I picked up her cup and swirled my index finger in the tepid water. A tiny stream of fire came out of my fingertip and heated the cup to boiling in an instant. The smells of Delphine’s special brew drifted up and soothed my irritation without drinking a drop. I’d learned that my fire intensified pretty much any healing spell I did. Just the vapor was enough to help me. Delphine was different. She needed to drink and breathe the mixture of camu camu, chamomile, and St. John’s wort.
I took one more breath and then spoke the spell that wasn’t really a spell in my opinion. Poetry was the oldest kind of magic and the easiest, if you knew what you were doing. The trick was to find the exact right poem for the patient. In that, Delphine was easy. I continued to stir and spoke a verse by Emily Dickinson.
“Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.”
The liquid bubbled and thickened. I pulled my finger out and there was Delphine’s face in the cup. She was drowning in my cure with a hundred hands pulling her under. That was how she felt and how I felt, if I was honest. But hands weren’t going to get me down. Never. But Delphine wasn’t me.
I knelt in front of her and pressed the hot cup into her hands. “Drink.”
She shook her head. Part of her, probably a large part, wanted to give up and slide under the surface.
“You’re drinking that tea, if I have to pour it down your throat,” I said and not in a kind way. I wasn’t proud of the voice I used with her, but that’s how I said it.
Delphine looked up, her haggard face looked like another person entirely from the elegant woman I’d met in Paris.
“Why?” she asked.
I pushed the dirty blond hair out of her face and said, “Because Gerald can’t see another death. That’s why.”
She jumped a little as if she’d never thought of Gerald or the others in her tremendous pain. Then she sipped and her face changed. A shadow of the woman she once was settled on her features.
“All of it,” I said. “Every last drop.”
Her hands shook, but she obediently drank the rest and looked at me for approval.
“Good. Now I’ll send Miss Penrose in with some dinner and you are going to eat it.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
“Your body is starving. I’m not asking your opinion. You’re eating and finishing that cloak. We need the money desperately or have you forgotten that?”
Tears welled in her eyes again.
I sighed and patted her bony knee. Then I pressed my hand against the stone and heated it. At least she wouldn’t be sitting on cold rock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
I do mean it. Finish that cloak.
She began to thread the needle she’d plucked out of her skirt. “I’m trying.”
I lurched to my feet and felt a blister pop on my heel. It began to sting as I opened the door. “We all are.”
I left Delphine stitching away. The tea would last about six hours since she drank the whole thing, so maybe she could finish the cloak. I wasn’t kidding about being desperate. The cost of the herbs to treat her and Miss Penrose’s parade of illnesses were costing every extra penny I made. We all needed new shoes and I hadn’t a clue how to pay for them. My own shoes were so tight, I’d briefly considered going barefoot, but the master secretary wasn’t going to allow that.
Miss Penrose stepped out into the hall ahead of me and gestured wildly. “Where have you been?”
Earning.
“Delphine is bad again,” I said.
“She can wait. He’s definitely coming now.” She pointed into my room. On my bed sat Gerald, Iris, and Horc. Percy’s giant eyeball was pressed against the window and was quickly replaced by Penelope’s. The dragons were ever curious.
I stepped in and sat on the floor so that my head was level with the small black egg laying on my pillow. “Are you sure?” I asked Iris. “Can’t you put it off for just a little while longer?”
My little sister shook her head and blond curls bounced around her cheeks. “He’s already overdue. It’s time.”
“He’s three weeks and four days overdue to be exact,” said Gerald.
“How do you know exactly when he was due to hatch?” I asked.
“He told Iris.”
“Of course he did.”
The egg was something of a mystery. It belonged to the commander, Kukri, of the antique mall. He’d given it to us for safekeeping when it looked like the mall was going to fall into civil war. We expected to have it for only a little while, certainly not long enough for it to hatch, but the revolution had taken care of what was expected. Iris became a little mother to the egg and they’d developed some sort of communication. She couldn’t explain how they were talking, just that they were. Gerald couldn’t talk to the egg, but he’d taken to studying the whole process like it was a science project due for a grade. Horc was the only one who wasn’t interested in the commander’s baby. He had other things on his mind.
“Did you bring dinner?” he asked, standing up on his stumpy legs. Horc had had a growth spurt in the last month and now resembled a potato instead of a boulder. His constant need for meat wasn’t helping our finances.
“I brought myself, but not for long,” I said. “I have to go get the evening papers in a minute. When do you think it will happen, Iris?”
“I’m hungry,” said Horc.
“You have to wait.”
“I can’t wait. Hungry now.”
“I haven’t got a sandwich in my pocket,” I said.
“Now,” said Iris.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now. It’s happening now.”
I looked down at the little egg that could easily fit in the palm of my hand and saw nothing different. The shell was covered in cracks, but they had been since the train from Paris. “How can you tell?
Iris pointed. “There.”
I leaned in and saw nothing. The light in my room was pathetic. “Miss Penrose, can you close the door?”
