My hand spasmed, and I held it in front of my face, fisting my fingers as I tried to steady the quakes flowing through me.
Flanders fired his tracer, the jagged stream slamming into the pylon just above my head. I jerked, falling between the train car and the platform onto my side on the grimy track. Another shudder threatened and I gritted my teeth, willing myself to move. Leaning against the tunnel wall, I pushed forward, breaking into a run. Behind me the train pulled away, and the footfalls of the chasing soldiers spurred me to run faster.
In the dark of the tunnel, a light flickered, violet sparks streaming along the rails as the next train barreled up ahead. Fingers stiff, I dropped the gun and it skittered away into the shadows.
Echoing shouts warbled over the squealing of the train brakes and still I ran. The space between the rails was mere feet as the train skidded ever forward, shuddering on the tracks as it fought inertia. Flattening myself against the bricks, I screamed while the behemoth flew past me, the pull of the wind nearly ripping me with it. Hair whipped across my vision as I looked into the lit windows of the car at the passengers staring out at me. Flickering bulbs froze their expressions in flip-book images of surprise.
The soldiers shouted, their movements casting frenetic shadows against the tunnel walls. The train screeched to a halt, pinning them as their numbers clogged the path. Someone let go a volley of tracer bursts, flickering the darkness enough for me to see ahead. I half limped, half ran, a sob warbling up from my chest as I made my way down the path, past the turn of the tunnel to a ladder bolted to the wall. I took a breath, flexed my fingers and the hair rose on the back of my neck at the sound of the soldiers’ thumping boots.
I took the rungs two at a time, straining with weak and quivering muscles, up to the roof of the tunnel. It led to a hatch. I bit my lip, tears streaming as I pushed with one hand, nearly toppling back down when it didn’t budge. Pushing with all my strength, I groaned with the strain. It creaked, rust and ash fell into my eyes, but it gave. Climbing out of sheer will, I pulled myself over the lip before slamming the hatch back down. The latch, corroded open, wouldn’t budge and I stood, kicking at it with my boot as the lid began to rise.
The fingers of a soldier peeked through and I stomped down. A shout echoed from beneath it as he pulled them back. I stood on the hatch and kicked the latch a final time, swiveling it just enough to catch a section of the side. It jostled as they tried to push up, but held. A moment later, a sizzling current crawled along the metal bevel as they fired and I nearly fell over trying to keep from getting shocked.
Looking around the access way, I realized it ran parallel to the tunnel. Paint cans, cloths, discarded pipes and newspaper littered the floor. Seemingly abandoned when the station was completed, the passage looked as if it had not been used for nearly a decade.
A jarring clang sounded through the darkness. Metal hit metal as the soldiers banged at the hatch.
I backed up, panting. Tasting blood, I wiped at my mouth, horrified at the smear of bright red on my sleeve. I’d bitten a man, torn his neck with my teeth without knowing it was happening. Bile rose and I stumbled, falling to my knees and retching into a corner. I heaved until my whole body ached and emptiness settled over me. Shaking and exhausted, I turned at the continued hammering of the soldiers.
I had to get out of the station. I had to get away from them. Hugging myself, I tried to calm my frantic thoughts. My knees felt like soft wax, shifting and unstable as I rose. Shuffling in the darkened access way, I pushed myself to keep going. The corridor bent away and I followed it, hoping to find a way out.
The path split off into three hallways, and I picked the most littered in an attempt to cover my tracks. I hoped they would assume I took the fastest route. More debris slowed me, but the corridor narrowed as I went, eventually sloping down to what felt like street level. I stopped, trying to catch my breath.
Hollow noises warbled far away from where I’d been, and I kept going despite my confusion. A door set in the far wall gave me hope and I pushed through, blinking in the wan light of the sun lighting up a walkway between buildings. Steam carriages chugged past on the street just beyond. The sound of horses and trolley bells filled my ears and I ambled forward, looking out at the busy road. A sign at the corner read Fulton Street.
