Wanderlust

by Adam Millard

  Cornelia had balled herself up on the deck and was whimpering, praying for it all to end soon. Abigale believed that, one way or the other, she would have her wish granted.

  The side of the life-ship burst inwards as the whirring, clunking blade of the chainsword penetrated it. The deafening racket that came with it caused Abigale’s teeth to rattle in her head. Her heart hammered in her chest, and not for the first time that day, she had time to contemplate death and all it entailed.

  She raised Big Daddy, aimed it over the side of the life-ship, but the big man’s head didn’t appear, and neither did that of the wolf. They were lower down, and he was carving his way through their vessel with determined ferocity. The blade jabbed in and out and wood peppered the deck, smoking and stinking.

  Abigale scarpered backwards, barely avoiding its terrible reach. She felt something rattle against her wrist and realised there was a way out of all the battle.

  The charms. Explosive, allegedly, and armed as soon as she removed them from her person. As much as she hated the thought of setting off bombs at lord-knows-what altitude, their options were limited, and the chainsword was carving them up like a Halloween pumpkin.

  Quickly, she unfastened the bracelet, and keeping two of the charms pressed tightly to her flesh, allowed one to slip off the end into the palm of her hand. She refastened the bracelet and sighed with great relief. It took less than a minute, altogether, by which time the big man had gouged a huge hole in the side of their life-ship and was peering through it, grunting and growling.

  “We’ll see about that,” Abigale said, pushing off the side of the vessel. “Sergei!”

  A moment’s pause suggested the pilot hadn’t heard, but then he answered with a simple, “What?”

  “Take her as hard and fast to the left as you can! Do you hear me?”

  Another pause. “The left?”

  “The left! As hard as you can take her!”

  Abigale stumbled back, level with the offensive vessel. The chainsword was still tearing through the wood, and the armoured wolf continued to howl as loudly as it could, clearly enjoying the whole spectacle. Abigale felt something tug at her, a pull that meant they were moving. The sword vanished from the side of the craft, and its thunderous roar faded, as did the wolf’s keen.

  She grabbed the side of the decimated ship and peered over. Their rival was down and to the right. The big man was glaring up, snarling and whipping his chainsword through the air like some ancient warrior. Abigale knew she had one shot, and one shot only. To miss would give the attacking life-ship time to recoup, and by the time she slipped another charm from her bracelet, they would be under siege once again.

  “God bless you, Octavius,” she said.

  She threw the charm toward the life-ship, the big man and his sword of doom, and the armoured wolf. She wasn’t happy about that bit, but there’s was nothing she could do about the animal’s presence.

  It landed right on the deck, bouncing around as the big man lost control of the vessel. The armoured wolf, sensing its master’s despair, simply howled at the sky. Then, there was nothing but bright orange light and immense heat.

  When Abigale opened her eyes again, all she could see was burnt wood and a punctured, singed balloon dropping away beneath the clouds. Smoke whorled up, and for a moment, Abigale thought she saw the shape of a death’s head in there somewhere, snarling and glowering toward them as if in sheer dissent.

  “What the hell was that?” Sergei called from the cockpit. He followed it up with something Russian, something that could only, in the tone it arrived, be a very bad word.

  “Just keep her steady!” Abigale yelled. She rushed across the deck to where Cornelia was piled in an untidy heap, sobbing. “It’s okay, Corny,” she said. “It’s over. They’re gone. We can get back to the skyship.”

  Cornelia Maddern peered up through her dishevelled hair, her bottom lip quivering like a reproached child. She threw her arms around Abigale and cried with relief. “Did you…did you kill them?”

  Abigale took a deep breath and turned her head up toward the sky and the dark olive balloon above them. “Yes,” she said, her own lip beginning to tremble. “I suppose I did.”

  17

  The Configuration piece was close. Blithe could feel it drumming through her bones, heating her up on the inside. London was a big place, especially if you were looking for something, but if you had wizard instincts and focused hard enough, you could find anything.