She closed the door, but said, “I don’t think—”
Too late. Flames burst out of my palms, crackling with happiness. I closed my eyes and heaved a sigh of relief. Fire should never be restrained, especially inside a body. I tossed the flames in my left hand into my right and held my palm up high. “What am I looking for?”
Iris pointed again. “There it is? Don’t you see it?”
I did see it. There was the tiniest foot emerging from a crack. I blinked. It didn’t seem real, but that was a foot.
“I’m hungry,” said Horc, waving at me.
“Stop it,” I said.
“Can we get rid of it now?”
I gave Horc a sideways look. “What do you mean get rid of it?”
“We don’t need another baby. I’m the baby,” he said, showing me his two rows of very pointy teeth.
“We can have two babies.”
“There is not enough room. That thing will have to go.”
“It’s the size of a…well, I don’t know what. It’s tiny. We have room,” I said.
“What do you think phalanx tastes like?”
We all recoiled. “Horc!”
Horc blinked his moist brown eyes and affected an expression of hurt. “I am not saying that I would eat it, only that something, sometime might, if it were to become some sort of nuisance.”
“Horc,” I said. “If you even—”
Before I could get another word out, Percy shot flames through the window, setting my ratty old curtains on fire. I jumped up, waved my hand, and the flames jumped obediently into my palm, leaving the curtains smoking and smelling like burning hair.
I turned back to Horc, who’d shrunk down, trying to make himself less obvious I guess, but there’s nothing more obvious than a spriggan. The smell alone cinches it. “Don’t ever say that again. The dragons will fry you like bacon.”
“I do not know wh
y they like that old egg so much.” Horc pouted. “I’m much more—”
Stinky?
“Interesting,” finished up Horc and I had to give it to him. He was more interesting than an egg. But it wasn’t much of a contest in my opinion.
“Stand back!” yelled Iris.
We all leaned back and sucked in our breath. Nothing happened for a second and then the egg exploded.
Chapter Four
I SHOULD NEVER have had Fidelé on my shoulder when the egg hatched. But how was I to know? He was always so calm before. Now his claws were so deep in my neck, Gerald had to pull them out with pliers. Fidelé bit him three times and instantly started an infection that oozed orange pus out of the bite marks.
“Get off, you crazy gargoyle,” I said between clenched teeth. “It’s just a phalanx.”
Gerald yanked out the last claw out and Miss Penrose backed away from me, holding Fidelé out at arms length. “What do I do with him?”
I clambered to my feet with both hands on my bleeding neck. “Toss him out the window for all I care.”
“You don’t mean it,” said Miss Penrose.
I did mean it. After having ten gargoyle claws in my neck, tossing Fidelé out the window was the gentlest thing I wanted to do to him. “Fine. Put him out the door if you must.”
Miss Penrose carried the wriggling, hissing gargoyle outside my room, set him on the hall floor, and dashed back inside. Fidelé made a run for it and she slammed the door in his face. The door shook and rattled.
“Poor thing,” said Miss Penrose. “He’s scared.”
“He’s crazy,” I said, grabbing a bottle of witch hazel to clean Gerald’s bites and my claw holes.
She frowned at me and I turned back to the bed to see that the egg had hatched in a big way. There was a circle of shattered black shell and in the center stood a phalanx. It was the size of my index finger and looked exactly like its father, the commander. The tiny creature was coal black and skinny with over-sized knees and elbows, no nose and brilliant white teeth. It stood there with its feet spread wide, hands on hips surveying my room like it owned the joint.
“Just a phalanx?” it asked.
None of us replied. All of our mouths were open in surprise. I don’t know about everyone else, but I was expecting the baby phalanx to be…well…more like a baby. This was a miniature adult, perfectly formed with teeth and, I suspected, an attitude.
“Gnat got your tongue?” it asked.
I found my voice. “You sound just like the commander.”
It straightened up and scanned us. “Commander? Where are the troops? What is my rank? Where is the battle?”
I held up my hands. “No battle. No troops. I meant your father. You sound like him.”
“No, he does not,” said Horc. “The commander’s voice is deep and authoritative. This thing squeaks.”
“I meant that’s the kind of thing the commander would say.”
Horc sniffed. “Nothing like.”
The baby phalanx stalked past the remains of his shell to Iris and bowed deeply. “Mother.”
Iris’s eyes went wide and then she glowed with pleasure. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“I am yours.”
I coughed. “Not exactly. Iris isn’t your mother. You’re a phalanx. She’s a wood fairy. We’re just taking care of you until we get back to the States.”
“No,” it squeaked apparently.
“What do you mean?”
“Iris is my mother. I will it.”
“You will it?”
“It is decided.”
Iris clapped her hands and the baby climbed onto her knee with so much dignity it was hard to keep its size in perspective. “I love you so much.”
“I know,” said the baby.
“Since I’m your mother, I get to name you,” said Iris.
“My name is decided.”
Gerald got on the bed, bent over, and looked over the baby. “That’s right. I found the perfect name in the cardinal’s library. Steyr-Mannlicher. Phalanx are always named after weapons.”
The baby got back on its feet. “That is not my name.” It put a fist in the air. “I am Victory.”
