Stormbringer

by Shannon Delany

  She looked down, hands clasped before her.

  Rain spit against their windows and Sybil’s skull shivered on the table.

  “Oh. Oh, I see,” Marion said, his gaze going from the wet child to her father. “Do you know what irony is, Meggie?”

  She shook her head, eyes still downcast. Her pale curls bounced, shining in the stormlight.

  “Perhaps your father will tell you. Because this situation, dear little dove, is a fine example of irony. A fine example…” Marion shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. “Change her bedding. Make her comfortable. Her life won’t get easier, will it, Maker?”

  “No one’s life will get easier,” Meggie whispered. “They come.”

  Marion twitched, staring at Bran. Bran did not meet his eyes.

  But Meggie did, and the eyes that met Marion’s were empty of everything but his reflection, snared in their dark depths. “They coooommme.”

  Holgate

  In the Maker’s library, a Ring and more of Wraiths, and a clutch of Wardens gathered. The dark cast of their clothing made an already wretched scene more somber. Their long coats’ hems waved lightly in the breeze that always tickled around the edges of any group of them.

  The majority of Wraiths removed their tall top hats and the veils that obscured their twisted faces from public view once they crossed into Holgate’s walled compound. Some few, knowing outsiders occasionally visited, kept up appearances to quell the natural panic people felt when first seeing a Wraith unveiled.

  Though more socially acceptable, Wardens would never be invited to sup at a Councilman’s party, not with the tattoos that crawled along their necks and faces, strange colored things blossoming like fireworks as a reminder they had survived Lightning’s Kiss. Unable to speak, the Wardens were handsome in comparison to their counterparts, the deaf Wraiths.

  Councilman Stevenson cleared his throat and prepared to announce their mission. “This is the opportunity of your lifetime,” he said, hands weaving in midair to craft the words Wraiths were unable to hear. “The Maker has abandoned his duties, as we are unable to do.”

  They hissed, the Wraiths baring needle-sharp teeth between curled and narrow lips. The Wardens clicked the steel-butted ends of their canes in answer, their voices as ruined by Lightning’s Kiss as any Wraith’s hearing was.

  He glanced from monstrosity to monstrosity, no longer flinching at scarred and withered faces or thin tufts of hair remaining after a Making or Lightning’s Kiss went awry. “He has disappeared, but I believe a clue to his whereabouts lies within these books and papers. Somewhere in this library. And, as I want so very badly to have him back where he cannot shirk his duty, I will make a deal. Whosoever among you finds the most valuable information used to locate our dear, dear Maker, may have a full hour alone with him to do as you best see fit—so long as it doesn’t result in his death.”

  The Wraiths and Wardens exchanged glances, grins sliding across their uneven faces. For an instant Stevenson was taken back to a brief stay he experienced in Africa and the gleeful hunger on the faces of hyenas the moment before they took down a lion.

  One never understood how useful, or determined, Wraiths and Wardens could be until there were things to be hunted—things to destroy. They turned as one, dark coats and cloaks swished like the first whisper of a whirlwind, and they pulled down book after book, flipping through pages with an unexpected military efficiency. Pages flew, discarded and slithering down through the air until they swished their undulating way to the floor, settling with their discarded peers.

  A knock at the door signaled a servant requesting entrance. He stepped inside, his eyes widening to take in the mess the room had become.

  Was he calculating how long it would take him to clean up such a disaster? Stevenson cleared his throat.

  The servant’s head snapped up and he presented a petite, ornately patterned silver tray. On it rested a small burgundy-colored box. “What is this then?” Councilman Stevenson asked. “I ordered nothing…”

  “A gift, good sir,” the young man said, lowering his head as he stretched his arms out in a bow to properly present the box.

  The Councilman snatched it, holding it directly before his scrutinizing eyes. “A gift, you say? From whom?”

  The servant said, “I was simply told to deliver it, good sir,” he said, the “good” seeming just the slightest bit strained.