  She’d known that the missing piece was close. It had been calling to her, pestering her, for quite some time. Once it had been moved, taken out into the open city, she knew she could hunt it down. She couldn’t rely on the two nincompoops to track it down, or to find the girl that had supposedly obtained it. Dorian was good, loyal, and great in bed, but he wasn’t a genius. Far from it, in fact. He had the mind of a six-year-old, and his Brass-Wolf, Kai, was probably more intelligent. The little fool, Thorneye, was about as useful as a backwards clock. She was already beginning to regret not killing him when she’d had the chance. Maybe later, when they failed to find the piece of The Configuration. At least then, she would have the perfect excuse.

  She wasn’t going to wait to find out if they’d failed. London was a big place, and yet, it was familiar. If a person knew where all the nooks and crannies were, the city was nothing but one big and fascinating game.

  She dressed in dark clothes and slipped out into the semi-gloom of London, where the fragment laid waiting, still calling to her, beckoning her to come and get it.

  *

  Octavius removed the tin kettle from the stove and began to prepare a pot of tea. It wasn’t the same without Abigale. Inside, he felt hollow, as if a very vital part of him had been removed. He’d never realised before how much he relied on the girl, or how much he cared for her. Yet, he questioned himself that if he cared for her that much, why wasn’t he hunting down Mordecai Pick. Why wasn’t he doing everything in his power to stop The Guild from putting his sweet, dear Abigale through such a traumatic exercise?

  There was no doubt in his mind that she would succeed. She knew no other way. But to be held at ransom, with the price her own death was just cruel. In the end, what would Abigale get for it, other than the life she’d already banked on? Where was her recompense? Surely if the pieces were that valuable and powerful, Abigale should receive something in the way of restitution.

  He made the tea and headed into his workshop. Mouse, such a sweet little thing, was sleeping alongside one of his newer contraptions—an automaton demon. Two brass horns stretched upwards, and between them, a fizzling energy bounced back and forth. Octavius had never felt more like Victor Frankenstein. He just hoped this marvellous device wouldn’t be his monster.

  “Always sleeping,” he whispered to Mouse, who didn’t even stir. Octavius could see why Abigale loved the little critter so much. He was wholly innocent, something to which not many creatures in London could attest.

  Reluctant to make too much noise, the tinkerer began to draw up some plans for his next masterpiece—a machine designed to work out complicated sums in just a fraction of a second. He was familiar with the French contraption, the Arithmometer, but it was archaic, to say the least. No one wanted to wait twenty-four seconds for a simple sixteen-figure division. Whatever gave the French the impression that people had such valuable time to waste? In that time, one could work out the damn sum oneself, with a scrap of paper and a quill.

  No, Octavius’s design was sleeker, much more accurate, and, above all else, unashamedly British. That, he believed, would be enough to put the arithmometer manufacturers out of business for good.

  Suddenly, whilst in the middle of what should have been a straight line and was now nothing of the sort, there was a knock upon the door. It was most worrisome, since no one knew of any tenant within. Octavius had ostracised himself from all of London, concealed himself within four walls, where he lived a simple life of mechanics, automata, and clockwork innards. For someone
to pay him a visit, after all these years, struck him as both odd and vexing. He clearly hadn’t dug himself in deep enough.

  There was a simple way of dealing with the caller, though, and one that he’d already settled upon. He wouldn’t answer. They would grow bored and go away soon enough. If not, then they would remain there, in the darkened alleyway, knocking fruitlessly for a very long time.

  He returned to his sketch and was about to correct the rickety line when, all of a sudden, he heard the low growl of magic from across the room. He threw himself backwards, grabbing Mouse from the counter as he went. The door snapped from its hinges and flew across the room, where it smashed into a rather expensive and antique bookcase.

  Once the dust had settled—and there did appear to be a lot of dust—Octavius clambered to his feet. There was no point in hiding from the unexpected caller. They would find him eventually, hiding amongst the rubble. They were obviously eager to get in, which meant they were eager to get their hands on something someone.

