Revolutionary Magic (with Bonus Content)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  "You said it worked by intention," I said. "That you thought on the gauntlet. Think instead on the estate, or somewhere else."

  The air exploded over my head. The shot had passed between us. "Hurry, he won't miss again now that he knows the wind."

  Ben held his hand out, fingers splayed in the direction of the estate. He seemed to be pouring his concentration into the gauntlet. My back tingled with the anticipation of being hit by a lead shot from the assassin's rifle.

  Suddenly, a shimmering oval appeared in the air, energy bleeding off the sides of it like faint purple tendrils. I grabbed Ben's arm and we leapt through the portal as a shot rang behind us.

  We tumbled onto the cobblestones outside his estate, right in the middle of the avenue. A farmer's wagon retreated from our location. We'd missed being run over by only a few seconds. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when Ben collapsed onto the street, a crimson bloom forming on his shirt.

  Chapter Ten

  Ben had been shot. We hadn't made it through the portal in time. The assassin's bullet chased us through, or it hit Ben before we escaped.

  I reached Ben the same time Adam Smith came running out of the house.

  "I saw strange lights in the street," said Smith. "How did you get here and what happened to Ben?"

  Blood flowed from a wound on his side. I had to tear the crimson shirt to find the spot the bullet had hit.

  "We were chased by men with rifles," I said, leaving out the word assassin in case he somehow linked those men to me. "Ben got hit right as he made the portal work."

  "The portal? Where were you moments before?" asked Smith.

  I was too busy investigating Ben's wound to answer. Ben seemed to be coming out of a fog.

  "Was I shot?" he asked.

  I found the entry point on the underside of his arm, right beneath the shoulder. The lead had ripped through his flesh, leaving a gash. The shot had nearly passed beneath his armpit, right as we leapt. I wasn't sure if we'd been lucky or unlucky.

  "Yes," I said, holding my hand to the wound. "But it's not bad. Let's get you inside to wrap this up."

  We helped Ben to his feet and took him inside. I explained what happened to Adam Smith on the way, including what had transpired at the Magdelen House.

  After cleaning the wound, I wrapped Ben's arm. He had his shirt off, which left me uncomfortable. By the twinkle in his eye, I knew the wound he suffered wasn't serious, or at least he was good at hiding his pain.

  "Katerina and I should go to the Bingham's place at once while you recover," said Adam Smith. "We can't leave them unprotected. Our enemies move against us with great alacrity."

  I was too shocked to say anything. Smith had included me without being prompted.

  "I'm well enough to go," said Ben, pulling on a new shirt. "We'll need the three of us to defend the Binghams."

  Smith's arguments evaporated when he saw the resolve on Ben's face.

  "Make a portal. We need to hurry across town and we have no steam carriage," I urged Ben.

  "I'm not sure I can do it again," he said, then nodded, "but I see your logic. We've little time. Gather your things and then I will make my attempt."

  Smith strapped an unlikely blade to his hip. It looked like the short blade of a Roman soldier, a gladius perhaps. On his other hip was a repeating pistol, similar to Ben's weapon.

  I kept my rapier and pistol while Ben had his repeating pistol only. We stood in his main floor laboratory. Glancing through the door, I spied supplies piled up in the dining room. It looked like Ben was preparing for a trip.

  "Going somewhere?" I asked, nodding towards the crates.

  "Smith and I had been preparing a trip to the Ottoman Empire, thinking that might help us discover the purpose of this gauntlet, but it seems that journey is unnecessary," he said.

  "You would have left without me?" I asked, hand resting on my hip.

  "I would have left you in charge of our Philadelphian operations," he said with a wink.

  Had we more time, I would have grilled him with a pithy response, instead I stuck my tongue out at him in the most unladylike fashion.

  "Shall I?" he asked, raising his gauntleted fist. "Gather close."

  Like before, he stretched his arm out and splayed his fingers. The inside of the stone faded from jet black to ominous purple, the inside crackling like a lightning storm in a dome.

  At the moment I expected a portal to appear in midair, Ben doubled over, his other hand clutching his head as if he had been struck. The gauntlet reacted, tendrils of energy snapping out of it like whips, or grasping tentacles.

