by Heidi Heilig
“Nearly midnight,” he says, and my stomach drops.
“I slept a whole day?”
Alec only gives me a knowing look, lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “What you got from the docteur was much better than wine.”
Inside, I curse; outwardly, I smile. I need to get them away from the door. “Less filling, though,” I say, but he only offers me the bottle. I raise my eyebrow. “On an empty stomach?”
“Come now. It’s a celebration!” He shakes the bottle again, the dark liquid sloshing against the green glass. This time, I take it, pretending to drink, trying not to stare at the stains on his teeth.
“What are we celebrating?”
“The end of the war,” Jean says, and I nearly drop the wine. “The rebellion is as good as over now that we have the avions.”
Despair is a dark threat; my hand comes up to cover the bandage over the crook of my arm. But things can only get worse as long as I’m here at Hell’s Court. “Can I go check the kitchens?” I say—a long shot, but I have to get out. “There might be some food left over.”
“I don’t think the general would like it if we let you out for a little stroll.” Alec laughs again, and I grit my teeth. But then he takes the bottle back from Jean and frowns when he finds it empty. “C’est tout? Ah, well. If I have to go back to the kitchens anyway, I’ll bring something for you as well.”
“Alec,” the other guard says, a warning. “I don’t think it’s wise to part ways.”
Alec only winks at him, setting the bottle down by the door. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll bring something for you too!”
He starts down the hall as Jean chews his cheek, adjusting his grip on his weapon. Is the soldier afraid of me? I suppose he should be. But with only one guard to deal with, I might not even have to kill him.
Stepping back into the dubious privacy of my room, I swing the door nearly closed, till all I can see is a thin slip of Jean’s back. Then I pull out my book of souls, flipping through till I find what I’m looking for: the soul of a boa, sleepy but strong.
Quietly, I yank the gauzy mosquito netting from over my bed and roll it lengthwise, knotting it every few feet, to keep it together. Then I tear out the page, but where will I find a fire? As though in answer to my unspoken prayer, I hear the sound of Jean’s lighter; in another moment, the familiar smell of smoke wafts in. Chewing my lip, I fold the flyer and roll it tightly. Tucking it between my fingers and holding it just so, it looks a bit like a cigarette.
Leaning out into the hall, I wave the rolled paper at Jean. “Do you have a light?”
Now he laughs. “Where did you get that?”
I shrug, affecting nonchalance. “The docteur said it would calm my nerves.”
“That it will.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the lighter. Three clicks to a flame, and the end of my rolled flyer goes up in smoke.
“Thank you, merci.” I duck back behind the door before he can ask why I’m not smoking the thing. Cupping the paper in my hand, I coax the flame to life. Soon enough, the flyer blackens to ash, but I have already moved on to the netting. It doesn’t take a lot of prodding at the tender wound on my arm to draw blood. Wincing, I dab the gauze with the mark of life. When the snake soul tumbles free of the flyer, it slithers immediately into the fabric.
The length of netting twists, rolling in my hands. “Wrap him up,” I whisper, setting the fabric down at my feet. “Hold him tight.”
The soul of the snake slips out through the crack in the doorway. A moment later, I hear a cry. The bayonet clatters to the floor as Jean struggles, and though he wraps his hands around the sheet, he can’t choke something that does not breathe. The silk winds tighter and tighter around his ribs, and soon he is the one choking. When I open the door, he looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. “Aidez-moi,” he wheezes. “Help me.”
Instead I pick up the man’s bayonet. But glancing down the hall, I hesitate. The gun might not be as helpful as his lighter. Turning back, I whisper to the snake’s soul, “Not so tight.” Jean drags a shallow breath as I dig through his pockets. Just as my fingers close around the metal, I hear a shout. “Jean!”
Alec is running back down the hall, leveling his weapon. I bring up my own, but I fumble with the trigger and paw at the safety. I have no idea how to fire this gun.
“Stop where you are!” Alec’s command echoes down the hall as he drops to one knee to take aim.