I had made it. Despite the horror of the station I had made it. Another wave of cold swept over me and I held up my hands. A faint bluish hue crept up from my fingertips fading as it rose toward my wrists. “What is happening to me?” Even as I said it, I knew. Deep anguish took hold, my soul tearing in two. The grimace already made my jaw ache, I refused to believe. “No,” I whispered. “I am not one of them.”
29
I huddled in the alley attempting to get myself together. Muscles flaccid and overwrought, I stood on wobbly knees trying to summon the strength to get going. I leaned on the brick wall and fought the shivering that made it hard to take a deep breath. It was as if I stood in an invisible winter squall where frigid wind buffeted my aching joints and made my skin crawl with goosebumps.
I ventured down the street squeezing myself with crossed arms, struggling to quell the minute quivers still running along my arms and legs. Blinking back tears, I kept my gaze to the ground and hoped to go unnoticed. Teeth clenched against the chattering, I understood now that Ashton had been right.
Tremblers howled with forlorn pain, frozen to their core with a hollow, endless cold. Flashes of last night’s fevered dream played in my mind and my jaw ached with the grinding of my teeth. I’d felt it in that nightmare. The desperate and engulfing need for heat and frantic fear.
How long did I have? When would I lose myself to the sickness like that wretched woman in the sea last night? Who would finally silence my pain with a single shot? Would it be a nameless soldier, a horrified Ashton, or even my own hand? So much of the last few days had been spent cold or frightened that I never noticed that, even next to a fire, I shivered.
Ashton’s worried looks as he rubbed my arms and held me close came to mind, and I wondered if he suspected.
How could this have happened? I thought the Trembling pestilence came from the mines or the chasms in the wasteland. I had been to neither and still I was unmistakably infected. Chaotic thoughts bubbled and sank in my mottled mind, and I desperately tried to stay in the moment and not fall to pieces. The only possibility of answering anything depended on the journal still strapped, miraculously, to my thigh. I needed to find my way to Collodin, now more than ever, before my father’s secrets died with me.
It seemed the key to everything right now was Lizzie.
Weak sunlight filtering through the dome did little to warm my frigid limbs, and I longed for my father’s cloak. So much had occurred between that fateful moment when he first draped it over my shoulders and now. I felt so dreadfully tired and yet there was so much more ahead to do.
A woman passed me on the walkway and her leather bodice, just visible underneath her silk cloak, caught my attention. So many more people in this part of the city dressed in a combination of the finery of New Society and the functional pieces worn in Outer City. Surrounded by the homogenous fashion and finery of Manhattan, I never realized. How much did the populace of the wild air city and those under the dome mix? How had I been so oblivious to everything around me for so long?
A cacophony behind me drew my attention. Across the street and down a few blocks, a plume of smoke curled out of the electro-rail station entrance. Fire Crew carriages and Security Force wagons pulled next to hastily erected electric rope barriers. Through the high windows, the orange glow of fire mingled with bursts of purple tracer flashes.
Stomach churning, I hesitated, conflicted over what I’d done. How many innocent citizens now suffered because of what I’d set in motion? Head down, I walked along the street, face turned toward the storefronts. Not quite sure I could remember the address of the trader’s shop, I wandered along the main street, hoping to chance upon it. Though I’d arranged
for Moira to exchange my jewelry there, I’d never ventured out of the safety of Manhattan to actually speak to the man face to face. Instead, I’d met him at the solarium.
How naïve I’d been to believe I could isolate myself and still usurp the law. Passing an obscura shoppe and a cobbler, I thought I might be in the right area when I stopped short.
At the corner, a group of soldiers stood talking and I pretended to peruse the goods behind the display window. My reflection startled me. Hair in a dried mass about my head and cracked blood at the corners of my mouth made my stomach curl with nausea. I wiped at my lips, using the sleeves of my dress, nearly faint with the thought of what I’d done. Slowly the chills subsided and as my heart slowed and the fear ebbed, the strange symptoms loosened their grip on me.
