Daughters of Aether

by Nicholas Petrarch

  “What will you do?” Emmaline asked.

  “I want to help more people like Harper. Soldiers and veterans,” Stoddard explained. “There are a lot of men out there who’ve been injured in war. What if I could build them a better prosthetic? Something that actually replaced the one they’d lost, with all the functionality they’d had before.”

  “That would be amazing,” Emmaline smiled.

  “There’s a lot I don’t know still, so I’d have to study for a while yet,” Stoddard explained. “But it’s what I’m familiar with. And if I succeed, it could leave a real impact on the city.”

  Emmaline chuckled, causing him to eye her warily.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I just realized that if you do that, then you really will have to become a doctor,” Emmaline laughed. “And all this time I was teasing you about it. I suppose if you do manage it then everyone will have to be impressed with you.”

  Stoddard smiled. “That’s the plan.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Vigil

  CHARLOTTE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY to the brothel, watching the street with an unbroken stare as she waited for Margarete to return. The sun had all but sunk over the horizon, the shadows of the buildings stretching until they’d shrouded the entire street in a blanket of fledgling darkness. Charlotte’s eyes had adjusted with its descent and she was still able to discern movement through the shadows. Unfortunately, despite her yearning hope, the only movement she could see was a stray cat stalking rats in the corners.

  Almost three hours had passed since Margarete had left for the bank and there had been no word from her since. Charlotte stood poised glancing up and down the street, her breath coming in shallow wisps. Dozens of scenarios played out in her mind as she contemplated what might have happened to Margarete, each ending in a more dire plight than the last.

  Why had she gone alone?

  Charlotte asked herself the question for the hundredth time, scolding herself silently for not being there when the letter had first arrived. Something didn’t feel right about it. She’d sensed it the moment Faye had informed her where Margarete had gone. The sudden compliance seemed all too convenient. She too knew Worthington, and more importantly she knew his partner Dempwolf. It wasn’t like them to fold without putting up a fight.

  And with Dempwolf’s confrontation earlier their hands had been revealed.

  Margarete should have waited, Charlotte was certain of that. She should have sent a letter to ensure her arrangements were made on their own terms, not strolled into the belly of the beast. But now it was too late to persuade her differently and Charlotte was left to worry as the shadows encroached upon her doorstep.

  The sound of the latch behind her made her jump as the door opened, casting a momentary warmth with its light as Faye came out to join her on the steps.

  “No sign of her?” she asked, her voice low and solemn as she joined Charlotte’s vigil.

  “None,” Charlotte said. Every muscle seemed wound tight as she watched and it left an ache and itch deep in her muscles, but no matter how much she wanted a rest she couldn’t bring herself to abandon the steps—as if to step away was to abandon Margarete to the worst fate.

  “That silly girl,” Charlotte lamented. “If she’d only waited another hour, I could have gone with her and we wouldn’t be in this situation. She’s put us all in a bind with her carelessness.”

  Faye wrapped her arms around Charlotte and hugged her close. “I’m worried about her too,” she said. “But she’ll be okay. Margarete can handle herself.”

  “I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to her,” Charlotte said, her voice audibly weakened. “The house won’t be the same without her.”

  “Isn’t that inevitable?” Faye asked. “Even if she comes back, she’ll still leave us eventually. We’re all going to have to get along without her.”

  Charlotte frowned as Faye’s words weighed heavy on her. Of course she was aware Margarete was leaving, but that didn’t mean she was gone. Not yet. Charlotte would deal with Margarete’s departure when it came, and no sooner. But to have her disappearance sprung on her now was nearly too much to bear.

  Charlotte clutched Faye’s arm as her body shook from the cold.

  “Faye,” she said. “I want you to gather a few of the girls. Tell them to come meet me in the kitchen right away. Tell them to bring something warm to wear.”

  “What for?” Faye asked.

  “We’re going to find Margarete.”

  Faye nodded and hurried to return to the house.

