Girl on a Tombstone

by Mia Strange

  After a moment he spoke. This was not the stage voice that mesmerized crowds and enthralled the masses. This was his voice. The real one.

  Soft and silken, serious and intense, Dark’s voice was laced with just a trace of that lyrical accent from his home isle of Ireland. A homeland he hadn’t seen for far too many years, and most likely would never see again. When so much of Europe failed, abandoned to the tyranny of black magic and the plague of zombies, Dark had just barely escaped with his grandfather. He had been nine years old.

  “Skye. Let me be clear. I don’t want to frighten you, but you’re not out of this yet. I can only do so much here. We must get you back to the train, to my lab. I can control the pain.” He paused. “You can tolerate what pain there is. Right?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, refusing to turn and meet his eyes.

  “But the knife they used, the wound shows there is something….

  He trailed off, and I knew he was lost in thought, something Dark did a lot.

  “Something left behind,” he finished.

  I turned and met his eyes. “Behind?”

  “It’s a kind of residual magic. A tracer perhaps,” he paused taking in a deep breath and letting it out again. “Or something worse.”

  My fear roared to the surface. “What could be worse than a tracer? What could be worse than putting us all in danger? Damn it. What was I thinking?”

  “You weren’t, Skye. And I’m not sure that’s your fault.”

  “It’s always my fault. And we both damn well know it.”

  “The residual magic in your wound, matches traces that were left on the stage. You may have been for lack of a better word, lured.”

  “Lured? What? Look, I’m not some kid being offered a puppy.”

  “No. Certainly not a kid. Not anymore.” He smiled. “Happy Birthday, Skye St John.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered. “You know, I’ve had better.”

  “On that we agree.”

  “Look, we need to get back to the train. I need my instruments, my lab. My alchemy. And I need them now.”

  As he reached over and brushed at my tears with his thumb, I felt the tell—tale heat from embarrassment rush into my cheeks. I hated to cry. But a tracer? That would lead the bastards, the monsters, to our very door. Would Drusilla’s wards even hold? They had been weakened by her long absence. What had I done? The tears tumbled. I slammed my fist into the blankets. “I hate that I’m crying. I hate it.”

  “I know.”

  If anyone really knew how much, it was Dr. Dark.

  I’d been a too thin, broken, crumpled heap of a kid when he found me locked away in Gov care. Gov Hell that is. I was curled into a ball of pain and misery and madness, when he had broken into the basement government prison cells called, The Solitary, and found me. He pulled out the needles and ripped off the patches laced with drugs that riddled my flesh, and held on to me until I once again could move on my own.

  He held me until I could stop crying. That night I had thought there could be no more tears left for me to ever cry again. I had just turned thirteen. And Dark? Only a few years older.

  But I was so wrong. There would be more tears in the future. And really, given the circumstances of our world, how could there not?

  The second time I’d cried in front of Dr. Elijah Dark, was last year, when Maddie was lost to us forever. I’d been strong for her, right up until the end, until the worst part. The decapitation. Only then, when I was sure she would never see me cry, never hear my weakness in my sobs, did I let the tears fall.

  And now? Tonight? In front of Dark. A third time.

  Damn it. Skye St John does not cry.

  What had changed? What had happened to me on this night that made these maddening waterworks start? First in the morgue, and again with The Bone Man. And holy shit. Once more over Zombie Phil.

  Are you kidding me? Zombie Phil?

  What had happened that had shattered my famous razor edge, self—control?

  “I’ll figure this out.” Dark’s voice pulled me back to the here and now. “That’s a promise. Please don’t cry.”

  I could hear the catch in his voice, the uncertainty of what he could do. I heard worry. Worse, I heard pity. I hated it.

  “I’m not.” The anger in my voice surprised even me. It was that gorilla sized chip on my shoulder again.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  He wasn’t. He was just trying to save us both from embarrassment. He didn’t know what to do with me crying. I wasn’t that kid anymore. The one that he had held in his arms, rocking away the tears. I hadn’t been that kid in a long, long time.

