by M J Moores
“Scythe!”
“Surprise, chickee. Had you thrown that thing at my head, not the ground, you might have knocked me out longer. Clearly, it wasn’t one of your special ones, or I doubt I’d still be breathing.” The assassin leaped forward; her long blades hummed as they sliced through the air.
Louisa raised her arms and jumped back. Twin swords penetrated the sleeves of her black chemise. Bloody hell. I still don’t have any protection from those damn things. She’d been so caught up with Bennett’s deadlines and her temporary move, she hadn’t had time to think about adding extra protection to her uniform. Louisa had hoped her leather coat would be enough, but it wasn’t doing her any good lying on the ground at the bottom of the stairs. She had no way to protect herself.
Not true.
She dipped back, counterbalancing by stretching out a leg and bending the opposite knee. Listening to the rhythm of her heart, Louisa twirled around her foe and punched her in the kidney before dropping à terre, to the ground, as Scythe slashed out. She channeled Alegria, the bullfighting dance, never losing sight of her opponent.
Locking onto Scythe’s sharp, staccato pacing, Louisa used an alternate syncopation to fill the spaces the assassin left open—jabbing and kicking and punching whenever the thief left herself exposed. Louisa spun the woman in circles, etching away at the thief’s equilibrium. But some part of Louisa’s mind chided her for falling into a trap. Scythe kept her busy while Bug worked on the frequency settings. Louisa had forgotten to keep an eye on him, to be as much of a distraction to him as Scythe was to her.
The groan of a large, heavy door heralded his success.
Mafficking nonsense.
No matter how hard she tried, Louisa couldn’t get the advantage. She had nothing to fight with but her body—the orbs and Phoenix pistol useless.
I need a weapon.
Oh yeah? What are you going to do with it?
“Zounderkite,” she cursed herself.
Yer hans are weapons, Joe’s words echoed through her head. They’d only done limited offensive tactics lately as she learned how to handle the gun. Still …
Scythe’s blade flashed past Louisa’s ear, shifting her wild curls.
Now.
Louisa grabbed the thief’s exposed wrist and turned into the woman’s body, avoiding the second blade. Her pulse spiked and every nerve crackled with pent up electricity. Louisa grabbed Scythe’s other wrist, crossing both their arms over Louisa’s chest in an awkward hug.
Scythe growled and shifted her head back. Louisa tilted to the side as the assassin’s forehead met air. She snapped her head to the other side, capturing Scythe in a vice between her ear and shoulder.
“Argh! I’ll eat you alive,” Scythe snarled, trapped.
Louisa worked to find the pressure points on the thief’s wrists. Bug sauntered out from the vault, placing a contraption into his satchel, the displacer hanging from his belt. Louisa pressed into Scythe’s lower forearm and forced the assassin’s grip to freeze. She linked her legs through Scythe’s and wore the slight Filipino as a coat, marionetting her arms, still trapping her face. Louisa couldn’t hold her long, but maybe …
“Set it down, Bug. You’re not going anywhere.” Louisa pointed the tips of Scythe’s blades at the little man, fighting to hold the assassin against her back. Every muscle screamed at her, but this time Louisa wasn’t helpless.
Bug raised his eyebrows. “Well then, Scythe, you look a little tied up. Too bad the boss likes you.” He placed the bag at his feet and pulled the flame launcher from over his shoulder.
“Bloody hell,” Louisa cursed.
She heaved Scythe into the wall and scrambled low, covering her head. Louisa’s arms throbbed but she curled herself into a ball and drew her pistol. Flames scorched the air above her. The door on her right crackled and caught fire. She rolled past it and up onto her knees, shooting a round, extinguishing the flames. Louisa twisted and aimed down the hall, hesitating.
Her hands shook. She tried to swallow past the lump blocking her throat. Down the smoky corridor, a flash of red leather and the business end of the launcher disappeared around the corner. A layer of sweat coated Louisa’s body, the heat making her mask stick to her face. The slimy layer between the leather and her skin surprised her almost as much as freezing up had. It’d never happened before.