  “Wait,” Charlotte said suddenly, stopping Faye in the door. From the edge of the street she could see a figure moving in the shadows. It moved carefully, hugging the wall tightly until it was near enough the building to cut across. As it did, Charlotte’s heart unclenched in her chest as she breathed out a sigh she’d held since the afternoon.

  It was Margarete.

  “Margarete!” Faye exclaimed as she approached the steps, but Margarete gestured wildly for her to be quiet.

  Charlotte swept down the steps to meet her.

  “Child,” she said, embracing Margarete and clutching her tightly to her. “Septigonee’s misfortunes, you had me standing in my grave with worry! What happened? Where have you been?”

  “Worthington never meant to help me leave,” Margarete said, her voice strained as she tried to keep quiet. Her eyes were wet with heavy tears and she made no effort to hide her misery. “It was a trap. They were going to put me away for good.”

  “How did you get away?” Faye asked.

  “I ran,” Margarete said, glancing over her shoulder as though someone might appear at that very moment. “I didn’t want to come back here. Not if they might be looking for me still. But I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t have anything on me to make it on my own.”

  “Oh, child,” Charlotte said, holding her even tighter.

  Faye’s gaze darting up and down the street, the realization of Margarete’s current threat sinking in. “We should go inside,” she urged. “Before someone notices you’re here.”

  “I can’t stay,” Margarete insisted. “They’ll find me. I only came to get some things, and then I’ll go. That’s all I can do. I’ve put you all in so much danger.”

  “Nonsense,” Charlotte said. “You stop speaking like that and come inside, and then we’ll decide what to do for you. Until then, it would take the devil himself to fetch you out of my house.”

  Margarete looked like she might protest, but the exhaustion in her face was evident. She nodded and Charlotte and Faye led her up the stairs and into the house, bolting the door behind them.

  I should mention I was provided some information regarding your history. I’m not blind to the repercussions having business with a man of your background might have. However, I believe all men can have their use and in this case your experience may prove advantageous. So, what do you say? Shall we do business?

  —Excerpt from Dempwolf’s Letter to Vanzeal

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A New Approach

  VANZEAL ENTERED ROEHAMPTON’S, HIS BACK stiff and his jaw clenched. For a gentleman’s club it was prestigious with its diverse and abundant selection of high-class diversions. However, it was not the sort of establishment he cared for. All about him he watched weak men with weaker character subjecting themselves to meaningless pleasures. Vanzeal had no taste for it.

  Unfortunately, these were frequent spots for his employers to do business, so he endured it without visible protest.

  While he waited for the host, he eyed the room with distaste. A group of women performed on the stage, led by a particularly voluptuous lead. Her great flowing gown swept back and forth as she pranced a few tiny steps back and forth, all while singing some nonsense about eleven o’clock luck. She batted her feathered boa and equally ridiculous eyelashes at the older men on the floor as they called to her with admiration.

  The woman caught Vanzeal’s eye
s, and she fluttered her boa in his direction. Vanzeal rolled his eyes and turned away. He was not there to be entertained, and he had little business with luck.

  “Yes, sir,” a little man greeted him when he’d finished with his other patron. “And what can we do for you tonight?”

  “I’m looking for Businessman Dempwolf,” Vanzeal said. “I was told to meet him here tonight. He should be expecting me.”

  “Businessman Dempwolf is currently out on the floor,” the man said, pointing toward one of the tables near the middle of the stage. Vanzeal spotted him amidst a small group of dandies, puffing on his cigar like a locomotive.

  By the looks of it, he was entertaining at least a half-dozen other guests. Vanzeal sneered. He didn’t like being an afterthought.

  “Shall I introduce you to his party?” the host asked.

  “No,” Vanzeal said abruptly, abandoning the man. He could make introductions himself.

  Gliding through the crowded floor toward Dempwolf, he clutched his saber tight against him to keep it from bumping against the other gentlemen. He had no time for excessive formalities, and no patience dealing with superfluous—or should he say expendable—people. His priority was finding the quickest route to the next task. The next step. The next challenge.

