Stranger

by Zoë Archer

  “A noble calling,” Gemma murmured, but her blood was chilled. He spoke so easily of the possibility of being killed! “Like frontier lawmen.”

  “Or errant knights.” He allowed a small smile to tilt his mouth, amused either by the accuracy of their descriptions, or their complete misread. Yet, given the inherent nobility in his bearing, Gemma hopefully suspected the former.

  “But the Primal Source I heard you speaking of,” she continued, “what, exactly, is it?”

  “The Source from which all other Sources arise. The origin of magic, and repository of mankind’s imagination. Whoever possesses the Primal Source has at his or her disposal the greatest power ever known.”

  “And now the Heirs of Albion have it,” Gemma recalled.

  “Have it, and unlocked it.” Catullus scowled out the window, mind almost visibly churning. “Several months ago.”

  She saw the focus in him, the determination and intent. This war with the Heirs was his life—and possibly death.

  “Unlocked?”

  “Accessed the Primal Source, allowing its power to be felt all over the globe, in all magic.”

  “That explains it, then,” Gemma murmured. When he raised an eyebrow in a silent question, she explained, “Around the same time you said the Primal Source was unlocked, something changed with the Key of Janus. I could open more than just physical doors.”

  “Meaning what?” he asked.

  “Mental doors.” Gemma pressed a fingertip to her temple. “When I ask someone a question, they must answer me. That’s how I was able to follow you three all the way from Canada. I asked anyone you might have met along the way, and they told me exactly what I needed to know. Including the ticketing agent at the New York harbor, and “— she cast a slightly apologetic glance at Catullus—” your friends, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah,” he said, mouth wryly tilting. “That’s what I felt when you asked me questions. As if a gate inside my mind wanted to spring open and reveal itself to you.”

  “What I don’t understand,” she wondered, “is how you were able to resist it. No one has, until now.”

  “I have been a Blade of the Rose for years,” he answered, dry with understatement. Gemma could see plainly in the way he held himself that he was a veteran of at least two decades. She had seen him fight just that morning, with the skill of a hardened soldier. “I have been exposed to magic many, many times. No doubt I’ve developed something of both a sensitivity and resistance to it.”

  “Or perhaps your mind is simply too strong.”

  He raised a wry brow. “Entirely possible. However,” he added, stern, “I don’t want you to use that magic on me, Astrid, or Lesperance again.”

  “I won’t,” she said at once, and felt for the first time stirrings of misgivings about the usage of her magic.

  Dwelling too much on her own use—or abuse—of magic wasn’t a pursuit Gemma wanted to engage in overmuch. She steered the conversation back to more relevant topics. “Tell me more about what I … overheard … outside your cabin, that the Heirs sought Astrid because of her knowledge of the Primal Source. They don’t know how to use the Primal Source?”

  “Not fully,” answered Astrid, coming with Lesperance into the carriage. The Englishwoman sat down beside Catullus, with Lesperance lowering himself down next to Gemma. Even though Lesperance’s attention was fully given to Astrid, Gemma could feel from the man waves of energy, as though he was barely containing some great force within. He did not speak much, but still cleaved a presence into the world.

  She would have found him fascinating, this Canadian Indian in European clothing, far from his own home. He clearly loved the flinty Englishwoman, Astrid Bramfield, as she loved him in equal measure. Doubtless Lesperance had a story to tell, one she would have gone to great lengths to discover. Yet, even this intriguing man could not hold her attention when Catullus Graves was near.

  She forced herself to focus. They were discussing the Primal Source.

  “But,” Astrid went on, “as you heard when eavesdropping, that doesn’t mean the Primal Source will not work on its own. Even without direct guidance, the Primal Source will act upon the Heirs’ wishes.”

  “Which means disaster.” Gemma felt herself turn ashen and cold, thinking about what that meant. If the Primal Source was as powerful as these people believed—and Gemma didn’t doubt their veracity—then whatever it unleashed upon an unsuspecting world would be devastating. Just the scale of lives that could be lost in the ensuing catastrophe turned her stomach.

