No matter how well they folded up, it was difficult to be stealthy with a pair of wings on your back. But if the angels could watch over all of mankind without making a sound, then he should certainly be able to follow someone down a rumbling corridor.
But it would be easier with a little help…He reached down into his pocket, pulled out the flask, and gave it a shake. Nathaniel opened it and emptied it in a single motion. The whisky burned as it travelled down his throat, and he could feel it igniting his courage.
The White Knight had invaded the building, but he certainly couldn't be responsible for the rumbling…The man was more formidable than he first appeared, Nathaniel had seen that when he'd fought the Industrialist, but nothing about him spoke to his being the kind of villain who would be able to breach two-foot-thick stone walls, let alone shake a building to its foundations.
Far more was going on here than appeared on the surface, and Nathaniel would need to be careful if he was going to get to the bottom of it. He also wished he still had the pneumatic weapon that had originally been included with his upgraded costume. That device had, unfortunately, been taken by the Automaton, and the gun had been nowhere to be seen when they had discovered the mechanical man's shattered body in Madison Square.
Hughes had suggested that he strap on a regular six-shooter as a replacement, but a standard revolver lacked the elegance of the weapon that Darby had created for him, and bullets always seemed to be an opportunity for a fatal mistake in a moment of tension.
Besides, he and Hughes had planned to rebuild the weapon once the rest of the suit was working, although that wouldn't help him now. Hopefully he'd be able to find a way to use the powers of the suit to subdue any villains he did come into contact with, and if not, then he prayed that the suit worked well enough that he could fly away.
He followed the White Knight around the corner toward the meeting chamber. He could hear voices in the distance, and Nathaniel could see that the White Knight had paused next to the chamber's open door.
Nathaniel took a step back, hiding himself from view. While he couldn't make out any specific words, from the sounds coming through the door, there was obviously an argument going on in the meeting hall. He pulled out his flask to take one final sip of courage before realizing it was empty. He had barely put it away before he heard the unique sound of the Industrialist's gun being fired.
An instant later, there was a crackle, and then a blast of light bright enough to send shadows dancing down the corridor. It blinded Nathaniel, and by the time the image began to clear from Nathaniel's eyes, the White Knight had disappeared from view.
He tried to run down the corridor, but his wings were shifting awkwardly on his back, and the rumbling had begun again, forcing him to grope the wall for support. Nathaniel moved slowly until he heard two more shots and a scream that could have only come from William Hughes.
The rumbling stopped before he reached the doorway. Looking into the meeting room, he stared transfixed at the carnage within. The image framed by the doorway was like a living image from Hieronymus Bosch.
The room had been shattered and transformed. The meeting table was entirely gone now, the members' chairs broken and scattered around the floor.
Somehow, impossibly, the dais where the president's throne had sat had moved from its previous position and into the center of the room. Sitting on top was a broken column of metal. Something not quite human wriggled on the floor nearby.
The figure was obviously in pain. It looked like a nightmare version of the Automaton, covered in shining steel, but with a shattered tube where its legs should have been. It reminded Nathaniel of something he might have seen at the old Barnum Museum.
But the mechanical freak wasn't all there was to see. The Industrialist was standing in the room as well, his gun drawn and pointed directly at the head of King Jupiter. “I'd rather be dead than live in your twisted vision,” he told the gray man.
Nathaniel knew Stanton well enough to know that he must have felt that threat was justified, and that he would have no qualms about pulling the trigger. He found himself almost idly wondering what it was that the new Paragon had done to make the Industrialist consider him a villain.
“I always suspected as much,” Jupiter replied, and then he nodded his head. The doorway limited Nathaniel's vision, and when the White Knight stepped into view and stabbed Alexander Stanton, Nathaniel was almost as surprised as the Industrialist was.
“Very good, Mr. Clements, very good,” King Jupiter said to the White Knight as the Industrialist sank to the floor.
The man pulled his hood off of his face. “Thank you, Lord.”
“And so falls the last leader of Darby's Paragons. And in their place the Children of Eschaton will rise!”
Nathaniel could fully feel the effects of the whisky now, the liquor dulling both his shock and his resolve, and he found himself wishing he hadn't finished the flask. But he was still a hero, and the very murderers and rogues he had sworn an oath to stop were now standing right in front of him.
He took a moment to pull on his helmet and goggles before stepping through the doorway. Once inside, he gave his shoulders a shrug and tugged on the wires on his chest. The wings on his back unfolded and snapped into place.
The gray man looked up and laughed. “Look, Clements, it's Stanton's drunkard puppy come to bark at us. I'm afraid you've come too late to save anyone.”
Nathaniel pointed an accusing finger at them. “You'll pay for whatch you've done!” He could hear a slur in his words from too much damn whisky.
“Do you know who I am, boy?” the tall man asked.
“You're King Ju…” but even as the name came out of his mouth, he realized just how badly they had all been used. “No…” he said slowly. “Zounds! You're Lord Eschaton!”
“You see, Clements,” Eschaton said with a dramatic tone. “You were so quick to judge the boy a fool, but he does get there eventually.”
Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak, but there were too many thoughts rushing through his head, all of them blurred together by the liquor. He could feel the pieces trying to fall into place, but the picture that they revealed was too dark to believe.
The gray man turned toward him, burning through Nathaniel's drunken shock simply with the power of his stare. “I'd ask you to join us, but after witnessing both Darby and your step-father being murdered by my children, I'm sure the last thing that you're going to do is fight for me.”
Stanton hadn't moved since he dropped to the ground, but there was a growing pool of blood coming out from underneath him. If there was to be any hope of rescue, it would have to come soon.
Nathaniel held his breath for a moment as he twisted the control at his belt and the turbines on his back hummed to life. When he was sure nothing was going to explode, he let himself exhale. For all the changes Darby had made with the new outfit, it felt even more a part of him than the old one had. He was sure he could make it do what he needed it to.
Leaning forward, Nathaniel clenched both hands into fists. The engines began to whine and he felt himself being lifted up off of the floor and into the air. As he rose towards the ceiling, both Eschaton and Clements craned their heads to track his progress.
He unclenched his hands, letting gravity take over as he dropped rapidly towards Lord Eschaton. He could see the gray man smiling eagerly as he got nearer to him. Nathaniel waited until he had almost collided with his target before firing off a short burst from his wrist turbine. The action threw him sideways, and he placed his rapidly moving foot hard against the side of the White Knight's idiotic grinning face.
The surprised Southerner went crashing into the floor.
The smile left Eschaton's face as he charged toward Nathaniel, clearly intent on disabling him before he could cause any more trouble.
The Turbine flew backwards, increasing the distance between them, then he spun the dial on his belt in the opposite direction and pressed the switches in his hands, instantly revers
ing direction. He slammed straight into Lord Eschaton. The moment of impact felt unpleasantly close to crashing into a brick wall. But as solid as the gray man was, he still yielded to the superior momentum and was thrown backwards towards the dais.
A hole had been left in the floor where whatever was supposed to cover the pit had not managed to engage. Eschaton, a true look of surprise on his face, fell down through the gap and disappeared from view.
Having found at least a temporary solution to the problem, Nathaniel dialed down the power to his suit and turned back to Alexander Stanton.
He pulled off his helmet and knelt in front of his step-father, feeling that same fear he had the morning that Darby had died in Sarah's arms while he screamed in pain. But he wouldn't let his selfishness win out this time. “Let's go, sir. I need to find you some medical attention.”
He was stunned but relieved when Stanton opened his eyes and stared up at him. “Is that really you, Nathaniel?”
“Yes sir. You're badly hurt.”
“I know it.”
“We need to go.”
“You need to go.” There was a grim look on Stanton's face. “It's too late for me.”
“Don't be foolish,” he said, attempting to slip his arms underneath the Industrialist's leather coat. He prayed that the blood wouldn't make him too slippery to carry.
“I've seen plenty of men die, and I know what it looks like,” he said, pushing his arms away weakly. “No use fighting it when it's my turn.”
Nathaniel tried to hoist him up, but barely managed to lift him off the floor. “No! We can escape before Eschaton returns!”
“No, son,” he said with a firmness that seemed to deny the truth of his deathly pallor. “I'm done. But we need to talk.”
“I won't let you die!”
“It happens to all of us, eventually.” He lifted up his hand and pulled off a blood-soaked glove. “Darby, you dramatic idiot—why didn't you just tell us?”
Nathaniel could feel the warm sting of tears starting to form in the corner of his eyes. He didn't try to fight them. “I'm sorry I couldn't save you.”
“Sic transit gloria mundi—the glory of the world so quickly passes away,” he said with a slight smile, putting his hand up to Nathaniel's face. “It's all right, son.” The fingers were oddly cold, but it was still the only warmth he could remember from his step-father in a long time. “But I need you to do something for me.”
“What is it?” he said, his voice choked by emotion and tears. “I'll do anything.”
“Protect your sister.”
“Sarah?”
Stanton gripped his shoulder and squeezed, “She knew what was coming, I can see that now. She knew it all along.”
He inhaled sharply and coughed out a small spot of blood. “Darby…in his will. He wanted Sarah to become a Paragon. Can you believe that?”
Sarah, one of them? It was ridiculous, but exactly the kind of idealistic nonsense that the old man would have dreamed up. “But we read the will out loud.”
Stanton coughed. It was a terrible, broken sound. “I had the section removed.”
“You lied.”
Stanton smiled at that. “I thought it was for the best. But you can tell her if you want.”
“I don't even know where she is.”
“She's a part of this, and she's a Stanton. There's no turning back for her now.” The words were getting weaker. Nathaniel could see that he only had moments to live. “I've tried to be a father to you both, but it's time to grow up. There's work to do.” Nathaniel could feel the hand gripping his arm begin to shake.
“Yes sir.”
“You're the last true Paragon. I need you to fight…”
“I'll try.”
“Do more. Win…” Stanton's head rolled back, and he could hear the man's final breath slip free from his lips in a shuddering rattle.
