The Deepest Night

by Shana Abe

  Metal contraptions that looked like the scaffolding back at Tranquility hugged the walls, only these were filled with the baker’s wares, everything from bread to cake to … strudel.

  Armand was leaning against one of the racks, watching me with glowing blue eyes. The bruise on his head was more vivid than ever. A small puddle of bile near his feet had been concealed with a cloth.

  I told you so seemed both mean-spirited and insufficient. Perhaps I’d try Next time you might listen to me. Or Not as easy as you thought, is it?

  I Turned to girl. Before I could speak, the door above us opened—but a bell rang at nearly the same instant, accompanied by footsteps. Another customer must have arrived.

  The door swung closed.

  Armand really did look wretched. Although he was attempting to hide it, I could tell that the rack was holding him up. Chiding him now would be unsporting, I supposed.

  So, instead, I reached out and took a pastry. It was one of the cream-filled ones, puffy and round. I tore off a piece of it and placed it in my mouth, never taking my gaze from his. I ate it like that, bite by bite, until it was gone.

  Then I took another.

  He straightened, swallowing. He removed a puff from the shelf beside him and copied me, eating it, looking at me, neither of us saying a word, until we’d each had five of them and the glow had faded from his eyes.

  Then I wanted some water. There was a sink and faucet beneath the window. I found a measuring cup, blew away the layer of flour inside it, then carefully, carefully, turned the spigot.

  Water trickled out. I filled the cup, drank, filled it again, closed the spigot, and carried the cup to Armand.

  He accepted it. A dab of filling dotted the corner of his lips. I wiped it away with my thumb before he drank; he held still for that, unsmiling. His skin felt prickly with whiskers.

  Something happened then. Something that started in my hand, the one that had touched him, and spread in a tingle up my arm. It was hot and heady, almost dizzying. It shook me awake to the fact that I wasn’t the only one without a stitch of clothing on. And that we stood only inches apart, and his lips were so warm and we were wreathed in the aroma of molasses and freshly baked bread and if I took one step, even a small one, our bodies would brush.

  And I didn’t know what would happen after that.

  Armand lifted his hand, drained the cup.

  “Better?” I whispered.

  He nodded.

  “Think you can Turn?”

  He nodded again.

  “Last one to the lodge is a rotten egg,” I said, and made certain he flew just ahead of me the entire way back.

  Armand informed me that the German broadsheet had been giving an account of a dastardly new British weapon, a monstrous dragon apparatus recently employed to raze defenseless villages, incinerate vital food supplies, and slay sobbing children.

  “How insulting,” I said. I was resting flat upon the bed, trying to relax as best I could before we had to journey on later that night.

  “War propaganda is hardly ever true,” he noted. Instead of the bed, he’d chosen the chair by the door again. His voice sounded sleepy. Still … maybe I hadn’t been the only one shaken back at the bakery. There was lots of room left in the bed.

  “Even so,” I persisted. “It doesn’t make any sense. How could such a contraption possibly work? And why design a machine meant to do those things as a dragon? Why not a—a lion or a hawk?”

  “Because dragons are the most formidable creatures of all. Because we exist at the fringes of their imaginations, nefarious and bloodcurdling and never quite fully defined. We can be shaped however they wish, assigned any horrific trait they dare to invoke. We’re the accumulation of all that they fear, most of all themselves. Why not a dragon? It makes perfect sense to me.”

  “Idiots,” I muttered.

  “In any case, what’s the alternative? It had to be a mechanical weapon attacking those soldiers. Everyone knows that dragons aren’t real.”

  I sat up to see him. “My eyes don’t look like that. Bulging like that. Do they?”

  Mandy was slouched sideways against the leather, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. But he smiled. “Not in the least. Your eyes are gorgeous. You’d be the belle of the drákon ball.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Never.”

  I remained as I was, unconvinced. He shifted to the other side of the chair.

  “Your dragon eyes are nothing like what the paper showed. They’re almond-shaped, iridescent. The rest of your face is gold, but they’re ringed in purple.”

  “Like a raccoon?” I’d seen a drawing of one once. It had looked like a rat with a sharp, pointed nose.

  He laughed. “Not really. Just like … markings, I suppose. You’ve never seen your own face?”

  “No. How could I have?” I’d barely noticed even my human face. Mirrors weren’t exactly a vital part of my existence. I used them to ensure that I was free of smudges and that my hair was pinned tightly enough to avoid Mrs. Westcliffe’s censure. That was about it.

  “Belle of the ball,” he assured me. “No wonder the other girls at Iverson snipe at you.”

  “Right. That’s why.”

  I eased back down. Gradually the room melted into that greeny gray darkness, and Armand’s breathing slowed. I watched the air condense into night. I listened to the insects in the forest clicking their tiny dusk songs. Frogs. The water bird by the lake, piping alone.

  “Are you going to marry me, Eleanore Jones?” Armand asked, his words barely breaching the dark.

  Yes. No.

  How could I, and how could I not?

  “Ask me again later,” I answered at last. “Ask me when this is all done, and we’re back in England, and the sun is shining.”

