The Eidolon

by Tiffany Dominguez

  The Mistress nodded once, sharply. “I know. Now go, I’ll take care of arrangements here.” She turned to the bed, pulling the cheerful blanket over Agnes’ lifeless face, her movements stiff and deliberate once again. She paused and bowed her head, her lips saying a silent prayer.

  * * *

  Veronica slipped her hands from her gloves and dusted them with the chalk she kept in a pouch on her belt. She knew she shouldn’t be out in the Grave tonight, full of anger and grief. Not when all of London searched for her, her head marked with a price.

  Yet here in quiet darkness, shrouded by the warm, thick steam, was where Veronica belonged. Even if she could see the futility in what she was about to do.

  She couldn’t not do it.

  She would do what she always did—steal those children right from underneath Grillett’s nose. And when she felt their trusting hands in hers, she would be at peace for a few moments.

  Perhaps for the last time. With her marriage coming up in a few days, little enough time remained. She didn’t bring Clank along, and though she felt the empty air by her side and her heart ached for the silly machine, she couldn’t bear to put him at risk.

  This gate had seemed like the safest bet. Always quiet, little activity. When a lumbering carriage creaked by, it took little effort to slide underneath. After it passed through the gate and down the street a ways, she rolled out and slipped into a side street. She adjusted her trousers and checked the charge on her Tesla-ray. Full.

  The factory was just ahead. Time—five minutes to the hour. She jumped and swung up onto a nearby ladder, scaling it to the next story. Ran softly. Another ladder, and up again. She reached her desired position on the roof closest to the factory.

  The flutter of a cape. Behind her. She whirled around, Tesla-ray raised.

  Clank, eyes whirring, stood in front of her. He raised his hands in surrender.

  “What are you doing here? Oh, Clank,” she whispered as she holstered her weapon. “It’s too dangerous.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and lightly squeezed. God bless him, but she wanted to reach out and hug his metal frame. “Who sent you?” she asked. “Matilda?”

  Clank nodded and then pressed his hand over her heart. Matilda knew Veronica would leave. Even after she and Dr. Hoch asked Veronica not to continue her dangerous missions. Matilda knew Veronica couldn’t simply stop. So she sent Clank to protect her mistress.

  Veronica patted Clank’s glove, the one over his heart. Even though she’d lied to Matilda, Matilda still cared for her. She and this silly machine were Veronica’s only friends. They were loyal and wonderful and Veronica counted them among the best of allies.

  The clock chimed the hour. Veronica turned, waited for the line of children to stream from the doors, hands clasped behind their backs, chins wavering with weariness.

  But nothing happened. The pipes continued to blanket the streets in steam. The factory continued to hum its’ ominous song. Veronica checked the clock again. Midnight. Time for shift change. The guards were never late. Something must be wrong.

  She hurried down to the street level, palms damp once again. Clank followed. Had Grillett changed the shift times?

  Or had he lengthened them?

  She flattened herself against the alley wall and peaked around the corner. No one. Not a guard in sight. Odd, usually at least two patrolled the doors. A sharp pang pierced her chest and the sense that something had gone terribly wrong multiplied until she felt sick.

  Could this be some sort of trap? After all those nights of surveillance and rescues, one thing was certain. Shift times never changed. Yet, still no children appeared.

  Her gaze darted all around her. She heard nothing.

  Clank. She couldn’t let him get hurt. Veronica turned and whispered, “I’ll distract them. You leave and return back to Matilda as soon as it’s safe. Do you understand?”

  His head turned from side to side, as though he worried. As though he wanted to reject her command. He finally met her eyes, his whirring faster than she’d ever seen, and he nodded.

  A distraction. She didn’t have her fogger to take out the lamps…what did she have?

  Ah, yes. Something much more powerful. She lifted her Tesla-ray and pressed the trigger. The beam held for several moments on the lamp until she heard a small pop and the shatter of glass. She waited until her eyes adjusted to the milky darkness and crept forward.

