by Geonn Cannon
He was pondering these small but monumental decisions when he became aware of a woman walking toward him on the sidewalk. She was wearing a black dress with voluminous white sleeves, her face partially covered by the brim of a hat. He lifted his head to offer her a genial smile and she dipped her chin to him.
“Evening,” she said.
“Ma’am.” She brushed his arm as they passed each other and something dropped to the ground at his feet. “Oh, miss. You dropped something.”
He shifted his books to his other arm and stooped to pick it up for her. She stopped and turned, looking down as he retrieved the lost item as any gentleman would have done. It was just a small packet of cigarettes, compressed and wrinkled at the edges where it had been gripped tightly in a hand. Odd that something held so tightly would fall accidentally, but he placed it against her outstretched palm with his right hand. He felt her fingers close around his in a surprisingly unrelenting grip.
“Professor Tindall,” she said in a charming and melodious Irish accent. “So this is your dominant hand, is it?”
Someone slammed into him from behind hard, as if he had been dropped from a great height onto the ground. Arms that seemed as thick as his torso closed around him as an unbreakable vice. His left arm was stretched out parallel to the ground. The woman stepped forward, her face still obscured by darkness.
“Where is Lady Boone?”
“What? I’m...”
She clucked her tongue and pressed a finger against his lips. “I know you’re a sodomite. I know you have no romantic interest in your supposed wife-to-be. But I also know you have to keep up appearances. I know Lady Boone and her new assistant, Trafalgar of Abyssinia, are no longer in London. The townhouse on Threadneedle Street is empty and... frustratingly well-protected.” There was enough light for him to see her grimace. “So. One chance, Professor. Where is Dorothy Boone?”
“I believe she said something about taking some fresh air. A leisurely train trip through the countryside.”
The woman nodded to the man holding Desmond. He rearranged his position and closed his fingers around Desmond’s left hand.
“I hope you appreciate the fact that I ascertained your dominant hand before doing this.”
The man squeezed and the woman clapped her hand over Desmond’s mouth to muffle his scream of pain. The bones in his hand compressed and then began snapping. Desmond went limp, but his attacker kept him standing even as sparks of light danced in front of his eyes. He’d never felt such pain before, and he trembled, the woman’s hand clamped hard over his mouth and keeping his scream silent.
“I’ll ask you again, Professor Tindall. Where is Dorothy Boone?”
He knew she would break his other hand without a thought. The pain was so agonizing that it was like a shining beacon in his brain. It had turned the straight line of his thoughts into a twisted gyre leading down into blissful unconsciousness, but he focused on his enemy. Giving away what he knew would spare him some pain, but it would also cost Dorothy, Trafalgar, and Beatrice their lives. He could feel the blood spreading into his face and knew he had turned a purple-reddish color.
“She... didn’t... tell me,” he growled through clenched teeth, “for precisely this reason.”
The woman held his gaze for a moment, then nodded to the man holding him. Desmond collapsed to the sidewalk and instantly folded himself around his damaged hand. The woman bent at the waist and looked down at him.
“You’ll want to find a doctor, and soon.” She dropped a card onto the ground in front of him. “If Lady Boone contacts you, please give me a call. I’m ever so eager to talk to her.”
She stepped over him and, along with her mountain of a brute, walked away. Desmond wanted to watch them go, partially to identify his attacker but also to ensure they were really gone, but turning around would take too much effort. Instead, he blinked away the tears of pain and looked at the card the woman had dropped. His eyes cleared enough to read a single word, confirming his suspicions. Six gold-leaf letters on a black background.
VIRAGO.