  A bubble of energy flowed from the stone, escaping from the gauntlet with a barely audible pop. Ben straightened, backing away from the shimmering air that did not fade.

  "Are you well?" I asked.

  Ben seemed dazed, his normally steely grey eyes dulled by pain. "It was going the same as before and then it was like someone had shoved a spike into my mind."

  Adam was staring at the bubble of energy shimmering like a mirage in midair. He reached a finger out, but pulled back suddenly, a cry of alarm exiting his lips.

  "It shocked me," he said, holding his hand. "Not terribly, but like a dry winter's spark on metal."

  "What is it?" asked Ben.

  "It looks like the thing the creature made before I shot him," I said.

  "It's growing," said Ben, peering at it. "My ignorance of the gauntlet has been exposed. I fear I've done something irrevocable."

  "Try again. We need to get to the Bingham's place quickly," I said. "We'll solve the mystery of this shield later."

  Ben took a few steps away and tried again, reaching outward and concentrating on the gauntlet. This time, the stone lay dormant, remaining a reflective obsidian.

  "I can't feel it in my mind like before," he said. "It's like this thing here is blocking it."

  "Interesting," said Smith, stroking his chin, "these energies are mutually exclusive."

  "Let's move to the parlor and try again," I said.

  We followed Ben and he lifted his arm. This time the portal sprung into existence, though one side of it, the side nearest the energy bubble in the workroom, seemed thin and not as sharp as the other side.

  Before we lost our nerve, we jumped through and appeared on the front lawn of the Bingham's house.

  William and Anne Bingham lived near Third and Spruce. The building emulated the Roman villas of old, with generous use of marble. The windows glowed with the brassy shine of gas lamps. Night was collapsing around us.

  We had little time to admire the craftsmanship of their architects as we ran up the manicured pathway and burst through the front door.

  A servant walking through the atrium paled as we appeared, three intruders with weapons strapped to our hips. The woman froze in the rictus of surprise. She had dirty blonde hair and a peasant's face.

  "Madam," said Ben, "I am William Temple Franklin. I must speak to the Binghams. They are in terrible danger."

  Either the mention of the Franklin name or the absolutely certainty in which he made his commands changed the servant's opinion of us from intruders to rescuers, which one I wouldn't know, since I had no time to ask.

  "With me," she said, lifting the hem of her skirt.

  We found the Binghams lounging in a great room with a fireplace so large you could march a patrol through it. It remained unlit due to the warm springtime.

  William Bingham set his cup down to rattle on the porcelain saucer the moment we entered. Anne was reading a leather-bound tome with golden embossed lettering on the front. She placed it against her lap, looking up.

  "Sir, what ails you?" asked Mr. Bingham as he stood up, sensing the importance of our visit.

  While Mr. Bingham was the head of the house, I could not take my eyes from Mrs. Bingham. It wasn't her reputation that drew my gaze, though I was aware of "the dazzling Anne Bingham" and her Salon de Americana. It was the fierce intelligence behind those azure eyes, a sense of unwavering se
lf. I knew this gaze well, for it was the look of royalty, though this woman bore no titles. I saw at once the force behind her husband's rising success.

  "Sir. Madam." Ben gave a bow to each. "I am William Temple Franklin. This is Mr. Smith and Ms. Carmontelle. We are agents in the defense of the country and we have word that you are in terrible danger."

  While the Transcendent Society had no official capacity within the government, especially since most of its members were foreign, the Franklin name helped assuage any concerns.

  From her seated position, Anne Bingham carefully set the leather-bound book she'd been reading on the end table. Her husband glanced in her direction.

  "If we are in danger, why are there not soldiers with you?" asked Anne.

  Ben was flummoxed by the question. He pushed on his nose where his glasses once resided.

  "Mrs. Bingham," I said, drawing her sharp gaze, "soldiers would have dragged mud across your expensive carpets and knocked over your priceless vases. The soldiers are stationed around the estate, but hidden, so we might catch the assailants. We will be your personal guard."

