by Trish Telep
"Stop!" I yell. The crabs halt at my command.
Fear swells. Simple subtraction means there are two more Nazis waiting upstairs. Dread churns in my chest at the same time. "Zosia, what are you doing here?" my mother demands.
"Rescuing you," I say.
The Nazis find my answer amusing. The man pointing his Luger at my mother's temple says, "Drop your weapon."
I forgot about the useless device in my hand. Dropping it to the ground, I realize with a heart-lurching certainty that there is no way we can escape. We no longer have the element of surprise on our side.
Thin-face strolls around the room, inspecting the weapons. He tries a few of the smaller devices with his right hand. They're all like the long-barreled gun--powerless. He returns. No one has moved or spoken.
"Miss Nowak, your mother was ... kind enough to show us your father's secret workshop, but she claims ignorance about what fuels your father's machines. What leaves behind that black oily residue. Perhaps with her daughter's life in jeopardy, she will be more cooperative," Thin-face says.
"I swear, I don't know," my mother cries. "No one knows except Casimir."
Thin-face exchanges a look with Elbow-man. I step forward as the loud report of gunfire fills the room. Inek flies back into the wall. A bright red stain spreads on his chest as shock spreads on his face. He slides to the floor.
I rush over. Kneeling next to him, I press my palm over his wound. "Damn it, Inek. Why couldn't you just go home."
Dazed, he peers at me for a moment before he smiles. "Because you care."
"Mrs. Nowak," Thin-face says. "One last chance or Miss Nowak's next."
"I don't know!" Mother yells.
I stand. "She doesn't. But I do. Let my mother take Inek to the doctor and I'll tell you everything."
"Zosia, no," my mother says. "Our whole country is at stake! Millions of lives."
"I don't care," I say.
"I'll let your mother live," Thin-face says. "The boy won't make it to the doctor."
He's right. Inek coughs up blood. Color leaks from his face. Why couldn't my father invent a healing machine? Instead of these machines of war.
And ... click. Two thoughts lock together. I realize why these weapons felt wrong. My mind races. My gaze lingers on the crab army built by my father. Built to protect me.
"What is the fuel?" Elbow-man demands.
"It's Baltic Electrons. Also known as Jantar. It's a black oily rock found only on the shores of the Baltic. My father stores it upstairs."
Thin-face taps his Luger on his thigh. "We didn't see it."
"Did you check the attic?" I ask.
"There isn't one."
I shake my head as if amazed by his stupidity. "Haven't you figured it out that my father loves to deceive the eye? The barn, this workshop ..." Thankfully, Mother remains silent.
He gestures with his gun. "Show us."
I hesitate. "Can you give me a moment alone with Inek?"
Thin-face considers. He sends oneman to climb the steps to the barn, guarding the exit--my only escape. "One minute."
They pull my mother with them into the other room. I crouch beside Inek. Eyes closed, he's slumped on the floor, gasping for breath.
I take his hand in mine. "You were right. The first time I read your letters was this morning. I'm sorry."
He squeezes my hand. I lean close and kiss him on his cold lips. Then, in desperation, I point to the hole in Inek's chest with my left index finger. "Heal him," I order, but my army remains still.
Think! Father created them to protect and help me. "Fix him," I say, and the four closest crabs scramble onto his chest, clicking as metal gadgets unfurl from their bodies as if they are the Swiss Army knife of crabs.
No time left. I run from the room with my insides turning to ice. I know those metallic creatures can't really fix a living being. Even my father isn't that smart. They will probably just increase the speed of poor Inek's demise. But it's a fairy tale I cling to in order to get through the next ten minutes.
I lead the five Nazis upstairs. We do have an attic. It has multiple entrances--all hidden except one. We squeeze inside the master bedroom's closet, which is bigger than it looks. The cord hanging down from the ceiling appears to be connected to the light bulb, but the switch is located on the wall. Before I yank the cord to lower the ladder, I ask Mother where Father is.
"He's in England," she says.
Thin-face huffs in surprise. "Not in Warsaw?"
"Too risky. He is safe in London, helping our allies."
