Thunderstruck

by Shannon Delany

  Rowen squinted at her. “Your capabilities … ?”

  “Everyone’s capabilities! Imagine if the slaves were allowed to exhibit their skills—what art or science might we see that we are currently crushing? What if we encouraged other sorts of energy to be developed so we didn’t need to use the Weather Witches’ skills. Yes, let them keep their airships and fly wherever they like—”

  “You do not know what it’s like to be a Weather Witch, do you?” Rowen whispered, dread in his voice. “My god, no wonder …”

  “What is there to understand? They are taken, educated, and given ships.”

  “Educate her, Rowen,” her uncle whispered. “I see the understanding in your eyes. Perhaps now is the time to pass along that light to someone very much—very tragically—in the dark.”

  “What are you talking about?” Catrina growled.

  “Yes,” Rowen whispered. “I think we must …” He glanced about. “But where? I have no ship to show her the truth of things …”

  Every light in the room dimmed a moment and Rowen said, “Close your eyes,” just as the Pulse came, shooting out from the city’s Hub like fingers of lightning and racing through wires, humming, to recharge all the stormcell crystals at once. There was a flare of white light strong enough to blind if one was caught off guard, and the light receded, returning to its normal ambience.

  “Ah. The Hub,” Catrina’s uncle said. “I think it’s time we took a family outing to the Hub. An educational trip of sorts, yes?”

  His jaw set, Rowen nodded. “Yes.”

  “You are both so frustrating,” Catrina exclaimed.

  “The carriage for the first leg and then walk it in?” Rowen suggested.

  “Indeed. Come, dear niece,” her uncle said, rising. “Come and see how bitter reality truly is.”

  They trundled her off to the stables, where her uncle took the lead, getting the guard to let him past and enticing a stable boy to hook up the family horses to the carriage that more frequently rested under cover than traveled the streets. He climbed into the driver’s seat himself, driving their steeds out onto the herringbone patio. He paused there and let them get situated.

  “Jack,” Rowen said, watching the way Catrina’s uncle slumped in the seat, “Perhaps you should help him drive?”

  “Yes, Jack,” Catrina agreed with a bat of her lashes, “Do help Uncle Gerald with the driving so we do not spill on our way down the Hill and die a most ignoble death.”

  Jack grimaced at her, but climbed out the window, clambering up beside her uncle and taking the reins.

  Catrina waved her fan before her face. “Rowen, if you wished to get me alone, all you needed to do was ask …” She peered at him over the edge of her fan, fluttering her eyelashes.

  “For years people accused me of being clueless, Catrina. Clueless, vapid, egocentric, self obsessed …”

  She hissed.

  “They believed that the way I obsessed over my clothes and hair showed that I cared little for anything else—they felt that I did not have the capacity for anything more than dressing well and looking a part—a part I was unworthy to play.”

  “Ugly people often think that way,” Catrina said. “Pay such talk no mind. They are jealous.”

  “No, Catrina. They were right. I was a vainglorious sot. I had no true value in society except as a window dressing.”

  “Oh, Rowen, do not be so hard on yourself! You are a handsome, handsome man.”

  He rubbed his forehead, and, shaking his head, just stared at her. “But even as clueless as I was, I still had a more realistic view of the world than you do,” he whispered. “I knew that Jordan would need rescue from the fate of being a Weather Witch. So I went to find her.”

  Catrina returned to fanning herself. She stared out the window, watching the fine houses of the Hill disappear as they descended into Philadelphia’s Below and neared the Hub. “Yes, yes,” she murmured, “truly a hero’s quest.”

  “It was,” he insisted. “Even though I arrived too late.”

  Catrina returned her attention to him then, watching him with renewed interest. “You arrived too late, you say?”

  “Yes. Jordan was being loaded onto an airship, I was on horse in the courtyard below … I have been told it was not meant to be.”

  She smacked her fan shut on his knee. “And I would agree with whoever it was that told you that. It was surely not meant to be if you arrived too late.”

  The carriage came to a halt.

