The Clockwork Dynasty
Page 7
But our mother still lives.
Catherine will be the empress of all Russia. I shall not harm her—cannot harm her—and yet to honor my duty to Peter…I cannot allow my death, or Elena’s.
I take a step back, my full height perfectly fitting the enlarged doorway to Peter’s bedroom. In light mesh armor and kaftan, I look uncannily like the dead man lying across the room—as I was designed to.
Elena has repositioned her hair. Hunched and damaged, she stands at my side. Her small cool hand locks onto mine.
“By Peter’s command, we will live, Empress,” I say. “We cannot accept death, but, please, for Peter’s honor…allow us to accept exile.”
And with that, we fly.
11
OREGON, PRESENT
The man with an angel’s face is staring at me from the backseat, smiling patiently. The police cruiser continues to coast along the damp highway, my hands welded to the steering wheel. I can’t turn my eyes away from the fascinating wrongness sitting behind me.
My mind is struggling to figure out what is the matter with him. Something hideous in the way his skin folds. An unnatural stillness to his body. The dead light behind his dark blue eyes.
“It’s not polite to stare,” he says conversationally.
His voice is tinged with a Nordic accent, cultured and European. A soft whirring pulses underneath it—the phantom of a whisper. As he reaches for the Plexiglas divider, every instinct in my body is screaming at me to get away from this…this thing.
The lull shatters.
I yank the steering wheel as hard as I can, jamming both feet onto the brakes and sending my face bouncing against the driver’s-side window. The black form in the backseat hardly moves, one hand clamping on the square of Plexiglas between us, sending stress fractures zigzagging through the half-inch thick plastic.
The cruiser noses onto the dirt shoulder and the front tires lock and slide, turning the car and twisting the steering wheel out of my hands. We spin violently, tires screeching, car shuddering over gravel and pavement. When we finally stop, the car rests sideways and slumping, front tires blown, only half on the narrow, empty road.
I’m already clawing at the door handle.
Behind me, I hear the Plexiglas shatter as the man in black reaches for me. Fingers drag across my back as the door groans open. Diving out, my head snaps back as his fingers slither through my hair.
“Fuck! Off!” I’m shouting.
The strength of that hand is inhuman. And his silence is unnerving. The silver-haired man isn’t breathing or grunting or making any noises at all. I only hear the scrabble of my knees on pavement and my own strangled gasps. The Plexiglas cracks inside the cruiser like a gunshot.
“Help!” I shout, stumbling into the middle of the road.
The empty two-lane highway winds away between towering pines. A few hundred yards off, a single utility pole spills a pool of orange-sherbet light on the stained lot of an abandoned gas station.
The police cruiser’s engine is off, siren quieted, headlights cutting across the road.
“Help! Help me!” I call, lurching down the yellow dividing line. My voice is swallowed up by rows of impassive trees. I hear the scrape of motorcycle boots on broken safety glass and don’t bother to turn around.
I run.
The first blow hits me from behind, in the kidney. Sprawling forward onto my knees, I collapse onto all fours with my face lost in greasy strands of my hair. Dirty pavement swims in my eyes as I retch.
“Where is the anima?” asks the silver-haired man.
“I—I don’t—” I gasp, trying to catch my breath.
The man crouches near me. His fingers close around the nape of my neck, and the asphalt becomes a moonscape as he presses my cheek against the ground.
“The relic. The one you reported to Oleg. It was not in the hotel. Where do you keep it?”
His voice sounds almost pleasant.
The artifact hangs around my neck, tucked under my shirt, pressing painfully into my collarbone.
“It’s in the car. In my bag in the cruiser,” I lie.
Spit and sweat and tears are mixing with the tangle of hair around my face. I can smell a hint of ozone as the first sprinkles of rain hit the pavement.
There is no bag in the cruiser. How long until he figures it out?
“Stay here,” he says, standing.
