Thunderstruck

by Shannon Delany

  Seated at the very edge of the Artemesia’s deck as if they hadn’t a care, were Jack and Evie, feet dangling off the ship, hanging loose in air that swept playfully around the big boat’s body. Thousands of feet above the ground they acted like children sitting on a bridge above a shallow stream, letting their toes dip into the water as they chatted.

  Rowen dragged himself forward. He was fine aboard an airship as long as he didn’t think about what being aboard an airship truly meant—that they were traveling high above the ground at the whim of only one person—a person distinctly unimpressed with him.

  Rowen stopped completely in his progress.

  “Dear me,” Evie said, turning to look his way, “it appears Rowen has again realized we are in midair.”

  “Damn,” Jack added, turning so that one leg was fully aboard and most of the other was not.

  Rowen swallowed hard as they eyed him, their smiles stretching from their lips to their sparkling eyes.

  Kit and Kaboodle curled, one in each of their laps, napping. Rowen could only imagine Cookie, the Tempest’s cook, glowering and sweating as she turned the Tempest’s spit without either of her previously promised spit dogs.

  “It must be something important racing round that brain of his to bring him so close to the edge. Perhaps we should be merciful and go to him?” Evie suggested.

  “Be merciful?” Jack sniffed. “Well.”

  But Evie reached out and rubbed Jack’s bristling chin with a sweep of her hand that made him follow her fingers for more. It was not the first time Rowen found himself wondering what happened between the two of them when they were alone. “Yes. Be merciful,” she whispered. “For a change. He is our friend, after all.”

  Jack eyed Rowen up and down. “Not just our ransom?”

  “No,” she assured. “And I get the sense he is readying to make himself useful to not only us, but also our cause.” She pulled her feet out of the sky and, one arm wrapped neatly around one Fennec fox, popped to her feet and strode away from the edge.

  Rowen took a long step back as Evie advanced. She had that effect. She was an odd combination: at one moment she could be playful as a kitten, and suddenly she switched and was fierce as a hellcat. Or so Rowen complained once. Jack had laughed and said, “That’s what a woman is—soft as silk and hiding the strength and sting of steel.” Rowen slid back another step.

  “And what, dear boy, do you need us for?”

  “If you recall our agreement—”

  Her eyes scanning the deck and her words slow, soft, and wary, Evie said, “I most certainly do—you are to rally your friends, connections, and money to assist in our cause and in that way not be handed over to one of the fine folks willing to pay for your capture.”

  Jack slipped up beside Evie.

  “I have a rather nontraditional method of retrieving the monies needed to better finance our cause.”

  Jack’s eyes fell on the papers Rowen again gripped.

  “I’m a fan of the nontraditional,” Evie mused. “But is this a discussion best held Topside or belowdecks in a quiet cabin on the Tempest?”

  “Ah,” Rowen said, seeing the direction in which her gaze rested. Evie’s eyes were fixed on Jordan. And most likely Caleb. “I fear we must start trusting each other sooner than later if this is to succeed.”

  “Sooner can still be tomorrow if later is the day after,” Jack said. “If this is a conversation about either money or power, it is best spoken of in private.”

  “You fear there is no honor here?” Rowen asked.

  Jack grinned. “Is there ever honor in a den of thieves?”

  “Thieves?” Rowen asked.

  “God, he’s young,” Evie chuckled, patting Rowen’s cheek. “Yes, sweet boy—thieves. What more might we be when we seek to steal power from an established government? How better to describe those stealing their thunder?”

  “Thieves,” Rowen agreed.

  “Let us discuss this elsewhere then,” Evie said, motioning to the swaying rope and wood-plank bridge pinned to the Topside of both the airships. Evie led Rowen and Jack to the bridge, crossed to the Tempest, and went belowdeck where they discussed the importance of proper wording on wanted posters and Rowen’s nontraditional way of obtaining money.

  Then Jack and Rowen made their way to the ship’s communication relays and contacted a few of Rowen’s more interesting friends.