I cast about wildly, but there is nowhere to hide in the starkly lit hall. A wild hope: can the shadows protect me? Grabbing my weapon by the stock, I swing the tip through the glowing glass of the nearest electric lamp. The bulb shatters in a shower of sparks; all along the hall, the other lights flicker and die.
The soldier roars a curse in the dark. I blink, but the only thing I can see is the afterglow of the explosion. All the lights in the building have gone out. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, much less find my own way to the workshop. Turning the lighter over in my hand, I flick it to life: a lone flame in the dark.
But before I can get my bearings, the click of metal on metal echoes down the hall—too familiar. Dropping to the floor, I smother the light a moment before the crack of the gun. The echoes fade into shouting and cursing—the workers in the cells are waking in a panic. “Stay in your rooms!” Alec calls, but I can hear the sounds of doors opening in the hall.
“Who’s shooting?”
Jumping, I stifle a scream—but it is only my brother’s voice. “Akra,” I whisper. “Where are you?”
“In the back of the temple. The workshop. Are you hurt? What happened to the lights?”
“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth. It’s not a lie . . . yet. “I have bad news about the flying machine.”
“I know,” Akra says grimly. “The Tiger told me.”
“The Tiger?” My exclamation was too loud; I bite my tongue. In the silence, I hear Alec reloading.
“We’re all here,” my brother says. “Where are you?”
I take a breath, chastened. I need to get to my brother’s side, but the hall is so dark. Damn Le Trépas for chasing all the souls away. I could use one from my book, but it would only flee if I didn’t trap it first. Frowning, I feel my way across the floor. Where is that wine bottle?
My searching hands brush the stone, the broken shards of the electric bulb, Jean’s leg, now still. Then—yes. The empty bottle. It rocks as my fingers graze the glass, but I snatch it up before it tips over.
Scrambling to my feet and pulling out the cork, I tear a random page from my book and stuff it into the mouth of the bottle. All along the hall, doors are creaking open, people peeking out. Would Alec be reckless enough to fire toward a crowd? I decide to risk it, setting the flyer aflame. For a moment, I see the frightened faces of the engineers, pale in the light, all turning my way. But I am only another shadow among them. “Get back in your rooms!” Alec shouts. “The nécromancien has escaped!”
A shocked murmur goes up around me, but soon enough, the flame snuffs out. I jam the cork back into the bottle, trapping the soul in the glass. By the dim light of the spirit, I flee as fast as I can.
How soon until the light is restored? Can we slip out the back door in the dark? But when I reach the great hall, all the questions fly out of my head as I skid to a halt, unmoored. Gone are the plows and the gunnery and the open work spaces scattered with gears. Theodora’s other projects have been cleared aside to make room for the avions.
The machines stand in eerie rows, and in the green glow of my makeshift lamp, they are unmistakably alive. They do not hop or sway—but in the shadows, there is a rustle of metal wings, the creak of joints that need oiling.
They chill me, these enormous creatures—and so many of them. Tentatively, I approach the machine closest to me, reaching out a gentle hand. “Come,” I whisper. At the sound of my voice, there is another ripple of movement through the flock. One even ruffles its wings, like a dove does when her sleep is interrupted. But they are
only responding to the noise—the creatures do not obey my command. Though my blood is on their skin, they do not belong to me.
I can’t help it; I shudder. I understand it now—the general’s fear of what I can do. What had he called it? An abomination. Is that what they are? What I am? I don’t know—but in the armée’s hands, it is sure to mean destruction. “Akra?” I whisper. “Where are you?”
Even though I’m expecting the answer, I still jump at the response. “Down here. At the west end of the hall.”
I change course, dodging through the machines as fast as I can, panting under my breath. “We have to do something with them, Akra. We can’t just let him have—”
“I know, Jetta! It’s being taken care of. Just hurry! I hear guards!”