She shook herself and jumped to her feet, racing down the hall after the thieves. Luckily, not much could catch fire down there other than the doors to more minor storage rooms. Louisa scurried after the pair, picking up her coat at the base of the stairs and covering her head with it as she rose to denser smoke above.
Damn. He must have set several fires before heading to the vault. Louisa turned toward the path leading out but stumbled over something soft.
It groaned and coughed.
Double damn!
“Argh!” she yelled, abandoning the chase and grabbing hold of the unconscious guard at her feet. As important as that ancient artifact was, lives were worth far more—and the thieves had left several other unconscious guards littered throughout the museum.
She hauled him and another man, each by one hand, across the highly polished floors, her coat over her shoulders and hooding her head to keep the smoke from choking her. Louisa deposited the men outside, but before she turned to go back into the flaming building, a broad, sinewy form hugged the shadows, chasing after Bug and Scythe.
Another minion? She didn’t think so. The body’s movements were too familiar.
Whistles blasted from up the street and a siren wailed. Louisa glanced into the cool night toward safety but shook her head and plunged back into the smoky furnace. She knew where the other two guards lay. If they perished, their deaths would be on her head.
Louisa collected the unconscious men and dragged them to a side window just off the atrium. She needed to avoid running smack into the constabulary on her way out. She opened the window and grappled with the dead weight of the men, levering each out of the window, hoping they didn’t hit their heads as they tumbled to the ground. Louisa perched on the ledge, flung her coat back from her head, and leaped from the window frame to the far side of the guards.
Raised voices and hollers mingled with whistle blasts. Several firefighters with buckets raced around the front corner of the building. Louisa turned to run but staggered with the weight of a man clinging to her ankle. She tried to shake him off, but he only held tighter.
“Look! It’s the Phoenix,” a fireman shouted.
“Codswallop,” she cursed and yanked an orb from her pouch. Shards grazed her knuckles, broken orbs from her fight with Scythe. She smashed the device on the ground sending out a jolt of electric energy. The blast drew more attention, but the guard let go.
She ran.
Dashing for the deepest shadows away from the museum, Louisa crashed into someone hiding there. She staggered back. Hands gripped her wrists before she could react.
“You’re under arrest,” the familiar, condescending voice ground out. He slapped a pair of heavy cuffs on her wrists and yanked Louisa into the nearby lantern light.
Hersh. The inspector who’d done nothing about Bennett’s break-and-enter three weeks ago.
“What are you doing? I’m here to help. The real thieves are getting away.”
Hersh yanked her forward, his billy club out and at the ready. “You’re a menace, not a help. There’s no proof that you aren’t with the others. Why else would you be here, be at every location, before the police are even notified?”
Because I’m a better sleuth than you are. “Why would I stick around and rescue guards, from a burning building no less, if I was a thief? Your logic is flawed. Just because I have an idea where to look, doesn’t mean I’m one of the bad guys.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re one of the good guys either, Phoenix.”
He pushed her into the waiting paddy wagon as officers and firefighters worked to save the city landmark and its art.
“You’re mak
ing a mistake.”
“I don’t think so.” He leaned forward and yanked off her mask. Waves of dark curly hair cascaded up around her face as the ribbon tying it to her head swept the tresses.
“No!” She tried to cover her face, but he pulled the cuffs down.
With a grunt, a narrow-eyed stare, and a slam of the door, he left her naked and vulnerable. It didn’t matter she was fully dressed; without her mask she was nothing. Nothing but a bastard stuck between worlds and incarcerated for a crime she didn’t commit.
The box-like wagon jostled forward, knocking Louisa off balance. She dropped to her hands and knees. A violent shudder rippled through her as a familiar fear leached from the too-close walls and invaded her mind.
Her ten-year-old self looked up from the filthy wagon floor covered in used animal straw. Four other girls huddled together at the back of the covered wagon. Louisa’s mother, only twenty-seven but looking every bit seventeen, groaned and lifted herself up. The rumble and sway knocked her onto her elbows, and a large bump clattered her teeth. But she pushed herself up and looked around. Having to watch out for herself for ten years meant her mother no longer bore the experience of a scorned and abandoned teenager—but the wisdom of a hardened woman.
