page while raising a hand to hail a cab. A hansom pulled up to the curb almost instantly. Silas gave the driver the address and took his seat in the cab. He reread the headline, Highwayman Kills Prominent Southern Citizen.

  As he scanned the article, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. The reporter painted the picture of a gruesome murder, and surprisingly there were witnesses who had described the perpetrator. The paper reprinted a sketch of the man. In the picture he wore a wide-brimmed, black hat, handkerchief over the bottom of his face, and a high-collared, black duster. He looks like the Reaper himself, Silas thought. He read further about the victim.

  Major-General George Edward Pickett, of the Federated Army of Southern Gentlemen, was in the capital of Washington DC on military business, investigating the Northern military’s ability to protect visiting dignitaries. The distinguished man was on his way to a formal ball when his hansom was waylaid and three men, including the leader, pictured here, stopped Major-General Pickett and his entourage. They reportedly demanded for the Major-General to defend his alliances before the dark-clad villain slit the Major-General’s throat.

  Conflicted feelings battled in Silas’s heart. He didn’t approve of the villain’s methods, but he couldn’t fool himself about his relief at the loss of one of their enemies. From all Silas had gathered, Pickett was a bastard and a major threat to their agenda. Someone had done away with him, and Silas had to admit he was grateful. He folded the paper across his knee and gazed out the window. He pondered the ways they might be able to utilize this new development, but with no idea who the masked man was, it seemed a longshot to him. Still he filed the knowledge away for future reference.

  His bigger problem at the moment was setting up a meeting with Lincoln. Silas was convinced that man was the key to the success of this mission. If they could get Lincoln to back their cause, the rest of the North and those who were antislavery would fall into line. With those kinds of numbers, they might actually stand a chance of success. As he gazed out the window, mulling their problems over, clouds rolled into the sky, obscuring the sunlight. By the time the hansom pulled up outside the colonial offices of Kendon, Arle, and Marleybone, Esquires, rain poured down in sheets. Silas pulled his collar up and held the paper above his head to shield himself from the worst of it.

  The office interior felt cozy and warm in the gaslight from the lamps within. A desk stood in the well-appointed parlor. It was nothing like the offices of Linsey and Brooks, but it suited the firm just fine. A smartly dressed woman sat at the desk. When Silas entered she looked up and smiled.

  “Good day, Mr. Jameson,” she said in a perky, welcoming tone.

  “Good day, Ms. Sandsbury,” Silas responded. “Anything of note?”

  “No, sir. I fear the rain is chasing away the clients, sir.”

  “Has the post been delivered yet?”

  “Yes, sir. No word from Washington,” she answered his question before he asked it.

  “Damn,” Silas cursed. “Oh, Ms. Sandsbury, pardon me. I shouldn’t speak so in front of a lady.”

  She dismissed his apology with a chuckle. “Please, don’t worry yourself, Mr. Jameson. I heard much worse growing up with three older brothers.”

  “I suppose you have,” he said with a little laugh. “Well, I’ll just pop into my office and go through my correspondence, then.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Silas shuffled into his small borrowed office and rifled through the letters and telegrams sitting on his desk, despite knowing too well that the one correspondence he awaited wasn’t there. He slammed the papers back to the desk and cursed again before throwing himself into the chair behind the desk. He rested his face against the palms of his hands, exhausted. This entire mission seemed to be an uphill battle from start to finish. He knew the liberation of Blackside hadn’t been easy, but in retrospect it didn’t seem to have had nearly as many frustrating moments as this endeavor.

  He sat at that desk for a very long time with his head in his hands and his thoughts racing.

  19

  MASON BROWN yawned and stretched, waking from a nap on a cot in the flat across the street from the Brits’ warehouse. “Anything new?” he asked his partner, Burt Roth. The other man shook his head but continued to peer out the window, watching the building across the lane. “Blast,” Brown growled. “I know they’re up to somethin’. I feel it in my bones.” He walked over to his partner and tapped him on the shoulder, holding out his hand for the binoculars Roth spied through. Roth surrendered them, and Brown brought them to his eyes.

  The large doors of the British inventor’s warehouse looked as if they were just in front of him rather than across the street. He adjusted the focus so he could see more of the building. A moment passed before a group of men entered Brown’s field of vision. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?” Roth asked.

  “Lee’s men are back,” Brown explained. “And Lee is with them.” Brown trained his binoculars on the fourth man, focusing on the man’s mechanical left arm before moving his gaze up to the man’s face. “Holy hell,” Brown gasped.

  “What? What is it?” Roth grabbed at the binoculars and looked through them. “My God.”

  Brown knew Roth realized now what he had seen, and neither was having an easy time believing it. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Roth nodded. “The man with the mechanical arm. That’s Stonewall Jackson.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Brown said.

  “But he’s dead.”

  “Nah, those’re just rumors.” Brown shook his head. “That’s him, no doubt.”

  “That limey doesn’t know what he’s messin’ with,” Roth said, his voice gruff. “Too many of our brightest inventors have gone missin’ or turned up dead after the Southerners took an interest in ’em.”

  Brown nodded but said nothing, trying to decide their next move.

  “They’re goin’ in.” Roth finally dropped the binoculars and looked at Brown. “Mase, what do we do now? We should have already joined up with ’em.”

  Brown waved off his partner’s criticism. “I want to know what we’re gettin
’ ourselves into first.” He sat, thinking before he spoke again. “I’d really like to know what they’re sayin’ over there.” He gazed out the window, concentrating on the warehouse. “Do you think we can get close enough without bein’ spotted?”

  “There’s a drainpipe on the rear of the building,” Roth said, pointing. “We could shimmy up it to one of those windows. Don’t know if we’d be able to hear much.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Brown responded, already standing and shrugging into his coat. Roth grabbed his Stetson and his revolver, then followed his partner out of the little apartment.

  SEV AWOKE to Rat shaking him. “Wake up, Sev. Those Southern fellas are at the front.”

  “All right, all right,” Sev answered, sitting up and pushing Rat off him. “Show them in. I’ll be down in a moment. I just got t’make meself presentable.”

  “Aye,” Rat said, running from the office.

  Sev grabbed a fresh shirt and splashed some water on his face. He tried to drag a comb through his unruly, sleep-messy locks but gave it up as a lost cause and just pulled on his hat. Satisfied with his reflection, he exited the office and climbed down the steps to meet his guests. His head felt fuzzy from Silas’s concoction, and he hoped he could shake it off. As he descended he looked out over the warehouse floor, marking where Lee and his men were despite the pounding in his head. They claimed to be here to hire him, but Sev remained suspicious and cautious.

  Two men meandered around the floor, admiring Sev’s and Rat’s inventions. One was slightly older with meticulously groomed silver-white hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. He stood proudly, broad in stature. Sev assumed that must be General Lee. The second walked slightly behind the first, his frame leaner, almost gaunt, but he carried himself with confidence. He sported a mechanical left arm and a full, impressive beard so many Victoricans seemed to favor. Sharpe trailed both men at a respectable distance, mopping at his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. Sev wasn’t surprised to see Danforth milling about near the entrance, his gaze darting constantly about the warehouse, watching for any threats to his patron.