by Mirren Hogan
The dark-haired priestess in the painting looked up from her altar, upon which esoteric symbols had been carved.
“I’m not what you seek,” she said.
"But you are,” Luc insisted. “My father said so.”
“No, I’m not. And was your father right about everything?” She added with a sly smile.
That wasn’t something he needed to ponder. “Stop arguing, we haven’t much time.” He squeezed harder, and the sound of wood cracking made him ease off the pressure, but not completely. The picture continued to shrink.
“You’re making a big mistake,” the woman insisted, now half the size she’d been previously.
“You’re the voice of my self-doubt,” he replied, “and I will not listen to you.”
“Stubborn man,” she said with a sigh. "You're a fool with pretty eyes, but a fool nonetheless. Be careful, or you'll lose what little you have." Then he’d pressed the painting to the size of his hand, and he took it from its frame, rolled it into a cylinder the size of a cigar, and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. A hand on his shoulder made him flinch, and he turned to see the kouros statue that Iris Mctavish had broken. Its mangled arm hung limp, but its other hand gripped him with the strength of marble, pinching his shoulder until the bones beneath its fingers cracked.
He awoke with a shout, and Daphne snatched her hand from his shoulder and scrambled back.
“I’m sorry,” she said and put a hand to her heart. He wondered if hers raced like his did. “I had to wake you. It’s time to go.”
He nodded and swiped the back of his hand across his face. So close to escape, and yet his doubts still followed him into his dreams.
They separated to dress. He’d instructed the servants to take the afternoon and evening off, so he did so unassisted. She claimed she didn’t need help, so once he’d donned his uncharacteristically somber black trousers, shirt, coat, and cloak, he took the painting of the priestess from its frame, loosely rolled it, and placed it in a leather bag he slung over his shoulder and over his head so he could wear the strap bandolier-style. He then knocked on the door to the chamber adjoining his. It had been his mother’s and would have been his wife’s had he ever desired to take one. But the women he’d been interested in didn’t want anything to do with a lowly marquis with no line to the throne. Such as it was.
“Daphne, are you ready?”
“Yes.” She opened the door, and he stepped back, his mouth open in shock. She’d pulled her hair back into a simple French braid and wore leather trousers that outlined her slim legs. A heavy belt connected to leather straps that criss-crossed over her chest. Her black leather corset was outside her shirt, and she also wore boots. An assortment of objects were attached to the belt, corset, and odd suspenders – knives, vials, and things he couldn’t name. And a firearm of some sort in a holster.
“Daphne, what are…?”
“Prepared. That’s all you need to know.” She picked up a pile of fabric and tied it around her waist – a voluminous black skirt that opened in the front. A long black cloak completed the ensemble and hid her deadly accoutrements in softness.
Luc shook his head in wonder. She looked dangerous, and he found himself fantasizing about getting all those things off her. He also wondered if he should be concerned for his own safety if she felt the need to prepare so. Her husband’s business must have been more hazardous than they let on. Well, of course it was. The man had been murdered, after all.
“Let’s go,” she said and brushed his cheek with a kiss.
They took the small carriage since it was his lightest weight, and therefore fastest, vehicle. He'd only kept one coachman in the city, his best one. Even with all the preparations, the fear he wouldn't escape Paris with the painting made the skin at the back of his neck prickle. He listened for hoof beats behind them and had just relaxed into the silence when a neigh startled him. Daphne rapped on the ceiling of the carriage and hissed, “Faster!”
Luc and Daphne were thrown about by the driver's attempts to outmaneuver whoever followed them – and by the second wild turn, no doubt remained that they were being chased. However, no matter which way the coachman went to try to shake their pursuer, the mysterious horseman grew closer.
Daphne pulled the pistol from its holster and screwed a barrel extension on to its end, then attached something he couldn't see clearly. She twisted around, bracing her calves with one against the side of the seat and the other against his hip.
“What are you…?”
“Just keep driving,” she called to the coachman. When she heard his muffled assent, she slid the small rear window of the carriage open and aimed behind them, getting off a shot.
The horse behind them whinnied, and there was a thud followed by the clopping of retreating hoofbeats.
“Did you just shoot the horse?”
"Don’t be an imbecile. I wouldn’t hurt an innocent animal. I shot the horseman.”
She twisted around and plopped back into her seat. Luc didn’t say anything, a core of ice forming in his gut. She’d just killed someone.
“Was that necessary?” As soon as he asked, he recognized the stupidity of the question.
A long pause, then, softly, “It was either him or us, Luc.”
With each clop of a hoof, a realization fell into place, building up to a disturbing and as yet incomplete picture. She wore weapons and knew how to enhance them. She was an accurate shot from a moving vehicle. Not only that, but she felled a moving target from a moving vehicle. On the first try. Luc had known his share of good marksmen, and none would have been able to do that.
