by Beth Cato
Lee glanced at Ingrid. Sweat soaked his face. “Damn it, I thought I had it!” His left shoulder was bloodied, the shirt in tatters with the sleeve tenuously attached.
Blum sprang forward, aiming low. Lee scrambled, his movements slower now. He swiped low to deflect the knife. Blum was a blur as she spun up, flinging an energy blast at Lee, then at Cy. Lee batted away the first attack, sending it ricocheting into the remains of the shattered crate, while Ingrid shielded Cy.
Uncle Moon dove in, striking at Blum, only to be pounded backward by a series of impossibly fast stabs. He only avoided being gutted by the arrival of Lee, who sliced through Blum’s skirt again as she pirouetted to one side.
Blum wasn’t slowing down. She wasn’t drained. She held an abundance of stolen life energy, in addition to her own considerable power. She was playing with them. This combat was a diversion to amuse her, nothing more. She had already worn down Uncle Moon, and Lee could only last so long. Cy was out of the fight. Ingrid had limited kermanite, and was already weak.
No. Not weak. Her body wasn’t what it once was, but she was still strong. Most importantly, she was smart.
This was not a battle to be won through honorable combat.
Ingrid looked at the high ceiling, the freight around them, the orichalcum panels underfoot. Her body felt incandescent with captive magic. If this worked, her reserves would be depleted quickly. She needed to be fast, fast and effective.
And at the end, God help her, she needed to remain alive and mobile.
She shoved her fist into the floor along a riveted seam. The ground bucked as she focused the energy forward. In the span of two seconds, the floor seam split to Lee’s right and rippled and expanded beneath Blum’s feet. The kitsune sneered as she jumped—directly into the shield that Ingrid had formed above. She smacked her head and crumpled downward. A full leg slipped into the gap, just as it had in Seattle.
But unlike in Seattle, Ingrid wasn’t working with familiar, conductive earth. Orichalcum had been strong enough to keep Sutcliff’s ghost afloat in midair, after all; it resisted magic and bullets alike. But Ingrid didn’t need to break the ori, only bend it, sculpt it, and not with any finesse. She brought her twined fingers together, the metal floor closing inward like teeth—but not attempting to pierce Blum’s flesh.
The drop in Ingrid’s fever flashed over her as if she’d opened an icebox. She’d need to grab more kermanite from her backpack very soon, though the fifteen seconds that might take could give Blum a chance to counterattack.
Objects chimed and rolled across the floor around Ingrid’s feet. Kermanite chunks. She spared a glance behind her. Cy had opened his stash, and weak though he was, flung rocks her way. Good God, she loved that man. She exerted more power to summon dozens of kermanite shards to her hand; they melted against her skin like hot snowflakes.
“Ingrid Carmichael, haven’t we played out this trapped-leg-in-ground scenario before?” Blum’s voice was at a strangely higher pitch. “Will you have the Chinese throw bricks again as well? I should tell you how the soldiers—”
“No more!” screamed Ingrid. Her voice boomed. She sounded like her grandmother, ancient and bold, even as she wanted to sob and run away in terror. She advanced on Blum, and with each stride, she armored herself. She forged geomantic magic as strong as orichalcum.
Then she was at Blum, breathing in her putrid musk. Blum swiped at her. The bowie knife shattered against the shielding. An instant later, Ingrid gripped Blum’s arms at her back, the way Blum had restrained her before.
This time Blum was the one who writhed and fought. The iron-rich scent of blood filled the air as Blum’s leg scraped against its imprisonment. Perhaps the ring’s power was limited when the injury was self-inflicted.
There was much that Ingrid could never understand about the rings of the Twelve, but everything depended on one technicality: the rings guarded the ambassadors’ bodies, not their souls.
Dark magic flailed against Ingrid, in search of any chink in her armor. Blum didn’t speak. She snarled. She was a crazed fox, still bound in human form.
She had never before shown fear.
Ingrid knew offensive tactics wouldn’t make Blum stay still. Instead, the situation required defense. She thought of how she shielded the pipe in the Bug’s engine room. She shoved energy along Blum’s arms, forming a hardened layer like pahoehoe lava over her enemy’s skin. Blum stopped struggling as if she had looked the gorgon in the eye. Her neck froze, head tilted to one side.