  Ask me then, if I’m still walking in this life beside you.

  Chapter 27

  Always she astounds me. Lora-of-the-moon, changing her fate yet again.

  I can’t believe I never realized she’d do it. I’d thought I’d tested her depths, known her true heart. There can be no sound reason I never anticipated this future, except, perhaps, that I didn’t want to.

  Her life for his.

  And now all will be different. The path she was meant to forge ahead alone has been bent.

  I am a furnace with the force of my desire, a fire so hot I melt my own limitations.

  I need to reach them. I need to change the coming day.

  But they’re so entwined now. Because of her sacrifice, they’re bonded in a way I never was with her, absorbed in each other’s songs. Mine becomes harder and harder to distinguish.

  I watch from my impossible distance, knowing the sun will exhaust me before I see these next few hours through; that I’ll vanish from the sky before I know how it concludes. I spin a spell and sing the only song I need this dragon whelp to remember, the only command Armand must obey: don’t leave her.

  Chapter 28

  Armand had discovered the name of the village by the lake, consulted his maps, and figured out where we needed to go next. I munched one of the apples (very tart) as he suited up: the leather coat and gloves, the compass, the knapsack and goggles. The pistol in its holster, which I was starting to think would be better off in my hands than his. But since I wouldn’t have actual hands for our flight, I let him keep it.

  I took my dragon shape by the shore of the lake, the moon looming over us, a sharpened scythe imprisoned in rings of misty platinum and mauve.

  Mandy climbed up and ran his hands down my neck before finding my mane. He felt too light to me. I knew it to be an illusion—he weighed the same as ever—but I wanted him to be heavier. Solid and substantial like a boulder. Like a mountain, so I’d never have to worry about anything harming h
im ever again.

  I gazed at the stars and thought, Don’t take me now. Not while he’s riding the clouds with me. Let him stay safe, please.

  safe, beast. tonight he is safe.

  It would have to do.

  We left the lake and lodge behind. I went up, up—the lambent lights from the village quite festive from here—making a wide, easy circle before heading in the right direction.

  Northeast, toward Prussia.

  Mandy had calculated that we could reach the prison camp by dawn. We weren’t going to attempt to infiltrate it yet; we’d wait a day, hide and rest up, assess our situation. See if we could figure out exactly where Aubrey was being held before charging in.

  I flew as high as I dared. With the moon out and no ocean or heavy cloud cover to protect us, we slipped along the wind, silent but painfully visible. Our route wouldn’t take us over any major cities, but still I did my best to avoid any pockets of civilization below. I didn’t know enough about guns to know how high a bullet could be shot. Only that it hurt like the devil when they struck you.

  A few hours in, I realized the land below me had changed from forest and roads to roads and clearings. But these clearings weren’t farmers’ pastures or plowed fields. They were too narrow for that, parallel strips that went on and on, bare of any vegetation. I puzzled over them, slowing some, and by the time I glanced ahead and noticed the aeroplanes stationed at their ends, Armand was already pressing his knees into me and wrenching at my mane.

  It was an airfield. I’d never seen one before, of course, but it—

  We’d been spotted. An alarm sounded; I heard it clear as the bell Mrs. Westcliffe liked to peal at Iverson to herd students from one room to another, only this was shrill and awful and went on and on and on. Figures of men spilled out from structures I hadn’t even noticed, swarming the aeroplanes. A searchlight flashed on and pinned us in white light.

  Bad luck for me—I’d been looking at its tower when it lit. I was blinded. Armand was pulling me left, left, and I veered that way without being able to see what I was doing, if I was getting free of that light or just moving into another one.

  I heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire. The tat-tat-tat-tat! that I knew meant machine guns unloading their drums.

  I supposed I’d find out the range of their bullets after all.

  I climbed. The peaceful silence of before had been devoured, eaten up by the clanging of the alarm and the gunfire and the wind that now scoured me, fighting me. I felt Armand tucked close to my neck and heard him shouting, “Go! Go!” and God help me, I was.

  Then came the worst sounds of all: engines sputtering to life. Propellers spinning, hacking the air.

  I grimaced, trying not to imagine them hacking me instead.

  My vision began to filter back, shapes and colors returning. We’d left the airfield behind and were over roads and pasture once more. I didn’t think the searchlights had caught us again—hopefully we were too far beyond them—although I could still hear that blasted alarm.

  And then the aeroplanes taking off.

  I looked back. Two, three … five of them right behind us. Armand met my eyes, then twisted to look back, too.

  Six. Seven.

  And they were getting closer. The wind had turned against us and it made all the difference, but I’d wager it meant nearly nothing to the engines of those planes.

  Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  Bullets strafed by. One zinged off a barb on my tail, sending me into a spin.

  I spiraled out of it, ducking and dodging, dipping and soaring. At one point Armand lost his seat entirely and was floating over my back, holding on with just his hands, but I couldn’t stop, because the aeroplanes were roaring closer and closer, and they were relentless.