  He swept her fan off of his knee and stared at her coldly.

  “Besides,” she continued. “What horrendous fate were you truly rescuing her from?”

  “I fear you are soon to find out,” he said, exiting the carriage and reaching back in to grab her by the arm and tow her (less than courteously) out.

  “Not far from here, my lambs,” the uncle said with a grim laugh. “Not long until your questions are answered, your nerves are rattled, and your conscience, dear niece,” he specified, tweaking the tip of her nose, “is given a hellish shake.”

  They tied the horses to a post and, Catrina’s uncle leading the way, they followed in a silent single file line. Before a building bristling with metal poles and wires of varying thicknesses stood a pair of dour-looking guards.

  Gerald swept his arms back to keep the group of them behind him. He put a finger to his lips and said around it, “No need to disrupt them from their duty. There is another way inside.” He signaled them around the side of the building and they shadowed some shrubs that softened the austere image of the Hub. Around the building’s side was a smaller door, this one unguarded, poorly lit, and with nothing but an unremarkable doorframe, bowed metal handle, and hinges to mark it as a door. Simple and obscure, it was the entrance they needed. Gerald loped across the break between bushes and wall, and leaning against the wall, waved them forward as he turned to open the door.

  They slinked inside, bumping into one another as they closed the door tight behind them.

  “This is quite unsavory,” Catrina whispered.

  Rowen shushed her and, realizing her hands were on him yet again, peeled her off and held her wrists in his hand.

  She seemed not to mind.

  He thrust her hands away and jabbed a finger toward the dimly lit area ahead of them.

  All around them water sounded. Water, running in thin rivulets along the seams of the building, glimmering in strands at all the places where walls met floor. Water, dripping down walls in shimmering threads of moisture. Water, hanging far above from the ceiling, illuminated by stormcell crystals wedged in the rock walls, and waiting to plunge to the floor where it spattered to bits or became one with a puddle.

  Water made their footsteps louder and their words carry, echoing in the dark, dank building. Water hung in air so thick Rowen imagined it might be pierced with blade or bullet. They tiptoed down a slender corridor, Catrina’s dress making a soft whooshing noise as its hem wicked up moisture and its broad skirt rubbed along the walls.

  Her uncle led the way, Catrina behind him and obviously unimpressed, Rowen following her and wary enough for them all. Jack brought up the group’s rear.

  Rowen may have visited the Below many times, but not even he had come to the Hub.

  Her uncle stopped and Catrina sucked in a breath in surprise. Peering over both of their heads, Rowen could see … something.

  Long lines like strings—no, heavier, like rope; no, slicker than the fiber of ropes … cables. Cables ran like snakes from holes in the ceiling and down the only wall Rowen could easily see, then hung in a giant web-work that seemed to focus on the room’s center—a spot just out of sight …

  Rowen adjusted his position, pushing against the wall to peer around the corner. He barely stopped himself from gasping at what he saw there, in the room’s center, hanging from the coalescing cables.

  Suspended, his bare feet inches from the floor, was a man. His shirt and pants stuck to his thin frame with the damp and his thin gray hair was
plastered to a head bowed so deeply his bearded chin rested, wet, against his chest.

  They all jumped when he spoke, in a strangely dry voice considering his surroundings. “Step forward,” he said, lifting his head the slightest bit so his eyes, squinting against the dark, met theirs.

  They stood even more still than before, hearing his command.

  “Step forward,” he repeated. “You had the gall to come here, have the guts to see your choice through. Come. Get a good look. See what magick brings!”

  Gerald looked at Rowen and took a long step forward, staying with his back nearly to the wall. Catrina looked at Rowen, her mouth agape.

  He put his hands on her shoulders long enough to march her forward.

  “Ah,” the hanging man whispered. “And what has brought you here this”—he rolled his head on his neck and closed his eyes—”evening? Were there no grand galas on the Hill to attend? No soirees?”

  They stood silent, dumb.

  “Answer me. You can at least do me that one small kindness as you gawk at me, displayed here to feed your every need with the power I call down from the heavens.”