“Stand up! All of you,” she’d commanded.
They had, even Louisa. Especially Louisa.
“Come here and line yourselves up facing that wall. Now, on the count of three …”
“Run forward and back,” Louisa’s seventeen-year-old self said aloud and stood up in the small cave-like space. She was the only one this time, but she was twice as tall, three times as strong, and determined as hell to be free.
And she ran.
From one side to the other, Louisa flew up each wall and pressed her body into the side with all her strength and momentum. Back and forth and back until a deep sway rocked the wagon up onto the apex of two wheels.
Louisa hovered in the air, determination etched onto her features.
She held her breath.
The paddy-wagon toppled.
The door cracked and sprang open.
Louisa collapsed onto the wall-turned-floor and scrambled out into the night, slipping between two buildings, heart pummeling her chest. She launched herself from one inky shadow to the next, some small part of her brain struggling to determine where she was and reclaim her bearings. Her breath came in bursts, her heart (a mile ahead) pulled her from one alley and lane to the next until she slammed into another living shadow.
Lightning & Thunder
L ouisa staggered back, holding her arms up to shield her face. A broad man covered head-to-foot in brown leathers grabbed her forearms and pulled her toward him. A bone-deep ache gnashed through her arms. She gasped and shuddered.
“Phoenix, it’s me. Are you all right?” The familiar baritone voice rumbled through her, warming her from her ears to her toes. He let go of her arms and clarity returned.
“Morrie?”
“Shh—no names. Are you all right?” A hint of concern laced his tone. Something she hadn’t detected since the night they’d met.
“I think so. I—Hersh—”
“Hersh?”
“Inspector Hersh. He caught me coming out of the museum. Tossed me in the wagon. I saw—did you chase after Bug and Scythe?”
“Yes, but when you didn’t follow, I got worried. The paddy-wagon, you say? How did you get out?”
Louisa sighed and lost her equilibrium, wavering. Morrie caught her and gently turned her face to look up at him. Her eyes remained downcast. Her heart constricted. Now he knows. With his fingers supporting her chin, his leather-clad thumbs traced the ridge of her cheekbone. Louisa’s gaze flickered up and met the multi-layered pieces of oblong glass that formed a darker central oval covering his eyes. The slight triangular extension over his nose and the multi-tonal browns and beiges flaring out from his eyebrow ridge gave him a hawk-like appearance.
His voice resonated low like thunder, “Your mask is gone.”
“Hersh, again.” She tugged her chin away and looked down, her wild curly locks tumbling to hide her embarrassment. “And now you know who I am. Please don’t tell—”
Morrie held up a hand. “Wait. You’ve guarded your identity closely these past weeks—wouldn’t even let me take those blasted goggles off to clean that gash on your head when we first met. Here.” He caught her hand and brought her fingers to touch her face where her mask usually rested. “Give a rub.”
She pressed into the skin and moved already slick fingers around before looking at them.
“Black?”
“Shoe polish, I’d say. I can’t see much but you look like a raccoon.” Morrie moved closer. The commotion by the museum grew louder, carrying on the crisp fall night air. “What’s that? Blood?” He pulled Louisa closer and tilted her chin up again. His warm breath caressed her cheek. Her heart hiccupped. She held her breath.
Morrie slid his free hand along the sleeve of her leather jacket, caught her laced palm, and lifted it to eye-level. The bare tips of her fingers glistened red.
“You’re bleeding.” His gaze searched her head to boot. “You’re hurt.”
“I didn’t think I was.” She looked at her hand and followed the trail back up under the coat sleeve. “Scythe. She must have nicked me with her swords.”
“You fought her unarmed?”
“My arms worked just fine, thank you.”
