Revolutionary Magic (with Bonus Content)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  With weapons drawn we advanced into the darkness.

  Chapter Twelve

  The darkness loomed before us, its malignance created from our fears. In truth, it had no power except to obfuscate. Darkness was not a danger, but those who used it wrapped its shadowy veil around them to perform deeds ill suited for bright lights.

  I was not unaccustomed to this sightless world. The court of Empress Catherine, despite her desire to instill the ideals of the Enlightenment, was a place of dangerous shadows. Pretenders hawked her from all sides, their plots growing in forgotten corners like mold.

  Even I had used the darkness, when I helped depose her husband Peter and place Catherine on the throne. I remembered that night well—running across the packed snow, footsteps crunching, the tingle of fear on my skin.

  I'd passed messages between conspirators, as Emperor Peter's retinue never thought to question the movements of an eighteen-year-old girl. Each time I crossed the grounds amid the grand buildings of the Winter Palace, I expected men to appear out of the shadows and cut me down.

  It was then I learned that those wanting to build in the light had to learn to fight in the shadows. So I moved forward through the Bingham home with pistol and rapier held at ready, keeping my balance slightly to the forefoot should I need to pivot and fire, or block an attack with my rapier.

  I won't say that I wasn't afraid. Anyone who bleeds can feel fear. The trick is to embrace the fear and wrap it around your shoulders like a favorite cloak.

  We moved room to room, stopping at the end of each to ask directions from Trisella. Each time we had to coax her from her stupor as she clung to Smith's back like a barnacle.

  A pathway led us through the gardens in back. A fountain commanded the center, water tinkling.

  "Where is the carriage house?" I asked in a hushed voice.

  Outside, the oppression of wandering through dark halls lifted from Trisella's form. She stretched her arm out and pointed towards a dark clump of trees through which speckles of gas light shone.

  "Back there," she said, teeth chattering.

  "See," I said, "we're almost there. Nothing to it."

  At the corner of my vision, I thought I saw a flicker of movement. I checked with Smith, whose wide eyes told the same tale.

  We moved carefully. The bushes along the path held many hiding spots. I aligned myself to each one as we passed.

  It did not feel like we were in the middle of the city. While the glow of the streets beyond the estate painted the low clouds in brassy colors, the whine of an airship passing overhead fell upon our ears, though we could not see it, and growling steam carriages provided the backdrop of a cityscape, my soul felt like we were in the coldest forests of Moist Mother Earth.

  Getting to the carriage house required traversing a dark path that split from the main garden. Its entrance was purposely hidden, as the Binghams wanted no guest to wander upon the mechanicals of their home.

  Bushes tugged on our sleeves as we passed. The path was claustrophobic. Trisella whimpered. I thought it would never end.

  Then we stepped past a hidden wall and into the light of the carriage house. The building had two sections, which appeared to have been repurposed from a stable. The first was a roofed area beneath which three steam carriages waited. The strong smell of coal indicated one of them was kept hot. The other part was a brick building from which gas lights emanated.

  We stepped through the door to find the guts of a steam engine disassembled. A grease-smeared man sat with his back to us, legs splayed out, digging into the engine with a wrench.

  "Yer late, Albert," said Mr. Peeples without looking up. He had a barely intelligible accent, the origins likely the western Pennsylvania wild lands. "My gut's been growlin' for over an hour waitin' for my fixins. Is the master of carriages to be forgotten like an old shoe?"

  "Albert is dead," I said, bringing Mr. Peeples' head sharply around.

  Mr. Peeples climbed to his feet. He had a wide face like a frog on a thick neck. A blackened piston was in one fist while the other held a wrench.

  "Are ye bandits here to claim my soul for the reaper? I won't go quietly," he said, hefting his wrench like a weapon.

  "Your worries are right, but misplaced. Something on the property killed Albert and wants to do the same to the Binghams," I said.

  I purposely left out the part about the memories, since the truth would only confuse matters.

  "Who are ya?" he asked, as I wondered how a backwoods Philadelphian had become the Binghams’ carriage mechanic.