  Rowen cleared his throat. “It is important she—” He swallowed. “Important we all know …”

  “Is it then?” the man wondered aloud. “And when did it become important that the higher ranks know what Witches do? How we … live?” His voice cracked on the last word and he coughed and then fell into a fit of laughter, his cables swishing in midair and rattling against the walls.

  “It became important when I realized my friend was going to be one of you,” Rowen admitted.

  “Ah. Yes. Another’s plight never really matters unless it impacts you directly. Predictable,” he scoffed, and let his head hang again. “Go. Take a look. Stare, giggle, and wonder. I shall educate you as I do others.”

  They continued to stare dumbly.

  “Ask me my name,” he challenged.

  Rowen stuttered out the words: “What is your name?”

  “I am the Hub. My given name ceased to be important when I was connected here—absorbed here. Now I am nothing but the energy I provide. Nothing but the location that possesses me. Ask me another question,” he demanded.

  Jack spoke up. “Why the cables?”

  “Ah. They’ve become clever here—more efficient. The Hub used to require two Witches, most often the most rare of all kinds—a mated pair. The energy had to be more than just one type. It had to be complementary.”

  Rowen choked at the thought. “A mated pair,” he repeated lamely. “Witches who were husband and wife?”

  The Hub laughed, a dry sound like autumn leaves rattling in a slow spin. “Two Witches may not marry. It is not permitted.”

  “Like being a priest,” Gerald muttered.

  “A Witch might only marry if the ceremony is performed before he or she is discovered to be a Witch,” the Hub clarified.

  “So they were—”

  “Lovers.”

  Jack shook his head.

  “But lovers, especially young lovers, are volatile things. After a few …” the Hub paused, his eyes rolling up as he searched for the word, “ … incidents, mated pairs were found to be too dangerous. So key members of the Grounded learned to more efficiently milk the power from individual Witches through the cables. We breathe, we expend energy. It flows out of us like our breath. And now it all is collected. A Conductor must think about his or her ship nearly every minute of every day. They must focus to keep a ship aloft. But now—I eat, I sleep, it matters not what I do because the power is all leached away from me regardless.”

  A cable attached to the side of his head swayed, a rat slowly bouncing its way across the line toward the man’s head. The Hub did not even twitch but watched them watching him. “Now go home, go back up the Hill and forget again.”

  “No,” Rowen whispered. “How could we forget?”

  “The same way all the others do.”

  ***

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Down the hall Jordan went, scouring behind each unlocked door, inside every armoire and trunk, and beneath each bed until she was nearly at the end of the hallway. She rested a hand on the wall and yawned, only then realizing how her exhaustion at lack of sleep had been building in steady increments. She sighed, wishing in part the game was over, but wishing even harder she’d found her two companions.

  It was then that the ship whispered to her.

  She straightened, craning her neck and focusing her ears to catch the strange noise. Perhaps it wasn’t the ship at all but …

  Meggie?

  As if a scene floated before her, Jordan saw the child crouched behind a stack of trunks in a different room than any she’d searched. A bigger, grander room. And, perhaps strangest of all, she felt a single word fill her brain: up. She shook her head to clear it. Up? That would mean Meggie had taken the elevator. But that was nearly impossible as she had been told quite firmly to stay on tis single floor.

  So Jordan ignored the strange and nagging sensation and checked the remaining rooms.

  Oddly, she was not surprised when she failed to find Meggie in any of them. Frowning, she headed for the elevator. Stepping inside, she was faced with the bank of buttons. She chewed her lip, staring at them. She wanted to be done with this game—to be done with all games. And then she saw it. A faint glow emanating from the number five.

  She pressed it and felt the elevator lurch its way to her unplanned destination. The doors opened and, stepping out, Jordan had the distinct feeling she should turn right. So she did.

  She found herself pausing outside one particular door after trying none of the others. Placing her hand on its knob, she gave it a twist and stepped inside. There in the corner where three traveling trunks were stacked one atop another, and shaking her head, she lunged around the back of them.