  He was in a sour mood already after losing his mark, and he was all too eager to move beyond that unbearable strike against him. It taunted him, pricking him in his very center as though a needle were slipped between a disk in his back. It kept him rigid. Kept him sharp.

  Which was exactly how he liked to be when he was on the hunt.

  “Businessman Dempwolf,” he said loudly when he’d reached the table.

  Dempwolf pulled his cigar from his mouth and sat up a little straighter when he recognized Vanzeal. “Ah, my man finally appears. Why don’t you join us for a moment and take a load off? Boy, fetch another chair,” he commanded, and a manservant was quick to fetch it.

  “I’m pressed for time,” Vanzeal said, dismissing the manservant and the chair. “We had an appointment? Immediately, I believe.” He took his watch from his pocket and opened it to Dempwolf to emphasize the point.

  Dempwolf frowned, but Vanzeal didn’t care. So what if Dempwolf was displeased by his shortness with him? All the better. As a rule of thumb, Vanzeal liked to keep relationships from getting too comfortable. He’d been hired for a service, not as a companion.

  “Very well,” Dempwolf said. He put the end of his cigar in the tray and patted it out. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me for one moment. Business, it seems, cannot wait.”

  He rose and Vanzeal followed him to the edge of the floor where a hallway extended a dozen feet or so to a closed door. A man stood at the entrance, his frame obscuring the hallway almost entirely. However, as Dempwolf approached, the brute stepped aside and allowed him to pass unmolested.

  As Vanzeal followed, the brute stared him down. Vanzeal returned an equally cold expression.

  “No one should disturb us here,” Dempwolf explained, tugging on a tasseled pulley by the door. The card above it turned over from a green glass to a red. “We’ll have our privacy.”

  The two entered the room, a quaint little space with a few couches set around a low table in the center. Along the wall was a private bar stocked with an assortment of alcohols. Dempwolf approached it, taking down two glasses.

  “What, eh, happened here?” Dempwolf asked inquisitively, indicating the scratches on Vanzeal’s cheek.

  “Nothing,” Vanzeal insisted.

  “Hazards of the job, I suppose?” he asked. “Can I interest you in a drink?”

  “No,” Vanzeal said.

  Dempwolf smiled despite Vanzeal’s shortness and shook his head. “I was told you can be a bit intense,” he said, pouring himself a drink. “I was warned I shouldn’t take it personally. That it’s just your nature.”

  “By who” Vanzeal asked.

  “Figures that be,” Dempwolf smirked, taking up his glass. “But what do I care about your demeanor as long as you’re half as capable as they say you are. I take it you’ve dealt with our little problem?”

  Vanzeal cheek twitched, but he maintained his rigid composure. “The girl discovered your ploy and was able to escape before she could be detained,” Vanzeal said. “I pursued her through the streets, but she eluded me.”

  Dempwolf frowned, his eyes clenching shut for a moment. “And I thought it was going to be a good day,” he said.

  With a single motion he quaffed his drink and took his time selecting another, opting for a hard whiskey.

  “I thought you sounded too good to be true,” Dempwolf said. “A man who can get the job done. That’s what they told me. That you were part of the crew truly responsible for toppling Selaria. And yet, a common whore managed to elude you?”

  His voice raised a shout as he asked the question.

  “You said you were the man for the job! That the next time I saw you you’d have my letters. Those were your words, Vanzeal! I suppose she was able to distract you with the same charm she lured Worthington in with, is that it?”

  Vanzeal’s lip curled in what could only be interpreted as a restrained snarl. He held his words in his throat, rearranging them uncomfortably until they suited his purposes.

  “Are you often so unnerved when something fails to go your way?” he asked.

  “I get like this when I realize how often I’m forced to work with the incompetent,” Dempwolf said. “I’ve had my fill of it, quite honestly. I didn’t expect I’d only be compounding my problems when I took you on.”

