by Beth Cato
She slipped the pistol into her pocket, but made sure to hover her fingers just above the opening. She didn’t need a gun to defend herself, but he didn’t know that.
And while her body might not mind some broom closet time with this fellow, her brain knew better. He was a stranger and not to be trusted, and she’d take care of him if necessary.
CHAPTER 4
Ingrid hated leaving Mr. Thornton’s house in such a state, but what did she know? It’s not as if the place featured smears of blood or direct evidence of any crime. Things were missing, true, but Thornton could have removed them himself. Maybe he had hurriedly packed his valuables and traveled to a friend’s home for his convalescence. The lack of communication about Mr. Calhoun’s death made it clear that if a message had been sent to the auxiliary, no one would know.
A harsh chill shook her, and she clenched her hands together on her lap, the slight bulge of the gun close by. Everything was going so horribly wrong. She and Mr. Sakaguchi needed to leave the city. If they couldn’t save everyone, they could at least save themselves.
She thought that, but she knew Mr. Sakaguchi would never abandon San Francisco. And she would never abandon him.
Mr. Jennings’s autocar puttered along. The interior displayed the same tidy shabbiness as the man’s clothes. He definitely didn’t come from wealth, yet he somehow had the money to buy a sizable chunk of kermanite.
Ingrid sat in the back, as was proper, and leaned closer to him to speak. “You said you and your partner have an airship?”
“Oh. Yes, miss. All ready but for the engine installation. We run a machine shop located South of the Slot. We repair automobiles, airships, washers, dryers, most anything with an engine.” His voice contained a lovely, rollicking rhythm.
“Do you hail from Atlanta?”
His head jerked to one side, showing his profile briefly. “Thereabouts.” He focused on the narrow street again and braked as two children and a dog dashed across. The dog trailed a tattered scarf. Children playing at Thuggees.
Mr. Jennings’s accent indicated southern roots, but most every mechanist she’d ever encountered could claim Atlanta as home at some point. After Reconstruction started in 1863, the heart of Dixie re-created itself as a capital of industry. Atlanta boasted a dozen technical universities and factories beyond count, and produced most of the Unified Pacific’s dirigibles. Part and parcel of that, the city’s Japanese population was quite high. Mr. Sakaguchi flew there on occasion to meet with officials from his native land. People joked that babies around Atlanta were born with a wrench in one hand, blueprints in the other, and a hankering for sushi with their milk.
“Mr. Sakaguchi might be able to help you. The wardens don’t generally poach from each other’s private sales, but these are special circumstances, and . . . oh.”
Most of the western United States’s stockpile of kermanite was kept in a vault at the auxiliary. Mr. Sakaguchi had some at the house and larger rocks at the bank, but not much. He’d mentioned the consequences of a lack of geomancers to fill kermanite, but what if the crystals had been destroyed as well? Good God, the shortage would create a panic in industries across the country.
“Are you all right back there?” asked Mr. Jennings.
“I have a lot to think about.” She and Mr. Sakaguchi would tend to the catastrophe. They had to.
“At least it’s a beautiful evening.” At that exact moment, a drop of rain splattered against her hand, and one must have struck him as well. “Tommyrot,” he muttered, and reached for the dashboard crank for the roof canvas.
Ingrid couldn’t help but smile. Mr. Jennings made for a pleasant distraction. “How long have you been in the city?”
“Six months. We don’t set down roots for long.”
“I see.” She paused. “What would convince you to stay?”
His head jerked to one side. “Pardon?”
“I said, what would convince you to stay?”
“World peace.”
The answer took her aback. “Well, that sets the bar high, and doesn’t sound good for your business. Most industry is spurred by the war these days.”
“My father’s a businessman. He always said a person ought to be flexible, know a variety of trades. He . . . he told me once that if he had his druthers, he’d have been a baker, settled out in the desert, where he could breathe easier.” Mr. Jennings chuckled to himself. “Hard to imagine that.”
“What’s his business now?”
“He runs a company. Airships, motors, that sort of thing.”