“Taken care of?” The only answer is a shouted order in Aquitan and the sound of booted feet echoing down the hall. Gritting my teeth, I pick up the pace, my mind working furiously. It would take coal or gas to make a fire hot enough to destroy the avions. Or kerosene—but where is Theodora hiding the chemicals, if not in the locked room? Then I see another light moving slowly—a narrow beam from a thief’s lamp. When I see the man holding it, my heart skips a beat: Leo, his violin case slung on his back, the shape of it silhouetted against the dim glow. He has the lamp’s shutters cocked to shine on a thick spool of copper wire, and the two careful hands paying it out along the floor. “Camreon?”
“Jetta.” Without glancing up, the Chakran boy inclines his chin as he walks slowly backward. The wire is thin—almost invisible in the dark—as it coils toward the nearest flying machine. But when I raise my own lamp, I can follow the gleam of the metal in the soul glow, linking each avion to the next. A chill goes through me. The most notorious saboteur in Chakrana is the leader of the rebellion. The Tiger. I look at Cam with new eyes. He smiles back at me—or at least, he shows his teeth. “For all your talk about joining the rebellion, you’re terrible at following orders.”
“I should think a rebel leader would appreciate dissent,” I hiss, but now is not the time to pick a fight. “Where is my brother?” I ask instead, and the Tiger jerks his chin toward the stone archway leading to the garden.
“Waiting by the back door,” he says. “Lucky I’d already cut copies of the keys you stole.”
I clench my jaw, biting back a retort as I leave him to his work. And there is Akra—the sight of him is a weight off my shoulders. He is standing behind a wheeled chair—is that Papa sitting in it? It must be the device that Cam was working on earlier. A grateful smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. But the green light of my lantern reveals a different man sitting there. His head is covered by a black linen bag, and his arms swathed in a carcan, but I recognize the manacles on the feet.
Le Trépas. Outside his cell.
My spirit lamp shatters on the floor as I reel; the soul inside spirals free, fleeing down the hall. Someone grips my shoulders; I wrench away, but it is only Leo. His hands are up, placating, as he speaks. “We can’t let them use your blood. And we certainly can’t let them use his.”
I gape at Leo—I can’t think of my own solution, but I don’t like his. “So you’ll set him free?”
“He’s hardly free,” Leo says. “And Akra will be guarding him to make sure he doesn’t escape—”
“So when he gets out, he’ll kill my brother first?”
“No,” Leo says delicately. “He can’t take a soul that you’ve already put back.”
I stare at him, wild-eyed. “How on earth can you know that?”
“The myths written in the walls,” Camreon interjects. “Theodora may have told you she had a translator working on them.”
I blink at him, incredulous. “You?”
“Me,” he says, passing by with the wire. “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re not so pressed for time.”
I want to scream at him, at all of them. How dare they keep this from me? How dare they risk all our lives? And how dare my brother go along with it? But before I can say anything, a new voice makes us all turn.
“I’d like to hear it now, actually.” Theodora appears at the edge of the circle of lamplight, and though her voice is firm, there is real sorrow in her eyes.
“Miss Theodora.” Camreon’s voice is oddly tender as he straightens up to meet her gaze. “What have I told you about getting more sleep?”
“Did you think I was a fool?” Her voice shakes—from sorrow, or anger? But as she raises her hand, the light shines dully on the barrel of a pistol. “I spoke to Pique today, Cam. He never got the box you claim you brought to him. So I checked the supply room. We were missing a box of lytheum. You’re the only other person who ever seemed interested in the formula. And I started to wonder why the rebels were so good at explosives.”
Torchlight bounces down the hall as the soldiers draw near. There is pain on Theodora’s face, but her aim is steady. Slowly Camreon sets down the spool. He walks toward her on steady feet, till his chest is pressed against the barrel of her weapon. Was this the bravery La Fleur so admired? Camreon gives her that winsome smile. Then, quick as a viper, he grabs her wrist. She pulls the trigger, but the weapon only jams.
“I’m also the only other person who knows you keep your gun under your pillow.” He twists the pistol out of her grip and ducks under her wrist, pushing her arm up behind her back until she cries out.