  Rough hands grabbed her shoulders. She nearly panicked, but sagged to the ground just in time, forcing her assailants to drop her. She rolled, kicking as she did so, and then leapt up to her feet, her Tesla-ray still in hand. Several more men waited for her. She swept the beam of her gun in an arc. One, two, three dropped to the ground, stunned.

  She heard the steel slicing through the air before it hit her shoulder. She rolled to the side, drawing her sword. A tall, thin man wearing the Enforcer’s red cape came at her again. She blocked him this time and dodged to the right. She brought her Tesla-ray up and shot him. When he fell, another Enforcer took his place. This one wielded two shorter swords.

  She needed Clank. But she’d been right to order him to stay. This was a battle she couldn’t win, even with his help.

  Veronica calculated as both blades advanced and spun at the last minute, knocking them aside. The Enforcer spun and advanced again. She blocked one, then the other blow, but she couldn’t hold him off forever. She was outmatched.

  Veronica scanned the area for an escape but since she’d taken out the lampposts, she couldn’t see. Her Tesla-ray didn’t have much charge left. When the Enforcer swung at her again, she reached for her Smith & Wesson. She pulled the trigger, catching him in the shoulder. He dropped one sword, but still kept coming at her with the other. She spun and kicked him in the face. He dropped.

  Footsteps, shouting. There were more people coming, but how many? Run, Veronica. She had to get out of here.

  She turned, but plowed straight into steel armor. A hand knocked her Tesla-ray to the ground while another encased her arm in a tight grip. Veronica lashed upward with her now free hand but before she could connect with the man’s face, he spun her around and forced to her knees. Burning, she smelled fire. The man yanked off her mask, pulling out a clump of hair as he did so. She brought up her free hand to hide her face while craning around to see who held her.

  Two lights appeared in front of her, illuminating the courtyard. A voice, damaged and deep, yelled with triumph. Others answered, echoing.

  “All hail the ‘angel!’”

  Veronica closed her eyes against that voice. She didn’t need to see his face to know who it was. She’d landed squarely in the middle of Hell. A point pressed against the side of her head, her Telsa-ray.

  “I’ve always wanted one of these,” Blackthorne said, his voice as reasonable and polite as it was the night of the engagement ball. “My compliments to the Eidolon for such a fine gift.”

  She focused on her breathing. In. Out. Did she have any advantage? Leverage? Could she escape from his hold?

  He leaned forward, his warm breath on her ear, “They cannot see you are but a women, Lady Veronica, or they would be yelling for more than blood.”

  No. He had her firmly.

  “If you will excuse me, my fine gentleman, while angel here and I have a word in private about his eternal soul.” Blackthorne yanked Veronica to her feet amidst shouts and cheers. They reverberated through her chest, one after another, rising like a tide until she drowned in the noise.

  She forced down her panic. She was the Eidolon, for heavens sake. There must be some way out of this. She refused to believe otherwise.

  At least she couldn’t see Clank. He must be safe, thank heavens.

  Blackthorne held her close to his chest, smelling of oil and sweat, as he dragged her along the street toward a waiting carriage. She thrust her elbow into his stomach but he laughed and squeezed the trigger on the Tesla-ray. Her body tensed, stiffened. She tried to move, but couldn’t. Blackness ro
se in her mind but she fought it, years of experience lending her strength. She pushed at the edges until her vision cleared. If she passed out, Blackthorne would have complete control over her. The thought made her frantically will her body to move—from her fingers to her toes. Nothing happened.

  Blackthorne tossed her onto a seat inside the carriage, and sat down opposite her. The carriage lurched forward, slamming her into Blackthorne. He laughed again and tossed her back onto the seat. Without any way to brace herself, she collected bruises at every bump and turn, each one making her want to rage at her helplessness. Blackthorne hummed to himself, jaunty tunes she didn’t recognize. Most likely with lyrics she didn’t want to know. His cheerfulness darkened her rage even further until she could barely breathe.

  It couldn’t have been more than a few blocks before the carriage stopped abruptly, throwing her off the seat again. She landed face down in the membrane of dirt and grease covering the floor.