  But I was still the girl with the wild magic. Magic that brought down buildings. Magic that whispered to me in the night, encouraging me in all the wrong directions. I couldn’t control it, making it nearly impossible for Dark to control me.

  I tried to collect myself and calm my nerves. I waited. Seemed neither one of us wanted to go first.

  “Skye,” he started. “Look. I—” He stopped.

  I looked him in the eyes. I owed him the respect. I owed him so much more.

  Removing his spectacles, and setting them on the small table next to me, Dark scrubbed his hands over his face. I watched fascinated, as lines and wrinkles, crows’ feet and creases that were etched deep into his flesh, simply melted away. His gray, ragged beard shrank shorter and shorter, until all that was left was a shadow of where the beard had been. Within moments even the shadow faded, like it was never there.

  Weather—beaten skin smoothed out like marble. The damage from wind and acid rain and old age faded away, leaving behind that fresh, unblemished complexion of a much younger man. He gently massaged his nose with his elegant fingers, until it straightened to perfect angles, to a perfect shape.

  Running his hands through his hair, the thin, twisted strands of gray thickened and darkened, until soon the locks changed into a mass the color of Traveler Hale’s raven. Dark’s hair, a gleaming blue—black, enhanced even more under the scrutiny of candlelight, hung just past his shoulders.

  Raising his head, Dark peered at me with those piercing blue eyes of his. Eyes bright and clear, and no longer clouded with age. Eyes that were the true color of the oceans before they were changed into muddy browns and muted grays and stark, cold whites.

  High cheekbones, smooth pale skin, a face cast in shadows but with all the right angles and planes to be beautiful, the real Dr. Elijah Dark, now stripped of his disguise, sat in front of me.

  Not the character, not the imposter, not the fake. The real Elijah Dark. Eli.

  My Eli.

  14

  Eli and I were about to have a conversation.

  We waited to see who would go first, to see which one of us would find the right opening. Find the right words.

  “I’m so sorry,” came from me, falling on top of Eli’s own, “Look. I’m sorry—”

  The words tangled and twisted together in a jangled mess, but still. I heard it. I did. An apology from Dr. Dark. From Eli.

  But why?

  I didn’t have a chance to find out.

  The Madison slammed to a halt, screeching under protest as her wheels of steel and iron crushed against loose, crumbling pavement. And even though I couldn’t see it, I knew sparks were flying in the darkness as the large iron wheels slammed to a jolting, jerking halt.

  The sudden thrust of the railcar threw me off the cot. I went airborne, landing hard against Eli. His arms went around me and he hung on to keep us both from tumbling to the floor. I gasped as my bruised ribs slammed into his solid chest. It felt like I had hit a wall of granite. But let’s face it, with ribs as bruised as mine, even Jin’s elbow poke had left me gasping for breath.

  I looked up at Eli. “I’m thinking this stop. Might not be for Jin.” I took shallow breaths between clenched teeth. “Just a guess,” I added.

  Eli hung on to me, quickly bracing his feet for balance. I felt that all too familiar sensation
of his magic as it mingled and mixed with mine. I felt the spark, that raw emotion that came with a sense of belonging, of becoming complete somehow.

  Right. Like that could ever be possible for me. Without Emma, without at least an answer, I didn’t think I would ever be complete. The potent morphine played tricks in my mind, and brought up all the unanswered questions. Questions I usually couldn’t face, except in my dreams. Where was Emma? The little sister I swore to protect. Was she dead? Alive? Somewhere in between? No. I would never be complete, never find peace, until I knew for sure. Until I knew that the tombstone, I had seen in my dreams was real, or simply stuff made of nightmares.

  Like I weighed nothing at all, Eli stood, with me in his arms. He laid me down gently onto the cot. I felt the sensation of floating, like a fluff ball of dandelion caught in a light summer breeze. I knew Eli was strong, but I also knew this sensation of floating, the sensation of a false well—being, was more from the drugs in my veins, than from Elijah Dark acting the hero. But really? Who was I kidding? He was a hero.