  ***

  Philadelphia

  George had made short work of packing their belongings—not hard to do when you owned nearly nothing. Telling Todd that their move was also to be a surprise to Mrs. Fammesh, they crept past her and emerged on the street just before dawn. “Stay close,” George urged his son, “watch and follow me, and keep your head down. No matter what happens, keep your head down.”

  Todd obeyed, following silently and obediently.

  Trusting that his father would guide him right and true.

  And George did, guiding him past the alley where a young woman shrieked about Merrow murdering her friend and a crowd gathered to carry the corpse away, fists raised as they shouted for justice and for Merrow they might murder themselves.

  George guided his son right and true. Past the brewing trouble and the burned-out shell of a house where George had done his most recent work. Up the Hill they went, past the sprawling Astraea estate where an exhausted African man with salt and pepper curls worked at a garden outside the main wall, already soaked, and to another house George had never stepped inside.

  A household he hoped would understand better than most his troubles. And his intentions. Shouldering his bag, he took Todd by the hand and walked straight to the main door. He rapped on it with his knuckles.

  The door swung wide, revealing a thin man in a smart suit looking down his nose at the two would-be visitors.

  George doffed his cap, tucking it humbly under his arm. “I wish to see Kenneth Lorrington.”

  “And just who should I tell him has come calling?” the butler asked with a sniff.

  “A man with secrets to tell.”

  The butler blinked and ushered them inside, closing the door behind them quickly.

  ***

  Aboard the Artemesia

  The Wandering Wallace finally joined his coconspirators Topside, today a peacock with less spring in his step than Rowen might have expected of a man in love. Miyakitsu lagged behind, her eyes wary, her posture strange. With obvious effort, he dragged everyone back to the dining table to continue plotting.

  “There seems so much planning to a rebellion,” Rowen sulked. “If this were a book, this would be the part I would skip.”

  “Very little comes from rebellions that are not well planned,” the Wandering Wallace murmured, stretching across the table to study the map he’d spread before them.

  “Still, I would skip this bit. Turn a page or two.”

  “Skip right to the fighting, would you?” the Wandering Wallace asked in a near monotone, his masked face close to the curling parchment. Peacock plumes swayed over their heads as he nodded.

  Marion grabbed a teacup and tankard, placing each on a corner of the document to pin it down.

  “Certainly,” Rowen agreed. “Or the kissing.” He stole a look at Jordan.

  Blushing, Jordan rose from her place at the table, brushed down her broad skirts, and excused herself to return to the dais and her role as Conductor.

  “Fighting or kissing,” Wallace mused. “The books you read sound far more enjoyable than mine. But then, too, perhaps that is why I am leading a rebellion and why you, dear Rowen, are not.”

  Rowen snorted. “Just because I choose not to read certain things does not mean I cannot.”

  “Excellent,” the Wandering Wallace said, pushing a stack of books across the table to Rowen. “Our rebels need leaders I trust. These books can enlighten even the dimmest.”

  Rowen blinked. “Even the dimmest you say?”

  The Wandering Wallace nodded.

  Rowen split his stack of books
in half, sharing the workload with Jack. “There’s hope for you yet,” he said to the glowering ginger.

  “I am still repairing a lightship,” Jack muttered, and he rose, but the Wandering Wallace turned their attention to the Conductor’s dais where Jordan worked and Meggie played.

  “Look there. So beautiful, young and unaware of her own potential … Why, every abolitionist and slave will rally to our cause when they realize the Stormbringer rides with us.”

  Rowen grunted and kicked his legs out under the table, folded his arms behind his head, and enjoyed his view.

  Not far from his shoulder the Wandering Wallace said, “I have with me a precious cargo which requires I find a suitable Reader.”

  Rowen watched the dais as Jordan adjusted the ship’s wheel and, turning, ran a tentative finger along the ship’s main stormcell—a huge Herkimer diamond mounted on a post and ringed with jutting silver wires. She glanced at Rowen and color rose in her cheeks.

  The sky around them darkened.

  “You won’t find many readers aboard the Tempest,” Rowen joked from around a bite of scone.

  Evie slapped him on the back and Jack laughed as Rowen choked.

