The Eidolon

by Tiffany Dominguez

  Emil forced himself to stand, carrying Durad’s limp body with him. “Not now, Rosseau.” He headed down the hallway. Rosseau followed, shuffling dejectedly after his capitan.

  “Is the prince dead?” he asked.

  Emil nodded. “We have to find the children. They were not with Grillett.”

  “My deepest apologies—” Rosseau began, his voice strained.

  “Not. Now,” Emil interrupted. He couldn’t deal with his first mate’s regrets right now. Not when he carried his friends’ body in his arms. Later. When he wasn’t soaked in blood. When the edges of his sorrow weren’t so razor-sharp, shredding his heart and mind.

  When they rounded the corner, a small face peered out of a nearby room, only to vanish once again. Emil motioned for Rosseau to be silent. Rosseau held out his arms and Emil carefully handed over Durad’s body.

  Emil then padded softly into the room, calling out in a quiet voice, “The danger is gone, little one. The Eidolon has saved you once again. There’s nothing more to fear.”

  He glimpsed a shadow flicker off to his right. Emil dropped to his knees and placed his hands behind his head. “Will it help if I surrender to you?”

  He waited, trying to keep his breath even, but his pulse raced. There was so little time. Of course the child would be frightened but how long could he afford to wait? Several seconds passed.

  “Emil? Ağabey?” the child asked. She stepped forward into the light, her eyes wide. “Is that you?”

  A thrill so strong rushed through him that the shock of it brought instant tears to his eyes. “Suzanna.Canım.” he whispered, barely able to form the words.

  She rushed toward him and threw her arms around his neck. He buried his face in her shoulder and wept. Emil’s heart lifted from the pit where it had fallen, brightening his whole being until he laughed as he never had before. The sound was so light, it floated away, trailing hope.

  “Ya foun’ me, Emil! How’d ya fin’ me? Where’d ya come from? Do ya know the Eidolon? Why’d it take ya so long! It’s bin five years! Why you wearin’ that scarf?” Suzanna pulled away from Emil with a grin that spread from one side of her flushed face to the other. She was ten now and though small for her age, her face was rounded with health and free of the pain that never left the factory kids.

  Emil placed his hands on Suzanna cheeks, her skin smooth and warm. “I never stopped looking for you. Never.”

  She shrugged. “I know. I never stopped waitin’.”

  He smiled. She hadn’t known English before the Duke took her—she must’ve picked it up from the street rats at the factories. Every word she spoke sounded beautiful to him.

  As he gazed into his sister’s face, he realized that Veronica did this. She saved Suzanna. Another dark, twisted part of his soul broke free; his life, once more, brightened by Veronica.

  Emil stood and took Suzanna’s hand. “Come, show me where the other children are and then I’ll take you to my ship. I’m a captain, you know.”

  She smiled again and led him out of the room. When they saw Rosseau, still holding Durad’s body, Emil’s sorrow returned, sharp and hard. Suzanna squeezed his hand and helped him take a step forward.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The night before the execution

  Emil reached Buckingham Palace well past midnight. Suzanna was safely in his room at the hotel, guarded by Rosseau. Rosseau wouldn’t let her out of his sight.

  With Suzanna’s help, Emil found the rest of the orphans hidden in the cellar with tear-stained faces. Thank heavens they were safe.

  Alec had suddenly re-appeared with a casual, “Took care of the rest of Grillett’s men. Where’s Veronica?”

  “Gone. Your father took her,” Emil said.

  Alec’s usual grin wavered. “Do you have an idea then? I assume you’re going to get her.”

  “I might. I don’t suppose you know anything about Buckingham Palace security?”

  The fop broke into a great laugh and told Emil enough to shock him speechless. Emil then put Alec in charge of the children and left.

  To save her. The one. His. Every moment she remained under the Duke’s power, Emil felt his heart pound harder. He wouldn’t let that katil live if he’d harmed her.

  Several dirigibles lazed above Buckingham Palace, armed with heavy artillery from what Emil could see through his scope. Guards patrolled the roof and the grounds. The building was enormous—rooms stretched out endlessly in both directions.

