by Beth Cato
“Seeing some footage of Excalibur in action would be mighty helpful,” he muttered. “Better than a mere article. I need to shop in downtown, anyway. We need to reach out to Roosevelt’s contact here.”
Fact was, they needed money. Their trip to Hawaii had cost far more than anticipated, and the private hangar was another major expense. Cy’s plans for her braces would send them into debt, even without the use of orichalcum.
“I still think we should sell some kermanite. With the supply at the Cordilleran gone and the geomancers in two West Coast auxiliaries exterminated, we’d make a fair mint.” She almost managed to speak of the incidents in a blasé, businesslike tone.
“That’s a last resort. Your health comes first, and we need kermanite handy.”
“One more thing. A paper made mention of strange submarines being spotted off the coast of Southern California. An official from the UP said the fishermen had probably spotted whales.”
“I can imagine what the fishermen would have to say about that.” Cy pursed his lips in thought. “Before Lee parted ways with us at the rink in Seattle, I talked with him about what might possibly happen if Uncle Moon didn’t let him leave, where the Chinese might go from there. Los Angeles was one of the most likely destinations. With that in mind, I asked him to memorize a mailbox number I maintain in the city. That way, no matter where he ended up, he might be able to send a note our way.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Her voice rose in both aggravation and excitement.
He gave her a pointed look. “Because I didn’t want to get up your hopes without need. Because the last time we saw Lee, he was a breath away from death. And even if he recovered, he’d likely be kept under close watch.”
The possibility of a message from Lee made her want to run as fast as she could for the rail depot. “We’ll be checking this box when we go out, then?”
His lips quirked at her intentional use of “we.” “I reckoned we would, yes. You’ll need to do your utmost to remain nonchalant, whatever we find.”
“I understand,” she said softly, even as her thoughts turned to fervent prayers to God, the qilin, to any kind entity who might pay heed to her desperation.
“Fenris! Will you be okay if we make a run into town?” Cy called.
After a few dense thuds, Fenris bounded down the hatch steps to stand at the top of the stairs, the airship hovering above his head. “I’ll be fine without the two of you underfoot, yes. If our current pattern holds, we’ll need to skedaddle from Los Angeles as if a swarm of wyverns is on our tail. I want to have the ship ready to fly by nightfall.”
“Let’s hope we break that pattern at last,” said Cy, grimacing.
“I’m not about to rely on some airy concept of hope.” He started back up the stairs. His head was inside the Bug, causing his voice to echo strangely. “When you’re out, make sure you get more pastries. See if you can bring back some tamales, too.” He headed on up.
“What’s a tamale?” Ingrid asked.
Cy grinned. “I reckon you’ll find out today.”
Ingrid had often heard Los Angeles described in glowing terms—glorious sunny days, mild winters, fresh citrus, etc. Instead, as she ventured out with Cy, she encountered a cool, drizzly May day. The weather suited her quite nicely, as it reminded her of home. The rain also gave her an excuse to wear her slicker and keep the hood up, which made her feel safer, more anonymous.
No conductors hassled Ingrid as she boarded the bright red Pacific Electric railcar. She found it surprisingly clean. Many of the occupants were women in work attire, some with children in tow.
Cy wore rugged yet clean work clothes beneath his leather coat, his battered bowler hat on his lap. “It’s not that long of a ride,” he murmured, “though it looks like we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
The train began to move with a harsh squeal. The view through the windows showed that the Dominguez dock was set up on a mesa. Rolling grasslands spread out all around, demarcated by a gridlike pattern of dirt roads, groves of eucalyptus and citrus, and scattered bungalow roofs.
Cy leaned toward the window, his gaze on the sky. “I heard news in Dominguez that pilots have sighted peculiar glints, like heat mirages, way up high. Some say it’s a type of dragon that’s cloaked itself, or some kind of Hidden One.”