“Who are you, really, Madame Cinsault?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence, Luc half-listening for other pursuers, and half pondering Daphne Cinsault, whose attraction had only grown with the danger she presented. It gave him a thrill. He had a host of questions, but she’d wrapped herself in an icy silence.
When they arrived at the airfield, she put a hand on his arm. “Please,” she said, “do not mention this incident to anyone. Also, please do not say anything about my husband’s death.”
“Madame, everyone in Paris knows about Monsieur Cinsault’s stabbing. It was in the papers.”
“I’m speaking of when we are abroad. I must carry on some business, and it will be easier for me to do so if others believe he is still alive.”
“Very well.” He got out first and held the door for her. When she emerged, she was veiled, and her faux skirt hid her trousers very well. She looked like a proper widow.
As rough-looking airfield workers unloaded the carriage and brought their belongings to the waiting airship, Luc looked around and spotted one of the violinist’s friends, an aetherics professor. Right, Edward Bailey, the one who had discovered how to stabilize aether. Without thinking, Luc snapped into Marquis mode – he must maintain appearances, after all. He said something about not forgetting how he’d promised to help them escape, and the professor promised to relay his message – and apologies – to Bledsoe. But as Luc followed Daphne on to the airship, he wondered whether it would be safer to remain with Johann and his friends.
He would have preferred a luxury liner to a cargo airship – what sort of accommodations would they have? Still, at least they escaped.
Liftoff went smoothly, and it felt as though they were being swallowed into the dark sky. He watched the lights – what few remained – of Paris grow smaller and dimmer from the observation deck. Daphne stood beside him, still tense. Was she reliving the carriage chase?
He’d just started to breathe easier when something whistled by the deck. He grabbed Daphne and pulled her into the inner deck that served as a small lounge for the crew.
“What in blazes…?”
She reached up and pulled his face to hers. “Remember – tell no one about my husband.”
The ship continued to take fire, and Luc watched in horror as a small craft docked just beside them. I
ts dark wooden frame and balloon would be invisible from the ground. Then another one joined it. Luc shrank as far as he could into the shadows, pushing Daphne behind him, forgetting she had more weapons than he. As though choreographed, the two men who had driven them turned their blank goggled gazes to their hiding spot.
“There they are. Get them!” They drew weapons and leaped aboard.
Luc tried to run, but there was nowhere to go on the cargo airship. The inner door had been locked. Someone grabbed him, and Madame Cinsault cried out. Then something exploded nearby. Pain seared his face. A blow to the back of the head turned the disintegrating world to darkness.
Luc woke to muffled sunlight and a deep, stinging ache across his left cheek and eye. He opened his eyes and only saw a beige cloth. He tried to lift his left hand to his face but found he’d been restrained. Before he could strain against his bonds, a soft weight on his arm and a familiar voice stopped him.
“Don’t struggle,” Daphne said. “We’ve been captured by air pirates. I’ve told them we’d cooperate.”
“What in bloody hell happened?” Luc asked, mixing his English and French. His entire being felt muddled, and when he spoke, it felt like a weight on the left side of his face kept him from enunciating clearly.
“They attacked the cargo ship – took advantage of fire from Prussian forces.” She sounded resigned. “And you were hurt. Badly. They had to tie you down so you wouldn’t mangle your face further.”
Icy dread washed over him, and he found his limbs leaden. “Mangled?”
“You got off lightly, Mate,” this was an Englishman who sounded way too cheerful for the circumstances. “Right, you can’t see me. I’m the crew doctor. Captured last year. Former airship corps physician. Too valuable to let go, but at least they feed me.”
“How did I get off lightly?”
“Well, besides your eye, the damage is mostly cosmetic. You’ll have a big scar on your cheek, and your left eye’s... You’ll need to wear a patch for a bit. But hey, you’ll fit right in, ho?”
“This is no laughing matter,” Luc said. “Let me up. Let me see myself.”
“Please,” Daphne said. "Don't. You'll only distress yourself."
He insisted. The cloth was lifted from Luc’s eyes, and he blinked the right one to bring the room into focus. Rough wooden ceiling and walls, basic furnishings. He lay on a pallet on the floor. An door stood open nearby – the head? Or another room? In spite of the simple décor, the space looked like a suite.
Daphne handed him a mirror, her eyes wide with shock? Fear? Perhaps he didn't want to see. But he forced himself to look.
As promised, he had cloth covering the left side of his face. He gingerly lifted it to see the dressing across his cheekbone – his lovely high cheekbone – and his left eye sewn shut.
“There’s no hope for the eye, is there?” he asked.
“Nope. Popped like a jelly pastry. Sorry, mate.”
Luc closed his right eye, and he lay back. Fatigue, sorrow, and despair weighed him down and pulled him into the barely adequate cushion. “Leave me.”
“Luc,” Daphne said. He held up a hand.
“Leave me, please,” he told her. “I need time.” They did as he asked. He didn’t think there was time enough in the world to recover from this. The loss of his freedom. The loss of his beauty. And – due to both – the loss of his power. At least he had the painting, which had been in the bag that had been slung over his shoulder when they were captured. Could he somehow use the Legacy to heal himself?
