The Eidolon

  When they reached the captain’s box, he lowered his voice and explained some of the controls—the compiece, altimeter, extendable scope, and wind-powered navigation system. She listened, touching each piece curiously.

  “You love it, then?” she asked after he finished, matching his hushed tone. “You’re very good at it, I’m sure.”

  He shrugged. “Do you fly often? In the luxury cruisers that always seem to hang about London’s skies? Or in your father’s military escorts?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve only been a handful of times. Short trips—to and from our manor house in the country. Only when the Duke…when I could not refuse him.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  Veronica lifted her gaze out into the black night. “I know where these crafts are made. How could I?”

  He wanted to pull her into him, hold her close. He wanted so many things he couldn’t have with her. “This ship and all of Sombor’s are made at legitimate factories, staffed by adults only. The business is nearly profitable. After what happened to Durad and me, we made several promises. That one was the most important to me.”

  She turned to look at him, a smile in her eyes. “That’s wonderful!

  “I’ve tried to do the same thing, across EurAsia. Meet with factory owners. Help them understand. But it’s a dark, twisted business. When no one listens, I do what I have to,” he admitted.

  She lifted her hands and as though she might take his but turned to lean on the rail instead. “I know. Why does it feel as though the world has gone mad? That we’re the only sane people left? The only ones willing to do something about it?”

  Emil joined her at the rail. “I’ve thought about that. Every day when I worked in the factories, and every day since I escaped. I believe that most people are average people. They get up, go to work and come home. They struggle to feed their families. They get by the best way they know how.”

  She nodded.

  He continued, “Those in positions of power—like your English gentry—have much more complicated lives. They might still worry about money, in which case the only acceptable solution is to marry into it. Which means they have to appear acceptable to the largest number of wealthy suitors.

  “Those that don’t have to worry about money, are focused on power. They play in the political arena. Right now, war is profitable on every front. For those like Lord Grillett who manufacture supplies. For those in government like the Duke who gain power by proving he alone can keep the country safe.”

  She continued nodding. “Right, right. What about the poor? The lower classes that suffer the most?”

  He sighed. “They have nothing and everything to lose. They might run a street sweeper in The Grave. They might clean the factories between shifts, or even during shifts. They all know what goes on but what does it profit them to speak up? Who would listen to them? They’re uneducated and unimportant.”

  She tugged at her scarf. “I can answer for the group you’ve left out.”

  “Yes?”

  “The women. Wouldn’t we see these children, beaten and starving, and our hearts not be moved? How could we not show some compassion?”

  He tilted his head to the side. He had his theories, of course, but he was anxious to here her answer.

  “Those of the lower classes are too hardened. They see suffering every day. It’s a fact of life for them. They might want to do something about it, but they’re simply too tired. Those of the middle class, the wives of the merchants, aspire to greater than their station. They see the pleasure cruisers, the steamlux carriages and they believe it within their grasp if they can only get introduced into the right circles. They believe themselves above the sweepers and the cleaners.” The words came out fast, hard, bitter. She gripped the rail tightly.

  “Agreed,” he said softly.

  “And those of the upper crust? They’re the worst of the lot. They’re too smart not to know what’s happening but they feign vapors at the idea. They pretend it’s all nonsense until they believe it themselves. Those children are given a legitimate purpose in life. After all, look at what happened before Grillett cleaned up the streets? All those thefts? He’s a saint.”

  He inched closer to her, trying to show support.

  “After Dr. Hoch found me, he warned me not to discuss my opinions with anyone. That it’d be dangerous. Someone might identify me with the same sympathies as the Eidolon. Still, I wrote letters directly to Queen Victoria. Hoping one might get through to her. Hoping she’d listen. I was a right idiot. She never returned one missive.” She gestured out into the night. “So much for queen and country.”

  He wanted to take her into his arms, press her cheek into his chest and feel her relax against him. Instead, he leaned forward and took her arm, leading back inside the cabin.

  Once back inside his quarters, he shut the door and took her good hand in both of his. “The rest of the world might be too selfish or tired or afraid to take on Grillett but you were not, sultanim.”

  She stared at the sight—his large, brown skin enveloping hers. “They gave me life. When I saved theirs.”

  “I know.”

  “Emil?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad I’m not the only mad person in the world.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Two days until the wedding

  The feel of Emil’s rough and calloused hands sent an uncensored thrill through Veronica. She tried not to move. Since she’d boarded his ship, he’d taken her arm, pressed a guiding hand to her back, but never touched her so deliberately. The same hands she knew to be efficient and brutal, held hers in a grip that could have been comforting, but seemed to be so much more.

  Emil released her and she nearly sighed. He turned his hands over and uncovered his wrists. “I told you once how I got these scars.”

  She stared at the puckered skin. She wanted to trace it, make sure it was real. Just as she had that night. The foreigner. She’d pushed aside the memory, afraid it was too good to be real. “It was you? At the masque?”

  Emil tilted his head to the side and waited.