  I should Turn. I should go to smoke. But I didn’t know if Armand would, too—if he could, even, but I didn’t know, and since I didn’t know, I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t leave him and just let him fall and bloody well hope he figured out what I meant for him to do before he ended up a smear on the ground—

  There! There was a town up ahead! Surely the pilots wouldn’t continue to fire over their own people?

  I slitted my eyes and straightened for speed, the wind screaming now, gunfire puncturing the night in wide-open arcs to the left and right and above.

  So I dropped lower, and the dull yellow burn of the streetlights was just there, and the first of the buildings swept into view. I flew over rooftops so close my talons scratched sparks from their shingles. I couldn’t tell if the pilots were still firing, but it didn’t matter; I had to slow, so I opened my wings and fought the rush of the world whipping past us.

  Not all the streets were lit. I aimed toward a section of shadows, finding a lane of cobblestones, plowing into them.

  More sparks; the lane ripped apart. A brick wall hurtling toward my face, too late to avoid.

  I angled my head and took the blow, and everything flashed white like the searchlight, then black.

  I opened my eyes, or thought I did. Everything was still black.

  Maybe I’d gone blind.

  Maybe I was dead.

  But someone was holding me. Someone who smelled of pine trees and sea salt and desperation. His lips were pressed to my temple. His breath blew ragged against my hair.

  “Wish I’d had a cannon for a tail,” I mumbled, and passed out again.

  The next time I regained my senses was much more unpleasant. The world was no longer so opaquely black, but murky and dingy and sickeningly blurry. Somewhere nearby dogs were barking, an entire army of them, with a weirdly jabbering chorus of human voices lacing through. My head felt as if it would split apart.

  All of me, all of me, hurt.

  Armand was gone. I lay alone on something itchy and hard.

  Had we been captured?

  I rolled to my side, made my way up to my elbows. Beneath me was a shabby felt blanket spread over a stone floor. A stale breeze swirled by, and I sneezed, cramping my stomach and sending everything even blurrier and more nauseating.

  Where was Armand? What were they doing to him?

  I tried to stand. The world tipped sideways, and I found myself on my hands and knees with my head hung down, gasping.

  Very well. I’d sit first. That seemed … not entirely unreasonable. I leaned back carefully, making it to one hip, and that was when I realized I was wearing the calico dress I’d bought a lifetime ago back in England. Back when I’d been so secretly thrilled to have something as simple as a new dress all my own, and never once really thought for a second about the consequences of what I was about to do next, promises made, lords to save …

  I exhaled past my teeth and covered my eyes with one hand. It helped to tamp down the nausea.

  Armand was beside me suddenly, supporting me by the shoulders, urging me back to the ground.

  “Stay there. Don’t try to stand.” He was speaking in a voice so low it was nearly a hiss. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but I couldn’t be certain, and you took a nasty blow to the head.”

  “Where … ,” I began, but couldn’t seem to finish the thought.

  “A warehouse. A vacant one, at least so far.” His hands pressed me against the blanket. “We’re a couple of blocks from where we came down. They haven’t searched here yet.”

  “We need to …” Why couldn’t I think straight?

  “We will. Just—just rest a moment, all right?”

  All right.

  I lay back and covered my eyes again, listening to him pad away. He was moving swiftly, doing something with the knapsack, I could tell, because I heard the tins clinking around inside it.

  A match was struck. I heard it, smelled it. I lowered my hand and turned my head and saw him crouched in a corner far from me, a pile of papers before him wri
thing with flames.

  He was burning the maps.

  As soon as the last one crisped to ash he stood, scattering the soot with the sole of his boot. Then he returned to me.

  “I’ve stashed the rest of it. We’ll come back for it later. Right now we need to disappear. Do you think you can Turn to smoke?”

  I groaned. The sound of the dogs barking grew louder and louder.

  “Then, can you stand?”

  “I …”

  “Come on, Lora. Come on, love. We have to get out of here.”

  “Out there?”

  “Yes.” He was pulling me to my feet. “They might not know where that dragon machine went, but they heard the crash and they’ll be looking for its pilot. We can’t be discovered hiding.”

  “I need … stockings. Shoes.”

  He’d dressed me in the frock but had forgotten that part. I wasn’t wearing my chemise, either. If we were going to step out of this place with any hope of blending in, at the very least I shouldn’t be in my bare feet.

  He ran back to the knapsack, which he’d stored on a shelf beneath more of the felt blankets, and returned with my shoes.

  That was fine. The thought of bending over to slide on stockings made my throat close with sick.

  I shoved my feet into my pumps. I leaned against him and we made our way to the door, which was big and rusted and looked like it would squeal to the heavens if jarred. I heard people beyond it, rapid footfalls.

  Armand was whispering in my ear as we walked. “You’re my wife. You’re shy, you’re pregnant, and you’re ill, got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ja,” he corrected me.

  “Ja.”

  “Hell. Your accent is atrocious. Just nod, okay?”

  I pushed a lock of hair from my cheek, glancing up at him. He paused, taking me in, then moved behind me. He gathered all my hair past my shoulders and began quickly to braid it.