Ingrid frowned at him. “These sightings are brand-new?” She used to make a hobby of studying fantastics, and this didn’t sound familiar to her.
“Yes. At least a dozen cases in the past week, all along the California coast. I even saw a bulletin for someone gathering a hunting party.”
“Good God,” she muttered. “They don’t even know what kind of fantastic it is, but they want to kill it and tack it on a wall. That figures.” She shifted in her seat. She didn’t want to spy some mysterious creature in the sky; she’d had enough bizarre sightings recently to last her a lifetime. Besides, she’d be much better served by keeping a wary eye on her fellow passengers.
“I’m scared, Ingrid.” The words were barely decipherable. Surprised, she turned to look at him. “Being here on the mainland, feeling vulnerable every moment of the day. Wanting these braces to work and offer you the mobility you need. The quest to come.”
“I’m scared, too,” she murmured. “I like how you call it a quest, though. That makes me think of paladins and wizards and dangerous journeys to the moon.”
That brought a smile to his face. “I reckon we have enough troubles on earth. Let’s leave the moon out of it.”
She couldn’t hold his hand, much as she wanted to, but took comfort in how their hips touched in the seat. Amazing, really, how good it felt to be in the mere proximity of someone who loved you.
It didn’t take long for them to enter the thick of the city. She craned her head to take in the view of the famed Main Street Station. The building was Los Angeles’s first skyscraper and the largest building in the city—indeed, the largest building west of Chicago, if Behemoth-sized airship hangars were left out of the reckoning. Ingrid and Cy exited the railcar and passed through a marble-tiled hallway to emerge in a waiting room with soaring, painted ceilings and gilded ornamentation. A wall featured a stunningly realistic depiction of an ancient Roman imperial airship over golden hills that could either be in Italy or California. Voices echoed and rumbled together in the grand space. Cy’s discreet tug on her sleeve reminded her not to stand around like a slack-jawed yokel. She scurried to keep up.
Halfway through the chamber, she felt the tickle of nearby magic at the same time as she began to hear whispers.
Just above her: ingrid carmichael her magic tastes like hot rocks
Across the room, barely audible: she’s not here
To her left: ingrid carmichael her magic tastes like hot rocks
On her right: she’s not here
The words surrounded her on all sides, identical in voice, some close, some soft and distant. The signature musk of Blum’s power was unmistakable.
“Mr. Harvey,” she said.
Cy glanced back, a hand resting near his Tesla rod. “Yes, Mrs. Harvey?”
“I do like that name. You should call me by it all the time.”
He nodded, taking her hint. “I will as long as you desire.”
“Watch what you say. As you know, I have many desires.” Her attempt at levity rang flat even for her, scared as she was.
Whatever sought her in the station was broadcasting how it was supposed to find her, essentially reading its orders from Blum out loud. Blum had no idea just how sensitive Ingrid was to fantastics and magic. That advantage just might save her yet again.
She casually glanced around. The voices were stationary. From what she could ascertain, two originated from nearby pillars, while three more were near major doors into the building. The ploy made sense. Why send agents to search hundreds of individual docks across California when traps could be laid at major metropolitan junctions like Main Street Station?
Ingrid had no desire to
spring the trap, but she did need to take a closer look.
She altered her trajectory to pass by one of the pillars. “Mr. Harvey, if you don’t mind, glance along that column to see if anything looks peculiar about ten feet up, the side facing the window.”
She didn’t stare upward, but continued to mosey along. She carried no power at the moment. The beings shouldn’t be able to sniff her out. She hoped.
Her fierce heartbeat drummed behind the repetition of her name and her magical signature. She passed by the column. Nothing in the chant changed. Cy craned his head up and all around, doing a fine job of playing a tenderfoot in the big city.
“I caught a gander of a small fox figurine, painted white to blend in with the column itself,” he murmured, his voice dim against the loudness of so many people.