  A silly, light feeling rose in her. It felt unnatural. Insubstantial. Not just a weight lifted, but something more. It felt like the look on Claire’s face when she saw Lady Flowers. Or Matilda’s smile when she thought Hale wasn’t looking. It was a feeling that shouldn’t exist within her darkness—it was so bright and free.

  He was the one. The one she felt so comfortable talking to. The one with an energy, a pull she nearly couldn’t resist. The one she’d wanted to kiss, and had guiltily dreamed about since that night.

  Veronica hesitated then said, “You nearly kissed me that night. I wished for it. Then I thought…”

  “That I didn’t want you?” he asked gently.

  Yes. “You didn’t? Of course you didn’t. You barely knew me,” she said.

  “I’d never wanted anything more.” His tone was simple and straight-forward.

  Then do it. Now. She wanted him to. To taste him, to feel him. Why did he still wait, when she’d just confessed how much she’d wanted his kiss?

  As the seconds ticked by and neither of them moved, Veronica’s thoughts whirled. She was falling for her fiance’s bodyguard. In love. That had to be what that unfamiliar lightness was.

  But Durad was her fiancé.

  And Emil’s prince.

  The lightness faded, shoved aside by the greedy fingers of her darkness. She couldn’t ask such a thing of Emil, could she? To betray his prince for her? The horrible part of her—the part that reminded her she was her father’s daughter—wanted to ask him to. They had a ship and both of them had a talent for evasion. She imagined how it would feel, his scarred hands on her cheeks as he seized her for a kiss, exciting and beautiful. How it would be to feel that lightness all the time. It was Melilot’s happy ending.

  But not hers.

  She brushed Emil’s cheek through his scarf, and then turned away.

  * * *


  Veronica awoke to the sound of swordplay—metal crashed against metal and the quick scuffle of feet. Were they under attack? What was happening? It’d only been a few days since her capture, and Emil’s rescue. Every unexpected sound had her twitching.

  She rose from the bed, squeezing her eyes shut against her momentary light-headedness, and then strapped on her cape. All her clothes had been laundered by now, her shirt replaced. She strapped on her mask and added the top hat for good measure. The crew didn’t know Emil hid a woman aboard—they believed her to be the Eidolon after all.

  She opened the door just far enough to see the deck before her. Emil stood in the center of a ring of men, all members of the crew. He’d stripped to the waist and his loose black pants hung about his hips. His dark hair, short and spiked atop his head, moved little as he blocked his crew’s thrusts and parries. His face, however, remained covered, the scarf tied into place like the kerchief of a thief. His crew lunged, one after another at Emil, their swords singing with skill. He moved almost faster than Veronica could follow, remaining untouched. He wielded two swords, neither arm weaker than the other.

  He was magnificent.

  When he turned to parry a blow, she saw his back. A gasp escaped her. Ugly, raised scars crisscrossed all the flesh. Not one part remained untouched. Lands, were those from his time in the factories? She thought her scars told the story of her life but his? How many stories did Emil have?

  The tenor of the fight escalated all of the sudden and Emil lashed out with not only his sword, but also his fists and feet. Some of the crew managed to land blows, but they all fell in the end. Veronica watched every movement, fascinated by his skill.

  Mercy. She’d never seen such a fighter, not in the Enforcers she’d faced nor in her fencing instructors. He straightened up slowly and met her gaze, his eyes clear and fierce. She quickly shut the door and discovered she was breathing as hard as he had been. She tossed aside her Eidolon props and retreated underneath the covers of her bed.

  What must Emil think of her? He’d seen her fight, she had not near his skill. What he had appeared more like a gift from the gods, a talent of legends.

  When he knocked a moment later, she called for him to come in, hoping her voice was steady. He entered and she noticed he’d donned shirt, though it gaped open at the top.

  Such strength.

  “I apologize for waking you,” Emil said. He unstrapped the rapier at his side and set it on his desk. She watched every movement. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  She cleared her throat. “Fine. The tisane Dr. Hoch sent has really helped. It’s miraculous, really. The pain is nearly gone.” Was she prattling? Did she sound normal? She certainly couldn’t look at him in quite the same way.

  Emil rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hands into the washbasin. With his back toward her, he removed his scarf and cleaned his face. She wanted to peek, but felt she’d already seen quite enough of him for one day.

  Instead, she found a clean towel and while keeping her back to him, offered it to Emil. She waited for a moment, until she felt his hand briefly steady her arm while he took it. The familiar current she felt at his touch shot up her arm.

  “Thank you.” His smooth voice sounded pleasant and mildly amused.

  She huffed and returned to her bed. Veronica picked up a nearby book and pretended to be absorbed. But as he whistled and tidied up his cabin, she knew every movement he made.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Veronica lay on Emil’s bed after drinking a cup of the tisane, surprised to find herself restless. She had too many thoughts, too many worries to remain still. It’d been five days. Matilda knew where she was and had sent many pleas for her return. Durad’s flowers filled the room with a perfume a bit too strong for her liking. She’d refused his visits, unsure of what to say to him. Afraid that he would sense something different.

  Veronica avoided the Duke most of all. She’d gotten fairly adept at hiding secrets over the years, mostly because she accepted the fact that she could be discovered and was willing to accept the consequences. When she thought of Agnes or Suzie, the daily sacrifice she made felt right. Even when it came to her impending nuptials.