Morrie cocked his head to the side, pursing his full lips. She couldn’t take her eyes off them. But then, the sweep of his neck led to such broad shoulders and strong arms. Arms kept hidden under layers of fabric during the day now rippled beneath the form-fitting leather bodysuit.
Louisa blinked. What am I thinking? She stepped back but her head spun and she lost her balance again.
“Whoa, there. You’re light-headed. Must have lost a lot of blood. Come on. We have to get you out of here.”
“But—but what about the artifact? The whole reason …” She couldn’t think straight.
“Don’t worry. I don’t have it, but I know where it is. Come on.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and nudged her forward. Louisa’s legs automatically picked up the pace, and they jogged together all the way back to the tavern. By the time they arrived, Morrie mostly carried Louisa as she focused on moving her feet. He led her right past the lower-level side door.
“W-what?” She glanced back. “I don’t understand.”
“Remember our conversation last night? I mentioned working on something so we wouldn’t be meeting in my room constantly?”
She vaguely recalled him muttering something like that. He guided her to the dead end and hoisted her up onto the brick wall attached to the rear of the building.
“Just drop down onto the patio,” he said.
Louisa held her breath to steady her spinning head and slipped over the edge. Morrie followed close after, gathered Louisa to his side, and unlocked the back door to the main floor.
Where was he hiding the key? No pockets on that suit … She stared at the way his muscles flexed and moved under the soft leather.
He led her into the dim building—large sheets covered furniture-like shapes as he brought her, without faltering, through the maze of rooms to the stairs at the front. Louisa tried to lift her feet to climb to the second floor, but she tripped and turned an ankle.
“Dagnabbit,” she cursed. Morrie’s arm tightened around her. She wanted to lean into the strong warmth of his body and fall asleep but something in the back of her mind screamed; she just couldn’t make out the words … Oh, that was it—walk. Louisa focused again on making it up the stairs without falling.
At the top, Morrie left her leaning against the wall. He moved through the sparsely furnished open space, lighting candles and small kerosene lamps. He picked up a larger candle with a holder, collected her from the wall, and carried her into the next chamber. The sheets draped in this room did nothing to disguise the four-poster bed against the far fall. But he d
idn’t stop in the room filled with ghosts; Morrie took her into the loo and placed her atop a closed commode.
He kneeled before her and slipped the coat from around her shoulders. Oversized, it fell easily away from her arms. Louisa stared at the shredded fabric of her black chemise, hiding her finer facial feature behind her mass of curls. She might still be wearing a “mask” but he would recognize her if he held the light too close.
Gingerly, Morrie unclasped the pearl buttons holding the fabric tight to her wrists and guided first one hand, then the other, through the long slits in the silky material.
She shuddered. Blood coated her arms. Twin slices drew angry red lines from her inner elbows to her outer wrists. The gouges near her elbows throbbed. Morrie removed his gauntlet-like gloves and nudged the torn flesh.
Louisa gasped.
It was more than just a scratch … a lot more.
“It’s okay, Phoenix. I mean, most of it is superficial. Your blood has started to clot but these areas here”—he drew a line in the air above a two-inch section near her elbows—“I’m concerned about. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” He looked at the floor and held the backs of her hands, keeping her sliced arms face up.
“You can fix me, right?” she whispered.
He frowned and looked at her from the side before setting her hands on her knees and shoving his mask back. “Let’s get you cleaned up so I can see how bad they really are.”
Louisa nodded. Her eyes fluttered closed only popping open at the sound of cloth tearing. A mirror hung above a basin with a decorative faucet. On the second floor? Running water in a commode like this meant upper-class perks.
“Wh-where are we?” she asked.
Morrie’s face appeared before her. Close. Too close? He stared first into one eye and then the other.
“Stay with me now. Let’s get your arms fixed up. Do you prefer whiskey or bourbon?”
Louisa gave him a squinty-eyed look. “Neither. I don’t drink. And whatever you gave me in my tea last time doesn’t count.”
“You need something. I can make up a salve to help numb the pain after, but I don’t have any pharmaceuticals—and nothing is open right now. That leaves alcohol, and not just for disinfecting.”