  Meggie shrieked in a mix of surprise and delight, hopping up and down on her feet and exclaiming, “You found me! You found me!”

  Jordan merely nodded, perplexed, and grasped the child’s hand. “Shall we find that troublemaker Caleb?” she teased.

  “Oh, yes!” Meggie squealed merrily.

  This time Jordan paused, wishing the game was over and that Caleb was found just as fervently as she had wished the same with Meggie. But there was no image in answer, no sensation to point her on her way.

  It only worked with Meggie.

  The next twenty minutes were full of tedium that Meggie evidently felt none of, bounding as she did from door to door and jumping into each and every room to shout, “Surprise! We have found you!” with the same fervor she’d shown the first time.

  Finally, having exhausted all the rooms on the floor, the pair stood staring at each other.

  And then they heard it.

  The sound of music being played.

  On a pianoforte somewhere on the floor above.

  Could no one follow her instructions?

  “Caleb!” Jordan shouted, grabbing Meggie’s hand again and towing her to the elevator. They bounced up a single floor and, stepping out, were surrounded by the lively sounds of a intricate tune just right for dancing. They followed the sound to its source—a grand cabin with a divan, a padded chair, a low and ornately carved mahogany table, wide bed, and a pianoforte—being played more passionately than it had probably ever been played before.

  Caleb rose off the bench—playing the whole time—and exclaimed somewhat apologetically, “I got tired of waiting to be found! I decided perhaps I might speed the process …” He winked at them.

  Jordan grinned. “It is a most welcomed way to end a game of hide-and-seek,” she admitted. “Although neither of you remained on the same floor as I requested.”

  They did her the courtesy of briefly looking ashamed.

  “This is a grand apartment,” Jordan added, and then her heart sank, realizing where she was. Hate bleeding from her eyes, she turned on him. “These are his apartments, are they not?”

  The music stopped. He nodded
. “He is dead, darling girl,” he said as if it was assurance enough. “You must know that. In your heart. He is dead and gone, Jordan.”

  That did not stop her knees from turning to water and letting her crumple to the floor.

  Caleb rushed to her, joining her on the floor even through she flailed her arms at him, hissing. And Meggie dropped to her knees—doing the only thing she could to help. She dropped Somebunny and wrapped her tiny arms around Jordan, hugging her so fiercely Jordan felt her strength and hope biting through the haze of pain and betrayal.

  ***

  Philadelphia

  The Hub laughed. “Do you think you are the first to come through that door in the back? Do you believe it was just luck—an oversight—that it was not locked? It is all design, boy, all part of a grand and wicked design. You are not the first to see the human heart of the Hub—you are not even the first tonight!” he hissed. “You won’t remember. You can’t.”

  The rat paused by his ear before boldly climbing up the dome of his bald head where it rested, sniffing the air, its hairy, segmented tail sweeping down across his forehead and cheek before it turned to face the group of them.

  “Yes, yes, I can remember,” Rowen snapped, stepping forward. “Because I can do something about this. Then I’ll remember,” he promised, stepping closer, “and they’ll remember,” he dragged a crate over, “and you,” he grabbed a cable, “will certainly remember.”

  The rat screeched, scurrying away as Rowen gave the cable a twist. There was a popping noise and the cable fell loose, slapping against the wet floor and slithering back toward the wall. Rowen barely paused, noting with satisfaction that the man did not bleed but tried to drag himself away from Rowen by grasping the other cables.

  The Hub hissed, “Stop,” his eyes wide and fearful.

  “No,” Rowen insisted, his hands making short work of the cables connected the man’s head like some strange corona. “You are frightened—understandable.” He barely paused at the two thicker lines that coiled out from the man’s temples like the horns of some mythological ram. He stripped his legs next, letting the seams along the outside of his trousers fall closed against his thighs and calves once more. The man lowered inch by inch as the cables and tubes holding him aloft fell limp. He whispered to Rowen, his voice strained and frightened, urging him, begging him, to stop, to consider the repercussions …