“That would be wise of you, Mr. Stuart.” Klio hooked her arm around his elbow. “Very wise.”
The confines of the ship limited the number of spectators who could attend the Game. Even so, Klio marveled at the array of onlookers.
Tiered rows of seats ascended from the floor of the deck, allowing a clear view to those unfortunate enough to be seated farthest from the players. The rows had been divided into six sections. Entrance into each section was carefully monitored to ensure there would be no mingling between the factions. In other settings, interactions between the groups wasn’t unheard of, but at this juncture, with so much on the line, such meetings could prove too volatile.
Klio walked at Stuart’s side to the front of the Coven’s section. The seats in each row were filled with richly dressed men and women, most bearing haughty expressions that vanished when they turned smiles of admiration or envy on their appointed champion. Those appreciative looks became curious, suspicious, or downright disdainful when they shifted from Stuart to Klio.
The opinions of these witches and warlocks troubled Klio not at all, but her skin crawled with the power that emanated from their ranks. The use of any kind of magic was strictly forbidden at the Game, both to prevent cheating and to protect the players from an arcane assault. That restriction, however, couldn’t prohibit existing magic that seeped from the very pores of this faction. They reeked of it.
The Coven wasn’t unique in its power, only in the form it took. To one side of the Coven were the sidhe. While the air around the Coven crackled with magic, the sidhe bathed in starlight. Fireflies and songbirds danced in the air around them as they indulged in food and drink. It was difficult to look upon the faeries without longing to join them; to gaze on their beautiful forms was to hear the song of a siren. A beautiful torment.
An altogether different lot sat on the other side of the Coven. While the sidhe suffused their surroundings with the tinkling chimes of their chatter and the silvery cascades of their laughter, the goblins offered a cacophony of screeches, roars, hisses, and snarls. Their ranks were made up of the small and gnarled and the tall and stick limbed, with skin in every hue of green, purple, brown, and gray.
Beside the goblins sat the wolves. Of all the factions, the wolves had the fewest spectators. Many of the rows in their section sat empty, and the handful of attendees was half human and half wolf, the latter roaming the aisles restlessly.
The next two factions, necromancers and vampires, were indistinguishable in their ghost-pale skin, but the necromancers favored hooded robes that shadowed their faces, while the vampires were attired in the finery of the moment, interested in attracting admiration rather than avoiding attention.
Klio’s gaze moved from group to group. The wolves might present the most significant risk — the absence of spectators could be the result of others aboard the ship yet not at the tourney, giving them the chance to stir up trouble elsewhere. The vampires were difficult to assess. The atmosphere of their section emitted ease and celebration, but few creatures could rival vampires when it came to deception and misdirection.
“It’s time.” Stuart drew his arm away from Klio but surprised her when he caught her hand in his and lifted her silk-gloved fingers to his lips. “My life is in your hands.”
Crackling anticipation exploded into shouts, roars, and applause as the six champions descended the steps from their sections to take their seats at the round table where the Game would be played: the hooded necromancer, whose robes obscured even his or her sex; the pale vampire woman with flaxen curls piled atop her head; a goblin with chartreuse skin and long bony fingers; a wolf in human guise, hulking and resentful as he glowered at his opponents; the faerie with skin like bark and hair of leaves; and finally Stuart, a warlock who approached the table with the swagger of someone who’d already won.
As the pastimes of each era changed, so changed the Game to mirror the world of the war whose fate was to be decided. Klio knew that the Game had taken many forms: the hunt, a footrace, a match of wits. In 1861 the Game would be poker.
The dealer was a woman called Naomi. Not precisely a woman — a shade, the spirit of a mortal summoned for the sole purpose of serving this role. Her neutrality was guaranteed by the summoning itself, a feat accomplished by the cooperation of a delegate from each faction.
While Naomi expounded upon the rules of the Game, Klio began to sweep the room with her eyes, alert to any sign of danger. The first hand was dealt. Play began.