“Like father like son. Now I understand your comment back at Mr. Thornton’s house. I think you’d be a fine secretary.”
His rich laugh filled the car. “Thank you kindly for the endorsement. It’d be nice to stay in the city, if circumstances allow. You’re going to set about creating world peace, then?” The autocar stopped as a small mob of ladies in gargantuan hats strolled across the street. He glanced back at her, grinning.
“Someone needs to.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I do like the way you think, Miss Ingrid.”
Happy heat bloomed in her stomach and went straight to her cheeks. The man was flirting with her, treating her with respect and equality, as if she looked more like Mama instead of . . . well, herself. She smoothed out her skirt and stared out the window, suddenly shy. “Ah. You’ll want to take a left up here. We’re almost there.”
Mr. Jennings parked in front of the house. She demurred to his offer to take the kettles and hauled the cooled soup up the steps to her home.
Like many houses in the neighborhood, it melded several modern aesthetics. An asymmetrical Queen Anne facade and wraparound porch were topped off with a Japanese irimoya curved roof. For the second time that day, the mere sight of the place was enough to bring tears to her eyes.
Lee answered the door. His sharp gaze shifted from the kettles to the strange man behind Ingrid, then lowered in subservience.
“Things are complicated,” she said, and stepped inside. “This is Mr. Jennings. I’d like to talk to Mr. Sakaguchi before they make their acquaintance.”
“Please, enter,” Lee said, bowing low. Upon straightening, he plucked the soup pots from her hands. “I’ll tell Warden Sakaguchi that you have returned with a guest, Miss Carmichael.” He dashed away as she set aside her hat.
“Well, he’s fast!” Mr. Jennings hooked his battered hat on the hallway rack and shrugged off his coat. “I didn’t even get to tell him thanks.”
Ingrid looked at him in surprise. That small show of respect for Lee raised Mr. Jennings in her esteem even more.
She sat and quickly removed her boots. Mr. Jennings did the same. She reached into the shoe cupboard and set down a pair of house slippers designed for larger American feet.
“Thank you kindly, miss,” he said. Ingrid pulled on her regular slippers. Together, they stepped up from the genkan.
“You’re welcome. Here’s the parlor.” She motioned him into the next room. It displayed more Japanese influence with pale silk upholstery, bamboo, and a singular shelf of books. A taxidermied crane, an old gift from Mr. Roosevelt, stood in the corner with one leg curled. “We don’t keep a large staff here, but I can certainly fetch you a drink, if you like. Lee should be back in just a few minutes.”
His attention immediately focused on the bookshelf; her gaze traced his backside. His suit jacket fit a tad too wide at the shoulders, which were about the level of her head. Not a bad height difference, really. His hands would fit just perfectly atop her hips and her head could easily tilt back for a kiss. Goodness. She’d survived the day and now it was like she’d gone into heat to celebrate.
“I’m fine for now, miss, thank you.” His fingers caressed the book bindings.
“Do you read?” she asked.
“Fairly well.” He grinned over his shoulder as she rolled her eyes. “I used to read a great deal, but the life of a nomad makes it a challenge to carry books.”
&n
bsp; “You like Mark Twain?” She nodded to where his hand rested on the shelf.
“Indeed. Connecticut Yankee is an old favorite of mine. My sister and I read it to tatters. Can’t help but enjoy a book where a man engineers a kermanite engine using Guinevere’s stolen brooch and a medieval blacksmith’s shop.”
“That’s one of my favorite books, too!”
“My sister loved the book, to a point, and then she needed to dismantle it, like she did everything.” He stared beyond the shelf. “Was like poison ivy on her brain that the science wasn’t right. Kermanite of that size wouldn’t be able to run such an engine, she argued, and found most every other technical flaw she could.”
“But she was fine with the idea of a man slipping through time?”
“Oh no. Not after a while. Not even Merlin’s magic was right—didn’t fit into any proper schools of the art. As for Hank’s engine, she drew up schematics of what he would have really needed, even what kind of metallurgy was available in Britain at the time.”
“How old was she then?”