  "Friends of the Binghams," I said. "We shouldn't waste time. We need the De Sota to take the Binghams away from danger."

  Mr. Peeples cocked his lips, his rubbery face bulging comically. "What say you, Tris? Are these two practicing the black arts?"

  Trisella shook her head. It was good that we'd made it to our destination. She looked ready to faint again, her skin pale and greenish.

  "Right, serious folks, ye are," he said, throwing the wrench and piston into the pile. "I'll get the De Sota steamin'. Wait right here."

  "We'll come with you for protection," I said.

  Mr. Peeples snorted as he moved to the carriages. "Doubt someone like me needs yer protection. I'm nothin' but gristle and nobody like that in the teeth."

  "Nevertheless, we shall provide sentinel," I said.

  The mechanic squinted as he climbed onto the carriage. He turned levers and adjusted knobs expertly while barely looking at them. "Thems break-teeth words, but I think I get yer meanin'."

  We stood guard while Mr. Peeples performed his duty.

  "How long will we have to wait until we can take the vehicle?" I asked.

  "Only a tick's fart longer," he said, standing to the side and brushing his hands together. "I keep one of 'em hot in case the Bings, that's what I call 'em, have someplace gettin' in a hurry."

  When Mr. Peeples grinned, I returned a warm smile. Despite the tortured diction and grubby exterior, his callous-worn intelligence was evident. I wasn't sure the Binghams knew how lucky they were to have this man servicing their steam carriages.

  "Well," said Mr. Peeples, crouched in front of the steam carriage, tapping on a dial, "I think she's—"

  A shape moved from the darkness, striking Mr. Peeples right as the smell of rotting oranges hit my nose. A sickening thunk silenced the mechanic. He collapsed on the stones, eyes gone to white.

  Trisella heard the wet noise and screamed, then crumpled into a heap as if her legs had been knocked clean out from under her. Her head struck the stones hard.

  Adam Smith fired his pistol at the creature, which moved faster than I expected. I got a good look at the thing—it was the same creature I'd seen at the provisioner's place. I lifted my pistol, but the creature moved around the carriage so I couldn't fire.

  Smith pulled me down the path as he aimed his weapon behind. I thought briefly of the fallen Trisella and hoped that we drew the creature's attention, leaving her safe in the carriage house.

  Without a candle, we plunged into darkness. My light starved eyes saw nothing. We pawed through the path, using the clutching branches to guide us.

  I stumbled to my knees, hitting the fitted stones of the main avenue and scraping my palm when I tried to catch myself.

  "Do you see it?" said Smith, helping me to my feet.

  I thought I heard the pad of footsteps to our left, on the other side of the fountain. Smith fired his pistol in that direction and the flash of fire exploding revealed a shape moving towards us.

  I lunged forward, guessing the spot the creature would advance, hitting flesh. The creature screamed sounding like the scraping of a nail on a lyre string.

  The creature retreated, leaving us with our heavy breathing. It moved in the direction of the house.

  "Did you hit it?" asked Smith.

  "Yes, but I'm unsure if the wound was significant," I said, sniffing the end of my rapier. The scent of rotting oranges was faint.

  "Should we go back
to the steam carriage to get Trisella, or forward to warn them?" asked Smith.

  "Trisella should be safe for the moment. We can get her on the way out," I said. "And I fear for Franklin. The Society would be lost without him, so let us return in haste."

  "Spoken truly," said Smith. "I share your thinking. Let us advance. We should have never split ourselves."

  Without Trisella to guide us, we moved hesitantly through the Binghams’ estate. After a few missteps, we found the great room, but only because the door was partially open, letting significant light into the hallway.

  Smith went through first. I heard his gasp and knew the scene would be terrible even before I rounded the door.

  Even as Smith fired his pistol to his left, my gaze fell upon the limp forms of the Binghams. We'd come too late—the creature had returned.

  My head swung around at the same moment a ball of electricity flew through the air and struck Adam Smith. He flew backwards into an armoire which shattered upon impact along with the vase in his way.