  Jordan froze, then adjusted other bits of the ship’s mechanics quickly.

  “Not that sort of reader at all, Rowen,” the Wandering Wallace clarified. “A Reader like one might find dealing in soul stones. A Reader of use to a Reanimator.”

  Jordan rejoined them, her eyes skimming Rowen’s face. He smiled and again she looked away.

  Rowen grunted and picked up another scone. “And what sort of reader does a Reanimator require?” Rowen asked.

  “A most accurate one,” the Wandering Wallace said.

  Jack stole the scone right out of Rowen’s grasp, chuckling.

  “You met a Reader in the Hill King’s Cavern,” Evie said.

  Jordan wrinkled her nose and asked, “The Hill King’s Cavern?”

  Rowen perked up, food forgotten though a few crumbs escaped his mouth as he hurried to engage her in conversation. “Yes. In Bangor there is an amazing boulder cave beneath what Evie likes to imagine might be a library.”

  Jordan’s gaze traveled to where Evie sat comfortably beside him. Comfortably between Rowen and Jack.

  Jack was chewing his recently won scone but said, “The Hill King’s Cavern is a meeting place—”

  “—and partying place,” Evie said, grinning at Rowen.

  Jordan straightened in her chair, her eyebrows drawing together. Sensing her unease, Rowen pulled away from Evie’s comfortable slouch and looked at Jordan as if he, too, was unnerved by Evie’s attention. “There they trade, but there is music, and food—”

  “—everything can be purchased for the right price,” Evie said with a laugh.

  “—and much needs to be avoided for one’s safety,” Rowen added, clearing his throat.

  “And a Reader does what?” Jordan asked, refocusing the conversation.

  “Reads,” Evie said, stretching the word out as she relaxed still further in her seat.

  Jordan pursed her lips and then, sighing between them asked, “Reads what?”

  Rowen leaned over the table to separate the glaring women. Jordan simply glanced at him and slid back from the table herself, her eyes narrow. “The stones?” Rowen asked the Wandering Wallace, hoping his intercession would squelch the rising tension.

  “The crystals,” the Wandering Wallace corrected. He pulled a small pouch from beneath the table and undid its drawstrings. Slowly he spilled out a few sparkling stormcells. Jordan’s hand moved to a spot near her neckline where a crystal she’d found in her Tank at Holgate stayed. She relaxed, picking up one glittering stone. The Wandering Wallace continued, “Each crystal holds the spark of a person who has passed on.”

  “A bit of their energy?” she asked cautiously.

  “A bit more than that …” The Wandering Wallace paused, glancing at Rowen.

  Jordan tapped the table between them. “Tell me what each holds. Exactly,” she said, her eyes narrowing further.

  “An energy, like a spirit.”

  “A specific person’s spirit is in each crystal?” Jordan leaned in. “You mean these crystals hold part of a person’s soul?” She replaced the one she held and pulled her hand away, trembling.

  “A bit more than that,” the Wandering Wallace repeated.

  “Their entire soul?” she asked softly.

  His next words came slowly—carefully. “Yes. Each crystal holds a particular person’s entire soul.”

  “They are trapped?” she asked, her pitch rising. “How can they … if they’re trapped … how can they get to heaven …” Rowen saw her pulse flutter at the base of her neck. “Or Hell?”

  The Wandering Wallace leaned back. He drummed his fingertips across the tabletop, tapping out a rolling, rapid rhythm. “There are many things in life I do not know, many I cannot explain,” he admitted.

  “So,” Jordan drew in a breath so deep it was audible, and said, “potentially you have a hundred or more people’s souls trapped in a crystal purgatory? Souls you’ll—what?—use for revolution?” She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head.

  “These are people misused by our system, people abused and killed because they were Witches. They will thank me for giving them the chance to change a broken system,” he assured. “They deserved to live in a better world but were denied it.”

  “Have they slept since death? Is that what they do snared in a crystal palace? God.” She stood so fast her chair fell back, smacking against the floor. “What if they were so destroyed by what was done to them … What if these spirits are damaged because of the way they died?” she asked. “What if they are more danger than asset?”

