by M. K. Hobson
Oh, surely not, Emily thought. Benedictus Zeno, father of modern credomancy, Emeritus Master of the Institute, having ulterior motives? Impossible!
But as she laid her head back against the cool glass, she recalled the words Professor Mirabilis had always repeated, like a mantra: Nothing’s impossible.
When Emily reached the depot, the summer sun had risen, washing the buildings of white limestone and red brick with the bright promise of a hot day to come. Emily tried to find a cab to take her to the butter-yellow house, but there were none to be had. She sighed heavily, aware suddenly of just how bone-weary she was. She was sure to be a delight at Mother Stanton’s lunch. She’d have to fight to keep from falling facedown into the terrapin soup. Pounding down exhaustion, she started jogging along Third Street.
At Market, she glanced up at the large clock atop the Chronicle building: 8:15 a.m. That meant it was already 11:15 in New York. It would be a tight squeeze, but by heck, she could still make it! Twenty minutes up to the butter-yellow house … a half hour from the Institute to Mrs. Stanton’s … of course, she’d have to change first … She looked down at herself. She was smudged with grime and her hair was oily and limp from having been stuffed under a bowler hat for a day and a half. She looked like she’d just stepped out of California. All right, so she’d be a little late to Mrs. Stanton’s lunch. Fashionably late, she suggested to herself hopefully.
The rumble under her feet started small—small enough that it could be mistaken for one of the hundreds of small temblors that Emily had already grown accustomed to. But it kept shaking, growing in thunderous intensity. This was a big one, Emily realized with sudden dread. The buildings around her seemed to sway; terra-cotta crashed down around her. She hurried to the middle of the street to avoid the falling debris, stumbling as the earth bucked like a wild horse. Then, there it was, the sound from her Cassandra—the horrible tearing, the cracking. The earth was opening up before her, a deep wide fissured gap, cobblestones churning like peas in a stew. The ground fell from beneath her feet, and Emily jumped, landing hard on a ragged jutting outcropping. She scrambled to keep from sliding down into the stinking darkness as Black Exunge flowed up from deep within the earth, covering everything.
Emily screeched and drew up her legs to keep from coming in contact with the foul goo. If any part of her flesh touched the Black Exunge, she would be transmogrified into an Aberrancy—just like the vermin that were blossoming up around her from deep underground. Beetles and centipedes were inflating and expanding with hissing shrieks. As the Exunge deformed them, they expanded to hundreds of times their normal size, otherworldly jaws clattering menacingly.
Of particular and immediate concern were the cockroaches.
They clambered up over the lip of the torn sidewalk, mucus-dripping antennae waving like hairy carriage whips.
Dear Mrs. Stanton, Emily thought, as she looked around herself in a panic for something she could use in her defense, Miss Edwards deeply regrets missing the lunch you arranged in her honor, but her absence was unavoidable, as she was being eaten by giant cockroaches.
She seized a cobblestone and heaved it. She was grabbing another one, but thought better of it when she saw that the first cobblestone did little more than attract the attention of the giant cockroach she’d thrown it at. The thing was heading straight for her.
Boom.
A shotgun blast, close enough that she could smell the powder. A man was beside her, a blur of motion. He leveled a short-barreled shotgun at the huge slimy cockroach bearing down on her and pulled the trigger of the second barrel; the creature exploded in a rain of chitinous black parts and slimy mustard-yellow guts. Thrusting the spent shotgun into Emily’s good hand, he unslung a rifle from his back and aimed it at another cockroach that was waving greedy grasping mouth parts at them. He blasted a load of silver into what would have been the thing’s face, if it had a face, rather than a clattering maw. It collapsed, whistling and keening, hairy black legs twitching.
The man wrapped a hand around Emily’s arm, dragged her down the side of the crumbling mound of earth and rock, then pulled her back behind an overturned wagon. He crouched by her side, putting the wood of the wagon bed at his back. Taking the shotgun from her, he reached coolly into his pocket and pulled out two more shells. He chambered these and clacked the weapon shut, thrusting the gun into her hand.