  “Whatever is coming, the Blades will face it,” Catullus said, resolute. “We’ll fight until the threat has been eradicated.”

  “Or until there are none of us left,” Astrid added. Lesperance, grim-faced, reached across to grip her hand, but did not deny this possibility.

  Gemma stared at Catullus, no doubt eyes wide as apples. “With your own magic?”

  Astrid and Lesperance shared a quick glance before Catullus said, “Not precisely. One of the ways in which Blades protect magic is to use none of it themselves, not unless it is given to them by birth or gift.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Gemma protested.

  His gaze frosted. “Ridiculous or not, it is our code. To use magic that isn’t ours is to risk becoming like the Heirs, greedy for more power. So we take pride in our difference.”

  She knew something of pride. “There are only three of you,” she noted.

  “There are more of our numbers. Not as many as the Heirs, but enough to make a go of it.” He nodded toward the window, where the countryside sped past. “They’re gathering in Southampton now.”

  “Where I’ll be held captive,” Gemma added.

  “Only for your protection,” he clarified. As if that made it better.

  “Until when?”

  “Until it is safe.”

  “When might that be?” she pressed.

  His eyes fixed on her before sliding away. “I don’t know.”

  Taking risks was something she did as if by biological compulsion. As a child, she alone out of three sisters and four brothers dared to go inside the abandoned house on their street. Later, at the age of eighteen, after giving her virginity to Robby Egan, instead of accepting his offer of marriage, Gemma left home and moved into a boardinghouse close to the Tribune offices, determined to become a journalist and not a young wife. She once followed a fire engine on horseback when several huge warehouses went up in flames so she might report on the destruction firsthand. She disguised herself as a charwoman to observe the late-night dealings in a local politician’s office.

  Hell, she even trekked out to the Northwest Territories in search of a story, and then journeyed alone all the way across the continent and the Atlantic Ocean. She could no more stop herself from taking a risk than most people could keep from sneezing. It was a necessity.

  Yet when Catullus insisted that she must go to and remain at the Blades’ Southampton headquarters, she knew better than to try to evade his escort. Only someone pickle-brained would attempt to slip away. The Heirs were aware of her. She had already seen a minuscule portion of what they were capable of. Gemma had no desire to be confined in Southampton, but she had even less desire to be dead.

  So, when she announced that she was heading to the dining car for a bite to eat, and Catullus insisted that he join her, she didn’t take umbrage. In fact, she was glad for the company.

  For his company, in particular.

  They sat at a neat little table spread with a white cloth, and, at Catullus’s direction, plates of cold sandwiches and cups of hot tea were brought by a solicitous attendant. Gemma watched with badly concealed amazement as the attendant eagerly jumped to accommodate Catullus’s wishes.

  “You seem shocked by something, Miss Murphy,” he remarked.

  “Gemma,” she corrected.

  “Gemma,” he said, and gave a little smile at her name.

  She felt herself dissolve like a sugar cube in tea. Then shook herself to awarenes
s. “It’s very different here in England than it is at home.”

  “How is that?”

  No way to be delicate about it. “You wouldn’t have been seated in a dining car on an American train.”

  Yet he did not look angry or surprised by her blunt comment. He tipped a small silver pitcher of milk into his tea, and it looked like a child’s toy in his large hand. Yet, for all that, he had a precise, polished way of moving.

  Still, when he spoke, his voice was reserved, almost cool. “And you prefer the American policy.”

  “God, no!” Gemma stared, horrified. “I find it …” She couldn’t find a word strong enough. “Disgusting.” That barely covered the depth of her feelings. “What damned difference does it make what the color of someone’s skin is?”

  A man and a woman, seated nearby, gasped at her coarse language and vehemence.

  She ignored them. Other people’s opinions didn’t matter. But his did.

