Roar of Sky

by Beth Cato

  “I agree.” She did not want to think of the suffering aboard being even worse than she had previously imagined.

  Sutcliff guided her onward. Hidden among the empty freight parcels, they found a massive box with very real and dangerous content.

  The crate was almost the size of an autocar, the wooden slats battered, scraped, and splintered away in chunks. “It’s been in the same box all the while.” Captain Sutcliff pressed a palm to the wood, and recoiled in surprise as his hand sank through.

  Ingrid touched the wood. Coarse splinters pricked the tender skin of her palm, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she pushed out power. Just a touch. The battered wood blackened and all but disintegrated beneath her hand, the reaction spreading like smokeless fire outward to form a hole some three feet in diameter.

  She pulled her hand back and stared at it. Not even a smudge marred her skin. She had wanted to create a hole without making a sound, and as a result, the wood had been consumed as if by lava.

  Sutcliff peered inside the hole. “The rock is still well padded. Good.” Then he laughed at himself. “How foolish of me. I’m here to see the thing destroyed. I’m such a being of habit.

  “I once would have cushioned this rock in the feathers of pegasi and angels, had I the budget.” His gaze grew distant. “I saw in this kermanite my chance for promotion, for medals, for the notice of Roosevelt. And when it was stolen, I mused that perhaps that would be for my benefit, too. I could be the hero, retrieving it from the scheming Chinese.” He laughed again, this time the sound laced with bitterness and regret.

  Ingrid pried down layers of quilts, dozens of them, several feets’ worth, until she finally saw the kermanite at her eye level. She paused to fumble inside her pack for a flashlight. She propped it on the smashed-down quilts to illuminate the dark recesses of the box. The deep blue of the crystal held a smoky whirl of contained energy.

  Its facets were coated with blood. Long, thick dribbles like crusted wax from a tapered candle, some of it smeared by the swipe of a hand.

  After a month, the color of the dried blood was more black than red, and created an odd contrast with the surreal Hawaiian-ocean-blue hue of the kermanite itself. The azure March batch of kermanite at the auxiliary must have been mined in the same vicinity as this massive piece. She had been handling tiny parts of this rock for weeks, and hadn’t even known.

  “Your father’s blood?” Sutcliff asked.

  “Yes.” She was glad he had picked up enough context in his afterlife that she didn’t have to explain the how or why. She put away the flashlight.

  “It’s appropriate, in a way, that the kermanite was never cleaned,” he said. “Much blood has been shed because of this rock, and more would be shed yet.”

  He pressed a fist to his chest, and she noticed a gleaming thin strand leading from his neck to his hand. He clutched a cross pendant. She had never seen it before. Had the jewelry always been obscured beneath his clothes, or had he manifested it now, when he needed it most?

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “I’m . . . sorry you died and have had to endure time as a ghost, but I’m grateful for this time to know you, Captain Sutcliff.” She meant every word.

  “And I, you,” he said, head still bowed. “Thank you for your kindness. I did not deserve it. But please. Beware of the temptation offered by that rock. You can’t fight the fox spirit if you’re paralyzed or dead. I want . . . I want you to have a happy ending after all of this, like in those pulp novels you read.”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. “You did find my stash when you nosed around in my bedroom. I hope you enjoyed them.”

  He gave a small shrug. “I always preferred nonfiction histories, but sometimes other diversions are necessary.” He smiled. “Godspeed.”

  “Godspeed, Captain. I wish you peace.” Ingrid touched the kermanite. The plane was smooth and cool beneath her palm. She focused, probing outward with her mind and magic.

  She found heat. Swirling, boiling. Pele’s lake of fire, bound in a priceless hunk of rock. But she was not immersed in it. She hung back, taking in the potential, the power. Papa had been bound to this crystal and tortured to cause the San Francisco earthquake, and the geomantic energy from that horrific disaster had been imprisoned here. So very much energy. Even if Mr. Thornton had supplemented the flow, it was horrific to think of that much magic flowing through Papa . . . and how the earthquake would have been so much worse if he hadn’t channeled what he had.

  This rock was his dying legacy. And now she needed to destroy it without destroying herself.