And at that moment, Emily got a good look at his face. She realized suddenly that it was the brown man, the Russian who’d given her the ticket to Lost Pine. Despite the fact that death was approaching them rapidly, she stared at him for a moment.
“Do you just hang around San Francisco waiting for me?” Emily said.
He tipped his hat to her.
“I have been sent to protect you,” he said. He dropped a handful of silver-packed shells into her lap. He nodded toward a rat that was sniffing curiously at the edge of a flood of Black Exunge. “Keep your eye on that one. He will go at any moment.”
And indeed, the rat did; the moment its pink quivering nose touched the Exunge, the little creature stiffened and began to grow. Steadying the shotgun against her prosthetic forearm, Emily unloaded the first barrel. Silver shot tore the beast’s head into a cloud of black and blood.
“You’re one of the Russians that was up bothering my pap!” Emily yelled at him. “Sini Mira.”
“We did not harm him,” the brown man said. He lifted the rifle, his bullet somehow finding the eye of an ant the size of a greyhound as it scurried over the top of the wagon. Emily winced as sticky bits spattered her clothing and her face. “We had only a few questions.”
“He doesn’t have any answers for you,” Emily said. “And neither do I.”
“As I said, Miss Edwards, I’m just here to protect you. If you will cover me, I have a way to get us out of this terrible predicament.”
Emily lifted her shotgun again. An earthworm was whipping and flailing up from the ground; she wasn’t quite sure where she should put her shot. Finally, she just blasted the thing in two. She wondered if, like a normal earthworm, the thing would continue to live in two sections. But it had stopped wiggling toward them, at least.
“What does the Sini Mira want with me?” As she struggled to reload, she noticed that he had taken a pineapple-shaped device from his jacket pocket. He pulled a small glass vial from somewhere inside his shirt, pulling out the cork with his teeth. He poured the contents of the vial into the device and screwed the top shut as he spoke.
“I apologize,” he said finally, “but that is not for me to answer.”
Then, popping up from behind the wagon, he depressed a button on top of the pineapple-thing and threw it into the vast black pool of Exunge that was gathering in the middle of the ruined street.
There was a bright flash as the contraption exploded. A sparkling, glowing mat spread over the Black Exunge. Little glistening bubbles formed, glittering edges rushing out from the center of the pool like a piece of paper burning from the center. The Exunge solidified like cooling magma, turning an ashy-gray color. No more Aberrancies blossomed from within it; those that were still alive slowed, their movements becoming stiff and jerky.
“Aberrant-resistant bacteria,” he said. “It neutralizes Black Exunge, then devours it. It is a sadly fumble-handed technology for the battle situation. The bacteria must be kept warm, by the body, until it is ready for use, and then mixed with a high-powered glucose solution at the last minute.” He paused. “My name is Dmitri.”
Emily gaped at him, trying to think of what she should say to that when something slammed against her head, staggering her backward. Everything went blurry. There was a high buzzing sound and the rapid sound of beating wings. She thudded to the ground, her foot catching between two loose stones, twisting her ankle. Pain sparkled up her leg. She was aware of dark hairy parts pawing at her face and chest; she brought up her shotgun to fend the thing off. A flying thing, buzzing and whirring, with a long tubular mouthpart. A mosquito, Emily realized, hazily. A giant goddamn mo
squito.
She swung the shotgun blindly, trying to beat the thing back, but it was on her, probing and groping, heavy as a small child. Dmitri was trying to pull it off her.
But the needlelike feeding mouth of the thing was feeling for the place of bare skin between her belt and shirt …
Then the tube plunged in, and Emily screamed.
“Quiet now. Don’t try to move.”
A sour liquid was trickling down her throat, spilling over the corners of her mouth. Coughing, she spat it out. Her entire body vibrated and hummed; she felt like a string that had just been plucked. She itched all over.
“Slowly now, Miss Edwards,” Dmitri said as he helped her sit up.
Her hand fumbled at her waist, encountering a welting wound that was the size of a dinner plate. It itched like mad. She scratched with momentary frenzy before Dmitri pulled her hand away.
“Don’t,” he said. “You will make yourself bleed.”