A steam carriage drifted to a stop near them, the black and silver of the Security Force emblem on its side. They huddled around the driver as he spoke, handing them missives. He was agitated and speaking in harsh tones, and I walked backwards, gaze on them as I pushed into a store.
The jingling bell overhead made the merchant woman glance up. Surrounded by polished wood display counters and etched glass cases, the stark contrast between the edge of town and this was startling. I hesitated, acutely aware of how I must look.
“May I help you?” She asked, her lips pulling down as she eyed me suspiciously. She wore a silken ladies dress in pink and gold. Her bodice shimmered with gold thread design. The intricate coiffure held barrettes laden with precious stones. Everything about her was clean and soft. Though she would never be allowed in my social circle except to render some sort of service, and I regularly wore clothes and jewels finer than hers, I ran my hands down my dingy blue skirts, self-conscious. How different distance and dress could make one feel.
“Uhmm…”
She sighed, irritated. “Do you have coin?”
The smell of soaps and lotions surrounded me and I stood still, not sure what to say.
She moved, stepping around the counter, hands on her hips. “Well?”
“I am looking for Mr. Matheson’s shop,” I managed. “I have business with him.”
She narrowed her gaze, her eyes drifting from my face to my dress and balled fists.
“Do I know you?” She clucked her tongue. “You seem familiar…”
“No, I…I am just looking for Mr. Matheson.” The missives up in Outer City, the electro-speck sign at the station, surely she would recognize me any moment. I half turned, pretending to stare at a bottle of bath salts. “I have to speak with him about something urgent.”
“Oh?” the woman sighed. “Really?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“I see.” She walked to the door and looked out before pulling the shade down. “Now, I don’t know what his situation is with you commuters, but this is getting ridiculous.” She pulled me with her as she walked past the shelves of salves and balms to the rear of the shop. “You look horrid. What’s wrong with your lip?”
“I bit it in the station.” I lifted my hand to cover my face as I followed her. “All the people were jostling.”
“Here,” she handed me a damp towel. “There are Security Soldiers all over the streets, some sort of riot broke out down the way in the station. I mean, really. I don’t need whatever scheme Matheson has cooked up lately to call unwanted scandal to my shop.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Determined to keep the thought of the prowling soldiers from setting off another attack like the one I’d suffered in the station, I concentrated instead on the sound of our footsteps on the plank floor.
“Go,” she pointed to a door. “Through there.”
“But I don’t—”
“Go,” she snapped, shoving me through the threshold and out into a small courtyard. “And tell Matheson that if another one of his customers steps a foot in my shop I will file a complaint!”
I turned to ask where I was, but she shut the door, the lock clicking into place. I looked up at the second story window and found it dark, the curtains drawn. Past that, the rise of the buildings framed a square section of the Tesla dome against the sky. It crackled with the humidity. A fountain gurgled in the center of cobbled stones and beyond that a second door stood slightly ajar. I walked to it, pushing it slightly as I listened. The scent of leather and dust hit me and I entered. “Hello?” I called out.
A man’s answering grumble urged me forward. “What is it?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Matheson.” Taking in the floor to ceiling shelves lined with every manner of trinket and book, I paused, sighing with relief when I saw the window at the far end of the shop. In black script, a backwards rendering of Matheson Trades sprawled across the glass.
Thin, with a mop of gray hair, Mr. Matheson looked over at me, the gulp visible as his Adam’s apple bobbed on his scrawny neck. All knees and elbows, I suspected he could be blown away in a strong wind. He wore a brown vest and a white pinstriped shirt starched within an inch of its life.
“Miss Blackburn, is that you?” He stared at me, wide-eyed, and I wondered if I looked viler than I first imagined. “I can’t believe you’ve come here, of all places.”
“I need to find Moira,” I managed, my throat scratched and painful. Surprised he recognized me despite my battered body and clothes, I tried to appear as if I knew what I was doing. “It’s urgent I speak with her.”