  Luckily, they didn’t have to guess which one housed the Queen. How Alec knew, Emil didn’t care to guess.

  Emil motioned Kasun and the ship went black. All lights extinguished at once. After a few minutes, Emil slowed The Hırsız and handed the wheel to Kasun. They’d reached the west wing. He swung over the side and onto the window casement. He landed a little harder than he intended, making a scraping sound on the stone.

  He reached down to open the window but found it tightly wedged shut. After a few noiseless pushes, Emil realized he would have to break the glass. He hadn’t planned on announcing himself in such a fashion but hadn’t the time to find another entrance. With a hard push, he flipped off the casement and through the window.

  Emil crashed onto the floor of the bedroom, bits of glass nicking him everywhere. A blade pressed against his throat. The scent of jasmine filled the air.

  “I’m in a playful mood this evening or I might have killed you. I still could. Say the wrong words and I will succeed where my guards have not,” Queen Victoria said. Her silver hair ran unchecked down her fine, white lawn nightgown. She held the blade—a long, wickedly sharp thing—right up to his artery. Her eyes met his, full of power, authority and all that Durad desired but never quite had.

  Everything—Sombor’s future, Veronica’s life, his life—depended on his next few words. Emil had no doubt she would kill him should he fail. Yet he’d watched her at Almacks, the night Veronica had been presented to Durad. Emil had to be right about her.

  “You may notice, Your Majesty, I’m not armed.” Emil held up his hands. “It might make you curious to know why the Kartal came thus to your private chambers.”

  The Queen’s brows lifted and with a flick of her wrist, she cut his scarf away. When she saw his scars, she laughed, sounding delighted. “This is better than anything I could dream of. Come, sit, tell me your tale.” She motioned with her rapier toward a settee.

  He obeyed.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The night before the execution

  When Veronica woke, pain knifed through her arms and she nearly cried out. She lifted her head to find both her wrists clasped in irons, which were in turn bolted to the wall. She hung, her feet brushing the floor. Her mouth was so dry, she could barely swallow. There were twin pools of blood on the floor beneath her wrists where the shackles had sliced through her skin.

  The glove on her left hand remained, covering her macabre fingers, while the one on her right was missing. After all the Duke had uncovered about her, and after leaving her here raw and aching and alone, at least he hadn’t discovered that one secret. She glanced around—she was in a cell somewhere, with nothing but a pile of straw, a bowl, and several insects and scurrying creatures.

  Where was she? The Duke found her, accused her of treason, and then… Emil—he’d been forced to choose between her and Sombor. He’d done the right thing, of course, but leaving his side, returning once more to her Papá’s steely embrace, had still wrenched her heart in half. Her metal hand had clenched into a fist, and she’d wanted to swing it at every smirking face in the room. She’d wanted to show the Duke she had power to match his, with Emil at her side. Magnificent, wild Emil. Her Papá wouldn’t threaten the Somborian soldier so lightly after seeing him fight.

  But she couldn’t risk the odds. Along with the dozen or so soldiers in the room, there could’ve been ten times more lining the hallways and guarding the doors. If she and Emil lost, His Grace wouldn’t hesitate to attack Sombor, simply for the insult of not
taking his threat seriously.

  She’d gotten one last glimpse of Emil—rigid, eyes blazing at the Duke—and then she’d been dragged out of Bridges and into a waiting carriage. She’d instantly missed his solid shadow. Without Emil, she felt as alone as she always had. The awful, familiar emptiness swallowed her, and this time, she wasn’t sure she could keep that small, flickering flame alive. Several blocks later, when the tisane wore off, she passed out from the pain.

  What happened to Claire? To the rest of her children? She hadn’t seen them on her forced march to the Duke’s military carriage. She hoped they’d taken refuge in the cellar. They’d practiced the drills enough times, but they were only children. Emil would find them, if they hadn’t been captured. He wouldn’t forget. Of course he wouldn’t. Even if they had been taken, he’d find them.

