Stormbringer

by Shannon Delany

  Marion stood, mouth agape, as the clouds outside their window parted and a port came into view.

  “Now, God willing, you are wrong, and Maude’s sight will clear as has ours. If she leaves me—takes Meggie—there might yet be hope for them. They are young.”

  “So are you.”

  “But it seems you are determined to not allow me a fresh start. Let them have theirs. Let some good come from all this.”

  “You—” Marion shook his head. “You astound me.”

  Bran turned and snatched the skull from Marion’s hands. “You’re right about many things, Marion. I do not remember everyone I’ve Made. I do not remember most names, Made or Grounded. Yet that is no excuse.” His voice became a strained whisper. “But I remember her. I remember the way she pleaded with me. The way she cried, the way she finally gave up—not the way one gives up to be Made, but the way one gives up to die. I remember all of that and so much more. Her name was Sybil. Somewhere near Boston she was born and had a family.”

  “Near Boston,” Marion whispered. His eyebrows rose high on his forehead, his gaze going in the direction Maude and Meggie had gone.

  “Yes. She might have visited the Boston Museum and seen the Feejee mermaid. Sybil might have met a lighthouse keeper,” Bran agreed with his unvoiced concern. “She was Gathered in young so I suspect they discovered what she was and turned her in themselves. It’s become a common practice. Far better that, they must tell themselves, than fall from grace for Harboring.”

  Marion looked away.

  “Our government has devised quite the societal structure, based around using the most volatile and remarkable of our resources—humanity itself. We make slaves of each other according to the dictates of religion, race, creed, and now—witchery. We judge each other as readily as a farmer judges a sow he wishes to breed. And once the truth is out…”

  Marion rounded on him. “What truth?”

  “That an anomaly has been found.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Witchery is not dictated by heredity.”

  Marion was nearly toe-to-toe with him, bent over him. “What?”

  “We’ve been right all along on at least one thing—Witches are Made. They aren’t simply born.” His voice dropped. “Anyone can be broken to the point of exhibiting magickal abilities.”

  “When exactly did you learn this?” Marion’s breath was hot on Bran’s face.

  “Making the Witch who suffers through dinner with us every night.”

  “The Astraea girl?”

  “Yes. She should have been an impossibility. Instead, she’s an anomaly.”

  “But if anyone can be a Witch…”

  “Then our entire societal structure and the source of our energy—for everything—is built on a spiderweb of inaccuracy.”

  “Of lies, you mean.”

  Bran shook his head. “I say what I mean. Lies mean that someone knew.”

  Marion pursed his lips. “Sybil. It seems she and your daughter are connecting somehow if you are right about Boston. What do you intend on doing with her?” he asked.

  “It depends on what you do with me. I promised her—well, it—a better burial.”

  “Hmm. And the rest of her didn’t deserve such treatment?”

  “The rest of her didn’t repeatedly re-exhume herself.”

  “Oh.” He stared at the skull a long moment more before handing it back to Bran. “That is quite a thing.”

  “Death generally is,” Bran quipped, but in his mind he wondered if Sybil was connecting to his daughter from beyond the grave—showing her Sybil’s memories—how long until she shared her memories of torture at Bran’s own hands?

  Philadelphia

  Lord Astraea paced the library’s floor, hands behind his back, eyes dark beneath his heavy brow. “You have changed,” he muttered, addressing the woman who sat, no, sprawled, across the sofa, slurping from her teacup. “I should cast you out. That’s what the boys say. Or send you to retire in the countryside.”

  Lady Astraea belched, clicked the cup and saucer together, and pushed them aside, letting them rattle across the nearby table and making Lord Astraea’s teeth clamp shut. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “You’ve no idea what I’d dare…” he growled, turning on her. He stalked across the floor to stand before her, and she straightened, her chin up, knees and ankles together, hands falling into her lap to fold there. He placed his hands on either side of her hips, leaning over so he peered into her eyes. “I want my wife back—I want the polite, endearing lady who ran this estate with such close attention and great aplomb back. I want my wife who said please and thank you and fetched me my slippers and paper along with a glass of wine—I want her back.”