“Steyr-Mannlicher,” said Gerald.
“Victory.”
“Steyr-Mannlicher. It’s an Austrian rifle.”
“I am Victory. It is decided,” said the baby with an air of superiority.
“You’re a phalanx,” said Gerald. “You have to be named after a weapon.”
“My name is Victory for the life I will lead.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but Iris did. “Of course your life will be filled with victories. You’re the best phalanx that ever lived. The best and smartest ever ever ever.”
Now I was getting the picture. “Iris, thanks a lot. You’ve given him a huge head.”
“My head is the right size.” Another fist pump. “I am Victory.”
I groaned. Just what I needed, a pint-sized nutjob with a superiority complex. “Look here. Your parents will name you when we get back to the antique mall.”
The baby turned to Iris. “Mother shall name me Victory.”
I started to protest, but Iris answered too quickly. “Your name is Victory Steyr-Mannlicher Whipplethorn.”
“Iris! You can’t do that. He’s a phalanx. He can’t be a Whipplethorn.”
Victory pointed at a pouting Horc. “That is a spriggan and a Whipplethorn.”
I cocked my head to the side and looked at the tiny phalanx. “Have you been listening to everything we said the whole time you were in the egg?”
Victory bowed. “Yes, Aunt Matilda. You are the great kindler and I will lead you to conquer the horen. Let’s gather the troops. I’m ready.”
“You’ll lead me?”
“I am Victory,” he said without an ounce of doubt.
I looked at Iris. “See what you’ve done.”
“He’s perfect,” she said.
I slapped my forehead. “This is a nightmare.”
“It’s a dream come true.” Iris had never looked happier and for a moment I softened, but then Victory started pacing on her knee with his hands behind his back surveying what I presumed he thought was his territory. Nightmare, pure and simple.
I got to my feet. “I have to get the papers. Keep Victory in here.”
Victory hopped off Iris’s knee and stalked up to me. “Take me with you. I should view the terrain.”
I groaned. “You’ll get us in trouble is what you’ll do. Phalanx are considered enemies of the royal family. They support the revolution in France. You’ll be imprisoned and so will we.”
“I will take that under consideration. Let’s go.”
“Iris,” I said.
She bit her lip, but, under my stern eye, she scooped the protesting Victory and held him close to her chest. “You just hatched. You have to build your strength.”
Horc waddled across the bed, smirked at Victory, and held up his stumpy arms. “I am ready.”
“You’re not going either,” I said.
“You need ears and I have them. Iris is staying with that thing.”
I blew out a breath so hard my lips flapped. Iris usually did go with me when I left the cathedral. She’d been my ears practically since birth and Vienna was a huge city. I needed all the senses, not just the few allotted to me. “Fine.” I heaved Horc’s lumpy body onto my hip. Just what I needed another workout.
“If that spriggan is going, then I’m going. I should view my people,” said Victory.
“What did you tell him, Iris?” asked Miss Penrose as she sat on the bed and barely made a dent with her thin form.
“Just that he’s the best phalanx ever,” said Iris.
Miss Penrose and I exchanged a look. Neither of us knew what to do with that. Iris was Victory’s mother in a weird way and he believed what his mother told him.
Victory marched off Iris’s knee to the edge of the bed and crouched down to spring into my arms like som
e sort of cricket.
“No, no. You have to eat to build your strength, so…so you can…survey your domain,” I said.
After a second, Victory nodded. “I’ll have a fly, drawn and quartered.”
“Yuck,” said Gerald. “You’ll have baby phalanx food, ground beetle wings. It said so in the Speciesapedia.”
Gerald had memorized every single page in the book and was forever quoting it. It wasn’t as helpful as he thought. Where the heck was I supposed to get ground beetle wings?
They started arguing about what the proper diet was for a baby phalanx. Victory had strong opinions. I whispered to Miss Penrose to make sure no one left the room. She nodded and started coughing, turning red in the face.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I tried not to scream. Beetle wings. Another baby. Another illness. What else could happen?
Chapter Five
I TRIED TO get one of the dragons to carry us to the newspaper stand, but neither could be drawn away from my bedroom window. My shoulders were already aching and the closest newspaper stand was at Reinthaler’s Beisl, a human restaurant near the Hofburg palace. Horc took no notice of my discomfort. He never did.
I switched him to my other hip and said, “Now you better be good.”
“I am always exactly what I am supposed to be,” said Horc.
“That’s what worries me,” I said as I turned left.
The narrow street was nearly deserted. Only the restaurant was well-lit and had a few humans waiting patiently in the cold to get in. I flew above their heads, clutching Horc and my cloak tight to my chest. The temperature had dropped so much it made the cathedral seem warm in comparison. A man opened the arched wooden door and the smell of roast pork and fried veal wafted out of the door. I flew through the meat stink to the fairy entrance above in the door frame and I didn’t even gag. Because of Horc’s meat fetish, I’d almost gotten used to meat, cooked meat that is. His desire for raw meat wasn’t something anyone could get used to what with all the splattering and blood. Gross.
Wicked Chill (Away From Whipplethorn Book Four) Page 3