  Mrs. Bingham clasped her slender fingers together. I could see she was contemplating my accent.

  "Why not a show of strength? Place the soldiers in plain view to dissuade our enemies from ever making the attempt?" asked Mrs. Bingham.

  "Do you want soldiers trampling your gardens forever? These are scurrilous assassins that wish to harm you. They will wait until they have the right moment." I waved my hand towards Ben, Smith, and myself. "We can provide the proper defense."

  Mr. Bingham's sharp laugh cut through the room. "I would trust my life to the three of you? You look like accountants, not warriors."

  "Appearances can be deceiving," said Ben gravely, "but let us not bicker, your lives are in danger."

  At that moment, there was a scream in another part of the house. Seconds later, the servant who'd ushered us in earlier came running, her checks bright red. She shook with fright.

  "Trisella, calm yourself," said Anne forcefully. "What causes you such fear?"

  The words stuttered from her lips. "Al...bert. Albert. I went to fetch tea from the kit...chen. He was lying on the floor. I saw. I saw. Something. A creature. It came after me."

  Trisella clamped her eyes closed as if she were a child wanting to make the monster under the bed go away.

  "Trisella, what was it?" asked Anne.

  "It had a mouth with so many teeth," said the servant, and then the stress proved too much and she collapsed in a heap. Smith went to the woman and moved her onto her back, fanning her with his hand.

  Mrs. Bingham slashed her gaze at me. "A creature? I will not be frightened by parlor tricks."

  Rather than answer, I looked to the three exits from the room. Ben was doing the same thing.

  "Mr. Bingham," said Ben, "can you call your servants? We can keep you safe here."

  Unease slackened Mr. Bingham's jaw. He caught himself twice, finally saying nothing.

  "Mr. Bingham," repeated Ben. "Call your servants. They are in danger."

  "I'll not take commands from you," said William. "This is my house and I am the master here."

  A woman's scream rose in a crescendo and then abruptly stopped.

  Chapter Eleven

  The mood in the great room was akin to the wake of an estranged patriarch with feuding children. The Binghams and their servants maintained camp near the fireplace, speaking in hushed tones, while we stood guard near the doors. We'd pushed the high-backed couch against one exit and tied the wrought iron handles of the other two doors together using rope from Ben's knapsack.

  We'd rescued three servants from the house, including Trisella. The cook, Albert, had unfortunately been killed in the kitchen. No marks revealed the method of his murder. The woman who'd screamed, Justine, remained missing, though we hadn't searched the whole house, which consisted of two wings.

  It'd been a few hours since we'd taken refuge in the great room. The Binghams were getting restless, while Ben cautioned them that waiting out the night was our best course of action.

  I was adjusting the scabbard at my hip when I found Adam Smith at my side. His bulging eyes and large nose gave him the appearance of never being quite comfortable, but I sensed it was something deeper.

  "Miss Dashkova," he said quietly, so no one else could hear, "I must speak to you about an important matter."

  "I am your humble servant," I said, inclining my head.

  "No," he said, "I am yours. I must confess to a grave mistake."

  "Oh?"

  He pressed his palms together and squeezed. "I admit that I was greatly opposed to your membership in the Society. Especially after communications revealed that you might be a spy for the Russian Empire."

  I stayed as still as a statue. A breath was caught in my chest, but I dared not exhale.

  "Two days ago, I sent a letter to Voltaire and the other members, expressing my opinion that we should press Ben to expel you from our ranks." He rubbed his forehead. "I'm afraid this was a mistake."

  His honesty disarmed me. He seemed genuinely repentant. "May I ask what changed your mind?"

  Though I knew him quite opinionated, Smith seemed a man uneasy with apologies. "As I said when we first met, I will judge you by your actions. You have since been judged and found exemplary."

  "I am humbled," I said, as a stone of doubt sunk into my chest. My guilt at cooperating with the Russian spy, even though I was looking for a way out, made me squeamish.

  "And unworthy," I continued. "I merely hope to contribute to the Society. Do not think me too special or you will come away disappointed."