  She pulled away on the sofa, crossing her arms. “Is that how you thought of me, as some weak-willed fool?”

  “No, never! You were never those things. But a lady. You were a grand, grand lady. Where has my lady gone?”

  “Perhaps your lady tired of your gambling and drinking and lying. Perhaps while you wanted her to look the other way she decided to take advantage of you looking the other way, too, and had some fun!”

  “No, not my Cynthia. We always saw eye to eye!”

  “It is hard to see eye to eye with a man whose head is stuck up his own a—” Lady Astraea slapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes going wide in horror. She shook her head at him, a terrified no.

  But he had already stepped back, his eyes cold and distant. “Where has my lady gone,” he whispered, staring at her before he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Lady Astraea shivered from her ankles to her shoulders and whispered, “But I’m still here … I never left you—I never would.”

  With another body-wracking shudder her demeanor again changed and the other woman sharing Cynthia’s body was back. She slouched against the sofa and eyed the teacup on the nearby table. Reaching out a single finger, she pulled the liquid from its cup, making it shimmer and dance in midair before dropping back down with a splash. Then she picked up the cup and swallowed its contents in one gulp.

  Aboard the Artemesia

  It was as the captain of the Artemesia and Jordan’s guards escorted her through the promenade for the first time that she was reminded of how few people knew the truth about the life of a Weather Witch.

  An older lady, her hair more silver than her original brown, stepped in front of the captain and offered him her gloved hand. He took it, bowed, and gave her fingers a cursory kiss. “And this lovely young lady,” the woman asked, “just who is she, one might wonder—seeing her so well escorted.”

  He smiled at the matron, introducing Jordan. “Why, this is to be our ship’s next Conductor. She is completing her training Topside.”

  The woman clapped her hands together. “Oh, how exciting!” She leaned toward Jordan, her thin eyebrows arched. “It must be thrilling to have Destiny embrace you so young! Knowing how you will live out your life and all the good you will do for others at such a young age! Why, your eyes must be opened to so many things the rest of us never experience!”

  Jordan’s stomach twisted at the truth in her statement.

  “And you get to travel! How wonderful! How lucky you are to embrace your future so very young!”

  Jordan lowered her head and sucked on her lips to keep from speaking. But, hearing the child’s voice, her head snapped up.

  Meggie. The little girl who had argued for her kind treatment—who had, in her own small way, begged mercy for a stranger.

  She watched the child, her hand tucked in the woman’s beside her. They paused at the bank of windows, and Meggie pointed out to the clouds, turning to Maude to ask a question. Sweet and innocent, her fingers on the glass, she nodded. They were there only a moment, only long enough to say a few words and for Maude to lean down and kiss the top of Meggie’s head.

  Then they were on their way, chatting and swinging their joined hands. Behind them stalked the Maker and their strange, tall c
ompanion, Marion. There was something about him, Jordan thought, something nearly familiar—as if she should recognize him from more than their regular suppers.

  Meggie spotted Jordan and began to drag Maude in her direction.

  Jordan froze, Meggie before her. “Hello,” Meggie said. Her eyes darted from one of the guards to the other. “You should come with us,” she offered. “We’re going to the tearoom for biscuits and other tasty things.”

  Jordan smiled and leaned forward. “That sounds lovely!”

  The captain leaned in, putting his hand on Jordan’s arm and making her straighten. “But you have other obligations.”

  “Oh, just this once?” Meggie asked. “I never see Miss Jordan unless she is training.”

  “It is the destiny of a Witch,” Captain Kerdin said, his voice firm. “We must go Topside.” He stepped between them, nudging Meggie back. “Take her.”

  The guards grabbed Jordan’s arms and hoisted her.

  Feeling her feet leave the floor, she leaned to the side, saying to Meggie, “I wish I could. I truly wish I could.”

  But she yelped as they yanked her away and Meggie cried out for her.

