“You’re reaching the end of the substation,” he explained, keeping one eye on the transformer. “The dynamo is coming up. You’ll want to keep with the current and wind around the armature—the big pillars—to get back to the center . . .”
Carmer guided her as best he could, his voice standing out sure and soothing against the grinding mess of the rotor. Grit’s energy went farther, hitting iron walls and doubling back, yes, but also finding cracks. She made them bigger.
She saw the other faeries chained like her, the forced fluttering of their wings producing a boiling cloud of faerie dust. The dust was curious, exploring parts of the machine it had never seen before, but Grit held it in her sway. Not yet, the fire inside her said, and the fire in the dust listened.
It was getting hotter. Grit was getting hotter, which was impossible, because fire faeries didn’t get hot. Gold sparks wrapped around the entire Hyperion, lighting it up like a Christmas tree. The little pieces of power she’d snuck away were impatient, boiling and building up inside of her. They wanted out, and she barely had time to tell them where to go before they got their wish.
“Carmer, get back!” she yelled. She opened her eyes and the power streamed out of her in a wave.
The rotor ejected itself from the iron base with such force that the very air around it sizzled with heat. It skidded across the middle of the lab, taking out the pipes of the transmission substation and sending Grit’s transformer soaring into the air and crashing to the ground. Black scorch marks trailed all the way to the stairwell. The electric lightbulbs mounted on the walls exploded. Shards of glass rained down, crunching and clinking on the concrete floor.
Carmer and the street faeries had just enough time to duck out of the way. The Autocats had not been so lucky, and the sole surviving cat was crushed underneath the now-still rotor. The lock at the rotor’s base sprang open, each layer of metal raggedly pulling back like an onion as gold sparks tugged at the edges. The sparks fizzled out one by one and utter silence fell.
Carmer extricated himself from the tangle of tubes that had fallen down around him, his ears ringing. The Free Folk turned their lights on as bright as they could to fill the fresh darkness of the basement. They waited with baited breath until a tiny, bony hand reached up from the metal ruin of the dynamo.
“A little help here!” called the faerie inside, and the Free Folk rushed to her aid. More lights turned on inside the empty shell of the machine, hesitantly at first, others flickering from injury or fatigue. Carmer left the street fae to help the faeries inside.
He ran to the ruined transformer, a blackened, twisted hunk of metal in the midst of the destroyed substation. He picked his way over downed wires and pipes carefully, but with little fear they were still active. Only faerie light illuminated his way now, and Carmer had the feeling the rest of Skemantis that relied on Hyperiopower would be in the dark, along with the Mechanist.
He pulled his safety gloves on tighter, turned the box over, and opened the still-smoking hatch with ease. Grit lay inside, tangled in a mess of gold wire—some of which, Carmer was horrified to note, had melted into her skin. She was barely conscious and her eyelids flickered weakly. Carmer peeled the wire away as gently as he could, stopping once to grab a pair of pliers, but he couldn’t stop his hands shaking at Grit’s whimpers of pain.
He lifted her out of the transformer and held her in his cupped hands. Her light flickered once, then went out, and she shivered. Her skin was freezing to the touch and tinged with blue, which Carmer knew was never a good sign, even for faeries.
“Grit,” Carmer whispered to her. He leaned in so close, he could see his breath in the cold air around her. “Grit, can you hear me?”
Her eyes flickered open, just for a moment. “I’m sorry, Carmer . . .” she murmured. She shivered harder in his hands.
“Sorry?” said Carmer incredulously. “What do you have to be sorry about?”
“I don’t think I have enough magic to help the Amazifier tonight.”
Carmer almost laughed, but the sound caught in his throat. He bent his head to touch Grit’s.
“Actually,” he said, “I think you just did.”
23.
THE SHOW GOES ON
This is how I die, thought Gideon Sharpe. He was past panicking, past wasting effort pounding ineffectually at the heavy glass that trapped him in his watery grave. The burning in his lungs had reached its peak, and it was perfectly clear there was no use fighting it. The Mechanist was not going to let him out.
The so-called “water torture cell” was his master’s newest endeavor in escapology, and he was keen to show off his new power, even if only Gideon could appreciate it. Imagine, using fire-based magic to pull off a watery escape-or-die stunt! They had never successfully performed it yet, but the Mechanist had decided that with the power of the royal faerie at his disposal, tonight was the night.
So Gideon was bound hand and foot, wrapped in chains tested and tugged by various audience members, and lowered into a cylindrical glass tank filled with water. The Mechanist would throw his cloak over the tank and remove it mere seconds later, revealing it to be empty. After the first round of applause died down, he would cover the tank again and walk behind it. This time, however, Gideon would walk out from the other side, completely dry, and remove the cloak. The Mechanist would now be chained inside the tank. Another round of applause, another flourish of the cloak, and the Mechanist would emerge, completely unscathed.