  Councilman Stevenson flipped open the folded tag. “Ah. For my wife. Good enough. I shall give it to her upon my return and we can view the contents together.” Holding it in his hand, he returned to the task of overseeing the progress of the Wraiths and Wardens.

  Nearly an hour into the methodical destruction of the library, all activity suddenly ceased. Wraiths and Wardens stood stock-still, frozen as if they’d sighted Medusa herself.

  The Councilman pushed through the line of Wraiths and Wardens building a wall of black between himself and the bookshelves. “What? What is it?” he demanded, shoving between them to stand in their shadows. Behind them at nearly head level stormlights were suspended, their glow seeping onto the scene he encountered: one Wraith clutching papers in his curled and gloved left hand and pointing with a strangely long index finger of the other. He screeched out a word, the tone shrilling in the air between them, and Stevenson snatched the pages out of his hands and, trembling, held them beneath the lamplight.

  His finger raced along the lines of script, his mind struggling with what he found. A truth that could not stand—dared not stand.

  He started at the top of one particular page again, reading aloud as shadows tightened in around him, the Wardens and Wraiths closing in to hear him and see the Wraith who signed as he spoke.

  “‘I now suspect Jordan Astraea, Gathered in from Philadelphia, is indeed not a Witch. The fact that the Tester found her to have magick was, at first, the only proof I needed to her eventual Conducting ability. But her heritage is pure, she is more her father’s child than her mother’s. There is no taint, no history of witchery in her lineage. I am therefore forced to wonder, if the Tester was wrong once, could we all not have been wrong once, twice … Might we not all have been wrong and, if so, how many times? How many wrongs have we done? Would we know if we took the human form to its breaking point—beyond its breaking point—and Made something that should have been impossible to Make? Perhaps if I might someday travel abroad to gather in anecdotes to prove or disprove this horrible possibility I might put my fears to rest.’”

  Stevenson only had time to look up at the circle of bitter faces twisted in rage worse than the twist Fate delivered through the torture of being Made—only had time to register the sharp design of Wraith teeth, only long enough to hear gloves slide free of taloned fingertips and breathe one desperate “no,” before they leapt on him and made his last words the condemnation of his kind.

  The box dropped from his ravaged hands, tumbling to the floor and rustling among the papers a moment before a Wraith stooped over and snatched it up. It tore the tiny parchment name tag off of it, letting it flutter to the floor. Popping the box open, the Wraith pulled the ring free of its ribbon, holding it high for all to see.

  The ruby caught the light, scattering sparks of red, and the Weather Workers gasped. Wiping off its gore-streaked hand the Wraith slid the ring on its finger and turned its hand back and forth, basking in the glow the stormlights cast. The Wraith shrilled out one more cry—a command of sorts, and the group turned as one, a black line of fury, drifting down the long hallway and to the Tester’s apartment. He was dead a heartbeat after opening his door. Down the stairs to Floor Eight they processed.

  To the Tanks.

  Their kind required no keys, and nearly as few words; the soft touch of their bare fingers caused locks to shroud in ice. With a flick of a Warden’s cane, locks shattered, splintering into shards of ice-cold steel.

  All along the hallway Tank doors flew open and Witches in different states of Making stepped into the greater light of the hall,
blinking, wondering.

  As each saw the nearest Wraith or Warden, they shrank together, human and wounded against those who used to be human and were now something somehow both more and less.

  The Wraiths looked to their brethren Wardens, and the one bearing the ring on its finger, papers clutched in its other hand, stepped forward—toward the yet unMade.

  It spoke in words as clear as it could construct through a mouth that barely survived the glory and spectacle of Lightning’s Kiss.

  Aboard the Artemesia

  “See, the cloud bank parts briefly to confirm navigation and again mere minutes before the dock is expected in sight,” Bran asked, pointing out the window.

  Meggie pressed closer, her nose nearly to the glass. “Are they being made by Miss Jordan?”

  Bran scrutinized the clouds. “It’s hard to be certain, little dove. Some Weather Witches have signatures in their storms, but many do not. These clouds could either belong to our Conductor Anil—or Miss Jordan.”