“She never mentioned you were a sympathizer.” He shook his head. “Not once.”
At least my guess was right and my suspicion that Moira was in fact passing notes for Defiance at the Rothfairs’ ball panned out. It had been her reaction to Violet’s query of my sympathies that made me think there might be a way to contact Lizzie. I’d inadvertently stumbled upon a link to Defiance and relief spread over me. At least something was going to plan.
“A—are you alone?” He looked behind me as if he expected someone.
“Yes.” I peered over my shoulder down the dark hall. “Why?”
“Your face is all over the aether,” he breathed, suddenly animated as he rounded the counter and snatched a trail of paper from the aethergraph machine on the wall. “Here in the daily news bulletin. Eyewitness accounts of the riot at the station scrolled in just minutes ago.” He stabbed the paper with his bony finger. “Look, this details the two dead soldiers at the hands of a Defiance operative.” He looked at me with raised brows. “I nearly fell over when I saw your image. Truly this could not be the same young lady I met in the gardens, I thought to myself, but there you were!”
“What?” The hairs on my neck stood and I grabbed the missive, scanning the etchings. The city-state wide news bureau issued an article that read like complete fiction. My heart paced up with every word.
The outlaw known as Blackburn’s Daughter has struck again. Various accounts have reported that when confronted by Union Security Soldiers during a routine citizen’s papers check, the volatile rebel stabbed one soldier in the neck and shot another. She incited a station-wide riot before disappearing during the fracas. Eyewitness accounts from questioned citizens state that Blackburn’s Daughter was seen shaking her fist at the cowering soldiers in a sign of the rebellion moments before vanishing in a flash of light. Reward for her capture has been raised to top even that of Defiance matriarch, Elizabeth “Lizzie” Frances.
As reported earlier, Charlotte Morgan Blackburn, daughter of treasonous Colonel Blackburn fired upon Union aero ships while evading capture in Outer City…
I swayed on my feet, unable to believe what I was reading.
“Miss Blackburn, I had no idea when you arranged for the girls that you were a part of the cause.” He eyed me with incredulity. “You remained so long beyond suspicion. It’s remarkable how you managed it.”
“You can’t believe this report.” My voice cracked. “This is not what happened.”
“I’m sure it was much worse,” he offered, his gaze wandering over my face. “I am so sorry about your father, dear. He is a good man.” Startled that
he knew my father, I didn’t answer, unsure of what to say.
“H-Have you heard anything of him?”
“Only that he is imprisoned by the Governors.”
I fought tears. Now was not the time to fall apart. “I see.”
“You need help, yes?” He continued. “You’re a hunted woman now, Miss Blackburn.”
Nodding, I held my palm before my eyes, fisting the fingers to break through the stiffness. I remembered doing that in the station. Is that what they thought I meant? That I shook my fist in anger after deliberately hurting others? How could anyone believe I would do that? And had they said I’d stabbed Flanders? Did no one see what really occurred? They called me a Defiance operative. Why would they believe that when I wore no blue scarf nor ever attended rallies? My breath caught. What must Lizzie think? Would she not meet with me now that I’d caused so much trouble for her?
“Please, Mr. Matheson,” I began, my voice calm despite the tumbling of my heart. “I must speak with Moira.”
“Yes, of course,” he blinked a few times, staring, before turning and hurrying behind the counter. “Please, follow me to the sitting room. I’ll send for her straightaway.”
“If possible, could you give her this address?” I handed him a strip of paper with the safe house’s location. “My friend is very hurt and needs a doctor straightaway.”
“I will relay the information with urgency.” His sympathetic smile did little to quell my worry for Ashton.
“Thank you.”
Following Matheson behind his counter and through an arched doorway, I entered tiny living quarters. The small table had one chair, one cup of tea, still steaming, and one cookie on a single plate.
He motioned for me to sit and I sank into the seat, relieved for some semblance of civility after all I’d endured these past days.
The Tremblers Page 23