Emily looked over. Nearby, the giant mosquito lay dead, its head blown half away, its myriad eyes dull and lifeless. Dmitri had the rifle by his knee. He was putting the cap on a small bottle that he tucked back into his pocket.
“What was that?” she asked suspiciously. Her voice sounded far away in her own buzzing ears.
“A restorative elixir … nothing baneful,” Dmitri said. “I know you don’t trust me, Miss Edwards. But as I have said—”
“Yes, I know. You’re here to protect me.” Emily blinked thick mucus from her watering eyes. She rubbed her face, trying to will away the terrible itching. Whatever the restorative elixir was, it did seem to be helping. The buzzing in her body was subsiding slowly, leaving only soreness and a faint nausea in its wake. The military had finally arrived, and dozens of soldiers were surveying the damage. They shouted as they clambered over the wreckage of the street.
“Come along,” Dmitri said, casting a meaningful glance at the soldiers. “I don’t expect you want to be delayed answering questions.”
“Delayed?” Emily started as fresh panic surged through her. How long had she been out?
She looked up at the clock on the top of the Chronicle building. She did a swift terrible calculation.
It was 1:41 p.m. in New York.
Emily closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and let it out.
“Oh … fiddlesticks,” she muttered.
She climbed to her feet, wincing. Her ankle was badly twisted. She took an experimental step, stumbled; Dmitri caught her. She pushed him away, willing herself to be steady, increasing the weight on her bad ankle slowly. After a bit, she was able to walk—hobblingly—over the broken jumble of brick and cobblestone toward Kearny Street.
Dmitri followed.
“Leave me alone!” she yelled over her shoulder, as if scolding a persistent cat.
“It is a free country, Miss Edwards,” Dmitri called back. “I have as much right to walk in this direction as you do.”
Emily stopped and waited for Dmitri to catch up with her. When he did, she whirled on him fiercely.
“You tell the Sini Mira that I don’t have anything for them.” She jabbed a finger at him for emphasis. “If you wanted the stone, that’s gone.”
“We know,” Dmitri said.
“Then there’s nothing else to discuss,” Emily said, starting along Kearny Street again. “And while I appreciate your help with the cockroaches, I do not need your protection.”
“Miss Edwards, if you think it pleases me to protect a Witch, you are deeply mistaken,” Dmitri said. “But it is the assignment I have been given, and I will do it to the best of my ability, whether you like it or not.”
Shaking her head, Emily walked on as quickly as her sore ankle would allow. Dmitri continued to follow in silence. He did not speak again until they’d turned up Clay Street.
“I am sorry you do not trust us,” he said finally.
“Trust you?” Emily growled. “You people sent a bounty hunter to capture me … a very brutal bounty hunter.” She shuddered, remembering how her will had melted like butter under the command of the Manipulator Antonio Grimaldi. Under the bounty hunter’s psychic control, she’d handed the knife that murdered Professor Mirabilis into the hands of his assassin without a moment’s hesitation.
“It was a matter of necessity,” Dmitri said. “Nonetheless, you have our apologies for it.”
Emily snorted derisively.
“Not enough,” she said, remembering how the knife had cut Mirabilis’ still-beating heart from his chest. “Not enough at all.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Dreadnought
Emily knocked on the door of the butter-yellow house, leaning heavily against the doorjamb. She felt rather bad for dirtying up the nice clean paint job with all the black slime and insect guts that covered her, but her ankle was throbbing from the steep climb up the hill. Behind her, on the sidewalk below, Dmitri waited silently. She’d given up telling him to shove off; it did no good.
After a few moments, the Haälbeck attendant, a girl named Dinah, opened the front door, staring at Emily in astonishment.
“What the—Miss Edwards?” She looked Emily up and down. “My gracious! Everyone’s been looking for you! You missed Mrs. Stanton’s lunch.”
Emily sighed, pushed herself away from the doorjamb.
“Good day, Miss Edwards,” Dmitri’s voice called up to her from the street. Emily turned just enough to see the brown man tip his hat before walking briskly away, hands tucked in his pockets. Dinah craned her neck over Emily’s shoulder, watching him go. She looked at Emily quizzically.