  Everyone turned their focus to the revolution’s self-appointed head.

  Rowen rubbed his jaw. Evie’s eyes were hooded and Jack’s nearly glowed. Clearly Jordan was the first to raise such a legitimate concern.

  “Don’t you have a ship to steer?” the Wandering Wallace snapped.

  “No one else has asked, have they? No one questions you. They’re so caught up in the idea of abolition, of revolution, they aren’t seeing the detriment.” She waved one arm at them. “But you,” she took a breath, “and I,” she added, “know there are risks—great risks—as well as potential rewards in revolution.”

  “The rewards outweigh any risks.”

  “How can you be certain?” She stabbed a finger into the pile of gems, making a few jump and skitter on the table.

  The ship dipped in flight and thunder boomed before Jordan regained control. Her nostrils flared, her eyes closed and Rowen’s heart sped up. The ship steadied, the rumble of thunder receded, and Jordan opened her eyes to ask, “How do you know they will wake and remember who they were—that they will help us? How do you know they won’t turn?”

  “They will not turn.”

  “How do you know?”

  “None of them have turned before.” The Wandering Wallace examined the tips of his fingers nonchalantly.

  Turning, Jordan looked at him from one eye. “Before?” She twitched. “You have tried this before? With other mechanical men—like those used by the Council in Philadelphia?”

  He sighed. “Not exactly. But I have tested this method of using soul stones before.”

  “I am a fan of riddles, but only the ones he tells,” Jordan said, hooking a thumb in Rowen’s direction.

  “You tell riddles?” Evie asked.

  “More commonly dirty jokes,” Rowen clarified.

  Jordan rolled her eyes. “Explain how you tested this volatile method of powering an inanimate object, Wandering Wallace.”

  “Every time I Reanimate a person, I test the method,” he specified, his eyes flicking from his fingers to her gaze. Somehow daring her. “Every time I bring someone back from the dead, I put my methods to the test.”

  “Now I see. You are a Reanimator.”

  Bran set his teacup down with a snap. “I
t is true then? You can reanimate the dead?”

  “To a point.”

  “That sounds even less promising,” Jack muttered, returning his attention to the mechanical thing he toyed with.

  “Technically, yes, I Reanimate the dead. But there are limitations.”

  “Like?” Bran asked.

  “If they’ve bled out too much it is nearly impossible. Or, if the physical damage is too great … Being crushed to death. I cannot fix that. And I require a soul stone. Ideally the right soul stone: the person’s own soul stone. Otherwise there must be a substitution made.”

  “A substitution?” Jordan hissed, her eyes wide. “You use another soul stone—another soul if you can’t—what? Be inconvenienced by obtaining the correct one?”

  “Do not,” the Wandering Wallace warned.

  “Do not what?”

  “Do not press me on this, Jordan Astraea. Desperate times call for desperate measures and sometimes—to save a family, you sacrifice a soul. Sometimes someone does something so selfish and people panic to correct the situation—because so much has already been lost by so many.” He paused and Rowen thought he saw a fire building in the depths of his eyes as he stood, pressing the beak of his mask to her nose and backing her up. “People might overlook a stone in their haste to save a life. The knowledge I have is not common. The upper ranks know nearly none of it and what the lower ranks know is mainly rumor and wrong. People do their best, but time—it runs out so very quickly, Jordan. And decisions have to be made. Suddenly.”

  Jordan’s eyebrows tugged together and she stared at him. She shook her head. Eyelashes fluttering quickly, she stepped back a pace. “I do not want this going wrong on us,” she whispered. “There is so much risk.”

  The Wandering Wallace laid a hand on her shoulder. “Far greater is the reward at journey’s end than any risk we take along our way,” he promised gently.

  Down the table, Jack pulled out a tin of lucifers and struck one, sticking its burning head into the body of the automaton he’d been tinkering with. He withdrew the lucifer, waved it out, and nudged the tiny mech toward Evie. It jolted to life, staggering a few wheezing paces before, with a gasp of dark smoke, it toppled over. Righting it, he retrieved it and returned to tinkering.