Breath of Earth

by Beth Cato

“Then where’s it hidden?”

  “In the pond with all those dead fish.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Ingrid stared into water littered with fishy corpses. She had no issues with preparing or eating dead fish, but the idea of sticking her hand in there turned her stomach. It wasn’t so much what the fish were; it was what their dead bodies meant.

  “Mr. Sakaguchi came out here often. I always teased him about playing with his catfish. He’d be wet to the elbow.” Emotion caught in her throat again.

  Leather fell to the stony patio with a heavy ripple. Cy had shed his coat and undid the buttons on his white shirt to roll back the cuffs. “That says a good deal. It means he wasn’t wading to the middle of the pond.”

  “True.” Light gleamed through the slatted patio cover and cast white spears against the dimpled surface.

  Ingrid was relieved as Cy took the initiative and reached into the pond. He tugged at the rocks that lined the sides and bottom. Dead fish bobbed and rode on miniature waves.

  “Loose rock here,” he said after a minute. He hefted a sizable piece of quartz speckled with algae. He reached into the hole just beneath the waterline and pulled out a parcel wrapped in oil cloth. He passed it to her as he pulled on his coat again.

  Ingrid stroked the slick black surface. She guessed there to be a wooden box inside. It was about the size of a Bible, but these contents were more personally relevant than any holy book. This was supposed to convince her to leave the city, to take care with her power—something that Mr. Sakaguchi had apologized for with immense regret. Did it contain some secret tract of the wardens? Maybe women like her had existed all along.

  “Ingrid.” The sharpness in Cy’s voice caused her to jerk up her head.

  Across the garden, another head stared at them—one topped with a navy cap with a black brim.

  Ingrid dashed for the side yard with the box tucked into her armpit. Branches yanked at her skirts and pried at her hair. Cy loped past her with his long strides and grappled with the latch, swinging back the gate as she reached it.

  “Waterfront,” he barked out as she passed.

  Waterfront. Four long blocks away, a downhill slope. The area would teem with people at this time of evening, the perfect place to lose their pursuers.

  They just had to make it there.

  She ran across the yard and bounded through the gaping front gate not five feet from the Durendal. An autocar was parked behind it, a cluster of soldiers piled atop the Durendal. The hatch was open, one soldier halfway down the ladder. They turned in unison. One man shifted to unholster his gun, but Ingrid turned the corner and away.

  A shrill whistle sliced through the air.

  Oh God, oh God. She pounded out the words with every footstep. Her feet screamed in agony, her calves afire. Cy ran at her side, breath huffing, coat rippling. Gravity propelled them down the slope. Behind them, the car squealed as it pulled away from the curb.

  Cy grabbed her arm, directing her toward a building—a factory, the doors open wide. She dodged tables and surprised women in white smocks, Cy leading the way on through. His holstered Tesla rod bounced against his hip and thwacked her. Through a courtyard, and into another business—a kite store. Rainbows of color blurred together as they burst through and onto the next block.

  She couldn’t hear the car anymore but whistles split the air and seemed to multiply.

  Breath escaped her in massive wheezing gasps. Her lungs seared and seized and fought for every breath. Her strides slowed, even as she grimaced and forced them to keep going. Pedestrian traffic thickened as they passed card shops and dentists and delis. A bicyclist grazed her and sent her spinning but she ran on. Ingrid knew that if she stopped, if she had to walk, she couldn’t run again. Her leg muscles were like rubber bands in a child’s hands, stretched and stretched and unable to return to their previous shape.

  A hundred masts pricked the cloudless sky. Beyond them sprawled the cool blue of the bay. Stevedores and deliverymen and trucks crowded the way.

  Traffic forced Ingrid and Cy to a walk. Ingrid’s agonized legs made to keep going, but Cy caught her against him. Her hand clutched at his lapel, her head at his chest. His hands cupped her waist and he all but dragged her across the street. Ingrid was aware of the blur of curious onlookers. She made her legs work, wobbly as they were. She ducked around a workman with a dolly.

  Whistles. High, piercing. Close.

  “Hide,” she gasped.