I meet my mother's gaze. "Those weapons below aren't his inventions are they?"
"Decoys to make the Nazis believe he was still here."
She's lying. They were too well made to be mere decoys. Her left eye is almost swollen shut by the bruises on her face. Yet there is a defiant hardness in her gaze. My father wouldn't make war machines, but she would. Except she didn't know how to power them.
I tug on the cord, grunting with effort, pretending it won't budge. I rub my arms and ask for help as my finger brushes my wristwatch. One of the younger Nazis yanks the rope with all his strength. The well-oiled door flies open and all the precious amber stores pour out, taking everyone but me by surprise.
Pushing against Thin-face in the commotion, I grab his Luger and aim it as his heart. He freezes in shock. The young Nazi is buried in mere seconds. Mother wrestles the gun away from Elbow-man then shoots him in the head with quick efficiency. I blink in surprise.
More gunfire cuts through the hissing of the steadily falling amber as another Nazi's forehead explodes under my mother's cold skill. Then the clattering of my army of crabs soon adds to the confusion.
The crabs zap and disarm the last enhanced Nazi, destroying his circuitry with their shocks, but my mother calmly executes him anyway. The next bullet pierces Thin-face right between the eyes before I can scream at her to stop, horrified at her killing.
"It's war, Zosia," she says before rushing off to dispatch the other Nazi at the barn exit.
She's back by the time I reach our ruined kitchen. Ringed by my protective crabs, I stand amid the debris, reluctant to see Inek's body, but knowing I should. Mother puts on her apron and bustles about making tea as if this is a normal day.
"How did you know the attic was booby trapped?" she asks.
I don't answer her. Instead, I ask, "Where is Father?"
"Probably in America by now." She waves her hand dismissively. "The Nazis have no reason to fear him. He ran away like a scared little boy." She huffs. "He asked me to abandon my country. All so he could build better plows instead of better tanks and airplanes." Her tone is harsh. The images of the executed Nazis float in my mind.
"He built these crabs," I say in his defense.
She tsks. "Toys really. Mother Crab's Children he called them."
"They saved me."
"We'll use them to bring the bodies to the basement. I'll contact the Polish authorities in the morning. They'll have to take me and my weapons seriously now. Your father wasn't the only creator in the family. The government will move us back to Warsaw, but I'll make sure I bring wagon loads of Jantar along so I can invent and fuel more armaments for Poland."
She sounds so rational, yet I'm stunned by her words.
"Zosia, sit. Have some tea." Handing me a cup, she gestures to the ceiling. "I assume the Jantar is hidden in the attic along with the amber?"
I stare at her. Jantar is the old Slavic word for amber. The Greek word for amber is electron. Baltic Electrons are just pieces of amber. Easy to find along the Baltic coast. It's amber that fuels my father's machines. But she is oblivious.
I fetch a clean bedsheet and go down to the basement labs. My crabs follow me, and I idly wonder how to turn them off.
Inek is lying flat on his back. His skin is gray. One crab has remained on top of him like a stubborn pet who refuses to leave its dead owner. I shoo it off.
Sitting by Inek's body, I'm too numb to cry. I stare at the dir
t floor. It's smooth as glass, except for that patch near the back wall, which is scuffed and lumpy.
Unfolding the sheet, I lay it over Inek and decide there is nothing holding me here anymore. After he is buried, I'll leave and search for my father in America. Mother can figure out the fuel source without my help.
"Zosia?"
I'm startled to my feet. The sheet moves and I back away.
"Still trying to get rid of me?" Inek squirms, uncovering his face. "Shouldn't you have checked my pulse first?"
I rush over and hug him tight as joy fills me.
"Easy." Pain laces his voice.
I relax my grip. "Sorry. I was just ... But you were ... How?"
He tries to sit up, but winces before sinking back. "Those damnable crabs of yours."
I pull the sheet off and inspect his chest. The wound is off-center, about an inch and a half from his heart. The torn flesh has been stitched together with ... I laugh. I can't stop the giggles until tears stream along my cheeks.