“Don’t hurt her!” Leo steps forward, a warning in his voice, but the Tiger gives him a look as he pulls his own gun from a canvas satchel slung over his shoulder. The weapon is a strange-looking thing, with a barrel half as long as a rifle’s.
“I could never,” he says, but he brings the weapon up beside La Fleur’s head. “She’s too valuable.”
“You can’t take me with you,” La Fleur says without flinching. The gun stirs the gold curls of her hair. “I’ll betray you the first chance I get.”
“You’re too smart for that,” Camreon replies.
“Smart enough to know that if you won’t shoot me now, you won’t shoot me at all.”
“You’re right,” he says as she renews her struggles. “Come, Jetta, and bring your pin.”
I stiffen, and even Theodora goes still at the tone of his voice. Gone is the shy Chakran boy, his eyes so full of stars. There is fire there now, and when he waves me over with the gun, I obey. La Fleur wets her lips then. “Cam—”
“You have been so invested in practical experience, Miss Theodora. Can you imagine what might happen if Jetta marked your skin?”
“There are no souls here,” she says, but her protest sounds feeble even to me. Camreon only shrugs.
“I brought Jetta a whole book of them. What would it be like to share your mind with a worm? Though a moth might suit you better. Still striving toward the light, though you might no longer know why.” His tone is so casual, as though contemplating the color that best complements her skin. “Legarde may have made you brave enough to face death, Miss Theodora. But I don’t think he taught you much about not being in control.”
The Tiger pushes her toward me; I catch her by the wrist. La Fleur trembles, shrinking from my touch; I too am horrified at the thought—at being used as a threat. But she doesn’t know that. “I’ll cooperate,” she whispers, and I nod. But as the Tiger goes back for the spool of wire, a shout echoes through the room.
“Allez, vite! Search the hall!” Lieutenant Pique’s voice makes me shudder. How did he get here so fast? “The cha girl has to live. Shoot the others, but if you kill her, you’re next!”
My hand goes to the bandage in the crook of my arm. I never thought I’d prefer Pique wanting me dead to wanting me alive. But can we leave without destroying the birds? I look at Camreon, the question in my eyes. He shakes his head. “Go.”
The Tiger grabs La Fleur and pulls her through the open gate. Leo follows, and I pelt after him. Behind us, the soldiers are shouting; one fires a shot. Hot chips of stone explode from the pavers at my feet. I bite off a scream as I duck through the doorway; behind
me, a cry and a sound like a slap. Then Pique’s voice. “Not the girl!”
We flee across the plaza. Akra and Le Trépas were first through the door, and the chair bounces and judders over the cracked stone. But they fall behind as Akra eases the contraption off the plaza’s edge. The wheels sink into the loamy garden path, pitching the chair sideways. Swearing, Akra leaves off his pushing, lifting Le Trépas and throwing him over his shoulder. Chains clanking, my brother carries the man through the brush, but I won’t leave the chair behind. Not when Papa needs it.
I grab the handles and drag the chair behind me. It’s lighter without anyone sitting in it, but the wheels tangle quickly in the undergrowth, catching against thick roots. Leo notices when I fall behind. “Leave it!” he whispers, rushing back to my side.
“Papa needs one!”
“He needs you more!” Leo tugs at my arm. I shake him off, but now the soldiers are spilling from the building.
Leo draws his gun, firing back over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother aiming in the dark, but the guards don’t know that. Cautious, they take cover, and Leo shoves his gun back into his pocket to pick up the front of the chair. Together, we wrestle it through the greenery.
We’ve fallen far enough behind Le Trépas that the little souls once more light our path. At first I think Camreon has chosen the way at random, but at a break in the overgrowth, I catch a glimpse of the Ruby Palace and find my bearings. We are headed toward the entry gate—the quickest way back to the slums. Back to Papa. And by the sound of it, the soldiers are falling behind. Then Camreon stops, holding up a hand, and we all stumble to a halt behind him. “What is it?” I whisper, and he shoots me a look of caution. Then he nods down the path.
“More guards at the main gate. I was hoping the explosion would lure them up to Hell’s Court, but of course the explosion never happened.”
