by Trish Telep
"Oh, well. I suppose not."
"It'll be front page news, you just wait. I can already see the headline--'Dr. Mitchell Connell Works Miracle.'"
So Dr. Connell finally let James in. He looked quite official with his hat and notebook, but turned paler than usual when he saw us strapped to the table. He flashed me a brief look of concern.
"Do you need any sort of background on me and my accomplishments for the paper?" Dr. Connell asked James.
"No, no. I know all about your illustrious career, sir. You just ... get started."
Dr. Connell pulled gloves over his hands in the same precise way that he spoke. He startled me with the sudden touch of his palm to my head.
"This won't hurt a bit," he said.
"You won't put us to sleep, will you?" I tried to turn and look at him, suddenly terrified. He shushed me, and I felt warm magic melting from his hand into my head. The room blurred. My panic fell into the background. I thought I heard faint piano music, and I realized it was a memory of Faith playing "Lily of Laguna." I could see Faith's little hands--the hands of a child, just the same as my own--feel the brush of her hair against my cheek, hear her heartbeat.
"'Let not man put asunder,'" I whispered, confused. I had trouble speaking. My strength was gone. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
I floated in that dream for a time, the soothing imagery somehow tainted with an undercurrent of distress and a metallic smell. Faith was here--Faith was here with me. But something was wrong. So wrong. I just couldn't remember what it was.
Suddenly, someone grabbed my hand, shaking my arm, shouting. "Why is there so much blood?"
"Don't touch her." That was Dr. Connell.
My dreamy images faded. James had my hand and my right side seared with pain. My nightgown was drenched with blood. That was all I knew before black spots filled my eyes. I could feel a tugging at my wrist--James was freeing me from the straps. I should have moved slowly, with Faith at my side, but instead I sat up. Alone. Too light, too free. Severed. Broken.
I didn't know it would feel like this.
I tried to cry out, I tried to grab at James's hand, the only thing I could seize at that wasn't pain and wrongness, but I had no strength. I was falling off the table, onto the cold floor. Faith was screaming my name.
"Hush. Hush. Let me--" James said. I heard scuffling between Faith and Dr. Connell. James got me to my feet.
"James," I managed to say, but maybe no one could hear me. Was I actually speaking or merely thinking?
Now another hand tugged at my arm. "You get your paws off her," Auntie snapped at James. "Dr. Connell! You've got to get over here. I think Patience is dying!" She almost sounded concerned for me, but I knew it was only because she saw her meal ticket slipping away.
"I've got to get Faith stabilized first! There's been a complication."
James shoved Auntie, yanking me from her grasp. His arms were around me, and my blood was everywhere. I could feel it hot on my arm--could smell it, even. Maybe it was Faith's blood too? "Faith," I choked as James dragged me away over the shouts of Auntie and Dr. Connell.
"James," I whispered. "I don't want to be helpless anymore." I reached for his head, digging fingers into his unfashionable long hair, the hair of 1845, and bared my neck for him.
"Is it ... is it really what you want?"
"Yes. Hurry!"
"Forgive me," James said, moving his soft lips to the tender skin of my neck, making me shiver. "This isn't how I imagined it."
I had imagined it would hurt, to be bitten, but the pain of James's mouth on my neck was almost sweet compared to the horror of what Dr. Connell had done to me. I still heard shouting and scuffling, but all I knew was that my pain was melting away as James took my warm blood. I felt weightless. I imagined there must be nothing left of me between the separation wound and the bite.
He pulled away, and then he thrust his wrist at me, the pale skin gashed and bright with blood.
"If this is truly what you want ... drink," he said.
For a moment, I didn't move. I felt weak, and half-dead already without Faith ... and no other death could feel so beautiful.
But I wanted something for my own. A strength of my own, a love of my own.
I drew the red wound to my lips and drank his blood, drawing in the life and power that then flowed through me like a warm cup of tea on a cold day, my vision clearing. When I was done, I realized the commotion in the room had quieted. I heard Faith whimpering.