No visual cue caused Klio alarm. Rather, a subtle prickling along her spine made her turn just in time to catch a figure darting out of her peripheral vision. The furtive quality of movement was enough to compel Klio to investigate. She felt a pang below her ribs as she wished Whitby were with her and could remain to watch the Game.
Keeping her stride casual and her expression diffident, Klio traced a path to the place she’d seen the figure vanish. She briefly considered the door that offered exit, but instead turned her attention to the space beneath the rows of spectators. This deck of the Fortuna had clearly been repurposed to host the tournament. Whether it served as a dining hall or ballroom under normal circumstances, the tiers of seating had been erected for temporary use. Below the rows of spectators was a skeleton of wooden beams that supported the weight of those above.
Klio glanced at the exit once more, then slipped into the darkness beneath. She couldn’t see her prey, but a trail of magic lingered that she could follow. What she sensed at the moment was simply power, the potential for devastating acts but not the execution of such. Whoever she pursued commanded the arcane with prowess.
After loosening each of the fingers of her gloves, Klio slid them off and tucked them into the small silk purse that hung from her wrist. Her skin warmed, and she felt the shifting of her flesh in anticipation of a fight.
Tension hummed in the air as the crowd above vacillated from rapt silence to outbursts of delight and dismay. Klio moved with light steps, taking care to avoid catching her full skirts on the crisscross of wood beams. She ducked, twisted, and shimmied, letting her gaze float freely to spot any sign of her quarry. Parting her lips, she took a breath, hoping to pinpoint the elusive figure, but the mingled odor and taste of so many bodies packed into this enclosed space made it impossible for her to discern anything specific.
The quality of light began to shift as she neared the edge of the Coven’s section. In another few moments she’d emerge from beneath the block of seats and into the walkway that separated the Coven and the sidhe.
Where had the stranger disappeared to?
Klio didn’t know whether to wait for another sign of movement or continue on to the space below the sidhe. She slowed. When she drew her next breath, she tasted ash.
“Whitby?” Had she been tracking her own partner? She’d never made such a foolish mistake in the past.
The crowd erupted into a chaos of sound. Someone had played an astonishing hand or pulled off an incredible bluff. The sound was so great, Klio almost missed the rustling above her.
The heavy weight of a hard masculine body dropped onto her shoulders, knocking her to the ground. Pain flashed through her right shoulder when she fell against a beam, its corner biting into her flesh. Her adversary had the advantage of surprise, but he’d given up control by choosing to fall onto her. Klio seized the opportunity to push off the beam and throw her weight against her attacker, taking them both to the ground.
She pinned her opponent, digging her knees into his chest and stretching her arms toward his throat. Heat radiated from his body, discomfort that promised to become pain. Despite the threat of imminent injury, Klio went still. Cold flooded her limbs even as she felt heat scorching through the satin of her skirt.
Only one creature had this defense.
Silver flashed at Klio in the dark. Silver eyes.
“Whitby.” Klio choked out his name.
“I’m sorry, Klio.” Whitby’s voice, so seldom used, rasped like desert wind. “I can’t
fight it.”
Klio rolled off her friend, ignoring the way her skirts smoked. “What are you talking about? Fight what?”
To Klio’s alarm, Whitby jumped up, looming over her.
His voice was like a crack of thunder. “I didn’t think it could be done. I thought the magics long lost.”
“Tell me what you mean.” Klio stood, though she felt tremulous and childlike in comparison to Whitby’s menacing stance — something she’d never seen directed at her before.
“He found, he made.” Silver tears gleamed on Whitby’s cheeks. “I must obey.”
He lifted his hands. Cracks ran over them, up and down his arms, gold and scarlet dancing beneath his flesh.
“Whitby, don’t!” Klio took several steps back until she came up against a beam. “Stop this.”
“I can’t, Klio.” He still wept, even as he advanced on her. “Forgive me and do me one last honor.”
“Whitby . . .” Klio was shaking. She understood none of this, only her terror and the sorrow of betrayal.