  Standing there, in the middle of his quarters, was a wizard he’d never wished to see again for as long as he lived. “Blithe,” he said, his voice no more than an irritated hiss.

  “I don’t believe it,” Blithe said, clapping her hands together excitedly. “Octavius Knight, you old rascal. Where have you been hiding all these years? I thought you were dead.” Her smile was about as genuine as a three-bob note.

  It fascinated Octavius that, after all the years that had passed, she was still trying to cover up that hideous scar. “You hoped I was dead.”

  “Same thing.” She took a step back and absorbed her surroundings. “What’s all this nonsense? Oh please tell me the great Octavius Knight hasn’t turned his hand to tinkering.” She began to laugh aloud.

  The sound turned Octavius’s blood to mercury.

  “Wow, I never thought I’d see the day when—”

  “What do you want, Blithe?” he said, stroking Mouse, who was now nestled deep in the nook of his arm. “There’s nothing for you here.”

  The sorceress inhaled deeply through her nostrils as if on the hunt for something. Octavius knew exactly what she was after, but there was no way he would allow her to get it. She might be an all-powerful wizard, but that didn’t give her the right to huff and puff and blow his house down.

  “You have something I’ve been looking for.” Blithe took two small steps forwards. “Something I need. You don’t have to die here tonight. You can simply fetch it for me. I’m in no rush. It’s nice to see a face from the past, even if it does look like it wants to stave my head in with something heavy.”

  Mouse purred and mewled. Even the damn cat was petrified. “I have nothing that you could possibly be looking for,” Octavius told the wizard. “This place is just automata and scrap. I can do you a good deal on brass armatures, if you’re interested…”

  A ball of green energy slammed into him, knocking him backwards. He hadn’t even seen her preparing it. Good lord, she was quick. Mouse leapt from his arms and skittered away to hide in a dark corner. Octavius almost wished he could follow, but instead, he staggered to his feet once again and brushed the dust from his clothes.

  “I have very little patience this evening, as you’ve probably already realised. So I’m going to ask one more time, and then that will be all. You have something for me. I suggest you go and get it.”

  Shaking his head, Octavius said, “You’re stronger now than you ever were, but it’s still a no from me. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and even if I did, I…”

  Something hit him from the side. He hadn’t even felt the energy surging toward him, not that time. The power with which it slammed into his temple sent him sprawling across the room. The hits were really starting to smart. Burn, too. He could smell the charred hair as he slowly picked himself up from the floor.

  “That was the last time,” Blithe said.

  Octavius heard it muffled, as one might hear another person’s words underwater.

  “There will not be another.”

  Taking a deep breath, Octavius realised the trouble he was in. Blithe was far too strong, and in that moment, extremely angry. He looked up, through the dust yet to settle, and saw that the sorceress was already preparing the deathblow. A bright green flame slowly grew in her hand, spinning so fast it was nothing more than a blur, as it accumulated energy and raw power. It was a sight to behold, and Octavius knew that he was looking at the cause of his death, though the coroner would never think to mention it upon his filed report.

  “So that’s it?” Octavius’ his firm voice belied his countless years upon the Earth. “I never had you down as a cold-blooded killer, Blithe. A maniac, sure, but a murderess?”

  “It’s amazing what a few years do to one’s persona,” she said, somewhat proudly. “And unfortunately, you’re giving me no other choice.”

  She drew her hand back, the magnificent green flame dancing across her palm like an emerald vortex, and Octavius knew that was it if he didn’t do something quick.

  “Glaciem!” he called, flicking out a long, thin wrist.

  A stream of azure light blasted from the tinkerer’s palm. For a moment, Blithe’s expression was neither here nor there. She hadn’t anticipated the retaliation, and by the time it hit her, she was powerless to stop it. She pitched as the magic coursed over her, her thin lips pulled back over blackened gums in a sneer. The green flame waned for a moment as its wielder began to crackle. with the ice that crawled across her, freezing her where she stood. Octavius couldn’t maintain the potency of the magic, and his weakening wrist began to falter. It had been so long since he’d used magic of any sort that he was rustier than some of his contraptions.