Ingrid diverted a sliver of energy to tear open the layers of cloth at Blum’s collar, baring the star ball pendant to the world.
There was no honor in pinning down Blum in such a way, but there was honor aplenty in Blum’s death. That was enough.
Lee didn’t hesitate. He spun the Green Dragon Crescent Blade against his arm then lunged forward with just enough momentum to plunge the blade’s point into the hoshi no tama.
The sound of shattering glass filled the hold—not the sound of a single cup falling, but of a row of chandeliers striking the ground in a cascade. Unleashed magic buffeted against Ingrid, but she maintained her shield and increased the protection over her ears. Even so, the ethereal crackling resounded in her skull.
Lee withdrew the guandao. The hoshi no tama came with it, the pendant speared like an alligator pear’s seed removed by a knife chop. The broken necklace chain dangled. Dark fumes, the stench as rank as burning rubber, escaped the cracked ball. Grimacing, he tapped the object on the floor to force it free. It lay there, bleeding out Blum’s original soul.
Lee stomped on it.
The sound stopped.
Then Blum herself began to shatter.
Her clothes exploded from her form. Ingrid bowled backward as if smacked by a gale, then scooted back farther on her hands. Different female bodies of Blum flickered past too fast to register who was who, only that they were different women, all bare as the day they were born.
The final human shape shriveled down to that of a large fox standing upright with one leg sunk into the floor. Blum-as-a-fox remained still for a moment, her array of tails flared, then collapsed, her body partly in the crevice.
The musk and might of her power dissipated with a thunderclap. Light fixtures flickered throughout the hold, some failing with an electrical sizzle.
No one moved for a long moment. Lee stayed in a fighting stance, even as the tip of the blade lowered over the fox.
“She’s dead.” Ingrid pushed herself to her feet as she let her shield dissipate. “She’s dead.”
“Ingrid? How’re you?” Cy grunted and began to rise in painful slow motion like an old man.
She glanced down to inspect herself. “Alive.” She walked to meet Cy, her strides shaky.
“I think some of what she stole came back to me. I’m not so weak now.” Even so, he looked like hell. He reached for her, and they fell into a hug. The comfort of his body so close to hers felt like a touch of heaven’s own grace.
“We did it. We killed Blum.” Lee’s voice was low. “Well, you did most of the work—”
“No.” She listened for moment to confirm that the other Chinese men were drawing close again. “You carry the weapon. You fought her. You struck the final blow. That must be the story you tell.”
Lee scowled. “But that’s not all—”
“The story is more important than the facts, Lee.” Cy shook his head, expression aggrieved. “Much as I’d like to see Ingrid made a hero, the truth here won’t do her favors. You need the story. You need the glory.”
“A necessary deceit.” Uncle Moon regarded Ingrid with new respect, then looked to Blum. “The fox’s body must be burned hot enough to destroy the bones. Nothing of her must remain.”
“She still wears the ring.” Ingrid pointed to the band, which had grown to resemble a bracelet on the fox’s paw. “It still holds power but it’s . . . different than before. Dimmer.”
“I can destroy the ring as well,” said Lee, moving t
he blade that way.
“Stay your hand,” snapped Uncle Moon, surprising Ingrid. “These rings are older than even Guan Yu. They cannot be destroyed, and to touch it now would impose a terrible cost.”
Ingrid and Cy shared a look. Modern mythology around the rings made them out to be a creation of recent decades, proof of the magical might and divine favor conferred on the Unified Pacific.
She wondered at Uncle Moon’s use of “cannot,” too. Did he mean that the Crescent Blade would fail to destroy the ring—or that the ancient rings should be allowed to exist?
“Lee, use the blade to move her tails so we can count them,” she murmured. He did, with delicate care, as if Blum slept and he didn’t want to wake her.
“Lord in heaven,” muttered Cy. “Seven tails. Seven.”
The tails were beautiful, truly. Red plumes with tapered white tips. Their sizes varied slightly. The oldest was evident by the flecks of white hair among the red. The newest tail was obvious, too, its red sheen especially bright. Who had Blum intended to nab before Maggie met her fate?