  Standing over the fallen form of Franklin was the creature. Its toothy mouth spread wide and a hiss issued forth. Blood painted its thin lips.

  I fired my pistol, taking the creature right in the face. The smell of rotting orange exploded into the room as it fell backwards. Bile rose in my throat.

  I found Franklin with his eyes closed. They fluttered open when I touched him, and relief flooded my limbs.

  "You're alive," I said.

  "It bit me," he said.

  I found the wound. His sleeve had been ripped away and a bloody mash of muscle oozed.

  "It doesn't look fatal," I said, helping him to his feet. Ben wavered, and I caught him before he fell.

  "Something rots in my veins. I suspect I am poisoned," he said.

  Leaving Ben to lean against the high-backed couch, I checked on Adam Smith. The vacant gaze and open mouth marked his passing, nestled amid the broken furniture. A check of his pulse confirmed his fate.

  "He's dead." The words slipped from my lips. "You and I are the only ones alive."

  Ben grunted. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. "The Binghams live. The creature took their memories after slaying the servants and knocking me out."

  The identity of the motionless feet on the other side of the couch became abundantly clear. A sharp and terrible sadness wanted to claim me, but I pushed it down.

  I turned to Ben right as he collapsed, catching him before he hit the floor. He was heavy.

  "You're feverish," I said. "What should we do?"

  "Get me back to the estate. A healthy dose of the powder may help counteract the poison," he said.

  I considered the destruction of the room: the dead bodies of Smith and the servants, the Binghams without their memories, and the alien creature I'd shot. Everything in the room could wait until I'd returned. Ben Franklin was the only thing that mattered.

  Letting Ben lean on my shoulder, we exited the room. I gave Smith one last glance before leaving, and guilt welled up in my veins, only because the first thing I'd thought of upon seeing his corpse was not his unfortunate death, but that he would never be able to send a letter professing my innocence to the rest of the Society.

  I stumbled into the darkness with Ben at my side, hating myself for such selfish thoughts.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When we reached the carriage house, Franklin was delirious. Bubbles of spit formed on his lips. I wasn't sure I'd be able to get him into the steam carriage alone, but thankfully, Trisella had awoken.

  "Help me with Franklin," I said.

  Wild-eyed, Trisella slammed her back against the black carriage. Her head snapped back and forth, eyes darting.

  "The creature is dead," I said. "I shot it."

  Tears welled up in Trisella's eyes while I groaned beneath Ben's growing weight.

  "I need to get him back to the estate," I said through my teeth. "Help me get him in the carriage."

  Together we were able to maneuver him into the carriage. I slid into the front seat, yelling at Trisella to get in before pushing the lever into gear.

  Steam had collected in the covered area and billowed out as we rumbled into the alleyway.

  "Are the Binghams—?" asked Trisella.

  Her face was wracked with concern. I turned the vehicle onto the street. Thankfully, the two estates weren't too far from each other by steam carriage.

  "They're alive, but that thing attacked us. And it stole their memories, so they won't know what happened," I explained, as the carriage rattled down the cobblestone street. I just hoped that they didn't wander away.

  "I don't understand," said Trisella. "Such a thing can be possible?"

  I bit my lower lip, hard. I shouldn't have said anything, but the girl seemed desperate for an answer.

  "Is he well?" I asked.

  A cry of alarm escaped from her lips, and she scrambled over the seat into the back. A quick glance told me Ben had slumped over.

  When we made it to the estate, I flew out the carriage door.

  "Wait with him, I'll be right back!"

  I went in the back way. I knew he had some powder in his traveling gear. I found the pouch filled with stoppered vials right away, grabbed one, and sprinted back to the vehicle. On my way, I passed the workroom, briefly noting that the shimmering shield had grown from a head-sized bubble to the size of a wagon.

  Reaching the carriage, I climbed in back. Trisella held him up. Ben seemed to be fighting through the poison, red-faced and grim.