  Cy nodded, glancing back. His face was ruddy with exertion, his glasses halfway down his nose. Brown hair clung to his scalp in perfect curls.

  There were buildings, warehouses, trucks. Men everywhere, ants swarming for their crumbs of work. Very few women. Ingrid stuck out.

  “Split up,” she gasped.

  “No.” His hand encircled her elbow. “This way. Hurry.”

  Cy guided her into a building. The heady scent of garlic reeled through her nostrils. Workers at their boxes looked up, eyebrows raised. She and Cy wound their way through, seeking any sort of privacy, any sort of refuge in the darkness. Nothing. They passed through a bright doorway and into daylight again.

  “Stop! Stop them! Stop the dark woman!”

  A boardwalk skirted the building. Seagulls squawked annoyance and fluttered away as Ingrid forced her legs to a pathetic run. Cy should leave her. He could outrun them, blend in. Fury at her slowness, at her lack of fitness, flushed heat through her already drenched skin.

  “Stop them!”

  An unloader turned, his mouth gaping in surprise, and reached for her. She swatted him back without touching him. Maybe that’s what she could do—knock all their pursuers down—but what about the crowds around them, and the autocars and boxes? No, she couldn’t risk hurting any bystanders.

  But there was something she could do.

  “Cy!” His name emerged sharp between breaths. “Hold on to me.”

  He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her from the back, pressing the oilskin-wrapped box even closer to her torso just as she leaped into the water and prayed it was deep.

  Heat didn’t tingle to the surface of her skin. It roared. It consumed. The ten-foot drop to the bay took only a matter of seconds, but in her mind, it was so much more. Mr. Sakaguchi had said that the next time she built a bubble, she needed to make it big. Very well. She pressed herself into Cy—no, she willed herself against Cy, even as they fell together. She focused on his height, his breadth of form. She thought on the danger of rocks below, and the need for the bubble to be heavy enough to sink and hide them beneath the waves despite the air it maintained.

  Focus. She etched it like a blueprint in her mind, one she already knew by touch and texture within the scope of her imagination.

  All this, in three seconds. Then, the water. Despite her preparations, she held her breath, ready for the bitter cold and the strength of the waves. The water came, but she didn’t get wet. It splashed against the shield. Tiny bubbles danced past in streams, light and darkness mottled like a layer of ink spilled across a page. At her back, Cy strengthened his grip as their feet struck bottom, sort of. The seabed consisted of uneven sand and rotten pilings and God knew what else. The bubble settled. Plumes of sand rose and shifted around them and clouded the water even more.

  They were underwater.

  Panic drove a high, piglike squeal from her throat. Being buried beneath the ruins of a building was one thing, but this—this was worse. The bubble wavered, and she made herself focus.

  “Miss Ingrid.” Cy’s voice was higher than its usual range. “What exactly just happened?”

  “When I know, I’ll tell you.” She breathed in and out, quelling her terror, keenly aware of the heat still in her skin. She had enough power to do this for a little while. Whatever it was she was doing. She analyzed the nature of the bubble she’d created. Before, she and Mr. Sakaguchi had been crouched and low, and the bubble had been round. Now it was tall to fit Cy. She found the glassy sheen about six inches in front of
her, the surface so cold it practically bit her hand. She jerked her fingers back.

  They could have been in that frigid water. They were, in a way.

  Ingrid thought of washing clothes, how a soap bubble would catch on the breeze. A bubble might look round, but it could bend and flex with the pressure of the wind. That’s how this constructed bubble would work, too.

  She stepped forward, gingerly. The bubble flowed with them. Hesitating, Cy followed, his body indecently close. His lanky form fit against the curve of her backside. They were like dancers in a club, the sort she shouldn’t spy on but couldn’t help doing so if the opportunity arose. The heat of her body slid from her fingertips and deep into a well beneath her pelvis, where she could just imagine—

  The bubble rippled. “Idiot!” Ingrid snapped at herself. Heat lurched up and out of her again.

  “What . . . ?”

  “Never mind.” She tried to edge her hips forward a smidgen, but with every step he rocked against her again. She released a frustrated huff. She wanted to enjoy this close proximity, damn it all.