  When she had previously drawn energy from charged kermanite the size of a football, the effort had almost killed her within seconds; this kermanite was the size of a horse’s body.

  She assessed the power she held inside. It wasn’t much. She tried to picture it like the last dregs of tea in a pot; she needed to pour the contents into a near-full cup without causing it to splash or overflow. That imagery in mind, she pulled mana through her body to well in her fingertips. They buzzed with heat. It’d be all too easy to blast out power like she had before when she shattered walls, but this time she needed finesse. She needed that perfectly filled teacup.

  She took a few deep breaths then tipped energy from her hand in a smooth, measured trickle.

  The large kermanite needed almost no encouragement to break as nature intended, though in a controlled manner that caused an implosion rather than an explosion. A thousand fracture points spread from her fingertips, the pieces creaking and chiming together as cracks spread and new portions fell and broke again, again, again, in a cascade. A whiff of dust blew over her face, the taste of kermanite on her tongue. A small rumble carried through her feet. Boards along the base of the crate bulged and groaned as the falling shards tried to spread from their nest of quilts.

  Captain Sutcliff was gone. She missed the now-cozy coldness of his presence.

  “I’m alive,” she whispered, just for the joy of hearing her own voice.

  Mindful of splinters, Ingrid used a shred of quilt to pick up numerous walnut-sized pieces that were average for fragmentation. She set them in her bag, with some more quilt scraps for padding, then sifted out more small pieces to mound in her pocket.

  Now she needed more power to carry within herself. With the crystal fragmented, this was much safer than before. She focused as she plucked up three more pieces, rendering them to dust as heat tingled along her limbs and swirled and stewed near her heart. Sweat beaded on her skin.

  “Still alive,” she whispered again, and immediately retreated into the maze of freight. Sound carried too well in this cavernous space. Someone was sure to investigate the noise of the kermanite as it shattered.

  She held her power close to her skin, ready to form a bubble, but sent a tendril of energy to her ears to enable her to listen again. She immediately detected footsteps on the level behind her as well as overhead.

  “Oh, how stupid of me,” she hissed beneath her breath. She should have cracked open the kermanite crate from the other side. A person on the viewing decks above could probably see the gaping hole, but not the kermanite inside—not unless the bulging weight broke the crate the rest of the way. Yet another reason to get away, fast.

  Ingrid relied on the cover of boxes to hide her as she scurried along, her teeth clenched together. The longer she hunkered over, the worse her lower back and legs ached. The laden pack didn’t help.

  She suddenly realized her intense thirst and hunger, exacerbated by her use of energy and her current fever. Cy’s now-familiar chiding rang through her mind: Take care of yourself. This time she would spare a minute and take his advice.

  She found a shadowed crevice between barrels and slipped inside, taking several gulps of water from her canteen and eating a handful of smashed dates with pecans. Thus fortified, she continued on her way as she listened with preternatural ability.

  Cy. She had to find Cy. She had to get him away from Blum. They had to get Maggie
off of the citadel.

  A gunshot echoed from the far side of the bay, followed by another.

  She swerved in that direction as she pushed more power to her skin, armoring herself as if with orichalcum. Someone yelled in Chinese, and another voice called out from above. Neither sounded like Lee. She missed Sutcliff’s vigilant presence.

  She pushed out her awareness, as she had when searching for the sylphs, but this time she reached for Cy. Blum would have been easier to find, but Ingrid had no desire to tickle the fox’s whiskers. She knew Cy. She knew the contours of his body, the softness of his beard pressed against the top of her head, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

  Cy was a bright spark in the darkness. He drew her in, a moth to the flame.

  Blum remained near him. Ingrid dryly swallowed, fighting a renewed swell of terror. Nausea twisted in her gut. She used magic to soften the fast tread of her feet, the rattle of kermanite in her pockets and pack, the thump of the guandao against her thigh. She slowed down.

  “I should never have taken you out of the engine room. Let’s get you back there, Maggs.” Cy’s voice again carried at a distance.

  “No,” Maggie hissed. “We need to keep looking.”