  Relief, then, to see his gaze thaw. And restrained approbation take the place of coldness.

  “I’m glad you don’t share your countrymen’s views,” he said.

  She felt compelled to defend her home. “Not all Americans are like that. But,” she conceded, “some are. And their intolerance disappoints me.”

  “I experienced it when I was in America.” He took two meticulous spoonfuls of sugar and stirred them into his tea. She could watch his beautiful table manners for hours. “Not only on trains, but in hotels, restaurants. And I had to book passage on a British ship to come home. Almost all the American companies wanted me to travel third class or steerage.”

  “I’m … sorry.” She reddened, embarrassed by her countrymen’s bigotry.

  “It stunned and upset me, at first,” he admitted. “I’m not used to that kind of outright prejudice.”

  “It hasn’t been that long since the War.” Ten years, though that didn’t make it right.

  “Yes, but this was in the civilized North,” he said, but there wasn’t any rebuke for her in his voice.

  “I do love my country,” Gemma said, looking out at the passing English landscape, a rush of green and gray so unlike the wide cornfields of Illinois. “And it also embarrasses the hell out of me, sometimes.”

  He raised his teacup and smiled over its rim. “I know a little about conflicted feelings for one’s homeland.” His expression darkened. “We’re on a train speeding toward a battle with men who claim to uphold Britain’s finest virtues. The Heirs say they want the advancement of our nation—but the cost is too high. The world may pay the price. Soon. Within days. If the Blades cannot stop them.”

  She shuddered, thinking of how close everything was to disaster. Days. And yet she and Catullus sat on a train, passing towns and farms that had no idea what war brewed. Her family in Chicago—they were wholly unaware that their lives could be completely torn apart. But Gemma knew, and she felt the weight of responsibility begin to settle on her shoulders.

  “Do the Heirs truly want everything to become English?” “To them, the height of civilization is England. And I don’t believe that this country should serve as the world’s model.”

  “So there isn’t perfect equality in England?”

  A rueful laugh, and then a sip of tea. Despite the many turbulent thoughts filling her mind, she could not help but watch his mouth upon the delicate porcelain. He closed his eyes for a moment, the clean angles of his face lit with sensuous pleasure. The sight entranced Gemma, made her imagine things she had no business imagining. To distract herself, she took a bite of her sandwich. How did they get the ham so incredibly thin?

  “Ah, even on a train,” he sighed, opening his eyes, “one can’t get a finer cup of tea than in England.” “I like coffee better,” she said.

  He shook his head over her barbarism. “No wonder our nations made war against each other. Twice. But, to answer your question, there is no perfect equality. Even here. It’s not as overt as in America, but, trust me “—and here his expression sharpened again—” skin color does make a difference. I’m judged before I speak, before I act.”

  “I know a little about being prejudged,” she said, echoing his earlier words.

  He fixed her with an inquisitive look. “Female journalists are so uncommon?”

  “Not so rare if they want to write about feminine things—clothes, food, babies.” She felt her mouth twist, though she fought against bitterness. Gemma had no quarrel with clothes, food, or babies, but she didn’t want to write about them. So many other things snared her interest. Richard hadn’t understood that. Hadn’t understood her, despite his claims to the contrary.

  “And if they write about the Northwest Territories?”

  “There is no ‘they.’ There’s only me. So far, I’m the only one.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if letting him in on a secret. “Most people think I’m a bit crazy.”

  Catullus leaned forward as well, velvety eyes dancing as he whispered back, “Me too.”

  They shared a smile, something for the two of them alone. They remained like that for a small while, warming themselves with this unforeseen gift. The ever-present threat faded briefly as they discovered unexpected similarities linking them, a connection neither of them could have predicted. Outwardly, they had nothing in common, nothing bridging the sizable gap between them. Yet Gemma learned well from her journalist’s work that most things of value did not dwell on the surface, but took a careful eye and patience to uncover.

  Here, then. This man—inventor, adventurer, his skin a different color than her own—he spoke to her and of her work without judgment, as though they truly were equals.