Nathaniel sat there quietly for a moment, hoping for a miracle, but none came.
Holding his step-father's dead body in his arms left him feeling strangely empty inside. He had craved Stanton's approval for so long, and in the moment he had finally gotten it, his step-father had simply given him another challenge. Maybe this time he wouldn't fail him.
He unbuckled the straps that held the Industrialist's gun to his body and pulled it free. As he finished unhooking the ammunition belt, a voice yelled out from across the room. “Gott in Himmel!” Nathaniel looked up to see Helmut Grüsser standing just outside the doorway, eyes wide, witnessing the same framed scene of hell that he himself had viewed only a few minutes earlier.
“Help me, Grüsser!” he yelled over to the Prussian as he draped the belt over the shoulder. The gun fit awkwardly into the empty holster at his waist, but it would have to do until he could figure out a way to integrate it with the rest of his costume.
“Vas hast du done!” said the fat man as he staggered backwards.
Nathaniel stood up and reactivated his engines. It was time to go, but he didn't want to leave the Prussian without a warning. “Grüsser, you need to get out of here—now! King Jupiter and Lord Eschaton are the same man. He's killed the Industrialist and done God knows what to the Hall. We need to go. We need to find help.”
Having pushed himself against the far wall of the hallway, Grüsser stood frozen for a few moments without saying a word, the look on his face spelling out his horror and despair. Then he vanished down the corridor as fast as his legs could carry him.
Nathaniel sighed. The man had never been of that much use in a fight, but at least he had been brave. Now that it was bravery that was needed, it seemed he was of no use at all.
He raised his arms and clenched his hands, but instead of powering up, the engines died away. The only sound was simply a strange cackling from behind him that was half laughter, and half a crackling hiss.
When he turned, he saw that the metal-covered half-man had managed to crawl in behind him. Metal columns had grown out from his hands and were attached to the wings on Nathaniel's back. “No fly-y-y-y-y,” it said in a broken voice that, for all its distortion, was clearly that of William Hughes.
“Good God, man,” Nathaniel said in horror, “what have they done to you?”
“He's been reborn,” said Lord Eschaton's voice from somewhere nearby. “My first true child.”
Nathaniel felt only an instant of pain, and then the world went dark.
In typical New York fashion, the ferry that Sarah and Viola took back to Brooklyn was the very same one that had been attacked by the Children of Eschaton a few days before.
After the fight at the apartment, all that Sarah had wanted was a few moments for peace and reflection, and when they boarded the ship it had been her intention to simply find a place to sit quietly for the duration of their journey home.
But Viola had quickly discovered the unhappy coincidence, and she had become obsessed with pointing out the poorly patched ceiling that barely concealed where the harpoon had burst into the passenger cabin. She had also discovered a dark mark on the linoleum where the blood from the impaled passenger had stained the floor.
As Viola nattered on, Sarah realized that the Italian girl had many qualities that made her a far more suitable candidate for becoming a Paragon than she would ever be. The Italian girl seemed almost immune to horror and was clearly stronger. She also seemed more at ease in the world than Sarah.
Viola's more “practical” view of men might come in useful as well. The girl seemed to think that all members of the opposite sex existed as either annoyances to be dealt with or objects of desire to be conquered. Sarah imagined that attitude could certainly make it easier to punch a man when the situation called for it.
Lastly, the Italian girl seemed to have an almost limitless sense of curiosity. Once Viola had finally gotten her fill of discussing the battle scars on the boat, she started to pepper Sarah with question after question about Mrs. Farrows.
It was obvious that the housemaid had left quite an impression on the young girl, a
nd Sarah was beginning to gain a deeper appreciation for the technique that Jenny used to transform unruly urchins into crack servants for the Stanton household.
Given a few weeks of exposure, Sarah was quite sure that Jenny would have Viola happily wearing a black maid's dress with a feather duster in her hand.
Just thinking about it had made Sarah realize how much she missed the life she had left behind, whether or not she actually wished to return to it.
Before she had run off, Sarah would have never believed in her wildest dreams—and her dreams had always been far wilder than those of any of the other women she had known—that she would have spent a sunny day in April walking, talking, and fighting with a foreign woman of the streets. Nor would she have believed that she would have found it quite so annoying.
There were, she decided, some very good things about a life that was not entirely punctuated with unexpected adventure.
They had arrived on the Brooklyn docks just before sunset, and used the elevated railway to head north before completing their journey back to the junkyard with a long walk down a dark dirt road. By that time, her back was screaming from lugging the carpet bag full of clothes that Jenny had packed for her. It seemed that Mrs. Farrows had the ability to put people to work without even having to be nearby.
At least the ramshackle building at the center of the junkyard was well lit and inviting. Emilio had created a system of arc lamps and mirrors that flooded the area with a harsh white light that turned night into day. It was an amazing display, and it seemed clear to Sarah that his devotion to electricity was, in its own way, even greater than Darby's.
Hearts of Smoke and Steam (The Society of Steam, Book Two) Page 20