Chapter Fourteen
The ship delivered them to Bilbao safe and sound the following morning. They had brunch at an outdoor cafe that catered to tourists before Dorothy headed off to find transport to Barcelona. There was no discussion about leaving Trafalgar and Beatrice alone together, and neither of them found it odd until Dorothy was already gone and they realized they had no buffer between them. Trafalgar shifted uncomfortably, while Beatrice stared silently out at people passing by. Trafalgar wore her normal jacket over a plain brown blouse and trousers. Beatrice had eschewed her standard uniform for a white blouse and a calf-length skirt. Several other diners were casting sideways glances toward their table. After a moment Trafalgar realized they were trying to figure out who was the master and who was the servant. She didn’t know how to dissuade them from their notions, but she did know how to ignore them. She looked away from them and focused on the water.
There were boats in the bay and she tracked them with her eyes. The sounds of conversation drifted over to them as if trying to fill the space left by their awkward silence. Finally she decided that sitting there silently until Dorothy arrived would only make it appear as if they were both servants waiting for their mistress to return.
“May I ask your honest opinion?”
Beatrice looked startled, but she disguised it well. “Depends on the topic. I’m not guaranteeing I’ll give you an answer.”
“Fair enough. The topic is Lady Boone.” She gestured toward the water, indicating what they had been told on the ship. “In your opinion, how much of this quest is wishful thinking?”
“What do you mean?”
“Fulfilling her grandmother’s final mission. It’s laudable, of course, and I’m more than happy to lend my assistance. And I have the utmost respect for Dorothy’s acuity in these matters. But I can’t help but wonder if she’s so focused on solving the mystery her grandmother left behind that she’s lost sight of her objectivity.”
Beatrice considered the question. “I would say at first glance it may be as much as fifty percent wishful thinking, but that percentage only covers motive. Her purpose may be split between solving the mystery her grandmother left behind and stopping Virago from reaching it first, but her deductions are sound. She wouldn’t see potential where there was none. With Miss Hyde’s recollections and Eula Boone’s maps, I have faith that we really are on the cusp of finding something spectacular.”
Trafalgar nodded slowly. “Thank you, Miss Sek. I appreciate your opinion on the matter.”
“Do you?” Trafalgar looked at her oddly and Beatrice held up a hand. “I mean no disrespect. But you and I haven’t exactly had the time to bond the way you and Dorothy have. Part of me still sees you as the competition. I’m sure a part of you still sees me as the gatekeeper. Lady Boone’s muscle.”
Trafalgar smiled slightly. “I have been trying to stay on your good side, it’s true. But you’ve been with her for years. I have faith you can intuit her moods and the subtext of the things she does. You may know her true intentions even better than she does.”
As if summoned, Trafalgar spotted Dorothy walking toward them. By the time she arrived they had settled the bill and joined her on the street. She had changed into a dark brown turtleneck under a tan jacket that was belted at the waist. The brim of her hat was turned up to show off her face, so she blocked the sun with a pair of violet pince-nez sunglasses.
“There’s a train leaving for Barcelona in just over an hour. I took the liberty of booking us passage on it.”
Trafalgar said, “You know you don’t have to pay for absolutely everything on this trip, right?”
“You paid for breakfast,” Dorothy said as they began walking.
“You know what I mean. The ship and now the train.”
Dorothy said, “True. But I have the means. The whole point of partnering is to avoid the need for a patron. You would prefer to go broke simply to maintain equal
ity?”
“No.” Trafalgar grimaced. “I’m not sure why I even brought it up. I simply wanted you know I was aware of the imbalance. Hopefully I can make it up to you at some point during the expedition.”
“You’re here for your expertise, your intelligence, and your ingenuity. Paying for your tickets is simply my fee for having you with me.” She adjusted the cuffs of her sleeves. “And if we require a bit of a bribe when we arrive in Barcelona, I will gladly allow you to toss in a few dollars.”
Trafalgar said, “Bribe?”
“I found someone who could arrange a meeting with a facilitator. He can give us what we need for the expedition, but he sounds like an odd one. It’s always nice to have a little cash to help things go more smoothly.”
“I’ll be more than happy to help out,” Trafalgar said.