  “Don’t hurt her!”

  People turned and the captain commanded, “Take her out of here, now!”

  Jordan hissed when they pulled on her again and Meggie began to cry, insisting, “Be nice! Why can’t you be nice to the lady?”

  People began to murmur.

  Lightning crawled closer to the windows of the ship and rain fell as tears streaked Meggie’s face.

  “Nooo,” Jordan cried, seeing the rain and the tears and knowing too well they were connected, and that they would show the child to be what she truly was—in public. Then there would be no hiding. No choice except ruining the child to Make her a Witch.

  Jordan bit and kicked, twisting free of the guards. She pushed her way to Meggie, grabbed her, and forced herself to cry—harder and louder than Meggie, making the child’s show of emotion nothing compared to the drama of a Witch summoning a storm.

  Then the Maker was there, urging, “Let her go,” and pulling Meggie into his arms, the whole time whispering, “Calm down now, little dear, calm down … You must let her go!”

  Meggie howled, her hands reaching for Jordan as the guards pulled her to her feet, towing her away. The rain coated the ship’s windows, heavy and relentless. Jordan hated the Maker more for taking the child away and making her cry even harder.

  And for so much more.

  As they dragged Jordan toward the claustrophobic elevator she realized she could do it: she could kill the Maker, and slowly, relishing every moment of the act—taking her time with him the same way he’d taken his time with her—crafting pain like a delicacy to be served at banquet. Her stomach twisted but she fought it, focusing on the hate and pain he’d caused her. She swallowed hard, imagining the bite of the blade into his flesh instead of hers … Her gut threatened to rebel and outside the clouds dug at each other and tore each other apart, spitting rain at the windows.

  She squeezed her eyes closed and focused on memory. On the pain, the fear, the burn of the blade and the smack of the cat, the scars on Caleb’s slender and gentle fingers. No, she couldn’t kill. Not for herself. But for Caleb, and most especially for the sake of the little girl—for the sake of the Maker’s daughter, Meggie. To protect that towheaded child from the pain Jordan had suffered being Made—for that, she’d kill the girl’s father.

  As important as having a father was, having one who wasn’t the Maker was far more important. It would be better to have no father at all than one who would hurt you to further his own twisted goals.

  Aboard the Tempest

  The third door down yielded no encouraging clue to Rowen’s assignment. He found himself in a dimly lit corridor, pipes and wires and coils of metal running along the oddly curving walls. Peering around, he realized he was in more of a tube than a corridor. The sound of his boot steps echoed back to him and he glanced down at the metal grate that held him suspended above … He leaned forward to look and straightened suddenly, realizing that trying to see just how far one might fall was a bad idea. Other tubes or tunnels shot off like dark throats with open maws yawning just beneath the wire walkway, and leading, no doubt, to other sections of the ship’s inner workings.

  All around him things squeaked, grated, and hissed. The air was thick with moisture, and hot. Already Rowen felt a faint sheen of sweat rising on his face. Soon his hair would droop, his shirt would stick to him, his underarms would begin to be less than delightful, and … He glanced back toward the door he’d come through. If he left now what would be the harm? Surely he could determine the right things to say to get back in the captain’s good graces and land a more reasonable—a more comfortable—assignment.

  He was from a nearly noble family, after all. Certainly there was something he’d learned to say that he could adapt to this particular situation. Something from some etiquette lesson … He wracked his brain, knowing he’d need to start with an apology. He hated those nearly as much as asking for directions.

  Something rumbled in a tube nearby and steam belched out of a gaping metal mouth. Someone cursed and coughed. And it sounded distinctly as if someone was kicking something. Hard.

  Rowen leaned forward and peered down the nearest tube.

  A gloved hand reached up out of the shadows, fingers splayed and pressing against the grate a moment before they crept along to the edge of it and slid a bolt aside. With a shove a door in the grate became evident and flipped open on the only quiet mechanism in the entire strange place—a pair of well-oiled hinges.