"Are you going to tell me what's so funny?" Inek asks.
I suck in huge gulps of air to calm my emotions. "The crabs have used fishing line to close your wound."
Inek appreciates the irony. "I wonder what else they did. I passed out soon after they started."
Glancing around, I spot a flattened bullet.
"I think they dug out the bullet, and fixed your lung."
"Think?"
"We should take you to the hospital."
He refuses. I help him upstairs instead. Covering the ruined cushions with the sheet, I settle him onto the couch. My metal army scurries under and over the furniture, waiting for me.
Exclaiming over his recovery, Mother dashes to the kitchen to fetch him tea. Which, it seems to my mother, is the cure all for encounters with Nazis. After all that shooting, she didn't try to comfort me, or hug me, or even ask if I was all right. No. She handed me a cup of tea.
I sit on the edge of the couch, holding Inek's hand. His family will be so worried about him. Inek is sound asleep by the time Mother returns. She stands in the threshold of the living room with his cup, and stares at my crabs with a wicked gleam in her eyes.
I frown. "They're mine," I say to her in a whisper. Although I doubt anything less than a thunderclap will wake Inek.
"Don't be silly, Zosia. They can help with the war effort."
"Then make your own. I'm taking Inek home tomorrow, and then I'm leaving for America."
"No, you're not." Her stern tone warns that she won't tolerate an argument.
Too bad. She's finally going to get one. "Yes, I am. Did you even consider the danger to me and our neighbors when you decided to trick the Nazis?"
"Of course it's dangerous. It's war."
An easy excuse. "Why didn't you tell me what you were doing?"
"To keep you safe."
"Wouldn't I have been safer in America with Father?" I demand.
"You belong in Poland."
"And Father agreed to this?" I ask.
She hesitates. "Eventually. He wouldn't agree until those ... crabs were ready. I begged him to stay. Pleaded that he should build giant crabs to defend against the Nazis. This is his homeland! But he wouldn't listen. And he refused to tell me about the Jantar. Baltic Electrons, pah! What utter nonsense."
Mother clutches the tea cup in a tight fist. Her anger still raw even after three months. I remember how eerily calm she was when shooting the Nazis. How she seemed willing to let Inek die. Yes, in wartime saving millions of people in exchange for a single person is logical, yet ...
I remember her words. The Polish authorities will now take me seriously.
"Where is Father?" I ask.
"I told you--"
"Where in America? It's a big country."
She glances at the floor. "I don't know. He didn't tell me."
"Surely he sent you letters? Or me? Did you hide them like you hid the ones Inek sent?"
Frowning, she shoots Inek a disgusted look. "Don't worry, Zosia, you'll soon forget him and we'll find a ... better suitor in Warsaw. We all have to make sacrifices for the war."
I stare at her. When did she turn from patriotic to psychotic? "Why did you save Inek's letters if you want me to forget him?"
Her hands twist around the tea cup. "The letters reminded me of another ... boy." Mother's expression softens into ... I don't know. I've never seen her look this way before. Maybe love. Regret perhaps.
"Fredek Lisowski and I were to wed in the fall of 1920. He was a soldier and he sent me a letter every week. Fredek was killed in the Battle of Warsaw." Once again anger flares. "I met and married your father a year later. His genius attracted me, but his useless devices ..." She put the teacup down and wiped her hands on her apron. "I tried to get him to make more useful things like weapons."
"Did you marry him for love or for Poland?"
She won't answer. But deep down I know. With such different views of the world, it must have been difficult for them to be together.
"Why didn't you leave him?" I ask.
"It was my duty to my country. If I had succeeded, we wouldn't be worried about another war."
"Why didn't he leave you, then?"
A strange wry smile twists her lips. "He wouldn't leave you, Zosia."
Her answer reminds me that she didn't answer my other question. "Has Father sent you any letters?"
"No."
Her answers don't match. If Father wouldn't leave me then why was he in America? Unless ... I stand on weak legs. My mother calls to me as I pass her and stumble down to the basement.
Kneeling by the rough patch of dirt, I cry. What has she done?
