“You are quite the stalker, Lucas Johnson.”
Lucas nearly fell over his own enormous feet as he turned to her. His mouth hung open, an indignant look upon his face. He stumbled for words to defend himself.
“Never mind, you. Come on,” she said, saving him from the embarrassing moment and having to come up with a lie. “We need to find him, unless you already know where he is?” She couldn’t help but add a wisecrack. Lucas stood stock-still.
Landa stopped, turned to face him, and bent a little at the waist, holding her top hat to keep it from falling. She exaggerated patting her own knees like she was beckoning a dog to her. “Come on, boy. Come. Good boy.”
Lucas’s body slowly eased out of its lockup, and he followed her.
“Finally I’m not chasing you for a change,” she commented as he trailed behind her.
The area the Havelands lived in was not for the hoi polloi, the towering homes too expensive and ornate. Landa’s father had a good income, which meant they were able to live in a well-to-do neighborhood, but she still had to travel a good deal to get to Gavin’s house. It took some time for them to walk all the way from their preparatory school. They turned down Gavin’s walk, where the trees parted to reveal the expansive tower-adorned mansion in which Gavin lived.
She knew he hated the house for its magnitude and haughtiness but also knew they loved playing in it as kids. The brown brick exterior dragged out for a long block, and its pointed towers on all the walls held court over the neighborhood. The hundred windows were each lead lined and etched with intricate designs for the wealthy and extravagant.
The house contained spiral staircases they could slide down, turrets to sit in and read while listening to the rain, and, most impressively, a retractable roof in the center of the building that revealed a steam cannon. The cannon could be drawn and armed to defend the home from any attackers in a few short ticks, if needed. The best defensive machines would, of course, be deployed to aid a councilman.
They lifted the brass-ring knocker and listened as the machines whirled to life behind the door, turning an unseen set of cogs until a succession of hammers struck metal bells and the Westminster Quarters chimes resounded throughout the house. Landa knew how Gavin felt. No matter how much she found the gears of the defensive machines or the levers controlling almost every daily function in the home intriguing, Gavin thought of it as an empty, motherless prison.
With an ominous creak, the tall door opened. “Gavin?” asked Jacobson Haveland, standing in the doorway. Mr. Haveland looked distraught, or at least more distraught than Landa had ever known him to be. His wavy brown hair still held his signature front curls, which made their way into the dinner table conversations of many a young lady across London. His pale gray eyes, however, held worry and maybe some fear. Both were things she had never seen there before.
“No, sir, Mr. Haveland. We, oh, have you met Lucas? Lucas Johnson?” She turned to gesture to Lucas standing behind her, who fidgeted from foot to well-heeled foot. She misjudged his height and craned her neck up high to look into his face.
“It’s an, uh, honor to make your, um, acquaintance, sir,” Lucas spat out, his hand hanging awkwardly in the air.
“Yes, fine,” Jacobson replied, absentmindedly accepting Lucas’s eager shake. “Lilandra, have you seen my son today?”
“Lilandra?” Lucas asked, one of his eyebrows arched to the sky in curiosity. Landa looked sideways at him with enough ice in her glare to sufficiently imply this point of fact was not the most important thing at the moment.
“We were… that is… the two of us… Lucas and I… looking for him to work on a school project.” Landa regretted saying it.
“What project, pray tell, would my son be working on with a clockworker like yourself?”
“So he isn’t home, then, sir?” Lucas asked. Landa was impressed. For a tick, her brain’s flywheel had gotten stuck, as if a grease clump had fallen at the junction and struggled to break through.
“No, he most certainly is not. Do you think,” Jacobson said, his tone becoming imperious and dangerous, “that I would be asking you if you knew where he was if he were in my own home?”
“No, sir,” they said in unison.
Jacobson took his hand off the door and straightened his ascot. He stood tall, a little straighter than when he first answered the door.
“If you see Gavin, you tell him he must come home immediately, Lilandra. It is imperative that I speak with him.”
Landa nodded as she pushed Lucas backward away from Jacobson, always the polished politician. Landa didn’t practice politics at school. She labored with the binary of what did or didn’t work. She never studied the fine arts of manipulating people, but she could tell Jacobson wanted much more than to talk to his son. He had never before asked her to get Gavin. He had never once even said Gavin’s name in her presence without following it with some correction, petty or otherwise.
Jacobson did not appear to care for his son, in her eyes. Wanting to speak to him? Since when? No, they most definitely would find Gavin first and would not be sending him home.
JACOBSON HAD become the youngest person ever to set his sights on and actually climb to a seat at the table. Despite the laws against magick and all the consequences, he had used far too much of the devil’s ways to get the British Empire where it was. He wouldn’t let anyone undo it, especially a son hell-bent on flying the skies instead of truly commanding them.
He looked across the lawn, where his operatives hid amongst trees and in the windows of the houses across the row. He had planted them there as soon as he had some time to think about the prophecy the faerie had shared. He believed it. No creature could stand to lie under the machine’s power. He loved his son, even though the boy eschewed all efforts to make him into a great and powerful man. If what he saw in the vision was true, his son was too dangerous to leave out in the open. No, he needed to be in custody, to be questioned, studied, and controlled.