  The ship slowed beneath their feet, its wings adjusting for the final coast into the dock. “Oh! I see one of them!” Meggie shouted, slapping the window with the palm of her hand before she yanked it back and pointed to a foot hanging over their window.

  Maude gasped. “You could not pay me to climb across an airship in motion.” She leaned in closer to watch. A safety rope whispered across their view and cables slapped and slithered against the boat’s body, cable catchers leaping after them in a suspended ballet as they snared cables and hooked them to the net of ropes running along the exterior of the ship’s balloon.

  “Brace yourselves,” Bran reminded them, setting his teacup down and wrapping an arm around Meggie for the inevitable jolt that came when the cables went from slack to taut and pulled the floating ship into port.

  In such moments Marion left them and they seemed, briefly, to be a family.

  The cables caught, the girls fell into him, and somehow he managed to catch them both and keep his teacup from spilling. They laughed, watching as the safety rope slipped up their window and out of view.

  “How quaint,” Marion said from the doorway.

  Everyone straightened.

  Meggie skipped across the distance to Marion, looking up at him with doe eyes and dimples and, when she came to a swaying stop, asked, “So where precisely are we?”

  Marion barely stopped from reaching out to tousle her pale blond curls. Instead he glanced over the little girl bobbing before him, always so ready to make peace, and glanced at her father and her father’s lover. “It appears we are coming into port at Steuben Hill.”

  Meggie spun around, wrinkling her nose, and asked her papá, “Where is that?”

  He raised and lowered his shoulders.

  “Ah, Meggie,” Marion said, “your father doesn’t know things like locations of ports, he only knows how to Make the Witches that power the ships.”

  “New York,” Bran retorted. “Steuben Hill in New York state. Near enough Herkimer for picking up fresh stormcell crystals. You can kick them right out of farmers’ furrows in spring from what I’ve read. If stormcells are what your work requires. The crystals are faceted and, here, double-terminated—a rarity. Amazing in their clarity. In Cape May they are tumbled by the sea and smooth as water-worn pebbles. Both can be used to power things if one knows how.”

  Their view changed, their window coming flush with the wood-and-metal dock on Steuben Hill. The ramp clanked and clattered, lowering and snapping into place, and Marion looked at them each in turn. “Well. Shall we take a turn around town, such as it is?”

  Bran swallowed. “Is this it then,” he asked, rising to his feet. “Have we come to the end of our journey?”

  Maude’s expression changed at that, and she grabbed Bran by the arm and pushed him behind her, placing herself between the men. “No. Surely not,” she whispered. “We have come so far.”

  Marion grunted, glancing from Maude to Bran and back. “No. I wish to take a walk. Stretch my legs and see the area. The ship will rest here for a few hours to take on cargo from Ilion and beyond. Come now. I trust you better when I can see you.”

  Meggie slipped her hand into Marion’s, moving around him to stand by the door. “Come along, Papá and Mamá.”

  Maude stood frozen hearing herself referred to for the first time as Mamá. Bran wrapped his arm around hers. “Come now, Maude, you have been summoned. We shall all promenade through town as if this is not a kidnapping at all, but a pleasant vacation.”

  She nodded, following him. “Your hat,” Bran reminded her. “It looks sunny.” She reached over and plucked the recent acquisition—a kindness Marion surprised her with—off the blunted hook mounted high on the wall (“Just out of range of stickin’ yerself in the eye if the ship suddenly lurches,” one of the mates had said with a wink). She set it on her head and together they stepped out.

  Out their cabin’s door and down the hallway, they joined other families weaving their way to the dock as well.

  They strolled out of the gaping mouth of the ship. Around them people drifted and paused on the dock and were urged to keep moving by the crew.

  The Wandering Wallace, donning his braying-ass mask, and Miyakitsu stood at the edge of the dock, propped against a stack of trunks and crates of assorted shapes and sizes. Around them the crowd bustled, grabbing bags and trunks of their own, some making their way to a host of waiting carts, wagons, and carriages and some dragging their items down the packed-dirt path winding toward town.