  But he couldn’t find Veronica. No one could. Not here. She glanced around again. She must be entombed beneath the military headquarters, swarmed by EurAsia’s finest. Her esteemed papá’s office took up most of the main floor of this building. He wouldn’t let her go far.

  Even if Emil knew her location, he couldn’t save her, not with the Duke’s threats. She wouldn’t see Emil again. Wouldn’t watch him dance among his enemy, savage and strong. Wouldn’t stare at his scarf and wonder what secrets a man so fierce would need to hide. Wouldn’t need to wonder what could happen, whether he could love her, and whether she could ever be free to lift that scarf and kiss away the pain.

  Pain. It kept her conscious now. She glanced up at the thin stream of moonlight through the tiny window. Nearly dawn. The Duke’s favorite time of day. She had maybe an hour left.

  Not only had she left Emil behind, she’d left all her children. Claire’s thin, strong arms thrown around Veronica’s neck. Suzie’s nonstop chatter. Faces, one after another, smiling and hesitant, flooded her mind. Memories—telling Melilot’s story, watching the children paint away their grief in those heartbreaking self-portraits, Agnes’ hand taking hers, Landon’s eyes, focused unwaveringly, as he built a winding, intricate train track. All of it, all she’d done, every child’s life she’d changed—she would never do it again. Never watch the emptiness fill with love, laughter, and healing. Hundreds saved, but there were thousands more. In the end, had she done enough? Why hadn’t she tried to train another? Left behind someone who could carry on her work? Even Matilda, or perhaps Clank…

  Alec. She might’ve confided in him. He could obviously swing a blade, maybe even well enough to be an Eidolon. He’d given her clues here and there. Glimpses of who he could really be. Brave. Resourceful. Capable. Would their papá announce her death at the breakfast table this morning, as though he’d always known Veronica would end up this way—a disappointment beyond imagining? The Duke might even wonder if Alec hid confidences like hers, and order a full investigation into his activities. What would he find? She hoped Alec hid something worthy. She believed it possible. Even after all those years she cried out for him in their winter garden, waiting for him, hoping to hear the crunch of his footsteps as he arrived to put his arm around her and lend her some bit of bravery.

  Hope for Alec, like her flame, could apparently not be extinguished.

  Hope and pain. Co-existing opposites. Her body shouted at her but she paid it no heed. She had to get free. She mustered her strength and pulled at the chains. Her left arm, still not quite healed, burned and tore. The chains held comically fast, seeming to laugh at her attempts to escape. If only they’d bound her hands instead. Then her unnatural fingers could serve a practical function. She couldn’t reach her fingers down to tear at the chains.

  Veronica took a deep breath and tried again, squeezing her hands together in front of her, as she pulled the chains. This time, when they held, her arms snapped backward and she blacked out.

  * * *

  Cold water drenched her, a sharp sensation that took her breath away and woke all her senses at once. A soldier stood beside her, a key in hand. He inserted it into the manacles about her wrists. When the second one clicked, Veronica dropped to the floor. The soldier instantly cuffed her and hefted her over his shoulder. She grunted. The stench coming off this man was horrible, rotten eggs wrapped in old fish. She blinked, trying to formulate a plan as he carried her up the stairs, but her mind remained fogged with pain.

  She flexed her metal fingers, trying to reach down to her cuffs. She managed to get one finger underneath the opposite cuff when the soldier grunted and shifted, breaking her grip. She continued to try, but the man strode down the hallway at a near jog, jostling her about.

  Needles of pain shot through her arms as she tried to twist her hands without getting caught. The great oaf turned right down a hallway. The light streaming through the windows caught her full in the face and she winced.

  Dawn. It was time.

  She slipped her index finger once more under the cuff and pulled. The metal tore but didn’t break. They must’ve been made like the Enforcers’ blades—nearly impossible to even scratch. She stared at them, wondering at how useless they made her feel, how helpless.

  There had to be another way. She could whip her heel back and catch the man in the face…

  Now they were outside. Fifty or more soldiers stood in formation around a raised platform. She huffed. The Duke was certainly taking no chances on her escape. Much like Lord Grillett, this show of strength forced a corner of her mouth to lift in a half smile.