“Seven.” At Ingrid’s arched eyebrow, Mr. Jennings smiled. “My twin sister was the cleverest person I’ve ever known. Made me look like a bumbling fool in comparison.”
Ingrid noted the past tense but didn’t wish to pry. She also observed how his hand lingered on the book’s binding. “Mr. Sakaguchi may be willing to let you borrow books, if you meet with his approval. He won’t lend to just anyone, of course.” It’d give Mr. Jennings a good excuse to visit more often, too.
A smile crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “I’m doubly honored, miss. You didn’t shoot me, and now you want to lend me books.”
“Mind you, if you treat the books poorly—” She made the motion of aiming a gun, as if she played kitsune-ken.
“You should manage more libraries, miss. Patrons would be sure to return books in good shape and promptly.”
“Or they’d be terrified to borrow books at all.”
“All the more books for loyal patrons to choose from.” That smile of his warmed her like a furnace.
“Miss Carmichael!” called Lee.
She turned, mentally cursing the interruption. “I’ll return shortly, Mr. Jennings.”
“Much obliged.” He dipped his head.
She followed Lee into the hallway. His poise dissolved. “What’s going on, Ing?”
“Long story. I don’t want to tell it too many times.”
“Ah. Understood. I’ll eavesdrop from the hallway.”
She jabbed him with an elbow. “Watch our guest.”
“I was watching how you watched him. I thought he might have ripped his pants, but I guess they’re fine.”
She scowled and aimed a kick his way, but he scampered ahead, agile as a hummingbird.
Lee opened the door to Mr. Sakaguchi’s study. Mr. Sakaguchi stood in the double doorway across the room. One of his sleeves was drenched with water. Weak evening light cast the backyard in gray but for the colorful motes of pixies above the pond.
“Playing with your fish again?” She caught him like this about once a week.
His eyes were thoughtful. “The catfish are restless. Strangely so.” He used a towel to dry his jacket.
Ingrid couldn’t help but look at the namazu-e prints on the walls. The giant catfish hidden beneath Japan was said to warn his brethren when he was about to move. “Well, if I saw your hairy fist coming at me through the water, I’d be worried, too.”
Normally, her humor could coax a smile, but now he shook his head. “I don’t like it. We don’t have enough geomancers here. If I see other animals becoming restless as well, I’ll have to press Mayor Butterfield again. Have you felt or seen anything since we returned home?” He tossed the towel onto the bench outside and shut the doors. The shutters remained open to show the green backyard.
“Yes. A very minor seism on my walk, but otherwise nothing since the Reiki.”
“Are you hurting since your walk?” he asked.
“A little stiff, that’s all.”
Mr. Sakaguchi crossed to his desk. “If you feel a major earthquake coming, what do you do?” His brisk tone caused her to straighten as if she feared the slap of a ruler.
“Transmit energy to the kermanite I have at hand, and when I feel the flush of a fever, break contact with the ground immediately.”
“And how do you do that?”
“Jump onto furniture, with metal being the best. Go upstairs. Lift myself up. Keep my wits at all times, because it’s chaotic during an earthquake. Oh yes. I may need to escape a building. Many people die as they flee from a house because of falling bricks or masonry, so I should use extra caution. Should I go down the full list? There are other things I really need to tell you.”
Mr. Sakaguchi sighed. “You’re arrogant, Ingrid.”
She blinked, taken aback. “What?”
“You can carry power and use it. You’re not limited by kermanite. You see colors overflow the earth. It’s made you cocky. It scares me. It scared your mother. If something terrible does befall the city, you can’t simply stand there and assume you can use the energy as it comes in. In a prolonged earthquake, the fever could take you in a matter of ten, twenty seconds. I saw it happen to my father in Edo, when I was just a boy. I only survived because I climbed a tree, but even so, it was a tree and I still took in too much.”
“Yes, I know, and you were left delirious for several days as your body fought through sickness, but that may not happen here, Ojisan.” Ingrid didn’t fully believe her own denial.