  “Resorting to attacks on my character will yield you nothing,” Vanzeal said. “Your mark is gone, and as it stands she’s likely to vanish for good now that she knows that you’ve employed others to bring her in.”

  “A toast to your incompetence,” Dempwolf said, taking another shot.

  Vanzeal ignored the jab.

  “Even if she seeks to leave the city, it will take time for her to make her move. She’ll be wary of being seen in public, and she’ll know not to use her own name on the documents she’ll need to acquire.”

  “If she vanishes, then those letters are as good as gone,” Dempwolf said. “Let us hope she’ll take the hint and rot in whatever gutter she’s crawled into. Otherwise I have a mind to dispose of her myself.”

  “I’m not sure she will,” Vanzeal said. “I did speak with her for a moment, as you’ve accused me. The woman you’ve scorned comes from stubborn stock. I could see it in the look she gave me. She’ll not be defeated by your antics. She’ll go to ground, yes, but only for a season. Then she’ll be back to unleash hell upon you and your partner.”

  “My antics?” Dempwolf growled. “I’ve about had it up to here with your antics, Vanzeal. How dare you speak to me as though this is in some part my failure. I’ve already established my merit; you’re just a militiaman whose glory days are near spent. Don’t think for a moment I don’t know who you are and where you come from Vanzeal.”

  Vanzeal glowered at him. He was one dangerous word away from harm, and it took all of Vanzeal’s will to restrain himself from reaching for his saber. How he wished to even if only to communicate the ease with which he could dispatch the man. Sadly, Dempwolf was cushioned by the supposed security the meritocracy brought him. He was safe, or so he thought, as long as he kept up his relations.

  Let him think that, Vanzeal steamed. His time would come.

  “May I suggest we keep to our purpose for being here then,” Vanzeal said, his voice calculated and cold.

  “What business do we have now that you’ve lost the girl?” Dempwolf asked. “As far as I can see, we’re at a loss. And don’t think that I’m paying you even a portion of what we agreed without those letters in my hands.”

  “The content of these letters must be truly incriminating if it’s got you so nearly unhinged by the thought they could fall into wrong hands,” Vanzeal said. “How many men would see you buried with your partner if they had something to gain
from your recent misfortunes?”

  Dempwolf cast him a look of sudden distrust, and he set his glass down on the bar. “What are you saying?”

  “Do not worry,” Vanzeal reassured him. “Should I recover your letters I would have no interest in withholding them from you. I’m not interested in returning slight for slight, even though you’ve supplied me enough reason for a normal man to take joy in watching you suffer. Fortunate for your sake, I’m no normal man. It would be well for you to remember that.”

  “Your words don’t scare me,” Dempwolf said, but if he were going to say more, he held back as Vanzeal’s saber flashed from the sheath at his hip. Its blade flicked forward, extended past Dempwolf’s ear.

  Dempwolf shrunk backwards away from the blade and Vanzeal grinned, satisfied to see the man put in his place. Merit and machismo were nothing in the face of force. He lowered his arm slowly so that the blade rested on the bar.

  “The pieces are set. The game is begun,” he explained. “The girl is alerted to us, and she’ll do everything in her power to keep herself out of the spotlight. Pursuing her is no longer an option. Instead, we make the pain of holding onto her letters so excruciating that she seeks you out to rid herself of them. Turn her gift into a curse until she has only one option left.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?”

  “You’re a hunter, Dempwolf, so let me speak in words you’ll understand,” Vanzeal said, pointing his blade at the glass Dempwolf had set down. “When hunting a quarry that’s gone to ground one never comes at it head on. You always attack from the side, where they’re blind.”

  His blade flicked in a motion too fast for Dempwolf to follow as it sliced underneath the lip of the cup and lifted it off the table. The cup was sent spinning in an arch through the air toward Dempwolf, who caught it in his hands reflexively.

  “When I’m on the hunt there is nothing for my quarry to do but count their final days,” Vanzeal boasted.