“Seven,” Ingrid repeated. A nine-tailed kitsune was akin to a god. If Blum’s long game had played out, she would have become a deity and overseen her homeland as the ruler of the world.
“Maggie died because of one of those tails. What did Blum truly do to her, to take her skin? Her voice? Oh Lord, I can’t bear to know.” Cy’s eyes squeezed shut as grief rocked through him.
“Blum stole Maggie’s body?” Lee stared at the kitsune with new horror. “I’m sorry, Cy. I’m so sorry.”
“I wish I could have known her,” Ingrid said, voice thick.
“I wish you could’ve, too.” Cy’s smile was bittersweet. “You’d have liked each other.” Ingrid twined her arm with his and they leaned on each other.
Other Chinese men emerged from among the freight. Two of them checked on their slumped comrade and shook their heads.
“You should know a UP fleet is going to arrive anytime,” Cy murmured to Lee. “What’s your plan from here?”
Lee looked to Uncle Moon, who began to speak in Chinese as he gestured to the blade. Whatever he said made the other Chinese men speak among themselves in rapid tones. Lee set the pole upright. The strangely curved blade reminded Ingrid of a torch, one that cast a dark light.
“Apparently, I am now in charge,” he murmured.
Even as he said it, Uncle Moon and the other men bowed to him.
Lee stood tall, but Ingrid was close enough to see the flicker of fear in his eyes. He was only fifteen, and now . . . what was he? Commander? Emperor over the refugees? Ingrid ached to gather him in a hug and rumple his hair and rejoice in the fact he was alive, that they were both alive, but she didn’t dare touch him again. Based on her experience with Uncle Moon, she could well imagine how the other men regarded her.
She could not jeopardize Lee’s tenuous new position.
Captain Sutcliff was right. Those few minutes she had to hug and speak with Lee before were moments she would treasure to the end of her days.
Lee looked at Cy. “We were setting charges to explode this thing. That was our last resort. We had hoped to figure out how to fly it, but we could never get access to the engine room, and none of us could make sense of the other controls.”
“You barely have enough men here to resume the most basic operations aboard, and that’s assuming these men have experience in piloting and engineering.” He glanced around, and the men shook their heads. Of course. The Chinese wouldn’t have been trusted to hold such positions for years now.
“We have more crew awaiting us at a rendezvous point, if we can make it there,” said Lee. “But if a fleet’s incoming, it’s even more important that we destroy Excalibur. We can’t let it get to China.”
“Is there no one else alive?” asked Ingrid, trying to keep an accusatory tone out of her voice.
“There are locked rooms around the ship. Only a few people were in the open to put up a fight.” Lee did not meet Ingrid’s eye. “Was Blum here all along, in the engine room?”
“Yes,” said Ingrid as Cy gripped her hand harder. “Cy, how long would it take you and Fenris to assess the scope of operations aboard and to teach people what to do?”
His mouth opened and closed without a sound as his brows drew together in thought. “Hard to say. Depends on the skill of the people we are training, too.”
“Ingrid, what are you suggesting?” Lee’s voice was very low. She felt Uncle Moon’s unreadable gaze on her.
“This is a floating city designed to be self-sustaining for months on end. It can hold up to ten thousand people. You have a hospital. A greenhouse. A greenhouse.” She paused, laughing to herself, then faced Cy. “Those new sylphs need a home.”
Understanding dawned on his face. “Well, I’ll be. The folks aboard might end up living in a jungle, though.”
“I can confer with the sylphs to arrange a transaction,” she said. “Perhaps some Chinese bakers can be found, though flour may not be able to be produced aboard. If the sylphs have a thriving home, though, that may be enough to satisfy them.”
“Something tells me I missed out on a lot.” Lee looked wistful for a moment, then remembering his new position, settled into stoicism again. “We could use this place as a new, temporary homeland. We could take on the refugees. We could cross to China, too.” He turned to Uncle Moon and began a flurried conversation. The other men chimed in at times, too.