I broke away from James, touching the wall. Now I felt slightly drunk. Everything was sharper than before, colors brighter, sounds clearer. But the room was reeling. My teeth ached. The wound in my side didn't seem to matter anymore. I moved past James--shoved him, really, when my arms proved stronger than expected. I almost fell. I didn't know how to walk without the weight of Faith.
"Be careful, now," James said, slipping a hand around my waist, taking Faith's place at my side. "It takes time to change ..."
He trailed off as we both took in the scene. Auntie flapping her hands and barking directions that no one was paying attention to. Faith was slumped in a pool of blood. And Dr. Connell was beside her, but his fingers were pressed to his temples as if he was deep in concentration. He wasn't doing anything to help her.
"What happened?" I cried. I tried to move forward, stumbling, gripping James's lapel. "Is Faith all right?" I reached for Dr. Connell's shoulder.
Faith moaned.
"She's dying." I shook him. "Help her!"
"You've ruined everything. I would have had it all under control in a moment!" Dr. Connell said, shaking off my grip and standing, looking down his nose at me. "Now what are the papers going to say? It's all a mess! All because of you!"
He only wanted the glory of separating us successfully. He didn't want a report from the Herald that said he'd almost killed me. He wanted us to be little prizes he could show the world as proof of his skill. He probably already had a script to hand us, with weepy words about how he'd saved us from the life of freaks.
I looked at Faith's blood slowly seeping onto the carpet.
"Patience ..." Faith's speech was barely a whisper, but my newly heightened senses heard every letter. "Just ... be happy ..."
She was willing to die. Willing to let me go.
I wouldn't give her up.
"You will heal her, Dr. Connell. Or I'll tear out your throat."
Dr. Connell snorted. "You? Tear out my throat? You must be mad if you think you can threaten me!"
He yammered on and on as my sister was dying.
I whirled on him--how fast I could move now!--and grabbed him by the collar of his suit. Even the finest wool was slightly itchy under my sensitive hands. I pushed him, dragging and yanking at his clothes, to the glass window that looked out to the ocean below. It was open just a crack to let in the cool Atlantic breeze. Auntie took a step back against the wall as I shoved aside the curtains.
"I wonder if your skull is thick enough to survive a fall." I spoke right to his face, something no well-brought-up girl would ever do, but I was no girl anymore.
I was a monster, sharp and hungry.
"Young lady, step away from that window! Is this really how you want to behave?" Auntie was horrified at my pertinence.
I snarled. "Dr. Connell, you risked our lives for your own glory. Now, it's simple. Save Faith or die."
My new fangs snarled my words. I knew the blood that covered my clothes and hands was starting to dry, brown and flaking, on my skin. And I knew Dr. Connell was afraid. He would never say so, I didn't expect that much, but he didn't need to. I could see it--I thought maybe I even smelled it, something rank and earthy like a mushroom turning slimy.
"And help Uncle Marcel, too," I added, pushing him closer to the open window.
"I will do ... nothing of the sort! You dare throw me out this window and my friends will avenge me!"
"I'm sure you'll find that very satisfying from your ocean grave."
"Patience!" James was at my side, but I wouldn't let anyone talk sense into me. If Dr. Connell killed Faith, I would kill him. Still, James's presence rattled me, turning me back into a girl again, for an instant.
"Don't stop me, James." My eyes welled with tears.
"No, Patience. I'm here to help you," he said. He rammed his elbow into the window, breaking through the solid window glass with one thrust. Shards tumbled into the Atlantic. James grabbed a fistful of Dr. Connell's suit and, together, we shoved him further out the window, scraping his clothes on the jagged edges that remained of the glass. The cold waters rippled below him, as the cold air whipped at our hair and sleeves.
"What do you say now?" I screamed over the wind.
Somehow, it didn't take long to convince him after that.
* * *
"Maybe you should go," Faith whispered the words, for the first time in her life, "I just ... want to be ... alone right now."
We might be separated, but I was still beside her, had been at her bedside for the past hour, while she was silent, her cheeks pale. Dr. Connell had sealed her wounds and saved her, but she was clearly both physically and emotionally spent.