Boots crunch as he walks toward the cruiser. On shaky arms, I push myself up. I’m alone in the middle of an empty rural highway, tears streaking my face. The pines sway as a haze of rain sweeps in from the coast.
And in the distance, through the trees and rain, another pair of headlights blink into view. Another car is coming, thank goodness. The headlights shudder as it hits a dip in the road. It’s coming fast, not slowing.
Standing on the yellow divider, I wave my hands frantically. I can see now it’s a muscle car, glistening black and wrapped in chrome. The driver stares at me over a thick black mustache, his face lit by greenish dashboard lights, gloved knuckles rising like a mountain ridge over the steering wheel. For a split second, I’m frozen in his headlights.
Tires screech as his brakes lock, white smoke boiling up.
I drop to a knee and turn as the car hurtles past, missing me by inches. Hair flying in the hot exhaust, I open my eyes to see the fishtailing muscle car swerve directly toward the man in black. Riding twin streaks of rubber, the beefy car shudders toward the silver-haired man on screaming tires.
The man leaps neatly into the air, over the car.
The muscle car slides past and shivers to a stop in the middle of the road. It waits there for a moment, engine ticking. I hear raindrops hissing as they spatter against the car’s hood. White smoke rises quietly from the tires, and for a moment everything smells like burned rubber mixed with rain.
I watch from a crouch, stunned.
“You should not have come here,” calls the silver-haired man.
A black car door opens.
The man with the mustache ducks out and rises to an enormous height. His face is hidden under curly, tousled brown hair. He casually rests one tan-gloved hand on the roof of his car.
“How long has it been?” he asks.
“Centuries,” says the silver-haired man.
“Not long enough.”
The big man keeps his eyes on his adversary, wary as he moves closer.
“Leave her to me and go,” he says.
The other man smiles, puts his hands out as if in apology.
“You know that’s not possible. The world may be ending, but some secrets must always be kept.”
12
GREAT EUROPEAN PLAINS, 1725
This morning before dawn, Peter the Great, father of his country, founder and emperor of the Russian empire, true sovereign of the northern lands and king of the mountain princes, passed from this world and left no heir. Those of us allied too closely with Peter lost everything. By command of Empress Catherine, newly appointed ruler of Russia, we have been sentenced to death.
And so Elena and I ran, disguised as a father and daughter, leaving behind the only world we ever knew. And it wasn’t long before we attracted notice.
The group of plains bandits saunter toward us, hips rolling in their rain-spattered saddles. I raise my shashka and point the saber at the heart of the nearest man. In response, the mounted bandit smiles at me, his teeth rotting under a bushy black mustache. Four others hold back as he alone moves forward.
Even from this distance, I can see he is eager to close. I lower my saber. The gesture was futile. In a few moments, these men will run us down on the empty plains north of Saint Petersburg.
I will have to fight. And my little sister will fight alongside me.
On tall horses, the bandits that patrol this empty steppe are confident. Short wet grass rolls for hundreds of miles around, each blade glistening purple-green under the lick of lightning and caress of rain.
“Stay close,” I say to Elena.
“We cannot succeed,” she says, and her voice is a melody, the chirping of clockwork birds. Indeed, the mechanism that speaks for her was created from a singing wooden clock that came from the German Black Forest.
Beautiful noises that signify an ugly truth.
These bandits are trained soldiers, deserted from Peter’s imperial army and making a living by preying on travelers. Wearing dark kaftans with red sashes crossed over their chests, the mustached men ride fearlessly with well-worn sabers hanging from their hips. Each is equipped with two saddle-mounted Muscovite flintlock pistols. The leader wears a steel cuirass over his chest and carries a long carbine. The rest carry simple Hussar lances.
“To fight them is not logical,” Elena whispers.
“There is no logic to death,” I say, “but there can be honor in it.”
Pursued by Catherine’s imperial guard, we took a risk and fled across the rolling steppes. We hoped to disappear into the emptiness, but we knew this could happen. Favorini warned us over and over. Our goal has never been simply to survive…we must always protect the secret of our true existence.