  “I will mind, because in case you didn’t notice, we’re underwater and breathing.” A straight line of bubbles rippled downward in front of them. “And that, I believe, was a bullet.”

  “Damn them all to hell! Do you think they can see us? Walk! Fast!”

  “They can see something, evidently.” His voice was still high with a slight trill. “I’d still like to know what you’ve done, miss. Miss Ingrid.”

  She had managed to confound and petrify the coolheaded Cypress Jennings. Wonderful.

  They briskly walked as step-in-step as they could over the rough terrain, staying parallel to the land. The bottoms of boats swayed overhead.

  “I made something similar yesterday when the auxiliary exploded. I grabbed Mr. Sakaguchi as the blast occurred. My only thought was to protect him. The bubble kept us safe in the rubble. There is one major deficiency. We’ll need to surface soon, as the air in here will last for only so long.”

  “I see.” The words were drawn out and measured. His fingers quivered at her waist as the box dug deeper into her side. She overlapped his hand and squeezed in reassurance.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “You said you were curious about my powers—well, this is what I can do, the full demonstration.”

  “Miss Ingrid, pardon my language, but this is a damn sight more impressive than directing energy into kermanite. I say that as a machinist with a fine appreciation of those rocks.”

  “Thank me when we’re out of here.”

  How were they going to get out? It’s not as though there were any stairs conveniently leading to the street. She had a strong feeling she would have to pop the bubble while they were still underwater, and worried about how Cy would react to that. Could he swim? If she asked him the question, would that only intensify his terror?

  It’s not as if she could swim either. She’d been to the beach with Mama a few times, but was never completely immersed in the water. That wouldn’t have been proper.

  Damn propriety to hell and back. She needed to get out of here, learn to swim, fly an airship, run up and downhill, and do whatever in God’s creation she wanted to do.

  Including Cy.

  His hand fit against her waist. Every few steps, it seemed, they each shifted on the dense sand and couldn’t help but press together. She made a concerted effort to focus on the bubble.

  “Have you seen any other bullets?”

  “No. But they likely are looking near that dock or where they expect the tide to take our . . . to take us.”

  Our bodies. Well, that thought was a bit of a damper.

  A barnacle-crusted hull thrust out of the sand, and she led them around it. The shore was a smudgy shadow now. Less light filtered from above.

  “Let them think we’re dead, then. It should buy us more time. I hope no one recognized you.”

  “I don’t do much business with naval ships. They tend to stay with machinists they’ve used for years.” His voice trembled and he paused to swallow. “Airship industry has boomed with the war, brought in new folks who are also willing to employ new folks.”

  Ingrid was glad she couldn’t see his face. Feeling the tension in his body was disconcerting enough. Seeing his terror, letting him see hers—no, that wouldn’t be good.

  They walked around the tall poles of a pier. No gentle slope led back to the shore. Instead, everything looked darker and deeper. Fewer boats swayed above, and if there were more, she couldn’t see them. How far had they walked? How long until sunset? What were they going to do? She held the box and Cy’s arm tighter against her side.

  The slight fever was dissipating, her skin cooling. Sunset wasn’t going to be an issue. She’d lose consciousness before then.

  God, I’m not one for prayer, but we need help. Don’t let Cy die because of me. Please, show us a way out of this. The intensity of the feeling radiated from her. Help. We need help.

  “It’s curious, Miss Ingrid, this matter of you being a geomancer. And a woman.”

  Terrified as Ingrid was, she couldn’t help but smile at the change of subject. “Oh, so you noticed both.”

  “It seems a bit obvious. Being a geomancer. And being a woman.” He shakily chuckled. “You’re trying to get me in trouble, Miss Ingrid.”

  Such pleasant trouble, compared to the literal deep water they were in. “The magic manifested when I was five. My papa was a warden. Mama had been managing on her own since he died, but then I became very sick. Near death. No doctor could help. Mama had a hunch and took me to the auxiliary. Mr. Sakaguchi was the one she spoke with, and he found I could siphon power into kermanite. He hired Mama as his cook and housekeeper. I scarcely remember a thing before that time.”