  The soldier shifted and she was flung onto her back, her breath knocked out of her lungs. Sunlight flashed before the Duke’s face darkened her vision. “Veronica Richmond. For your crimes against her royal Majesty, Queen Victoria, you’ve been sentenced to hang by the neck until you are dead.”

  Her papá’s horrible face stared down at her, impassive as always. Veronica tried to speak, but her voice was hoarse from the ordeal of the last few hours. If she were to face death at his hands, she wanted to tell him everything she never had. She wanted to tear off the real mask she’d worn since childhood and rail at his cruelty, at every lash and cane and every moment of pain and misery she’d endured at his hands.

  The Duke’s eyes burned. Those eyes so much like hers in color and shape but with none of the same feeling. He leaned in closer and said, “You’ve failed, Lady Eidolon, and shamed us all. You’re worthless, no better than those gutter rats.” The words were crisp and polished, smooth as a sharp knife through skin.

  Veronica pushed herself to a standing position with her metal hand, chains dragging the ground. She steeled herself against the hot rush of pain, quivering with fury. She faced him, shoulders square, back straight and cleared her throat. He’d said those words to her hundreds of times, but this was the last. Words tumbled from her mouth, strong and clear.

  “I’m not ashamed of what I did as the Eidolon. I may have failed Durad. I may have, in the end, failed those I tried to save.”

  She shuffled forward, lifting her shaking, joined hands to point at him. He returned her stare, unblinking, hard as stone. “But no matter how hard you tried, your Grace, you did not extinguish the flame burning inside me that is uniquely me. I believe that children are good and innocent. I believe they’re lovely and useful and worthy of being saved. And most of all, I believe that you are everything you despise.”

  She reached out and poked the Duke in the chest with her metal index finger. He stumbled backwards, his face flickering in confusion.

  “You’re weak. Vulnerable. Blind. Useless. A waste of society’s resources.”

  The Duke straightened up and grabbed her wrist. “You’re stalling. Don’t think I’ll delay.”

  Stall death? That’s the only thing she’d done since her birth. Her papá had broken her time after time, waiting for her to give up, waiting for his punishments to become too overwhelming to handle. Now he would have to hang her to achieve the result he’d worked so hard for.

  He released her and clasped his hands in his familiar painful position behind his back. “But since the opportunity for tru
th presents itself, I will reveal to you what all your cleverness could not uncover.”

  He smiled for the first time Veronica could remember. It was cold, sinister, and black as sin. It made her want to crawl for cover, to do anything to escape the focus of such an expression. Even the soldiers around her shifted. She tried to fold her arms across her chest but found her hands still cuffed. She focused on a spot over her Papá’s left shoulder, unable to keep her eyes on such a horrible, hateful expression. Her empty stomach twisted with dread.

  The Duke spoke softly, his words rich with a sly enthusiasm. “I gave Grillett the funding he needed to start the factories. I told him where to find the orphans. I hired the convicts that work as guards and Enforcers for him. All of it is my doing, you little fool. You think you made a difference? I will undo all of it. Return your precious children to The Grave. Shut down Bridges. Make sure this never happens again.”

  She stumbled. Fell to her knees. It made morbid sense. All of it. His rants about the orphans. The military getting the first pick on all of Grillett’s dirigibles. Her arranged marriage to the ruler of a country that controlled a large amount of fuel. Even the cover Bridges provided so that, should the whole thing be blown wide open, Queen Victoria would never suspect the Duke.

  The Duke stepped back and spoke loudly, “Make her ready!” he ordered.

  A soldier pushed her roughly up the stairs and onto the platform. Another stepped from the thick shadows behind the platform and lifted her hair, fitting the scratchy noose around her neck. The fibers rubbed against her skin, burning and biting, as the soldier tightened the noose. He swept her hair aside, probably to make the cut cleaner.

  She closed her eyes. Emil’s black eyes filled her mind, dark and gentle. Claire’s brown ones followed, soft and trusting.

  “Now!” her Papá ordered.

  Swish.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The day of the execution