The bandit separates from the others, gallops toward us with one hand on the pommel of his saber.
“Stay low, Elena. Survive the onslaught,” I say. “After I am finished, surprise them if you can. If they take you, hide your face.”
“Yes, Peter,” she says.
I shove my cloak to the side, drawing my khanjali. The dagger is double-edged, eleven inches of silver-engraved steel with a pale ivory handle. Long and short, both my hands now sprout fangs.
I am ready.
The horseman yanks the reins and his mount comes to a prancing stop fifty yards away. Steam rises from the black flank of his horse. The others are staying back, eyes sunken under their red hats, watching this sport from a distance.
They expect us to cower. Their voices drift to me on the wind, mushrooms of mist sprouting from bearded faces. I hear a short bark of laughter.
Eyeing my blades, the bandit hesitates. He reaches for his flintlock pistols. Instantly, I lower my nearly seven-foot frame to a knee and place my long and short blades flat on the wet grass. The backs of my hands are made of leather, stained dark with the rain. I can see the wire ropes moving beneath them, creating ridges like foothills. But the man is too far away to guess at what I am.
The bandit leaves his pistols holstered.
As he approaches, I keep my palms pressed to the damp grass. Elena stands at my side. On the open plain with short blades, unarmored, she has no chance in this fight. Her hand is a small weight on my shoulder, like a perched bird.
“Go now,” I tell her, and the sparrow flies.
The lead rider leans into a gallop, closing the distance to where I crouch, waiting on the fertile emptiness of the steppe. I do not look up from where my blades lie as the muscled forelegs of a black horse approach. The beast slows and stops beside me, spraying dirt. The rider does not bother to speak. I hear the slow skim of his blade leaving its scabbard. Hear the creak of his armor as he reaches back, lifting the blade high into the gray-green air.
The bandit lowers his arm and his breath expels as he swings the blade—the motion mechanically pushing air from his diaphragm. At this moment, I roll toward his horse, snaking my long arms over the grass to grip the handles of my blades. The strike misses me, its wake shivering through my hair.
On my knees, I lift the short blade and draw a red line across the horse’s belly. In the same motion, I fall onto my back and shove myself out of the way, watching the surprised face of the rider from below.
Screaming, the horse rears with a slashed belly. A cloud of steam billows up as a flood of hot viscera hits the grass. The rider rolls backward off his falling mount. The horse’s legs buckle and it collapses, unconscious, into its own offal.
The armored horseman is already gaining his feet when I bring the hilt of my short blade down on the crown of his head. His fur-lined helmet shatters the bridge of his nose and he bites off the tip of his tongue. I am already sliding my dagger over his throat, gauging the distance to the sound of pounding hooves.
I dive over both corpses as a hail of hooves spears into the mud around me. Another horse passes by and I hear the shouting of angry men. They will not stop until we are dead now. Standing a little way off, Elena is shouting as well. Her high-pitched voice repeats the same word—almost a melody.
Poshchady! Poshchady!
Mercy, she is screaming.
As blades whistle by overhead, I fall to the wet plain. I scramble onto my hands and knees, sharp hooves flashing over me. Before I can stand, a hoof stamps my sword hand into the dirt.
Two of my fingers are left behind, severed and shining in a muddy crater.
Pulling my shattered fist tight to my chest, I stagger to my feet and raise the shashka with my other hand. The nearest bandit makes a prancing turn and rounds on me. His thighs clenching, the rider leans in his saddle—red sash snapping in the wind as he gains speed.
Silver flashes against black clouds as his saber leaves its scabbard.
I hold my position as the quake of hooves rolls toward me. The bulk of the warhorse is a blur, its breath snorting from flared nostrils as it strains to carry the armored rider at top speed.
I turn, dropping to avoid the bandit’s saber.