  As Eli finished tucking the blanket around me, he stood once again taking our tangled magic with him. By the way he looked at me, by the way he rubbed his hands together— I knew he had felt it too.

  We didn’t talk about it. We never did. It just…was.

  From the very beginning, from the start at the small cell in The Solitary, it had always been this way between us. Our magic fused, connected, wherever we touched. A brush of his hand, fingertips tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear, an innocent pat on the shoulder. No matter how slight, our magic sought to connect. To make us acutely aware of each other. Every time.

  Eli frowned, and his dark eyebrows knitted with concern as he tilted his head toward the sudden, insanely loud barks of Dagger.

  “Well,” I said panting through the new explosion of pain in my side. “I think I just lived through the term, “a screeching halt.”

  The shouts of angry voices pierced through our iron walls. The voices became louder, escalating in pitch and fever and volume.

  Eli ran for the door, and his brass watch flew from his pocket. The chain snagged on my I V line, yanking the needle from my arm.

  “Ow, ow, ow,” escaped from my mouth before I could even think. Blood ran down my arm, pooling onto my nice soft blankets.

  “Damn it,” Eli grabbed the line. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m fine. Fine.” I wasn’t. First, I was embarrassed, because I had whined like a little girl. I mean this was a splinter compared to what my body had been through tonight. But really? I missed the morphine. Already. Just part of my addictive personality I suppose.

  The Bone Man pounded out a code on the iron door. The come—out—and—play—and—bring—your—knife one. The sound echoed around us like thunder caught in a can.

  “Go.” I pointed to the slider. “You’re needed. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  He tossed the line around the makeshift I V stand and pressed his white handkerchief into the crook of my arm. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. I rolled my eyes. Eli loomed over me, bending my arm to a closed position.

  “Keep the arm bent.”

  I looked at my arm, frowned, and wrinkled my nose. The angle was uncomfortable.

  “I mean it, Skye. Bent.”

  “Got it.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Absolutely. Got it.” I saluted him.

  He raised both brows.

  “What?”

  He leaned over me. “You will do it.” No smile. Just the “LOOK.” The no fun one.

  “I will.” And I would. I’d just gotten, “The Dark Look.” The one reserved for murder. Cold—blooded, painful. Most likely mine. That kind of murder.

  “Good.” He nodded his approval. I could tell he was pleased with the results of the whole, “Dr. Dark’s look of doom” thing. I didn’t have the heart, or courage, to tell him that out of costume, it wasn’t nearly as effective.

  I watched as he moved with a speed, I wouldn’t have thought possible. Down went his sleeves, on went the clever cufflinks. His watch? Back in place. His coat? On. As he reached down for his cane, Eli cranked the brass periscope up through the roof of The Madison.

  The periscope was an ingenious piece of equipment that Eli Dark had created from his love of Tom Clancy novels. The author had brought the periscope alive with his tales of submarines and intrigue and spying. Ours was much smaller in scale, but the periscope had saved our hides, and our lives. There were times when we all crowded around it, taking turns, watching the danger outside while we held our collective breath. And sometimes, we would take turns praying that what we saw outside would go away, leave us alone, and let us live.

  Peering into the tube, Eli steered the intricate apparatus first one way, then another.

  “Tell me again,” he said in that quiet, controlled voice. “How many of The Ignored attacked you?”

  “Eight. Maybe nine. There were more in the shadows.” My heart wanted to seize up as I flashed on the memory of the men that came so close to ending my life. I felt my stomach lurch and I knew the color was draining from my face. The memory flooded back. The jeers, the pain, the bruising hands. A knife sliding into my flesh. The certain promise of death. But not before the promise of so much worse.

  “Okay, a perhaps manageable number for us.”

  “They had enough to do the job.”