  Marion and Meggie stopped to speak to the entertainers, Bran and Maude close behind.

  “Lovely day, lovely day,” the Wandering Wallace agreed, flicking a long ear in their direction in such a way it seemed he doffed a cap. “Going into the town, I see?”

  Marion nodded. “And you?”

  The Wandering Wallace smiled within the confines of his mask. “Waiting on some lovely items we are picking up here from a well-regarded proprietor. Certain things are best to get straight from the source.” He leaned over Meggie and gave her cheek a tiny pinch. “Sweet as maple syrup!” he said with a smile. “Maple syrup being a thing you should try while here, my little dollop of adorability. Or maple candy or maple cream—although you are sweet enough without any of the aforementioned products!”

  She giggled. “How do you know so much, Mister Wandering Wallace?” Meggie asked with a grin, her dimples going deep.

  “Because, dear child, I am a wanderer! I have wandered so far and so wide we had to add it to my name.”

  Miyakitsu nodded solemnly, her eyes twinkling as she spun a length of midnight black hair around one finger.

  “What do you suppose they’ll have to put in my name then?” Meggie asked.

  “I’d wager it’d be something to do with dimples or sweetness or smiles,” the Wandering Wallace said. “But you’d better move along before all the carriages are taken and you have to walk. There are quite a few things the area’s known for. Leather, guns, gloves, diamonds, and dimmmmmples.” He twisted a fingertip into Meggie’s cheek. When he tossed his head, the ass’s ears pointed back toward the departing line of wagons and whatnots.

  “There are more horses here than I’ve seen in a long while,” Maude said.

  “Step lively,” the Wandering Wallace warned with a thrust of his chin toward the men who sat beside each carriage’s or cart’s driver. “More guns as well.”

  Bran saw it was true. “Are we certain we want to go into the city with the odds of Merrow attack that high?”

  “Not Merrow this far in, but other waterborne Wildkin, surely.” The ass’s head bobbed in a wide nod. “But live a little,” he urged. “And stay away from the river and canals.” He waved a dismissive hand. “We all must die of something someday. Better an interesting death than a dull one. There are a million worse causes of death than Merrow and company.”

  “Perhaps I should examine your list of a million worse causes,” Bran muttered. “There must be many horrible ways of dying I have neve
r considered.”

  The Wandering Wallace’s voice dropped and for a moment his tone went dark and dangerous. “There most certainly are.” But then his head bobbed again and he said, “Have a remarkable and enjoyable day. And don’t forget about the maple syrup!” he added as they began to walk away.

  Marion turned back briefly, tugging Meggie to a stop. “You and I…”

  “Need to have a good old-fashioned sit-down,” the Wandering Wallace concluded.

  “Yes. Upon our return?”

  “Certainly. Find me when you are back and we shall have a discussion which will surely set things right as rain.”

  Bran blinked, recognizing the phrase, and peered at Maude. She nodded, having caught it, too. She shrugged. As prisoners there was not much to be done when one heard the rebel phrase dropped.

  “But first things first,” the Wandering Wallace said, pulling out his pocket watch. “Make sure your timepieces are all set to ship’s time. It would make supper far less entertaining if you missed the boat, so to speak.”

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Most of the crew and passengers had disembarked to explore the town when the captain made his way into Jordan’s room. She ran as far as the walls let her and screamed as loudly as her lungs allowed, but he gagged her again and dragged her to the floor.

  Outside her window storm clouds filled in, blocking out the bright light of the briefly blue sky, dragged low to the ground and snaking angrily along Steuben Hill to blacken the world. Lightning snapped out, slapping the sky, as her rage built and she bit back tears. She fought, twisting beneath him and hating him with all her heart, but nothing changed what he did.

  And she hated herself for not being able to stop him.

  The snap of lightning against her window threw him off of her and he stared at the cracked glass, the scent of singed wood seeping into the room. He grabbed her by the arms and shook her.

  “Did you do that?”

  She shook her head, a frightened no, realizing she could be more frightened of him, seeing the vein rise by his hairline, than she had been just minutes ago.