"Zosia," Mother says behind me. "What are you doing?"
I whirl around. "You killed him." It's not a question.
"He was a traitor."
"Are you going to kill me, too?"
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I'm leaving." Fanned out behind her is my crab army. It's almost as if they know they should keep a respectful distance from us.
"Don't be silly. You're staying with me."
"Why do you want me to stay?"
"You're creative and can help me design weapons."
She says nothing about me being her daughter. Nothing about love. Nothing about family. "Did you make that statue of the girl with springs for her hair for me?"
Confused, she's slow to answer. "Yes."
"Why did you make it?"
"To keep up the ruse. To make you think your father was still here. He was always making you worthless things."
I close my eyes for a moment as pain rolls through me. The statue was part of the deception. Not a gift to comfort me when I was lonely and missing my father. "I'm taking Inek home and then I'm leaving."
"No. You're not. You're going to go to your room. I'll take care of Inek." Her cold tone coats my shattered heart in a layer of ice.
"Like you took care of Father and the Nazis?" I shudder. "No."
When I fail to move, she pulls a Luger from her apron pocket and aims it at me. "Go to your room. Now."
I gape at her. By the set of shoulders, I knew she'd kill me for being a traitor. She has only one love. And it's not me or my father.
My crabs sense a threat. Silent on the dirt floor, they overwhelm her in mere seconds.
She yells my name, but I turn my back on her.
Her shrieks follow me as I climb the steps to check on Inek.
Like she said, it's war.
King of the Greenlight City
BY TESSA GRATTON
THE SUMMER THAT Everest Aleksander the Younger--called Ever by his many friends--set the housekeeper's apron on fire was the summer his parents sent him to the family seat out on the Pearshire cliffs. It was the summer he met his intended, Alys Greentree of the Chenworth Niobes, the summer he turned seventeen, and the summer he cut off all his dark red hair. It was also the summer he fell over said Pearshire cliffs, after a bit too much champagne, plummeting off the iron stair
case toward the tooth-like rocks below.
Fortunately, Ever could fly.
* * *
It wasn't such a shocking thing, given that every member of the Zephyr clan could also fly. What was shocking to Ever, and would have been to anyone else he decided to tell, was that Everest Aleksander the Younger was not an Air Worker, but the heir to the council seat of the Prometheans--the Fire Workers.
Ever was supposed to be able to call fire with a glance, or snap his fingers to set logs--and aprons--ablaze. And he could do all those things quite well. Well enough that it had been said in court he'd surpass his father's skills by the time he was twenty.
When he fell, Ever experienced a moment of sheer panic, where none of his muscles worked and he merely dropped like a tailor's dummy. But then some instinct gripped him, and he swooped out his arms. His fingers caught onto something not so firm as earth, but slippery and thin as garden snakes. This something wound through his flailing fingers and he closed them into fists. His body slowed, and the tendrils he grasped tightened. Soon he rested akimbo in the dark night sky, feet dangling five horse-lengths over the crashing waves. Looking up toward the stars, Ever realized he held on to nothing but air.
The realization was nearly his undoing.
Wisps of air slipped away from him and he fell again, only jerking to a stop when he closed his eyes and imagined the air growing thick and visible as vines.
Carefully, he lowered himself onto the narrow crescent of beach, where he huddled in a ball, holding his knees tight against his chest. The anxiety lasted only a moment, however, before Ever was on his feet, staring up the jagged side of the cliff, his breath puffing out of him in thick ropes. He pursed his lips and blew, imagining that the air from his lungs crawled up the rock face and hardened into a ladder. Of sorts.
Ever gripped the first rung and pulled. He dragged himself upwards slowly, unable to keep the air-ladder formed after releasing it with his hands, so that his legs had nothing but cliff to scrabble against.
By the time he'd climbed to a point where he could access the iron staircase bolted into the rock, it had been nearly an hour. He was covered in bruises, his breath felt like fire in his chest, and even his bones seemed to shake with fatigue. Ever lay sprawled over the steps, metal cutting into his back, and watched gray clouds take away the stars.