Jacobson nodded toward the agents and pointed to Landa and Lucas as they walked away.
Magick. Why did it have to be his son?
A Pirate’s Life, Then
THE SPANISH galleon creaked and groaned. Its old salted bones strained against pulling gravity as it rose and left the ocean waves. It was a magnificent sight to see, or so Orion imagined. His view was hidden by barrels of pork or lard or whatever foul-smelling thing he crouched near.
The crew hoisted ropes and sheets as they prepared to set sail. Orion hadn’t needed to use any of his powers to distract anyone at all. However, remaining on deck was not an option. Orion’s presence would not be tolerated as a stowaway. If found in the open by the flight warlock or anyone loyal to the Brotherhood, he’d be seen as a traitor, skulking away. A deserter. And there was only one end for a traitor.
As the ship’s complement settled into their routine farther out over the sea, Orion spied a high officer, a purser, leave his cabin. He slipped in before the door latched, thinking he’d have several hours before being disturbed.
He pulled a tray from a dresser and placed it on the floor. He emptied his pouch on it. It had a small lip, which he imagined kept items from rolling to the floor during heavy swells. They did their job and stopped his scrying instruments from crashing as the ship swayed. He spread out the items. There were packets of powder, a small book wrapped closed with a leather strap, and small vials. He reached with reverence for a small silver bowl. Once it held center space, he cleared the other items.
Orion grasped his green cloak hood and pulled it off his head with his long, gloved fingers. He tousled and stroked his hair back and forth several times before giving up. He knew vanity was a pointless endeavor on his mission, but old habits died hard. Who was there to impress anyway? He took a pitcher from the washing table and dripped water into the little bowl until its silver bottom covered over. His muttered incantations turned it cloudy.
Orion’s eyes remained softly closed, and his breathing quickened its p
ace. His body had given in to magick. He opened his eyes, ready to see into the scrying bowl. In the reflection he saw his hair had turned white, his eyes matched the silver of the bowl. He was ready. He dipped a finger into the water and sent ripples cascading inside the dish until images appeared.
“Now let’s see the face of the person I’m to find in the filthy, cog-covered England,” Orion whispered. He leaned forward. The ripples settled and revealed a hilly landscape, rolling with green pastures and craggy rocks strewn about as if placed in each position as part of some great, ancient puzzle. “Éire? I just left there. Reveal,” he whispered and waved a hand in a circle above the bowl.
The image did not dissipate. He was taken closer into the countryside, people becoming clearer. It was a ragtag encampment of some kind. “Interesting.”
Closer still, the image homed in on a female figure surrounded by many people, as if she were giving a speech or acting, or maybe teaching. He couldn’t tell.
“Who are you?” he asked. The bowl responded and showed her more closely. She looked a strong woman, with dark hair and gray eyes. That wasn’t quite right. They were, in fact, filled with a fire Orion knew, like the one gone missing from his Aunt Siobhán. His sadness mixed with the spell and caused it to become obscured and faint. He shook off the heavy feelings and focused, the effort sending sweat from his forehead down his cheeks. If he kept this up, he would pass out from the effort, but he knew his answer would come.
He memorized the landscape around this vivacious woman. It wavered in a manner known to him, a vision of the future unfolding. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a threesome of people his age. There were two boys and a girl. The girl wore an odd hat, the likes of which he’d never seen. He leaned forward, and his hood fell over his head so far his nose almost touched the scrying bowl. He smelled something… nice. He couldn’t place it, but it was thick, like the black grease shipbuilders used, but it didn’t smell bad somehow.
Wait. How had he smelled anything? He had never experienced this before. Was it one of the people he scried who smelled like this? He had to know. He abandoned good sense, knowing the strain would cost him, and focused harder.
The image of one of the boys grew larger until he could almost see the face, and then…. Orion fell unconscious to the floor. His head thumped against the bed rack fastened to the wall of the ship. His hair quickly changed back to brown. If he had been conscious, he would have seen the face of the boy looking at the woman with much interest.
A MUSCLED, veiny forearm attached to an enormous fist wrapped in Orion’s shirt, and his vision blurred as he was shaken back and forth. This person bounced Orion’s head against the wall. His eyes fluttered open and the scene came into focus.
“Who the fuck are you, whelp?”
“Wuh…,” Orion spit out, not entirely sure what he had gotten into.
“I said tell me in a quickness who ya’ is.” The man was thick around the middle and foul of breath.
Orion was confused. He must have passed out from the strain of scrying so intensely. He had never…. There’d be time to think about that later. The big pirate shook him. Yes, that took priority. Then maybe he’d have to pay some notice to the several giants behind him.
Orion felt deep inside for his magick. He knew he’d pushed too far, too intensely. He found it not too deep below the surface. He had regained some of his strength, so he had to have been unconscious for quite some time. Having power back meant all was not lost.
“Lookit ’im. He looks like you done gone and made ’im mad, Bandit.” The men guffawed.
“You’ll say plenty when I toss ya’ out the porthole,” Bandit said. “Time to die, stowaway.” The other men loudly agreed as they started dragging Orion toward the stairs.