  Blackthorne spit on the ground and then hoisted her up by her armpits and slung her over his shoulder. “Not passed out yet, my lady?” He clucked. “Pity. You won’t like this part.”

  Veronica did the only thing she could do—breathe in and out, and tried to organize her frantic thoughts into a plan of escape. She told herself she’d find a way out of this. After living nightmare after nightmare in the Duke’s home, facing demons of any sort was familiar territory.

  Blackthorne took her through a doorway into a building. She could see nothing but the gray floor below until she was flipped face-up onto a gurney.

  While he strapped her down, buckling thick leather across her chest and legs, Blackthorne said, “Thanks to you, this place is now empty. We don’t have enough brats coming in to replace the ones you stole. But that also means you get an entire wing to yourself, my lady. First class accommodations. Top notch.” He chuckled to himself again as he pushed her forward.

  Veronica stared up at dusty gas lamps hanging from the ceiling as she passed down the hallway. Large. Empty. This must be an orphanage. Brilliant. No one would think to look for her here, not that anyone would look. Suddenly Veronica regretted leaving Matilda and Dr. Hoch out of her plans.

  Blackthorne shoved the gurney into a large room at the very end of the hallway. There were no windows. No one could see what Blackthorne would do to her. She didn’t think he would kill her right away, since he’d had plenty of opportunity to do so. He might burn her, the most poetic type of revenge. Veronica imagined he knew quite a bit about torture—he was an Enforcer after all.

  “You’ll pardon me, my lady, while I summon the doctor.” He whistled to himself as he left, shutting the door behind him. A lock clicked.

  Veronica’s stomach coiled. Doctor? Would he cut into her? Remove something important?

  No. You’ll go mad that way. Focus, Veronica.

  She began with her hands. Stiffen, relax, stiffen, relax. Each finger, one at a time, until pinpricks jittered through her hand. Second after agonizing second she focused until she had full movement of her hands.

  Next, her feet. Focus. Think of sweet, little Suzie. She needs you.

  Footsteps. Voices. The door swung open.

  “Better hit her with that ray gun of yours again just to be sure. I loathe it when they scream.” A new voice, cultured and calm.

  Click. A hum. The jolt of the Tesla-ray hitting her again. She wanted to cry out so desperately but could not. Her confidence in her own strength vanished, crushed like a brittle fall leaf. She’d lost the little movement she had, and now her time was up. The doctor, whoever he was, could do what he wished to her and she would be powerless to stop him. The same despair she felt in the gardens before she first met Dr. Hoch threatened to steal whatever presence of mind still remained.

  She had no more options. No more time.

  Her training had failed her. The Eidolon had failed her. Veronica wished she could escape inside her mind, like she’d wanted to as a child. Something always held her back—something bright and hopeful. Now she wished for a way to welcome the darkness. Wished for any way out of out this terrible reality.

  A face came into view. A medical mask covered his mouth. Gray eyes appraised her quickly and then flickered away. “The Eidolon is a girl?” he asked quietly.

  Blackthorne’s voice, “Does it bother you?”

  The man shrugged. “She appears sturdy enough. Knife,” he ordered.

  The sound of metal slapping into the man’s palm. Veronica wished to heaven she could close her eyes, clasp her hands on her ears, do something, anything. This time, when the man’s hand moved downward, she prayed for the blackness to overtake her.

  In the end, she saw it all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The day after

  Emil saw the ambush. The triumphant shouts. The man with the scarred face take the Eidolon, stun him, and toss him into a carriage.

  The last time he’d helped someone escape a factory district, he’d ended up with permanent bracelets in the form of ugly, puckered scars. He rubbed them, wondering why they’d begun itching again so much lately. Must be the climate. Curse this blasted city.

  He padded quickly across the roof, following the carriage’s progress. Down a ladder, to another roof, so he didn’t lose sight of it. After several blocks, the carriage stopped. The scarred man leapt down, humming a bawdy tune. He reached back inside and swung the Eidolon out and over his shoulder. He entered a nameless building, no sign, no markings. It was large, ten stories, like the rest of the buildings in the district.