  This new secret, piled on top of the others, threatened to tip her carefully built tower. The Duke thought her recovering from the robbery at a friend’s home. He was furious at her laziness and vapors, and had Matilda send a letter to Veronica demanding her immediate return. Veronica dreaded the Richmond townhome with a heaviness she’d never felt. It was as though the glimpse of that lightness had forever spoiled her. How could she return to that place where misery had painted the walls, where she could not escape it’s chokehold save in a mask?

  Emil slipped inside his quarters, the fresh, chill air chasing him into the room. He glanced over at her and raised a brow. “Something on your mind, princess?”

  She rubbed her temples. “Don’t call me that, please. It doesn’t feel right.” For so many reasons, not the least of which stood before her, strong and appealing.

  He removed a rapier from the wall and tossed it to her. She debated which hand to catch it with. It fell to the floor at her feet.

  “Tsk. We must get you comfortable in your own skin again. That hand of yours could be very useful in a fight.” Emil removed another sword and pointed it at her.

  Veronica picked up the blade with her right hand and saluted him. “I might be good with a sword, but you cannot expect me to spar with you.”

  “Why not?”

  She flushed. “I saw you, this morning, as you well know. I’ve not an ounce of that type of skill. It’s…” She shrugged. “A little unreal.”

  “I saw you, Lady Eidolon. You’re not as feeble as you pretend. Come, I promise not to cut off your other hand.”

  Veronica sputtered and then laughed. “I’m being quite ridiculous, aren’t I? Very well.” She stepped forward, spun and then thrust. He blocked her and then with a flick of his wrist, knocked her blade out of her hand.

  “You’re uncertain. Again,” he said.

  She retrieved her sword, reminded of her many fencing lessons with Dr. Hoch’s instructor. Merciless. Though not quite as intimidating or alluring as Emil.

  Veronica tried once more. He disarmed her within a few blows.

  “Your form isn’t bad but you lack conviction. Where is the Eidolon’s purpose? Her fire? Again,” Emil said.

  She lasted a bit longer this time. Less on the next. An hour later, Emil disarmed her, tossing the handle of her blade into his free hand. He flipped it and handed it to her, handle first. She reached out to take it with her right hand but he shook his head. “The other hand.”

  Veronica hesitated. She could hurt him. Couldn’t she? She hadn’t used her hand since Dr. Hoch showed her its strength.

  “Take it. We need to know now. Not when you’re in battle next.”

  She grasped the handle as gingerly as she could. Dents appeared in the wood. Emil raised his sword in a familiar move. Veronica parried it. The force sent Emil’s blade flying out of his hand and clear across the room. She dropped the sword on the floor and stepped back.

  Emil scratched his head. “Well then. It’ll take some practice. But that’s a good start. You’ll send them running for sure.”

  Veronica turned her back to him. She admired strength of course, one could not appear weak in front of the Duke.

  “Maybe this is a gift,” she said softly.

  Emil placed a hand on her shoulder, his strong grip electrifying and comforting her. “Of course it is. You can defend yourself, and the children.”

  She turned, finding herself very close to his large chest. “I don’t need to be afraid.”

  “Of Grillett?”

  Or the Duke. She nodded. She lost a hand but gained an unmatched strength. Veronica might not be able to fully hug little Claire again but as with every sacrifice she’d made so far, it would be worth it.

  “How can I save or protect them after I marry Durad
?” she asked.

  Emil looked away. “We’ll find a way. The Eidolon’s mission is too important to abandon.”

  The idea that she could remain the Eidolon after her marriage never occurred to her. She’d only ever seen a black hole, swirling with endless state dinners and social obligations among those whose language she didn’t understand.

  If Emil helped her, perhaps she could plead a headache, stomache, anything so she could vanish for a day or two. He did captain an airship. And she would be with Emil. She smiled, but Emil didn’t notice. He seemed occupied with his own thoughts. It would be terribly improper to go on secret missions with Emil as a married woman. Not to mention terribly difficult to be around him, to bottle up her love, to avoid his touch.

  Veronica picked up one rapier and placed it back carefully on the wall. A map caught her eye, one of Sombor. She stepped closer. Open plains with scattered mines. A few larger cities, but the country seemed to be mostly rural. Veronica hadn’t studied much of Sombor—her tutors deemed the country insignificant in size and likely to be swallowed by the Ottomans. Which it nearly was.

  Emil reached over her shoulder and pointed to an area in the Northeastern part of the country. His warm breath fanned her neck making her shiver. “My home. A small, farming village.”

  “You were happy there?”

  “Very. We lived a simple life, off the land. Sold our crops at the market every month. Knew all the neighbors. Very quaint, you English would say.”

  Her stomach knotted but she still asked the question, “What happened? How did you come to the factories?”

  He dropped his hand but remained close behind her. “A raid, standard at that time. In the middle of the night, surprising us all. They killed my parents. Took my sister. Left before dawn. It was a peaceful time. No one expected the violence.”