  I pulled the cork stopper out with my teeth and dumped a mound of powder on my palm. After shoving it against his nose, I yelled in his ear. "Sniff!"

  On the third try, Ben inhaled through his nose.

  "Again," I told him.

  He pulled again, this time stronger. He came out of his fog briefly, and before the fever could claim him, he snorted the rest of the powder. His eyes widened, shining like bright steel, then they closed and his head slumped back against the cushion.

  Trisella placed her hand on Ben's forehead. "His fever seems to have broken. What did you give him?"

  "Hopefully a longer life," I said. "Help me get him inside."

  The two of us could barely lift him, but we were able to drag him into the house on a blanket I retrieved from the guest room. After we maneuvered him onto the divan in the parlor, I sent Trisella for rags and water, giving her directions, while I examined the wound on his arm.

  Trisella returned a little while later with the requested supplies. I realized it was a mistake to have sent her alone through the house when I saw the thoughts hanging on her brow like thunderheads.

  "You'll say nothing of what you saw here today," I said, while dabbing Ben's shoulder wound with a wet rag. "Not even to the Binghams."

  The girl pushed a piece of errant dirty blond hair out of her face and nodded solemnly. Trisella seemed to think a bit, questions almost making it out of her lips.

  "I'll explain in good time. For now, help me with Mr. Franklin's recovery."

  I washed his wound as best as I could. The creature's teeth had really mauled his flesh. Content that I could do no more, I began wrapping it with a bandage.

  "What about Mister and Missus Bingham?" she asked, eyes glassy.

  Part of me wanted to scold her for feeling loyalty to the Binghams. She reminded me of a dog that went faithfully back to its master after being beaten. But I knew that not everyone had the advantages I'd had and sometimes people did the best with what they could.

  "They'll be fine. Once I think he's well enough, I'll take you back to the Binghams," I said.

  I didn't say it, but I also wanted to go back to retrieve the gauntlet. I didn't think I'd be able to do anything about the bodies, but maybe with Ben's help we could minimize who knew about the creature.

  Ben stirred on the divan, eyes fluttering open.

  "Are you recovered?" I asked.

  He groaned.

  "I feel like I've spent the last week under the barrel fever an
d now the rooster has come home to crow," he said, holding a hand to his temple.

  "How did you know the powder would counteract the poison?" I asked.

  "A guess," he said, then turned to Trisella. "Could you fetch me a drink of water? And a piece of bread if you can find it."

  As soon as the girl left, Ben looked to me with a question in his gaze.

  "Turn around," he said.

  The tone of his voice had me worried. "What?"

  "Turn around. Do it before the girl comes back," he said.

  I did as he asked.

  "Now lift your hair," he said.

  "This is hardly the time for flirting," I said, grabbing the bulk of it and pulling it up into a horse's tail.

  A sharp sting on my neck elicited a cry from my lips.

  "What in blazes was that for?" I asked, spinning around.

  Ben's features were etched with concern. He was feeling around on the back of his own neck. When he winced, understanding began to dawn on me.

  "What's on our necks?" I asked.

  "A tiny worm, though they're more like grubs, about as big as the end of the last digit," he said, holding up his pinky. "One for each of us. I tried to pull it off but it stayed tight. Not sure if we want them off, anyway."

  Realization hit me like a slap to the face. "That's why it didn't kill me when I attacked it at Mr. Solomon's. Or you at the Bingham's place, while it killed the others."

  I reached under my hair and felt the critter. The flesh was soft and spongy and it took all my self-control not to pluck it off.

  "It needed to harvest our memories," said Ben.

  "And once it did, we'd have been like the others," I said with a sigh. "It must have put them on us some time ago."

  "Our first victim, Theodore Cooper, he had his for almost two years," he said.

  "Augustus Tundlelittle around the same time," I said, completing his thought. "Two years ago this creature made the rounds, putting worms on us all, and then it came back to harvest. That must be how it steals the memories."

  A cold wind, straight out of Siberia, swept down and through my soul as the implications sunk in.