“The catfish are restless,” he murmured again. “Never have I seen them behave like this in San Francisco.” He braced himself against his desk. “I’ve loved you as my own since you were a little girl. I loved your mother dearly.” His voice softened. “I should have married her, Ingrid. I should have damned all the social constraints and . . . and . . . everything else in our way. Your mother didn’t care about the scandal. I did.” Mr. Sakaguchi blinked rapidly and stared downward. Through his thinning black-and-silver hair, she could see the slight sheen of his scalp.
“The baby,” Ingrid whispered. Mama had died in childbirth. The baby had never drawn a breath.
“Yes, our child, and more. Things that, God help me, I hope you never know. You’re all I have left, Ing-chan. That’s why I must send you away.”
“What?” she squawked.
Mr. Sakaguchi glanced toward the cracked door. “Start packing her trunk, Lee.”
“Damn it!” The words were barely audible from the hall.
Mr. Sakaguchi continued. “It will just be for a week or so, I hope, until more wardens arrive and stabilize the city. It will also get you away from Captain Sutcliff. He’s far too interested in you.”
“But interested in you most of all. Why is that?” She stared him down. He shook his head, tight-lipped. “Despite everything you’ve said, you’re probably only free because you’re Japanese and he knows you need to be where you can conduct energy in case of a quake. Once more wardens arrive . . .”
“If I am arrested, so be it.” He made it sound so simple, as though the Unified Pacific didn’t speed offenders through the system and execute them within weeks. And yet earlier, he’d made the comment he might be safer in UP custody. Nothing made sense.
“Where am I supposed to go?” Power and frustration burbled within her chest. Her hands curved into hard fists.
“I purchased multiple tickets as a precaution, creating—to use an American idiom—a wild-goose chase, but your real train ticket will get you to Fresno.”
“Fresno? What am I going to do, pick grapes?”
“Of course not. Grapes aren’t in season.”
“Ojisan! I can’t believe this.” She glared at Mr. Sakaguchi and was suddenly struck by how old he looked. His hair was more silver than black. Deep wrinkles furrowed his eyes.
“I can’t go.” Her voice softened. “You nearly died today. Everyone . . . almost everyone else did die.” It would devastate h
im to know Mr. Calhoun was dead and Mr. Thornton was missing, but he had to know. He had to know it was even more important for her to stay to safeguard the city, and him.
Who else would pull him from his desk, remind him what it was to smile and laugh? Captain Sutcliff be damned. Mr. Sakaguchi needed her.
She continued, “When we were in that . . . bubble, you told me I had to fight, I couldn’t give up. My power, whatever it is”—she waggled her fingers in the air—“is the only thing that saved us. I can’t simply walk away from you, or from San Francisco. I need to stay here, and I need to fight!”
Ingrid struck downward with her fist.
At the same instant, a sharp snap pierced through the glass of the back door. Blood spewed in a fountain from Mr. Sakaguchi’s shoulder. His head rolled back, jaw gaping as he flopped backward. He smacked against the floor in a horrible, fleshy crunch.
Ingrid had no chance to scream or gasp. One moment Mr. Sakaguchi stood there; the next, he was down. Spattered blood oozed down the wall.
CHAPTER 5
When the second bullet whizzed by her ear, Ingrid had the sense to drop to the floor. Her mind galloped—someone was shooting at them—what happened—who was doing this?! The shooter—was it Jennings?
But most of all—Ojisan.
Hunkered low against the floor, she crawled to him. Mr. Sakaguchi lay sprawled behind the desk. His hand was limp, fingers loosely curled, the palm faceup. His eyes studied her, brow furrowed as if in deep thought. His lips moved but no sound emerged.
“I’m here,” she whispered. Her hand twined into his and squeezed. How strange. They rarely touched like this, and today it happened more than once.
“Who?” The single word was a breath.
“I don’t know. They’re out in the garden.”
She peered around the desk. Nothing moved along the patio. Mr. Sakaguchi moaned and shifted slightly. Blood poured from his shoulder and oozed an expanding puddle on the floor. She tugged the blanket from his reading chair and pressed it to his shoulder. His body arced in pain, sound escaping in a hiss.