  Good riddance to that ridiculous fop with an even more ridiculous name. This wasn’t Emil’s battle, he’d fought enough for several lifetimes. Now wasn’t the time to get involved, with Sombor’s future basically in his hands. He couldn’t afford to. What if he got caught?

  Emil almost laughed at the absurdity of this line of thought. He wouldn’t get caught. The last time he did…well, it hadn’t happened again. The question remained, did he want to help?

  For the next several minutes, he couldn’t escape the memories that assaulted him. Of his days in the factories, when he helped no one, spent all his energy on his own survival.

  Aman Tanrım. It would not do, to leave the misguided Eidolon in the hands of that Enforcer. Emil scanned the area—no guards at any of the doors, none on the street. He secured his mask and climbed down. The shadows wrapped so securely around the building, he needed only to quiet his footsteps to completely disappear. He quickly dismissed the idea of entering through the front door. He padded down the alley and around to the back.

  He tried the knob to the servants’ door. Locked. He paused, listening. It was strangely quiet. While the buildings nearby hummed and puffed steam through the vent pipes, this one stood silent. After several moments of waiting, Emil heard voices through the walls, echoing as if in a large space.

  He wasn’t sure what might be happening to the Eidolon, but Emil expected the Eidolon to be putting up a fight. Thought he’d hear shouting, sounds of a scuffle. Certainly not two voices conversing as strolling through Hyde Park. It didn’t feel right. Emil’s gut told him something was horribly wrong. He grabbed his whip from his belt and cracked it through the nearest window. He leapt through and took off in a run toward the voices.

  Emil heard a shout from the room at the end of the hall. He drew his rapier and charged forward, whip in his other hand.

  The door burst open and light shot through. Emil rolled, the beam cutting through the edge of his cape. The beam followed his movements as he dodged, ducked, and rolled until it abruptly ceased.

  Emil stood just outside the door. He waited long moments before peeking around it into the room. A lone gurney sat motionless with the Eidolon strapped in. Blood dripped from the nearest side onto the floor.

  A flutter of movement and the door swung violently toward him. He leapt to the side and lashed out with his whip. A man yelped, a high pitched noise. Emil moved forward, lashing out again and again. He caught the man’s foot and dragged him
forward. Without ceremony, he swung his fist into the man’s head, knocking him clean out. As he kicked him off to the side, he glimpsed the man’s face.

  Ugly. From Almacks. Grillett’s man. Emil kicked him again for good measure.

  “I will leave peacefully. Violence is unnecessary.” A voice came from behind the gurney.

  Emil glanced up. A man in white doctor’s robes and a facemask stood with his hands up in the air. His manner appeared calm, amused. On a table beside him lay a saw, red with blood, and what looked to be a mound of flesh.

  Emil rushed over to the gurney and leaned forward, checking for breath. “What have you done to this man?” he demanded.

  The doctor chuckled. “This is no man.”

  Emil looked down again, this time up to the Eidolon’s face. Long hair spilled out, obscuring the features. His stomach tightened painfully, a woman? He brushed the hair gently back from her face. The shock of seeing familiar, terrified eyes jolted him. His breath came in great gasps. He cursed. Clasped her face in his hands. Laid a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  “I’m here, sultanim. Everything will be okay. I’ll get you out of this, I swear it.”

  He should’ve figured this out earlier. He was blind. A complete idiot. A dozen clues appeared in front of him, signs he hadn’t seen, recognized. He whispered her name over and over as he released her straps. He reached down to help but she didn’t move.

  Something was wrong.

  He could tell she saw everything, but why did she not move? Answer him? Her eyes flickered toward the scarred man. He glanced over. Scar-face still lay there unconscious, the Tesla-ray clasped in his hand.

  The Tesla-ray. Of course. She’d been stunned. He moved to pick Veronica up but her eyes registered pain. He ran his hands lightly down her side until he saw her hand.

  By all the gods, the flesh was so mangled he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. He’d never witnessed such a sight, not in all his years of war. The hand had been removed entirely, leaving a mess of tissue that bled in a steady stream.