In Japan, foxes—living or as statues—were said to be messengers to the kami Inari, worshipped in both Buddhist and Shinto faiths. It made sense for Blum to somehow enchant fox idols to be messengers for her as well. What other traps has she laid? Ingrid thought, sick with dread. She had been lucky this time. Next time . . .
The echoes decreased when they stepped outside, but the overall noise did not. The city pulsed around them. Electric streetcars clanged and rattled from nearby tracks, horseshoes clip-clopped on the asphalt pavement, autocars whirred and sputtered, and newsboys hollered.
She welcomed the metropolitan cacophony. It was familiar.
They passed a corner that hosted a cluster of singing Salvation Army soldiers in their usual attire. Cy lingered long enough to toss some coins in a cymbal that was being passed around to collect donations.
“Is it safe to talk here?” Cy asked as they crossed the street. A hymn in fine harmony rang out behind them.
“Yes. We are out of the range of those . . . things, in any case.” She explained their placement throughout the room. He listened, brow furrowed.
“She knows you well, to assume you’d carry yourself prepared for any situation.”
Ingrid rather liked that as a publically acceptable way to reference her magic. “One of the soldiers’ reports from Hilo must have mentioned how Hatsumi recognized me. She can’t deploy sensitive geomancers to stand guard at major transportation centers, so those figurines are her substitute.”
She dreaded to think of what would have happened if they had recognized her. Would they have sounded an alarm? Attacked her?
“Similar traps may be set at larger docks and train depots across the west. They might even show up in Dominguez.”
“I’ll remain vigilant,” she said softly. “We’ll need to catch the electric rail line elsewhere, if we can.”
Ingrid looked around, taking in the sights and the people around her. The sense of space was different here than in San Francisco, where the density of humanity and the steepness of the hills made everything feel tight. Los Angeles was a fairly flat city that had only begun to grow in the past twenty years, and it showed. Like Honolulu, it had a sparkling newness to it, even with the grime of exhaust and the stench of factory fumes. While Main Street Station’s Huntington Building was the largest structure around in height and width, other towers rose high above a maze of flat and angled rooftops, church spires, brick chimneys, telegraph poles, and palm trees. The Japanese architectural influence was surprisingly minimal.
They walked onward. Cy paused at an autocar mechanic’s shop tucked along an alley, where he spent a few pennies for a new map of Los Angeles. Deep black lines showed city streets, with the electric rail lines in blue and red. She was relieved to find there were several good alternate stops to get them back to Dominguez.
With a few glances at the map, they walked around the block to a post office. Ingrid’s anxiety from the rail station had just begun to subside, and now she felt jittery anew.
Cy had written a letter to Roosevelt’s contact in the city. He dropped that in the mailbox at the doorway as he entered; Ingrid followed him inside. The rented box was located far at the back. He worked a code to unlock it and withdrew a small pile of letters.
“We’re not going through it here,” he murmured with a wary glance around. The hallway of mailboxes dead-ended to their right. Ingrid nodded, and clenched her fists to resist the urge to impatiently grab the stack from him.
They found a spot just outside and tucked in the shadows beside an alley that stank of sweet rot. Cy angled the envelopes so they could both see. He flipped past an advertisement, a catalog, another flyer, and finally to a letter in an envelope so small it almost slipped from his grip. He caught it just in time.
“That’s his handwriting.” Ingrid’s throat was tight with emotion. The address was written in a hand that was somewhat unsteady, not unlike her own handwriting these days, but still distinctively Lee’s.
Cy slit it open with his pocketknife. A slip of paper the size of a baseball card was inside. The chicken-scratch writing in soft pencil read:
In city. Mount Whitney Building on Tringa. Guard dogs. Basement cabinet 36C. For Cy and Fenris.
“That’s it?” she asked, and Cy flipped it over to reveal part of a typed business invoice. She blinked fast to hold back tears. Lee was alive, alive, alive! She could only hope that Mr. Sakaguchi was still with him. She gave Cy’s hand a discreet squeeze, unable to release her emotions in any other way, even sheltered as they were in the alley.