  "Without you, we would not know the extent of our enemy. The Binghams would surely be blank-faced and glassy-eyed by now," he said. "Accept my praise, apologies for previous behavior, and thanks."

  Adam Smith gave me a generous bow. I caught Ben's amused eyebrow raise at our quiet exchange.

  As we stood in silence, sharing a space comfortably for the first time since I’d met him, I had the urge to reveal my secret. Maybe at that moment, he would find it in himself to forgive me.

  Smith smiled awkwardly, a particularly unused expression for the economist. "Don't worry about the letter. When we return to the estate, I shall set myself to quill and paper immediately, rectifying my error and illuminating your pivotal role in this marvelous adventure."

  I found myself speechless, and any words I might have spoken were lost when the Binghams, who were having their own private discussion, broke camp.

  "We're leaving," said Mr. Bingham, his wife nodding emphatically behind him. "We suspect the three of you are charlatans and your accomplices hide in the house. Eventually, you plan on pilfering our valuables. So instead, we shall go straight to the constable and have you arrested."

  Ben held a hand up. "This would be a mistake. You'll leave yourselves vulnerable."

  "Vulnerable to what?" asked Mrs. Bingham. "All we've heard are noises and screams. Are we to be afraid of bumps in the night?"

  "What about your cook?" asked Ben. "You were there when we examined him. The man is dead."

  "Yes," said Mr. Bingham, "we suspect at the hands of your accomplices. You cannot dissuade us. We are leaving. Good day to you. Good day."

  The five of them, the Binghams and the three servants, gathered themselves together, preparing to leave.

  "At least let us guard you on the way out," I said.

  "Guard? I'm sure you will use the moment to assault us," said Mr. Bingham.

  Smith barked a response. "If we'd meant to snuff your wicks, we would have done so already. We are heavily armed while you are defenseless!"

  This response did not blemish the Binghams’ steadfast gazes, though their servants appeared appropriately uneasy.

  Anne Bingham turned to Trisella. "Tris, be a dear and tell Mr. Peeples to prepare the De Sota and bring it around front so that we may depart."

  The wide-eyed servant looked to us for support.

&
nbsp; "You left another servant on the property unguarded?" seethed Ben.

  Mrs. Bingham gave Ben an annoyed glance. "Mr. Peeples attends the steam carriages. I would not think to allow him in the house. He's a disgusting man, though he keeps our stable of vehicles in good working order."

  Then Anne, realizing that Trisella hadn't moved, marched over, grabbed the servant by the arm, and dragged her towards the door. She undid the rope around the handle and opened the door without a moment of hesitation, pointing into the darkness towards the back of the house.

  "Tris, I gave you an order. If you still want to be a member of this household, attend my request."

  Trisella looked ready to faint again, which would be to her benefit. I willed her legs to collapse, but it seemed Anne's iron grip kept Trisella from daring that escape.

  "But the creature," said Trisella, lips quivering.

  "It was merely your imagination," said Anne. "You're a weak-minded girl—you're lucky to have a job with us. If I tell you there was no creature, you must believe me."

  Trisella took a step towards the open door, her terrified expression a cry for help.

  "Good girl. Fetch Mr. Peeples, and when the De Sota is ready, you may ride around front with him," said Anne, as if it were a generous reward.

  Before Trisella could take another step forward, I marched to the open door. "Sending her alone would be a death sentence. I'm going with her."

  "I will assist," said Smith, joining me.

  Anne narrowed her gaze at me before giving consent. "I will allow it."

  "I didn't ask permission," I said.

  We faced off, Mrs. Bingham giving me her most steely gaze, one she clearly used to intimidate. I responded with one of my own, except mine had been honed on kings and empresses.

  Eventually, she turned, waved her hand in dismissal, and walked back to her husband. "Fine. But you may not ride in the De Sota."

  We collected candles for light. Ben gave us a grim nod before we left, and Mr. Bingham closed the great room doors behind us, the ominous sound goosing poor Trisella when they shut.

  "Shall we fetch the De Sota?" I said gaily, trying to lighten the mood, receiving a hesitant smile from Smith. Trisella clung to Smith's coat, the light from her candle quivering.