  He looked up from the scope and met my eyes. “They don’t know you. Eight, nine? More? Not nearly enough.”

  He turned his attention back to the scene outside. “Tell me, the leader? Tallish, pock—scarred face, chain choker, pierced tongue, bald, crude tats, filthy—

  “That’s him. Tell me he is not close enough for you to see his tongue.” I watched as Eli’s knuckles turned white with rage as he gripped the handles.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said in that controlled voice of his. A voice that gave no hint of the anger I knew was boiling up inside, so close to the surface. “He’s sticking it out at Jin in a rather lewd fashion.”

  I tried to sit up. Jin did not know who she was dealing with this time. She really didn’t. And that terrified me. “Eli. She can’t antagonize these guys.”

  Eli shrugged without looking up. He didn’t have to say it. She already had. He knew Jin as well as anyone.

  Donning his Bowler, Eli cranked the scope down, put on his gloves and grabbed his cane. He took time to straighten his tie. Really?

  He looked pristine and elegant and handsome. Take your breath away handsome. But that was about to change.

  Eli paused at the door, breathed deep and closed his eyes.

  Built like a street fighter, wiry, quick and strong, Eli once again took control of his physical being. He was so good at it, at this manipulation and deception. And really, why shouldn’t he be? After all, Dr. Elijah Dark, the alchemist, was all about transformation.

  Eli came from a long line of alchemists. The ancient order traveled through his bloodlines, tracing back and back until the time of no written records. The science and magic was in the air he breathed. In the water he drank. In the life he lived. And here, once again, was the living proof of it.

  I held my breath and watched him transform yet again.

  Shoulders slumped, and his spine curved outward. The frailness of age crept over his beautiful features once again. The wrinkles and lines reappeared, carving their way across his flawless skin. His hair grew thinner and thinner yet. The blue—black gleam became dull, lifeless, until at last, no color remained except hues of gray and dingy, dirty white. The beard grew and grew, long gray strands that hung lifeless down his chin. And just like that, my young Eli was gone.

  This was beyond acting. This of course, was magic.

  As Eli started toward the door, his limp reappeared and the frailness of old age settled around him like a cloak. He stopped just short of the door and spoke.

  “Eight wasn’t nearly enough to send after you, Skye.”

  �
�But—”

  “Not enough. Always remember that. Gather strength from this knowledge. You’re so much more capable than you think you are.”

  His freckled, age—spotted hands reached the door and paused at the lock. Eli looked over at me. “I’m proud of you, Skye.”

  “What? Why?” I struggled to sit up. “I mean after tonight—”

  “Because,” he cut me off. “Because you survived. You survived something that you couldn’t have possibly controlled.”

  What? Wasn’t my fault? He had to have that wrong. Hell. It was always my fault.

  He reefed the heavy door open like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t reinforced steel. Like it was cardboard. The cold night air floated in along with the sounds of the fight outside. Fear traveled in with the voices that were all too familiar.

  “It’s them isn’t it? All of them. The ones. . .”

  My voice fell away and I bit my lip so hard I drew blood.

  “It is.” Dark stepped onto the running board.

  I fell back onto the cot. “What have I brought down on us? What have I done?”

  “I can handle it. And you—” Eli pointed at me with his cane. “You need to keep your arm bent.”

  I knew he could handle it, he shouldn’t have to, but yes, he could. I just wasn’t sure what it would cost him. Or the Academy.

  “What are you going to do,” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.

  He smiled a subtle, cryptic smile. “Why, invite them to our show of course. Front row seats.”

  “And then?” Did I really want to know this? I thought about these men, dangerous psychos, killers of the worst kind. Yeah. I really wanted to know.

  “They will not live to see the curtain call.”

  “Oh.” That made it so much better. Damn. I just had to start bringing home a better crowd of friends. Ones we could party with, play charades, a bit of poker, you know.

  The kind of friends we could let live.

  15

  With the heavy iron door of The Madison open, I could hear Jin’s voice. Loud, clear, obnoxious.