“No, listen,” Orion shouted. “I’ve been sent—” A rock-hard slug to the jaw answered his plea.
“I’ve heard enough from this spy. Toss him now.” The crowd responded with jeers and grabbing hands. They started lifting him backward, his head already out the porthole. He turned his head to the blue sea far, far below. Orion was spurred to desperate action, and he needed to act fast.
Bandit, if that was the goon who held his shirt, stopped laughing and shaking Orion the second the dagger slipped up inside him between two ribs.
Orion knew this would go from bad to worse. These pirates had been having fun with a stowaway and probably relished the idea of hearing him scream all the way down to the sea. Instead he had fight in him. Swords were drawn.
Orion surprised them when he pressed forward into the mass of men, forcing them to stumble backward enough for him to scoop up his leather pouch and secure it to his hip. Orion’s swordsmanship skills proved more than most could match, but he still felt drained after exerting so much magick. Orion used his dagger to block a sword thrust, and Bandit’s blood splattered across a tall man’s face.
He spun so quickly the tall man stumbled forward, his sword point embedded in the bunk’s wall. He was paid for his effort with a sharp crack to the back of the skull with the metal dagger pommel. Several men tried and failed to subdue Orion, meeting pain and blood for their efforts. On the stairs, one of the crew realized it was past time to cry up above for help and called out.
Orion knew he had seconds to figure out a plan and enact it before he would be overwhelmed by flea-infested scum. The escape skiff. He needed to get to the small skiff he had planned to steal in secret when he reached striking distance to England. It had become too late for secrecy.
Orion dashed across the galley, slashing his dagger at oncoming blades. He dodged buckets that had been thrown at him to knock him askew. As he passed the cook, he smacked him across the face with a large pan, which made it much easier to slip away.
He needed something big to distract the crew from simply tracking down the skiff and recapturing him once he escaped. He slipped out a porthole and grabbed a rope ladder to ascend to the deck. Through the next level of portholes, Orion glimpsed a cotton scrim bag leaning against a cannon and thought it was his lucky day. Some powder monkey, the young lad responsible for carrying gunpowder, would have been in terrible trouble for leaving that bag about. Orion had dropped it there on his way aboard, for situations, well, like this. But it was too late to split hairs.
Bang Up to the Elephant
WISH FOLLOWED Landa and Lucas across town to the mansion of Jacobson Haveland. He hated that Gavin lad. He wasn’t sure exactly why he hated him so much, but he did. Gavin had everything. His father led the Council and practically controlled England. He had wealth. The Jeter family did as well, but the Havelands had power, which the Jeters did not. Not that kind of power.
Wish knew no matter the connections his family gained, he would never be afforded the things in life Gavin discarded and scoffed at. He could get into the best schools, go to the best parties, have anything his heart desired if he just played along.
God, how he hated that lad.
Wish had played spy enough to know how to keep his distance from Landa and that Lucas chap to remain undetected. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, and that troubled him since the whole reason he followed was to figure out what that poofter had been up to. When they reached the Haveland house, Wish had no choice but to stay farther back.
That’s when he saw it. He strained to hear anything that Mr. Haveland said, and with his head cocked to the side, he noticed another who also spied on the house. A man wearing a long black coat hid behind a tree across the row from the house. His arm was encased in some type of military armor. The powered arm held… no, ended in a telescope that pointed to the front door. Wish stepped back. He wondered what madness he’d stepped into.
He scanned the environment to see if there were more, and there were. More people watched the house. A man who looked through a worn black steam rifle with bronze finish watched over the situation from the window of a home with a clear line of sight to the front entrance. He saw the airship patrol far off behind the row. It wasn’t
right on top of the house or anything obvious like that but remained close enough to be able to quickly swoop down.
This was a serious situation. He had been right to follow them. Wish took a tick or two to clap himself on the back for being wise enough to suspect foul play. He also chastised himself for getting in the middle of some affair of the empire. He wondered if he should back away before he was seen, or worse, implicated in whatever cockamamie mess Gavin had involved himself with.
Before he extricated himself from his vantage point, Landa and Lucas walked away from the house. Because they had their backs to him, they didn’t see Mr. Haveland motion to somebody. Wish bet it was to have them followed. This afternoon had just grown so delicious and intriguing that practically nothing could have caused him to give up. He would have to be smart, though, knowing other people, government people, were following Landa and Lucas.
Lucas. Why on earth had the foozler come with her? He felt his face get hot even thinking about it. Had that emaciated pipsqueak thought a gearhead like Landa could ever fancy him? No. He must be deluded to dream he had a chance with her. Wish knew Landa liked him. She went out of her way to touch him earlier, he thought. She’d put her hands on his chest a few times, and it had felt good. There was also that time in primary education.
When he was eight, before they were separated at thirteen to prepare for their future professions, Wish sat across from Landa Townsend. He didn’t know from politics and barely could decide what type of pudding he preferred, but he knew he liked her. He had thought her to be a spry, rambunctious little redheaded girl. He had liked that. Some of the other boys had egged him on to catch and kiss her, so what was he to do? He chased her around the playground, and before a teacher could redirect him, he kissed her.
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