He rolled off the pallet and found his things, thankfully, in the room with them, minus his weapons, of course. He opened the bag and unrolled the painting.
But when he did, the paint stuck to the canvas, and he moaned. The upper picture peeled away to reveal a scrawled message below – “Fooled you, Monceau. The true painting is still hidden among your art. You didn’t think it would be this easy, did you?”
Luc didn't recognize the handwriting, but he could guess who it belonged to – the wizard who had made the bargain long ago with his great grandfather. Luc didn't have the key after all.
They found Luc sitting on the floor, laughing and rocking. After a good dose of laudanum, he fell into a deep sleep, and when he awoke, he asked for a change of clothing and an eyepatch.
He'd reclaim the Legacy of Monceau no matter who he had to run over to get it.
If you liked this story from Cecilia Dominic, you can read more from her in Rogue Skies. Preorder for 99c.
Author's note: This story bridges the events in my novel Clockwork Phantom – my steampunk take on Phantom of the Opera – and my new series, which starts with The Art of Piracy, my contribution to the Rogue Skies box set. You can check out Clockwork Phantom at my website or your favorite vendor.
About the Author
By day, clinical psychologist Cecilia Dominic helps people cure their insomnia. By night, this urban fantasy and steampunk author writes fiction that keeps her readers turning pages past bedtime. She prefers the term “versatile” to “conflicted” and has published both short story and novel-length fiction. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and the world's cutest cat.
Copyright 2019 by Cecilia Dominic
All Rights Reserved
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Madeleine Albright
Copyright © 2017 by
Suzanne Jenkins. All rights reserved.
Created in digital format in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in blog posts and articles
and in reviews.
Mixed is a complete and total work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Mixed
Suzanne Jenkins
Jerry chose the day I was having new air-conditioning installed to leave me. I’d expected he was going but not quite so soon. The last months had been nearly unbearable because I knew in my heart what was to come. Finally admitting it the night before, he said he was confused, he loved me, but he didn’t think we had a future together. The other person was a woman he worked with, another researcher, another brainiac. I had hoped she’d be an unattractive internet date; possibly a man disguised as a woman. But no such luck.
Last year I’d met her at his company Christmas party. Claiming that they hadn’t had a date at that time, now I wonder. There’s something about older, single women from that country, about her specifically, that you just know the wheels are always turning, they’re always scheming.
Of course, she’s gorgeous in spite of being at least thirty-five; tall and slender, with big boobs, and long, straight blond hair. Everything about her is big, eyes, lips, so why not her chest, too? At the party, she was sizing me up. Now I understand the interest; she was checking us out to see how devoted Jerry was to me.
“Look, I’m going to take my things back to my apartment,” he said that morning. We’d argued until three, me sobbing, begging, forgetting my pride. “I’ll be five miles away if you need me.”
He was straightening his tie in the bathroom mirror while I watched from the doorway. I suddenly hated that tie; it was too shiny, and it looked cheap. I admitted that I thought his tie was bad, he’d change it immediately. I bit my tongue, hoping the new girlfriend would mention the awful tie, making him feel like crap. Watching his beautiful hands, the long, fingers, his perfectly manicured fingernails, I remembered that it was just a few nights ago that I longed for him to touch me. The memory of his hands on my body now simply made me sad. It had meant nothing to him, after all.
I’d made coffee and walked back to the bedroom with a
cup for him, our usual routine in spite of the tension. While I showered and dressed, he’d gone out to the garage to get a suitcase, and it was now open on the bed, a grubby canvas bag he’d taken through the city streets before grabbing a cab from JFK, and I imagined the germs and dog poop that he’d dragged it through.
“What am I supposed to do with the air conditioning guy? How will I know if he’s doing everything right?”
Jerry had decided I needed central air in my house. I thought he was probably just too lazy to install the window units for me and didn’t want me to pay someone to do it. But now, I wondered if he wasn’t looking into his future comfort, at my expense.
“It’s an investment in your home,” he argued.
It was his idea for me to spend the money on central air, and he scrutinized every estimate I got. I finally chose this particular company because Jerry had said to. He promised he’d make sure everything was done according to our contract, and now he was leaving it with me to do. It was so me; my boyfriend/almost fiancé is leaving me, and I’m worried about dealing with a repair guy.
“Don’t worry about dealing with him,” he said, his disregard obvious. “We researched, and he’s the best, most reliable and trustworthy guy in town.”
“I’ll have to call out sick for work,” I said. “You were going to stay here during the installation.”
“You’ll be fine,” he countered. “I can’t stay home today, anyway. A new client is coming in, and Magda and I have to chauffeur him around town.”
“Magda? Barf. Get out of here, Jerry.”
It took all of my willpower not to beat him with my fists, but I did hold the door open, and leaned away when he tried to kiss me.
“And give me back my key.”