And now she was asking me to leave her alone.
As I hesitated, someone knocked at the door. "Girls? It's Uncle Marcel. I have Mr. Martin with me. We want to speak with you."
I let them in. Faith covered her face with a pillow. I suppose she'd had all the surprises she could bear.
The slim, dark-haired Frenchman with the pencil-thin moustache sounded like Uncle Marcel, acted like Uncle Marcel, but wore the face of a stranger--although he certainly looked better in Uncle Marcel's waistcoats.
He was followed by James.
"Girls," Uncle Marcel said. "I know we have all had quite the trip, and you will need time to adjust, but I've been planning for the day that I could give you a better life--and get you a bit of revenge. Trust me, not only will Miss Weber and Dr. Connell no longer interfere with your lives, but I do believe she will gladly share her jewels and furs to keep the vampires from the door. You have terrified her quite thoroughly, mademoiselle." He winked at me. "And now that I have this chance at a new beginning, I can work as a violinist, as has always been my dream. I wish to offer you both a home with me. I've always thought of you as if you were my own daughters." Uncle Marcel's eyes--still the same brown eyes--shone with emotion. "So, girls, what is your favorite city?"
I just wanted to be wherever James was. I'd never been a normal girl before. I'd never seen anything, really. Only visiting places in order to perform. I'd never had a choice.
"I'm living in New York right now, but I don't like to stay in one city for ever," James said. "I prefer it when my neighbors don't start thinking of me as the local vampire."
"Why don't you think on it?" Uncle Marcel rose to leave, but I didn't let him go without an embrace--and one for James, too. That one lasted just a bit longer.
* * *
Faith and I had no proper clothes that weren't attached, so I spent the evening cutting our dresses open and sewing them back together. Separately. It felt tremendously symbolic.
James stayed with me, but I didn't want to talk, so he worked at his writing. Or so he claimed. I caught him looking at me a dozen times.
Faith had remained quiet, even after Uncle Marcel's news, but when she fell asleep I knew she'd found a little peace.
Even past midnight, I didn't go to bed. I sat by the window and watched the moonlight shine on the water, once in a while spotting the jagged white form of an iceberg.
Just before dawn, Faith emerged from the bedroom, still wearing her bloodied nightgown, rubbing her eyes. Her gait, like mine, was unsteady, unaccustomed as she was to walking alone. She touched the walls for support.
"I fixed all your dresses," I said softly.
"Our dresses," she whispered, fingering the sturdy serge of our sailor suits. "You even fixed the pink frilly ones."
I shrugged. "We'll need something to wear."
"I hate these clothes. Sailor suits. Ruffles and bows. Other girls our age don't dress like this, they wear shirtwaists and things."
"Put their hair in pompadours," I agreed.
Faith looked at the window, and then at me, and the slightest twinkle appeared in her eye.
"You wouldn't," I said. "After all the hours I spent taking them apart?"
"You're the one who wanted a new life. Speaking of which, what do you think of Paris?"
"I think it would be a wonderful use of our French lessons."
She set aside our gray dresses with the black velvet trim, the best ones we had, and then she cracked open the window. The night air was biting. We filled our arms with the pink ruffles, the sailor suits, the skirts that only reached the tops of our boots, the hair bows, and watched them go, flying free beyond the walls of the Airship Gemini.
Under Amber Skies
BY MARIA V. SNYDER
I HAVEN'T SEEN my father in months. Not since I overheard the rumblings of war in town. According to my mother, he has retreated to his basement workshop. Not to be disturbed. Every night, I fall asleep listening to the comforting sounds of metal clanking, machinery humming, and a hammer banging.
Every morning my mother makes me breakfast, using my father's Chef Helper device--a gleaming sleek cooker. Even with the kitchen gadgets, deep craters of exhaustion hang under her brown eyes, her pale face is lined with strain, and she moves as if an automaton. I offer to take a turn assisting father at night.
"No, Zosia. Your father is working to keep Poland safe from the Nazis. You will only distract him, and it is too vital. We all must make sacrifices during these uncertain times."