“Honor me, dear friend.” Whitby was terribly close. “Take my life, so that I cannot take yours.”
“No.”
“I beg you.” Flames rippled along his fingertips. “Do not make me serve him. Save yourself.”
Rage had overtaken Klio’s fear. What monster had stolen her friend’s will? Who dared make Whitby a slave?
Whitby stopped mere inches from Klio, and she could see it took immense effort for him to hold off his assault. “I will not harm you.” Whitby’s voice shook from the strain of battling whatever unseen force controlled him. “You are the only solace I’ve found in this world. You must know that.”
Klio choked on her sob. “There has to be something, some other way —”
“You can only free me with death, Klio.” Whitby’s teeth gnashed as he struggled against his unseen master.
Klio knew she couldn’t hesitate. Couldn’t think. Whitby held on to the barest shred of control. Forcing herself into action and banishing all emotion, she dove to Whitby’s right and rolled past him. She paused on the balls of her feet, then pivoted and rose. Standing directly behind him, Klio lashed her arms out, aiming for the back of his neck.
The twin serpents coiled around each of Klio’s arms sprang to life. Four hissing heads lifted and struck, fangs burying themselves in the flesh of Whitby’s neck. With a gasp, Whitby stiffened. The serpents released their prey and drew back. Only when Whitby collapsed, falling face-first to the ground, did the snakes return to their slumber — living, deadly creatures dormant as if they were ink needled into Klio’s skin.
Klio dropped to her knees at Whitby’s side. The searing heat had fled his body. His breath came in dry, shallow rattles. He turned his face toward Klio, offering her a weak smile.
“Thank you, my friend.”
Whitby shuddered as his body began to crumble.
For a long time, Klio sat and wept silently, letting the pile of sand at her side pour through her hands.
Hamilton Stuart entered his cabin, bedecked in the glow of victory. Klio awaited him on the same sofa she’d occupied just hours before.
Stuart paused in the doorway when he saw her.
“Did you hear the good news?” he asked her. He went to the side table to decant himself a drink.
“You won,” Klio replied. “Congratulations to Mr. Cromwell on another century of rule.”
“I wouldn’t congratulate Cromwell just yet.” Stuart took his seat opposite her. “He didn’t win the game. I did.”
“From your tone I gather you expect more than praise for your victory?”
“Indeed.” His gaze traveled over her singed dress, pausing on the brass oil lamp she held in her lap. “I’m sorry to have put you through such an ordeal, but I needed to know just how good you are. You see, I didn’t bring you here to protect me during the gaming.”
“I gathered as much,” Klio said, watching him calmly. This exterior serenity was a boon of her kind. She could keep her most turbulent emotions in check until the appropriate moment to unleash them arrived.
“But I do want to engage your services,” Stuart continued. “Permanently. You belong among those who are likewise the paramount of their kind. The Coven outmatch all the other factions, but many within our ranks believe it’s time for Cromwell to step aside —”
“And you’ve just proven you’re the one to take his place,” Klio finished.
“I know you have long been isolated, but there is much, much more I can offer you. I will lead the Coven into a new era. After this ridiculous war ends, the West will be open and it will be the visionaries, the innovators, who shape the future. Surely you see that.”
“And Whitby? Had he no future, in service to the Coven or otherwise?” Klio’s fingers traced the shape of the brass lamp.
“A creature of his nature could only hold you back,” Stuart said with a disapproving frown. “I’ve had you watched for months now, and while it was clear you needed no one other than yourself to thrive in your work, you chose attachment to one lesser than yourself. I pitted the djinn against you to show you that.”
“I see.”
“And to be perfectly frank”— Stuart smiled, pleased with himself — “it was to indulge my own curiosity. No one has attempted to entrap a djinn in centuries. The magic required to complete the task seemed simple enough, but I didn’t know if it would be possible, particularly on one like your Whitby, who was only part djinn.”