  Several people walked among the crates about a hundred feet away. They didn’t seem to know quite where Cy and Maggie were. Ingrid did. She edged that way, staying low, dashing across gaps between the rows.

  Finally, she glimpsed Cy through the stacks. He appeared to be well. He looked this way and that, wary. He knew he was being hunted.

  Blum was close. So very close, the magic of her looming and crackling like a thunderstorm ready to boom and break. Was she more powerful than before? Was that possible? Ingrid closed her eyes for a moment as it occurred to her . . . Yes, it was possible according to the old stories—if Blum had completed growth of another tail.

  Ingrid angled herself to see Cy’s twin. Maggie wasn’t quite as tall as Cy, but she easily topped six feet in height. A simple navy-blue jacket fit her form and flared out at the waist. A knit snood contained a heavy burden of dark auburn hair. Maggie gestured to Cy, and Ingrid could see she wore gloves.

  Ingrid could feel the weighty enchantments embodied in her ambassadorial ring.

  Cy didn’t stand next to his sister. He stood next to Ambassador Blum, adorned in Maggie’s skin. She had stolen Maggie’s form. Maggie was dead.

  Ingrid sank to the floor, boneless in horror. She had to save him. Save herself. Save the present Chinese men, even. Blum would kill them all, luxuriate in it, all while wearing Maggie’s face.

  Cy was going to be completely heartbroken.

  “We need a more defensible position than out here among the freight,” Cy murmured.

  “Maybe we should go to your airship?” Blum asked.

  “No. She’d try to find me on Excalibur.”

  Ingrid pushed herself to stand. Other footsteps circled around her at a distance; she couldn’t dally here, she had to figure out how best to get Cy away. She could grab and lift him with her power—she’d done it before—but with so many obstacles around, she’d likely injure him, too. Damn it! She peered through the gaps but he had moved. She had to get closer.

  “I’ve missed you, Maggie. I mourned your death.” Cy whispered as Ingrid hurried toward him.

  She stood just on the other side of the crates from the twins, with a view of them both. Cy faced away, fists balled at his sides, shoulders bowed. She knew that posture.

  He was readying himself to attack.

  He turned, Tesla rod extended and tip sparking. Blum dodged with a hiss, but Cy followed up with a leg swipe. Blum toppled backward. For an instant, it looked like Cy might have a clear blow with the rod, but Blum bounded onto both feet, faster than any human should move, especially in a uniform skirt and boots. She landed a fist to his gut, doubling him over, then punched his inner arm. The Tesla rod flew out of sight and landed with a clatter. In a deft move, Blum unsheathed the bowie knife at his belt as she slipped behind him. She clubbed his hat off and gripped him by his topknot. His head craned back, his long neck exposed to the blade.

  “I suppose my acting skills are a bit rusty,” said Blum. “I’m not accustomed to playing roles like this, not anymore.”

  “Maggie was quiet as a dryad compared to you, Ambassador Blum.” Her name wheezed from his throat.

  “I always admired your cleverness, Cy.”

  “My sister. You killed her.” He faced to the right, Blum pressed against his back.

  “Actually, I didn’t. A terrible explosion occurred in Excalibur’s engine room as final preparations were being made. Maggie suffered severe burns to most of her lower body. After dealing with that Seattle Chinatown fiasco, I hurried to attend to her myself, but it was clear that she wouldn’t survive. She would be the first death in the on-board hospital.

  “I hadn’t planned on making her my newest acquisition, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, even if it means constant pain while in her form. A woman’s lot in life, really.” She shrugged. “It’s worth it to play with the incredible potential of your sister’s brain, Cy. My oh my. To her, everything is a machine. Mere parts, for utilitarian applications. I had no idea we had so much in common.”

  “You couldn’t contract the sickness,” he said, speaking louder as if to telegraph his position. Was he trying to make his position known to Ingrid, or the Chinese? Did he care at this point? Better to be dead than used by Blum.

  “No, I could not. I kept the citadel running, and until earlier today, I had a small crew of able-bodied people assisting me and trying to nurse others back to health. I was secured in the engine room when the Chinese infiltrated. I’m not certain how everyone else has fared, though I imagine the answer is ‘not well.’” She jerked on his hair. “Call out to Ingrid, Cy. Warn her that I’m here. You know that will bring her running all the faster. You two are so nauseating in your need to save each other.” Blum’s tongue lapped Cy’s ear. He jolted, his face in an appalled grimace. A line of crimson slid down his neck.