The Chef Helper beeps, then trundles over to my plate. It squats and deposits a steaming heap of scrambled eggs.
"But you go. Why can't I?" I try.
She ignores the question. No surprise as she's a firm believer in the children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard adage.
I gnaw on my bottom lip, debating if I should ask her about Inek. He, too has disappeared, but for very different reasons. "Mother has Inek--"
"Zosia Jadwiga Nowak, you are not to mention his name to me again! Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am." My lip throbs. I taste blood from clamping down on what I really want to say to her.
"Good." Handing me a list of supplies, she says, "I need you to go into Leba today."
"But Father needs more amber--"
"And it will still be on the beach for you to dig for tomorrow." She snaps. "I don't know why Casimir insisted on decorating his inventions with that useless amber. It's impractical. I'm so glad he's now concentrating on vital machines. Poland will become a force to be reckoned with. Then the Nazis and the rest of Europe will be terrified of us!" Glowing with national pride, my mother hustles me out the door.
I could have told her why Father uses amber, but she never asks me for my opinion or wishes to have a conversation with me. Instead, she orders me about as if I'm a Polish soldier, sending me to fetch supplies. Mother has swallowed the war propaganda whole. I shouldn't be surprised. She's been a staunch patriot since forever. There had only been two queens of Poland throughout history, and my middle name, Jadwiga, was one of them. Anna was the other. If it wasn't for my father's protests, I would have been named Anna Jadwiga.
Perhaps if my name was Anna Jadwiga, I'd stand up to her. I'd refuse to be ordered about. I'd demand to see my father. But I'm just Zosia, named for my father's sister who died in the Great War.
Outside my home, I clutch the paper and a purse full of zlotys. Dark gray smoke pours from the chimney and stains the bright blue sky. Our wooden two-story house appears deceptively small as it huddles in the middle of our farm.
Although calling it a farm is being kind. Weeds choke the fields, the pasture fence is broken and rotted with decay. Our single cow has long since wandered away.
I fetch my wagon from the barn. The barn's roof droops at a dangerous angle, but it's quite safe. My father allowed the
outer walls to fade into dilapidation while he strengthened the inner ones, keeping his workshop hidden inside. The windows even trick the eye, allowing light to enter, but, if you try and peer through them, all you'd see is black.
When the barn was deemed too small, he moved his workshop underground. Then my nights were filled with the scrapes of shovels, the chugging of augers, and the smell of damp earth while the barn was filled with mounds of dirt and rocks. I always wondered why he hid the piles.
A slight sound grates against the normal morning noises. I pause to listen and catch a flutter of squeaky wings. Scanning our farm, I search for the source. I've heard the Nazis have developed winged creatures to use for spying on their enemies. My pulse beats out a quick march, but all I see are real birds.
Unease crawls along my skin as I settle in the seat at the front of my wagon. I press the ignition button. Its small engine puffs out two tiny black clouds before settling into the quiet purr I'm used to. Since the day is so bright, I toggle on my umbrella. Sized just for me, the wagon resembles a miniature truck and is one of my favorite gifts from my father.
Steering the wagon, I listen to the buzz of its four tires over the dirt path. Every half mile or so, a bright flash of sunlight grabs my attention and I spot one of my father's machines working in the fields of our neighbors' farms. His Mole Plow digs deep grooves in the soil, a Beaver Saw's sharp whine cuts through the air as its blades cut through wood. Because of his equipment, our hamlet near Leba, Poland, is prosperous. I'm sure my father would have been content to create farm apparatuses for years.
Except the threat of war creeps toward us. And a few of our neighbors claimed to have seen the gleam of the Nazis' spy owls in the trees, and have smelled the diesel fumes from them.
We live on the very northern tip of Poland at the edge of the Baltic Sea. The supposedly Free City of Danzig is east of us--supposedly because the city's population is seventy percent German. And looming behind Danzig is East Prussia, also full of Germans. Across the narrow Polish Corridor to our west is Germany. We're almost boxed in by Nazis.