“But you succeeded.” Klio set the lamp beside her on the sofa. “I must confess that your experiment puzzles me. Did you not imply that I would accept this contract because I abhor slavery?”
“I do remember raising that point,” Stuart replied, with a faint crinkling of his brow.
“Yet you chained Whitby with your spell.” Klio tamped down the welling grief that tried to climb from her belly into her throat. “You took his freedom and made his body and his magic subservient.”
“Yes,” Stuart said, still smiling. “You could interpret my actions in that way, but I’d advise you to think of the djinn’s role in this little play of ours as the sacrificial hero. His death elevated you to the station you deserve. While you may grieve the loss of your companion, he was a djinn, and you must know that in the natural order, djinn were meant to serve.”
“I understand.” Klio stood. “You only meant to help me. To show me how I’d misjudged my place, and Whitby’s place.”
She began to pull off her gloves, and Stuart drew in a sharp breath.
“I can kill you before you blink again,” he snapped.
Klio laughed. “I know that, Hamilton. But you wanted to see what I have hidden. That’s all I’m doing. Showing you.”
Stuart relaxed a bit, but his eyes were still sharp, his posture wary.
Klio let her gloves drop to the ground.
“Oh, my.” Stuart forgot his reservation and leaned down, gazing at the twining serpents on Klio’s arms. “Marvelous.”
“Thank you,” Klio said. “They are the primary manifestation of my ancestry, and my weapon of choice.”
“A fine, fine weapon, Klio.” Stuart dared to lift her hand to his lips. “They are almost as beautiful as you are. Almost.”
“You flatter me, Hamilton,” Klio demurred. “Do you know that my ancestors had more than the serpents in their arsenal?”
Stuart tilted his head, regarding her curiously. He still held her hand in his. “I know the history of the gorgons, my dear girl. But it’s been well documented that the other traits of your kind were bred out generations ago. The only lingering evidence of your heritage being the serpentine shape and color of your eyes.”
“Of course you must be right.” Klio gripped his fingers tight and smiled. “Since you understand the true nature of all creatures so very well.”
She lifted her veil.
History and fantasy have long been twin passions of mine. Having earned a PhD in early modern history, I’ve spent many hours poring o
ver crackling papers and aged maps in search of hidden narratives within the historical record. Writing historical fantasy presents a particular treat of taking the known and infusing it with magic and mystery. “High Stakes” let me delve into the world of one of my favorite, and much-maligned, creatures of myth while also examining the volatile culture of America on the brink of civil war.
EVERY AUTUMN, AFTER THE LEAVES have faded from emerald to gold, my grandmother throws the most magnificent ball in Washington. No expense is spared — for Grandmama says that this is the Van Persies’ way — and she opens our coffers to purchase crates of champagne, platters of baked oysters, and bouquets of hothouse flowers so delicate that they wither come morning.
It’s quite the lavish spectacle.
And I’m afraid it’s all a terrible waste.
For over a year, our nation has been torn asunder between North and South, but will a war stop Grandmama from hosting her favorite fete? Certainly not. Because this year she has made very special plans.
“Elizabeth, dear,” she has been saying for weeks, “now that your schooling is finished, you must turn your thoughts to marriage. No, no, don’t shake your head at me. I’ve invited the city’s most eligible bachelors to that ball, and I’ll see to it that there’ll be a wedding by Easter.”
“But Grandmama —” I’ve said every time, hoping that she’d put such thoughts out of her mind and that she’d call me Lizzie for once.
“That’s quite enough! Now then, come rub my shoulders.”
I sighed and sighed again, but I did as she asked because Grandmama reigns over our family (and the entire capital for that matter) with a gloved fist. I swallowed my protests too because she’d box my ears if I shared my opinion about a springtime wedding — for I find the idea to be horrifying. I’m only seventeen just! My own mother, may she rest in peace, didn’t wed my father until age twenty-two, which allowed her to finish her schooling, write columns for an abolitionist newspaper, and eventually find a love match. I dream of a similar path for myself.
A Tyranny of Petticoats Page 10