  Blithe gritted her teeth and dug her heels in. Octavius could feel her fighting back, and it terrified him. She began to unfreeze, and the whirling green vortex spun quicker than before. Octavius could do nothing to prevent what was about to happen.

  She screeched, batted the tinkerer’s magic aside as if it were a stream of light from a gas-lamp, and unleashed the emerald flame. It slammed into Octavius’s chest, sending him back through the air. Octavius’ body went extremely limp when he smashed into the floor, his old bones rattling inside him like spare keys in a honeypot. He was unconscious before he hit the ground, which might have been the only thing that kept him alive.

  When he next opened his eyes—an indiscernible number of minutes later—Blithe was standing over him, looking awfully pleased with herself. Octavius could scarcely breathe, and any notion of attempting to conjure something up was quickly dashed. He didn’t have the strength to move his legs, let alone cast a spell.

  “Well, well, well,” Blithe said, smiling a god-awful smile. “Not just a tinkerer after all. To be quite frank, I knew you would never be able to give up the wizardry. How many years has it been? Since you last cast?”

  Octavius simply shook his head because it was about all he could manage.

  “Never mind,” Blithe said. “Oh, and I helped myself to your safe. I hope you don’t mind.” She held up the L-shaped piece that Octavius had placed in his safe the previous day.

  Abigale had gone through hell to get it, and the bitch was simply going to take it and add it to her almost complete collection. Worst of all, there was nothing Octavius could do to prevent it.

  “Be sure to thank that little thief of yours, if you manage to not die in the next few hours.” She leaned down and planted a dry, sickening kiss upon his forehead. “Sorry, old wizard, but I did warn you.”

  Then, she was gone, back to whatever stone she had crawled from underneath, and Octavius was left alone, broken in both body and spirit.

  18

  After an hour in Abigale’s cabinSergei and Cornelia returned to work, though Abigale doubted much would be done for what remained of the flight. They had been involved in a very tense sky-battle against things none of them were able to explain, it would be difficult to go back to cooking steaks and potatoes after that.

&nb
sp; As soon as they left, Abigale fell to her bed and broke down. She hadn’t asked for any of this. People—things—were trying to kill her, or at least get to her, and it was all Mordecai Pick’s fault. The son-of-a-bitch had thrust her headlong into something she was nowhere near prepared for. Wizards, zombies, and corrupt inspectors. It wasn’t just a job, a simple chain of thefts, it was a suicide mission. If the thing in her head didn’t kill her, the inhuman monsters pursuing her would. Abigale could see no other outcome.

  The Configuration? That was what the inspector had called it. The triptych she had been tasked with retrieving, somewhat unlawfully, completed The Configuration. Abigale willed Poseidon’s Gale forwards. She needed to reach Saint Petersburg, telephone Octavius and tell him to bury the piece as far and deep as he could away from his lair. If the wizards had managed to track her halfway across the ocean, it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that they would hunt down the piece right there on their own doorstep.

  Grief coursed through her trembling body as she lay upon the bed. If Octavius was harmed by anyone, she would kill those responsible, magic or no. She would hunt them to the ends of the Earth if that’s what it took. Her tinkerer was too old to take care of himself, and it was up to her to defend him, to protect him from…all of this.

  She curled up on the bed, tucking the satchel into her body like a child’s doll, and soon her sobs faded and her breath returned to some sort of regulated normalcy. The only sound in the room was the gentle tick-tock of the clock in the corner of the cabin. It wasn’t long before she was lulled into a dark and lonely dream, in which she sat atop a dusty mountain with the clouds spread out under her, and the howls of an armoured wolf circled somewhere down below.

  *

  “There she is!” O’Connell said, pointing into the darkness ahead.

  For the last hour, he’d sung the same song over and over—something tuneless about cherries and frogs—and so his sudden exclamation came as quite a surprise to Alcorn, who was on the verge of falling asleep upon his crate.