  “Don’t do that,” he gasped.

  Blum giggled. “If you’re not careful, you might slit your own throat. Call out to Ingrid or I’ll have another taste.”

  “Calling out’ll bring in the Chinese, too.”

  “Good. It’s been boring here, with everyone vomiting and dying. This should be more fun.” She pulled his head back more, her mouth dangerously close to his ear.

  “Ingrid?” Cy croaked.

  “Louder!” Blum hissed, nudging him.

  “Ingrid!”

  Distracted as Ingrid was, she didn’t hear the footsteps until they were practically upon her. She jerked back as Uncle Moon emerged from between the crates, a finger to his lips. He didn’t wear the distinctly Chinese outfits as he had before, but shabby cotton work clothes like those Lee had been clad in. His hair, though, fully announced his status as a rebel. The top of his head was shaved, the rest pulled back into a tight, tapering braid that draped to his waist.

  “Lend me your silence,” he whispered.

  Ingrid eyed him with blatant distrust. She respected Uncle Moon and his magic, but she also knew that her life was of no consequence to him. He would use her skills with vicious enthusiasm, not unlike Blum.

  But she needed help. She needed an ally.

  She expanded her bubble around them both, as she had with Sutcliff. “I cannot keep this up for long,” she said.

  “I will not ask you to.” He tilted his head toward Blum. “You know what that is.”

  “Yes. Where’s Lee?”

  “Alive, elsewhere in here.” Uncle Moon glanced at her waist, frowning. “What are you carrying?”

  She pressed a hand to the guandao, not surprised that Moon could sense its intense power. “Something for Lee, courtesy of the qilin.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t seen the qilin.”

  “Yes, I have. We’ve shared full conversations twice.”

  He continued to glare at her, m
outh twisted in disgust, but he didn’t make a move to grab the bag. He must have understood that few people would be permitted to act as its courier.

  “Ingrid!” Cy yelled, louder.

  “I have to make my presence known,” she said.

  “As do I.” Uncle Moon took a step back. She accepted that as her cue and let the shield fall from around them. An energy fever still lingered in her skin.

  Ingrid rounded the corner of the crate. “Moshi moshi!” she shouted, evoking the customary Japanese telephone greeting—a phrase intended to test if the person on the other end of the line was a kitsune.

  “Moshi moshi!” Blum returned the greeting with a delighted squeal as she whirled around, Cy still clutched close. “Ingrid! My dear! You have joined us at last. I daresay, I’m very surprised to see you up and so spry. Last I heard, you had some difficulties with walking, though your ability to kill has improved. I heartily approve! A woman ought to be capable of her own defense, and your methods are certainly worthy of more study.” Of course, Blum knew of what had happened to Warden Hatsumi.

  Cy’s gaze met hers, his expression one of impotent rage.

  “I would love to know how you’ve evaded me, Ingrid,” Blum continued. “I haven’t had anyone do the like in centuries.”

  “And I would love to see you permanently die in an excruciatingly painful manner befitting your crimes,” said Ingrid. “Let Cy go. Don’t hurt him. I’m here.”

  “As am I.” She lurched in surprise as Uncle Moon stepped alongside her.

  Blum’s countenance changed in an instant. “You,” she breathed. “Oh my.”

  Uncle Moon said something in Chinese, to which Blum responded in turn before belting out a laugh. Then she looked at Ingrid again. “Hurt Cy? No, I won’t hurt him.”

  Blum’s foul magic intensified as she shoved Cy away—but she merely released her physical hold. Ingrid couldn’t see the strings of life, but she could sense the manipulation of magic. She felt the tension as one of Cy’s life cords stretched taut in Blum’s grip and snapped. He impacted on the concrete floor with a soft thud that nevertheless shook Ingrid to her core. She rushed forward and grabbed his shoulders. He flopped backward in her grip, limp as an overcooked noodle.