“Splendid. If that’s settled, we should get to the station. Our luggage was supposedly sent ahead from the harbor, but it’s always best to double-check before getting underway.”
The three of them walked along the pedestrian promenade toward the train station, their journey across Spain only just beginning.
#
The men stood motionless near the door of Emmeline Potter’s front room. Their faces were formless now, the bodies under their suits as hard and steadfast as a mountain. They were good for brute force and shows of strength but otherwise they just got in her way. She was seated on the floor in the center of her main room. She was still naked from her bath, her skin scrubbed until it was pink and almost bloody. She was fresh and completely clean. She had fasted the entire day. She flattened her hands on the floor in front of her in the center of the pattern she’d drawn there. Energy thrummed through the wood and up into her arms. She closed her eyes and whispered incantations she’d learned as a child, summoning the energies to her.
She knew she was abusing the power. She knew that if the beings in charge - if they still existed, if they ever turned their attention to this plane - would be furious with her. So far she had been untouched. She had created her golems and used magic to cause harm with no consequences. She had grown richer, stronger, more adept at her practices, and it served to prove to her that there was no authority other than what people placed on themselves.
When she felt the power reach its peak, she lifted her hands. Tendrils of energy followed her as she moved. She picked up the wafer she’d prepared earlier. She didn’t have much in terms of a totem, but it didn’t take much. There was a smear of Dorothy Boone’s blood on the face of the cracker, saved from their scuffle. She breathed it in even though there wasn’t a detectable odor, then she placed it in her mouth. She bit the cracker in half and wrinkled her nose at the taste. But she forced herself to swallow.
The energy wrapped itself around her like a blanket on a cold morning. She felt it settling into her pores and filling her empty spaces. It found the tenuous link to Dorothy Boone and locked onto it.
She smelled sea air and sewage, then the familiar scent of food being cooked in the open air. She could feel the warm Mediterranean air on her skin as the scene formed on the back of her closed eyelids. Mud-colored buildings with flashes of blues and greens and gold. She saw a sea of dark-haired people with skin that was tan, not pink, and she could hear bursts of their speech.
“Barcelona,” she whispered.
Virago smiled and opened her eyes. The ribbons of magical energy dissipated all around her once it had achieved its purpose. She stood up slowly, weak now and trembling. Her skin was drenched with sweat. She knew she would have to wash herself again. She swept her foot through the design; it would have to be redrawn for another ritual anyway, and it would be tempting fate to leave an old drawing behind for others to stumble over.
She went to the golems and woke them. Their bodies came to life and faces appeared on the blank canvas of their heads.
“Prepare my bags,” she said. “We’re going to Spain.”
She turned and ascended the stairs, gathering her hair for her bath. As she lifted the curls it exposed the tattooed lines that ran from shoulder to shoulder. The inked lines created the image of a storm-lashed sea, the waves reaching up toward her neck. As she reached the second floor landing, the last of the magic dissipated, and the lines of her tattoo stopped glowing.
#
Though Trafalgar had never been to Spain, the six hundred kilometer train ride across its eastern border convinced her that a more leisurely visit was definitely in order. Perhaps when political temperatures were a bit calmer, if such a time ever arrived. Every man they encountered seemed aghast at the thought of three women traveling on their own to Barcelona. Trafalgar couldn’t speak Spanish, but Beatrice told her that every newspaper was filled with stories of bloody riots and anti-church demonstrations. The current unrest had Barcelona rumored as one of the bloodiest and most extreme cities in all of Europe. Assassins lurked to defend the interests of business owners against unionizers, and the population was growing exponentially every day as more factories opened and jobs became available. The entire coast seemed like a powder keg waiting for the proper match.
Dorothy had been trying to read the newspaper, allowing Beatrice to translate for her as necessary, but after a few paragraphs she gave up on it.
“Virago is tearing apart history to pay for Ireland’s war. We’re keeping our heads down because of the unrest in Spain. I thought the war was supposed to have ended two years ago!”