  Rowen hopped back as another gloved hand sought the light and then both held either side of the gap now in the grated catwalk and slowly pulled up their owner, a man of smaller stature than Rowen, but whose body language showed, even as he was rising from the tunnel, that he was not to be trifled with. He kicked the grate’s door shut, and it bolted flat. He cocked his head, his gloved hands balled into fists on his hips.

  Coated in a thick layer of dirt and grease, the hair on his head spiked out at odd angles, and with far less of his face being what Rowen guessed had to be its naturally pale shade, he wore thick-lensed green goggles, their leather strap worn, its edges split; the rivets holding bits of the thing together were divided between rusty and shiny. If this was the “Ginger” he’d met before … Rowen stared. The man wore an apron as dirty as the rest of him and his thick rubber gloves ran halfway up his forearms. Rowen wrinkled his nose at his obvious lack of taste in fashion.

  Something chattered behind the man, and a glass and metal spider edged out from his shadow, steam shooting from its belly, its rump a glowing bulb. Rowen shuddered.

  “Are you what she sent me?” He shook his head, his lips twisting. “Shite. The woman never listens. I need someone small enough to climb through the tubes and with hands of a size that can actually do delicate work to the mechanisms inside.” He didn’t bother to hide the fact that he looked Rowen up and down. He shook his head again. “And she sends me a beefy-handed giant. Excellent.” He turned his back to Rowen and grabbed a canvas bag that may have at one time been nearly white. Perhaps. Metal clanged against metal as he shuffled through a set of tools. “She hates me. That must be it,” he was muttering. “She hates me but she won’t say it so she sends me the message”—he turned back and swept a look up and down the height of Rowen again—”loud and clear.”

  “I’m not thrilled to be here either,” Rowen said, eyeing the close quarters and the pipes lining the dim corridor.

  “Used to finer digs, are you?” the other man said with a lopsided smile. “Serves me right. Give me someone of rank who doesn’t even know what to do with his beefy hands.”

  Rowen rolled his fingers into fists at his sides. Yes, this had to be the rude redhead he’d met on the Aft Gundeck.

  “Not even hands. Mallets, really,” Ginger Jack said.

  “Then imagine how they’d feel hitting you,” R
owen suggested.

  “Really. Really?” He laughed so hard he held his stomach and bent back. He stopped, snorting. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  The mechanical spider slowly began to climb the wall, its eyes glittering, and Rowen recognized it as the metal Ginger Jack had been toying with in the aft Gundeck.

  Rowen stood his ground, his muscles taut, his stance tight with a fighter’s intent.

  “My god, maybe I’ve been wrong about her. She must love me to send me a treat like this.” He tugged off his gloves and tossed them onto the grated floor. “If you’re looking for a fight, boy, you’ve come to the right place.”

  Rowen looked back at the door behind him, considered the pain of crafting a perfect apology according to a woman’s particular standards, and dove headlong at the man in front of him instead.

  Because, being raised by a mother like his, Rowen knew that whatever battle he faced with the man before him, it had to be easier and cleaner than doing battle with a disappointed woman. This was bound to be the easier fight to win.

  Ginger Jack was not only small, he was also quick, Rowen soon realized, as the smaller man darted around throwing punches that always hit their mark. Rowen snorted in surprise as Ginger worked him over. Rowen had brawled more than his share of times in the taverns of Philadelphia, from the fine ones on the Hill to the dirty and slanted construction by the docks. He had nearly brought a building down once, things got so wild, and Rowen so angry.

  But this man—it was more like trying to catch your adversary and then fight him … He never stood still, he never bothered with a proper fighter’s stance, and he always … Oof! He always managed to place the hit where it hurt most.

  He had no sense of decorum. So, struggling to hit a target that moved so fast around him, Rowen decided to level the playing field. Or at least level his adversary.

  With a kick, Rowen swept Jack’s feet out from under him, sending the man crashing to the grate with a grunt. Rowen dropped down on top of him like a load of bricks and sat on his gut, one hand pressed to his chest.