  Suddenly, Catullus pulled back, glowering. Gemma thought that his forbidding expression was for her, until she saw his gaze fixed behind her. She turned slightly in her seat to see what angered and alarmed him.

  Two men were coming into the dining car. Gemma quickly assessed them. One was of average height, a bit stout, with a neatly trimmed moustache. The other was taller, dark haired. Both had the pale skin of the upper ranks, with the snooty demeanor to prove it. Even on the steamship, none of the other passengers belonged to this class. This was her first time ever seeing the British gentry. They moved into the dining car as if it, and everything they saw, were their possessions.

  Gemma, democratic, disliked them on sight.

  An attendant approached them, gesturing toward an empty table. They began to pepper the man with questions, which the attendant stammered to answer.

  She turned back to Catullus, and now he looked downright dangerous. He tore his gaze from the men and forced himself to look out the window, as if the view fascinated him. “Get up slowly,” he said between gritted teeth. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Make for the other exit and head straight to our compartment.”

  Gemma’s heart kicked. “It’s them, isn’t it? The Heirs.”

  “Yes, now go. While the attendant has their attention. And don’t look at them.”

  She rose up from her seat as casually as she could, all the while aware of the men behind her. Catullus followed suit, and set a handful of coins on the table. Gemma almost smiled. They were trying to evade the deadly Heirs of Albion, and he was still leaving tips. A true gentleman.

  She and Catullus had just reached the door at the other end of the car when a man’s voice hissed loudly, “It’s Graves and that woman!”

  Neither Gemma nor Catullus wasted any time. He threw open the door, pulled her through to the next car, then slammed the door. Through the glass, she saw the men running toward them.

  “Blast,” Catullus growled. “Can’t lock the door. Run.”

  Gemma went as fast as she could, plunging down the aisle of the second-class car as confused passengers watched from their seats. She heard Catullus close at her heels.

  Through another carriage, and another. At her back came the sounds of the adjoining doors opening and slamming shut, men’s footsteps hurrying toward her and Catullus. She glanced quickly at some of
the passengers watching the spectacle. Couldn’t someone help?

  She reached another door. Two cars down was their compartment. Once they reached it, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but reach it they must. At the least, Astrid and Lesperance could lend a hand. Four against two offered better odds.

  Gemma pulled open another door and started up the aisle, but turned when she did not hear Catullus behind her. He stood on an empty seat beside the door, bending to keep from knocking against the luggage rack overhead. She saw at once what he meant to do. His position kept him hidden from the advancing Heirs.

  The men entered the carriage, and Catullus leapt. He slammed a fist into the jaw of the stout man, who stumbled back and into the path of his companion. The two Heirs tangled for a moment, lurching.

  “What the devil?” cried a middle-aged passenger, observing. “No brawling on the train!”

  “My apologies,” Catullus said, sprinting toward Gemma. He took her hand, and they both ran together.

  Within a moment, they arrived at their private compartment. Astrid and Lesperance, huddled close, hands interlaced and speaking in low, intimate tones, broke apart at the entrance of Gemma and Catullus.

  Lesperance looked at both their faces and rose to standing. “Heirs,” he said immediately.

  Astrid swore, also seeing the truth. She too leapt to her feet.

  “Must’ve gotten on the train at Shrewsbury.” Catullus grabbed his baggage as well as Gemma’s battered little carpetbag. “Have to get off now.”

  No one argued. With movements so swift as to be almost instantaneous, all the bags were collected and the compartment vacated.

  “That way.” Catullus indicated they move toward the front of the train.

  As everyone hurried away, Gemma dared to venture, “The train’s moving, you know.”

  “Counting on it.” Catullus kept throwing glances over his shoulder, to see if they were being followed. And, damn it, they were. The Heirs had recovered their footing, though one of them already sported a swelling jaw, and cut through the narrow, rocking passages of the first-class compartments.