“That was the world’s war,” Trafalgar said. “It left behind all the small, personal wars everyone has been fighting for decades, if not longer.”
Dorothy sighed and nodded her agreement. “The UK is at peace. I suppose we can take comfort in that for as long as it lasts.”
They arrived at the Barcelona train station and were met with further skepticism that they were traveling alone to the anarchist’s “rose of fire.” Dorothy had her gun tucked into her belt, hidden by her jacket, and Trafalgar’s emei piercers were the flick of her wrist away. As for Beatrice... Dorothy feared for any man who considered her unarmed. They assured their would-be knights that they would be just fine on their own and departed the train station.
Beatrice escorted their bags to the hotel under protest. She wanted to be present for the meeting just in case it went wrong. Dorothy assured her it would be fine. The man they were meeting with was an unknown quantity, but he had come highly recommended. The suggestion was offered with a warning that the man was ‘unusual’ and it might take a few minutes for them to understand just what exactly he was all about. Dorothy was intrigued by the description and didn’t get the whiff of danger from the man’s suggestion they meet in one of the nicest restaurants in Barcelona.
When they arrived, the hostess sat them at booth with a curtain that would afford them a bit of privacy for the transaction. Dorothy and Trafalgar sat together on the side of the booth facing the front of the dining room so they could see when their contact arrived.
Ignacio Mata was a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, a face shaped like an inverted pentagon, and a beard so light that at first it looked as if the shadows were falling over the point of his chin in an unnatural way. His eyes were shaded by a heavy brow that would have been imposing if it wasn’t for the beaming smile he offered them as he weaved through the tables to where they were waiting. He wore a rumpled suit, the shirt open at the collar, and he was carrying a large metal case. He tucked it under the table when he arrived and dropped into the seat across from them.
“Welcome back to Barcelona,” he said, breathless and speaking quickly through his accent. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Dorothy. Trafalgar. How has life been treating you?”
Dorothy glanced at Trafalgar. “As well as can be expected, Mr. Mata.”
He laughed. “Why so formal?” His smile wavered and his eyes skipped between them. “Wait. How many times have we met?”
“We’ve never met you before this moment, Mr. Mata.”
His jovial expression collapsed. He fell back ag
ainst the cloth of the booth and stared at them as if they’d revealed his family was lost at sea.
“Yes. Yes, of course. Of course...” He ran a hand over his face. “I apologize. It’s my fault. Not yours. Lady Boone, then, and Miss Trafalgar.”
Dorothy said, “You called me by name rather easily, Mr. Mata. As if you’ve done it many times before. There must be a reason for that.”
“There is. Yes.” He was speaking slowly now, a completely different man. “I’m sorry. You must understand that from my perspective, the three of us are associates. Friends.”
“How is that possible?” Trafalgar asked.
He sighed. “I experience memory in reverse.”
Dorothy furrowed her brow. “Explain.”
“Years ago, I discovered a djinn. He granted me any wish I could imagine. I asked to know the future.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Never make a deal with a djinn. They will give you what you desire, but they exact a precious cost. They gave me foresight at the cost of memory. I remember the future and forget the past.
“My mind works the way yours does. Simply in reverse. Think about when you wake up in the morning. You remember the day before, but not what is to come. When I lay down in bed at night, I forget the day that is just ending and I remember tomorrow. I know how I will die, but I don’t know how I was born. I remember a long and fruitful relationship with you both, but I was unaware that relationship started right now, today, at this booth.”
Dorothy said, “You can see the future?”
“I can remember it. And my memory is hazy at times, as you can tell from the fact I was wholly unprepared for this news. Think about conversations you had yesterday. You might remember the gist of them, but not every word that was said. You can remember events from a few years ago, but not with crystal clarity or perfect recall. Do I know things that will happen? Yes. But I won’t share the information with anyone. There are some things people just shouldn’t know ahead of time.”