  “Your mother . . . ?”

  “She died two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I . . . my sister died last year. Hurt never really leaves, does it?” His voice softened. “I never heard of a geomancer doing these things you do.”

  “Neither have I. Well, Papa was supposed to be pretty powerful, but Mr. Sakaguchi says my knack is stronger.”

  “Your fever. The quake in Chinatown caused that? Gave you the power to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s my understanding that a geomancer isn’t supposed to hold energy that long; it’ll make him too sick to function.”

  Nor were they supposed to expend energy the way she was doing. She ground her teeth together to prevent them from chattering. They needed help, and fast. They were too far out in the bay now, and the pressure of the water kept nudging them along. If she lost consciousness, they were doomed for sure. Even if Cy could swim, he’d die trying to do so with her soggy carcass in tow.

  “I can hold far more than most, but it still affects me. I was very sick in Chinatown right after the earthquake. Addled my brain for a few minutes, until I let some power go.”

  “We need to get you more kermanite. Maybe we can go to the bank again and—” A violent chill convulsed through her. “Ingrid?” His fingers spanned against her ribs.

  Through the murk, a gray ghost moved, sinuous and lean. Ingrid and Cy stopped. She practically hunkered over his arm at her waist. Sand clouded the water at their feet.

  “Is that a seal?” asked Cy.

  “A harbor seal, yes, but . . .” Pinpricks against her skin told her this was something more.

  The creature’s mottled gunmetal-gray fur blended in with the world beneath the waves. It tilted its head to the side, black pebble eyes unreadable. The seal wiggled. It was a slight motion, like a cat stretching as it stood up after a nap. The fur curled back. A human head emerged—a woman’s head. Silver hair the same speckled color as the fur fanned out in the water. Her face was neither old nor young, beautiful with languid eyes. Her somewhat flat nose was reminiscent of a seal’s snout, while her dark skin looked like that of a native tribe. A shade not that different from Ingrid’s, really.

  “A selkie. A f
antastic in the wild.” Ingrid’s eyes brimmed with tears of joy. She had always loved it when she spied unicorns in the city, most often harnessed to sulkies driven by Nob Hill nabobs’ wives or daughters—but she always felt guilty at that delight, too, at seeing a fantastic made domestic.

  This selkie was old magic. Free, as it should be.

  Oh, if only she had a camera as Victoria Rossi did, to be able to capture this moment! Not that it would matter in the long term. They would likely be dead soon, but this was a blessing, here at the end.

  The woman’s shoulders wiggled as the pelt continued to work downward. Ingrid stiffened in alarm. “Um, Cy, I do believe she’s going to . . .”

  “I’d say I won’t look, but there’s not much choice.”

  A slight giggle masked another violent shiver. “Well, I suppose this is more forgivable than you going to see some burlesque show down on the Barbary Coast.”

  “Forgivable?” Cy sounded amused. “Quite generous of you, Miss Ingrid.”

  Sure enough, a breast emerged, small and buoyant, and along with it a freed arm. Ingrid couldn’t help but gawk at the selkie’s chest. The only other bared breasts she’d seen were Fenris’s, and they’d been painted in blood. She’d never even seen Mama unclothed.

  The selkie reached out and touched the bubble.

  “Oh.” Ingrid gasped.

  The motion rippled through her as a tiny pressure wave, the heat of it painful in contrast to the cold. It took everything Ingrid had not to lose focus and crumple to her knees. Sensing something, Cy tightened his grip, and he rooted her in place. Through pain-dazzled sight, she saw the selkie gesture up, then at the bubble, and back up. Behind Ingrid, Cy shifted to point up as well. The selkie nodded.

  More ghostly bodies undulated through the darkness. They worked down their furs enough to expose full, human arms while keeping strong tails below the waist like merfolk.

  Tales of fantastics always spoke of beings like selkies, djinn, and fairies as pretty ideals. These selkies were beautiful, but not in the willowy way of a Howard Pyle illustration. No, they were stocky and strong. Their arms rippled with both muscle and fat. One man’s jowls bulged around his face and concealed his neck.