Too late. I feel a tug between my shoulder blades. The rider’s saber connects, parts my kaftan, and splits the armor beneath. Broken ringlets of my breastplate scatter past my face like a handful of shining coins.
But my shashka remains up and steady. Its single honed edge slides along the rider’s unarmored thigh. As he gallops away, the leg bounces curiously. It is dangling from nerve endings and tendon. The rider reaches for the wound, grunting at the sight of the injury. As his horse turns in place, craning to look back, the rider rolls out of the saddle. He hits the ground and now the leg comes off, coating the electric green grass with arterial blood.
The horse backs away from its fallen rider, confused.
There is no pain in me. Only awareness. Three more riders are on the attack. My left arm is hanging uselessly now, damaged by the wide gash that lies across my shoulder blades. I stumble and try to catch myself, but my hand is shattered.
I fall onto my stomach, face-first into the muddy plain. Stalks of grass tickle the rough leather of my cheek. This close, I can see that the blades of grass are dancing, vibrating as approaching hooves pound the dirt.
I have done my best, and failed.
“Peter!” shouts Elena. A few yards away, she is a small hump of black coat on a rolling sea of green. I wave my mutilated hand.
“Go,” I gasp.
Arching my body, I lift up and roll onto my back.
“Mercy!” shouts Elena.
A lance crunches into my upper chest, bending the metal of my frame into a deformed valley. I feel the dull crushing pressure, the tremor of the bandit’s hand on the wooden shaft. I hear my innards tearing as the horse gallops by overhead. The lance is wrenched from my chest, yanking me off the ground before dropping me sprawling onto my side. The spear has missed the cradle inside me, and the anima that rests in it.
Somewhere nearby, Elena makes a small hurt sound. She no longer shouts for mercy. She knows there is none to be found.
And though I was never born of a woman, I am in fetal position now. Wounded. Cowering in the way of a mortal man.
Bloodstained hooves trample the mud all around me. The stabbing weight of a hoof snaps a strut inside my right thigh. My leg nearly comes loose from the hip socket, and my body is tossed again through the grass. I land on my stomach this time, one brass cheekbone pushing through my le
ather skin and into damp earth.
Again, I am still.
Now, a gentle rain is drumming the empty waste of the steppe. There is no more thunder. Gathered in a circle a little ways off, the surviving bandits are speaking to one another in confused tones that sound distant and hollow.
Blood, they are saying. Where is the blood?
They marvel that I do not bleed. They are examining the blunted lance tip, noting how clean it is. What armor does this man wear? they wonder. He is mortally wounded, yet he doesn’t cry out.
Elena bursts into a run. She is staying low, legs scissoring under her flowing cloak. This is her best chance of escape, and it is not much of a chance at all. Like predators, the riders spark to the movement. The three of them canter away from me, moving as one to surround her. Lying here in bloodstained mud, stalks of grass caressing my face like damp tentacles, I can only pretend to be a corpse.
It is not so far-fetched. In many ways, I have never been alive.
It took three death blows, enough to kill three men, to fell me.
Te Deum. Thanks to God. I am still functioning.
With one eye open, helpless, I watch through rain-blurred grass as Elena is snatched up by her cloak and thrown over the broad, sweaty back of a warhorse. She does not shout. There is no reason for it. By her Word, Elena never acts without a reason. Bless her. On the horse, her body flops loosely, about the weight of a little girl, and wearing too many clothes for the riders to think any different. For now.
Patience, Elena. Strength.
I leave my eye open and unblinking, letting it appear sightless in death. I do not even allow the pupil to dilate as I observe whatever crosses my field of view. The riders circle close to one another, conferring.
“Koldun,” comes the whisper.
Warlock. Monster. Man with no blood.
The leader wearing the silver cuirass is a superstitious one. “Best not to disturb the corpse,” he advises. “Let us leave quickly with our prisoner.”
Wise advice.
“Clean the field,” he orders. “Leave the dead.”