“Who was he, miss?”
“No one,” Emily said, limping into the house. “He was just here to protect me.”
“It’s lovely to see you, miss!” Emily followed Dinah’s crisp black-and-white-clad form through the neatly swept hallway toward the Haälbeck Room. “I can’t imagine how you came through earlier without me seeing you.”
“Well, I can be extremely sneaky,” Emily said.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re not,” Dinah demurred, hiding a grin behind her hand. “What a thing to say.”
They came to the Haälbeck Room, and Emily was once again surprised at how empty it seemed. She remembered standing in this room when it had overflowed with stifling clutter—all of which apparently had gone with Mrs. Quincy when she’d been kicked to the curb. Only one thing remained: an important-looking picture of Emeritus Zeno, its frame decorated with bunting and silver paper. Emily scrutinized it, trying to find the face of the mild-mannered man she’d first known as old Ben in the face of the somewhat crazed-looking young priest. She finally decided that it was Zeno’s eyes that were most unchanged; she recognized that spark of single-minded, uncompromising determination. In Zeno as she knew him today, it was easily attributable to wisdom. In the eyes of the young priest, it seemed hardly indistinguishable from insanity.
Looking away from Zeno’s eyes, her gaze traveled to the bottom of the picture, where she noticed the date of the picture’s execution: 1741. The man in the picture was certainly in his thirties—that would make Zeno 175 years old now! She knew he was old, but she’d never imagined he was that old.
Dinah laid a slim hand on the Haälbeck door’s frame and unlocked it with a few soft words. She held the door open for Emily. Framed by its edges, Emily could see the Institute’s Haälbeck Room on the other side, murky and indistinct.
“Be sure to give Mr. Stanton my congratulations on his recent triumph over the Dark Sorcerer of Trieste,” Dinah said as Emily stepped through.
Emily had grown accustomed to making short hops by Haälbeck—there were hundreds of local doors in New York, greatly facilitating interurban travel. But traveling such a long distance by Haälbeck was like being stretched into the finest silken thread. There was a huge rushing and a feeling of speed, as if she were a waterfall tumbling down a million miles …
… And then she pooled abruptly back into a water-shaped version of herself and stepped out of California and into the H
aälbeck Room of the Mirabilis Institute of the Credomantic Arts in New York City.
It was a cozy, richly appointed parlor, filled with marbles and tapestries and the fragrance of blood-red orchids. Emily noticed that it was filled with something else, too.
The foot-tapping form of Miss Jesczenka.
Emily wondered how on earth the woman had known she was coming. She’d hoped to sneak back as quietly as she’d left—but Emily already knew there was going to be hell to pay, and she supposed there was no use allowing it to accrue interest.
“Welcome back, Miss Edwards,” Miss Jesczenka said. She held a cut-crystal glass of iced lemon water in her hand, which she offered to Emily immediately. Emily took the glass, draining it in a protracted and unladylike guzzle. The long Haälbeck journey had left her feeling as if she’d just crossed an Arabian desert. Miss Jesczenka poured her another glass from a pitcher on a small side table.
“You missed Mrs. Stanton’s lunch,” Miss Jesczenka said. Her eyes roamed over Emily, lingering on the chunks of exploded cockroach innards.
Emily smiled brightly. “Did I?”
“Yes,” Miss Jesczenka said.
Miss Jesczenka took the glass from Emily after she’d drained it again, and placed it on a marble side table without making the slightest noise.
“Well, I can’t imagine she’ll mind all that much.” Emily attempted bravado. “Just a ‘little get-together,’ she said.”
“She invited a hundred people,” Miss Jesczenka said. “And two Astors.”
Emily sighed. She took a limping step forward.
“Are you injured?”
“Not in the least,” Emily lied again.
Miss Jesczenka was silent for a moment.
“When you did not return, I sent word to Mrs. Stanton that you had been seized with bewildering fits. I implied that you were wildly pounding on death’s door, demanding admittance. I had to concoct quite a dire scenario to excuse your absence.”
Probably made the old hag’s day, Emily thought. But instead of saying this, she smiled. “How clever of you.”