“That’s it. And it’s plenty.” Cy tucked the letter into his shirt pocket, his grin exuberant. For all his caution about acting nonchalant, he couldn’t hold back his own relief. “I’ll need to burn that later.”
“Lee is in the city. Or was. Where’s that address?”
“There’s no date on the note and the postmark was smeared, so there’s no telling when he sent that along. He might be long gone.” Cy kept a wary eye on their surroundings. “We’ll check the map later, and maybe we can find the actual building tonight.”
“By saying ‘we,’ you had better be including me. I’m the one who can directly converse with the sylphs, and yes, I’m quite aware of how dangerous the trip will be, especially if Lee’s friends are around.” She chose her words carefully.
“I’m not much inclined to trussing you up in the hangar, and that’s what I think it’d take to leave you behind,” he murmured, a twinkle to his eye. “But I should add, we don’t know the circumstances behind this note.”
“Meaning?”
Cy sobered. “It could be a trap.” He gestured to the street and they began to walk.
Horrible as the idea was, it had merit. Uncle Moon knew Ingrid was a woman of unusual magical skill. He’d be fine with exploiting her—and Lee—if they could help his people survive. Lee wouldn’t want to set a trap for them, but he might not have had much choice. He relied on Uncle Moon’s lingqi to recover right now, and Mr. Sakaguchi’s well-being could be used to control him, too.
They continued down the next block before Cy spoke up again. “I hope we hear from T.R.’s folks in the next few days. I’m antsy about lingering here too long. In the meantime, I might look for some odd jobs around the dock as I work on your braces.”
“If there’s a kitchen nearby, I could work, too. I can do something.”
The look that Cy gave her almost broke her heart. “Even if you could stand for a duration without your leg seizing,” he said quietly, “you’re a kind and true woman. Can you befriend new folks and lie about who you are, where you’re from?”
She tightened her grip on the staff. She still wore the wedding band on her left hand. Marriage between them wouldn’t be possible in California, but the sentiment of the ring was true nevertheless. “I don’t know how you endured this kind of life for years.”
“Pretty simple, really. We tried to keep to ourselves, and when we did form attachments to places and people, we knew it was time to move on.”
“You moved an awful lot.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose it’s a good thing I threw in my lot with you two. Otherwise, you might have borrowed tho
se Twain books and run.”
“You should know by now that I’d never abscond with someone’s books. I’d be sure to return them, even if by mail.” They shared a fond smile, then at the same time noticed a bakery across the street.
“I’ve never tried Mexican pastries,” she murmured as they crossed over.
“I believe they’ll meet your approval, and that of our other companions.”
The shop had little stock left, but they bought a full bag that mostly consisted of shell-shaped cookie-topped buns called conchas that Cy swore were similar to Japanese melon-pan. That was enough to entice Ingrid.
That important errand done, they rounded the block to their next destination. They found the nickel cinema tucked between a cigar shop and a pharmacy. Cy paid the fee, and they passed through a short hallway to the theater. Half the seats were already full. Folding metal chairs formed crooked rows, the chair legs squeaking and scraping the floor as people sat. Most occupants were working-class men, but there were also scads of young boys in knickerbockers and caps—undoubtedly in attendance because of the advertised footage of Excalibur.
Cy found them two seats at the end of a back row. More people filed in. The room stank of sweat and rank bodies and cigarettes and cloying perfume.
After a few minutes, a hatted man sat at the piano at the front of the room. Ingrid waited to see if anyone else would emerge.
“They don’t use benshi here?” she murmured, referring to the performers who often read the title cards during motion pictures in San Francisco.
“I reckon not. There’s not as much Japanese influence around here.”
He had a point. The use of benshi stemmed from traditional Japanese theater like Noh. Ingrid had grown up listening to benshi and had assumed most American screenings used the technique nowadays.