“I’m not sure how they can even make it off America’s shores, truth be told,” Cy murmured. “Those gunships are hovering just outside, and more ships are on the way, and the military reception in California would be ugly indeed.”
“It looks like the only weapons aboard are personal firearms,” she added. “The Durendals are props. Every crate that’s labeled as armaments appears to be empty. The captain thought that most of the real equipment was coming aboard in California.”
“The captain. He’s . . . ?”
“At peace. Yes.”
Cy absorbed that news thoughtfully. “Well, if by some miracle this craft does make it across the Pacific, China might make some new allies. Blum’s gambit in Baranov will have the Russians antsy to make some kind of strike against America. I can well imagine Russia’s willingness to form an alliance with the Chinese if their cause doesn’t look hopeless.”
Ingrid felt her hopes spiral downward. Had all their efforts merely changed the players in this war? Could anyone survive this?
Lee turned toward her, aglow with excitement. “Ingrid, think of the good you could do with us. And Fenris and Cy, too, of course.” His eyes shone. “With what you can do—if we can get more kermanite—we could not only go to China and free the people there. We could go to Japan.” He grinned. “We could—”
“Lee. No. No.”
He took in the horror on her face and realized what he was saying. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “I sound like Blum, don’t I. Like Roosevelt, like everyone else. Using you. Making you into a weapon. I’m sorry, Ingrid, I’m so sorry.”
In that instant, he was a vulnerable teenage boy again. Ingrid knew she couldn’t play the part of his big sister for much longer; she had to use her influence while she had it.
“Lee.” She spoke low enough that the men beyond their circle couldn’t hear. “I accept your apology, but you cannot show weakness now. You carry Guan Yu’s weapon, but that doesn’t guarantee your place. I don’t expect you to treat me . . . derisively, but neither can we act as we always have. Our relationship . . . our places . . . are different now.” She kept her voice steady, even as her heart broke.
“You are right, of course,” murmured Lee, his face twisting in pain. “You usually are. I must tell you, too, that Mr. Sakaguchi is being held in an abandoned laundry building in Phoenix.” Now, this was the poised side of Lee, his skills honed by their mentor.
“Mr. Sakaguchi is well and away from Phoenix,” said Cy with a purposeful glance at Uncle Moon. “The men who were guarding him w
ere unharmed.”
Curiosity bloomed in Uncle Moon’s face. “How did you find—”
“Good,” Lee cut him off. “Now about the operations—”
A door banged open with a terrible echo. The Chinese men hefted their guns. Ingrid and Cy shared a look of dread.
“Miss Carmichael!” boomed a familiar voice. “If you can hear me, speak out. We have your man Mr. Braun here.”
Ambassador Roosevelt had arrived.
Chapter 25
Lee whirled to stare at Ingrid, his face tense and flushed. “Did you—no, you didn’t know he was coming.”
“We reckoned an ambassador was coming with the fleet, but we figured it’d be her.” Cy gestured his thumb toward the dead fox.
Uncle Moon muttered something to Lee, and they engaged in a rapid-fire exchange, their tones curt.
“I need to be seen. They have Fenris,” said Ingrid as Roosevelt belted out her name again. The invocation carried no magical weight, but made her flinch nevertheless. He didn’t know Blum was dead, and he knew the perils of using her name, and was choosing to do so anyway.
With her now-normal hearing, she detected the sound of several heavy boot steps. Not a full squadron. She’d bet T.R. was accompanied by Siegfried and his other guards—maybe they were immunized, enchanted, or simply ready to endure quarantine.
“I could kill Roosevelt.” Lee’s voice was low. “Uncle wants me to.” He considered the weapon in his hand then looked back at her, his gaze older than his years. “I told him no. Uncle sent me to learn from Mr. Sakaguchi so that I could become a leader. He regrets that choice now. He would have us slaughter all Americans.” Lee considered the man he referred to as his uncle. “He forgets that I’m an American, too.”
Uncle Moon spat out a retort, his sentiments clear without a word in English.
Lee cocked his head to one side, not deigning to reply. “I know Roosevelt. I know he’s bullheaded and obstinate, but I also know he’s smart. He can be reasoned with.”