Would, would, would. All of this would have happened if they’d been able to channel the fresh power in the Mechanist’s wristbands to cut their bonds, if their flow of magic hadn’t been suddenly and swiftly cut off. Gideon felt its retreat just as his head sank under the water, like all the oxygen being sucked out of the room. The presence that he’d felt as a boy, which he’d been building on for years, vanished to almost nothing.
Just as the top of the tank clicked shut, the entire theater plunged into darkness. The electric lights, robbed of their faerie power generator, failed. Submerged in water behind two-inch-thick glass and distracted by his own thorny predicament, Gideon didn’t hear the screams of alarm from the crowd, didn’t see them fumbling in the dark for the exits. He didn’t see the Mechanist’s silver mask crack right down the middle and fall from his pale, shocked face.
It took less than a minute for the stagehands to have some lanterns lit, but that was already many seconds longer than Gideon was prepared to stay in the tank. He managed to get his hands free, but somewhere in the process of untangling the chains at his feet, panic took over, and he could only struggle and fling himself uselessly against the glass. Surely, someone would remember him in the chaos. Surely, the Mechanist would realize the trick was doomed and destroy the glass.
Conan Mesmer, lantern in hand, finally did approach the Mechanist. Gideon watched the flamboyant host gesturing wildly at him, even shaking the Mechanist by the shoulders. But the Mechanist fell to his knees, desperately holding the cracked pieces of his clockwork mask to his face. When he finally did look up at Gideon, the boy knew his master would not be freeing him that night. Gideon had brought this magic to the Mechanist, and now it had failed. Gideon had failed.
In Titus Archer’s world, failure was not tolerated. His master would stand there, watch him drown, and consider it too small a punishment.
Just as Gideon was about to take his first breath full of water, Conan Mesmer swung an axe at him. Someone must have found it strapped in its hiding place at the base of the tank. It cracked the glass cylinder on the first strike and smashed the top on the second. The metal lid fell down and crushed what little air remained out of Gideon’s lungs, mingling with a scream as a falling glass shard stabbed through his right arm.
The rest of the tank collapsed around him. He found himself gasping and shivering on the stage floor, covered in cuts from the breaking glass and clutching at his arm. The blood flowed freely down into the crook of his elbow, sticky and hot. He stared at the shard embedded th
ere and couldn’t bring himself to look away.
“ . . . no need to panic, ladies and gentlemen!” Conan Mesmer pleaded with the audience. “Please, everyone, stay in your seats!”
But they hardly needed the encouragement now; the sight of the Mechanist’s face stopped them in their tracks.
“Is that Titus Archer?”
“The inventor?”
“It is, it is!”
“Someone help that boy!”
The ushers herded the crowd back. Someone put the Mechanist’s cloak over Gideon’s shoulders and Gideon shuddered at the touch of the faerie wings, picked from tiny creatures long dead at his own hands. It was a relic from the earlier days of their experiments, before the Mechanist had found more use in keeping his faeries alive, but his master had insisted on keeping it—like a grim trophy from a hunt. Black spots danced in front of Gideon’s vision.
“The curtain, the curtain!” hissed Mesmer to the stage manager, a man in black with a door-knocker beard. The crew pulled on the ropes and the thick velvet curtain closed in front of them. Titus Archer stood as still as a statue, but Mesmer was at Gideon’s side at once.
“Easy, boy,” said the announcer. He took Gideon by the shoulders and let the boy sag into him. Blood and water stained the sparkling fabric of Mesmer’s flashy jacket.
“But your suit,” Gideon protested nonsensically. He was already slipping into blackness when Titus Archer finally let out a long, desperate howl of fury. It cut through the hisses and boos coming from the disappointed crowd on the other side of the curtain and carried out over the Orbicle, and some even swore they heard it in the street beyond.
The Mechanist was unmasked at last.
Carmer raced to the Orbicle on Madame Euphemia’s horse. His last sight of Grit, unconscious and being carried away to the Arboretum by Bressel and the other faeries, weighed heavily on his mind. But they had waved him off with assurances that Grit would get the proper care she needed at home, that the queen would surely contact him when all the faeries were safe. Even Madame Euphemia had insisted he leave before the authorities descended on the ruined laboratory. He hoped the street faeries had managed to escort all the former captives to safety.
The theater district was embroiled in thinly disguised chaos when he arrived. Confused show goers were pouring out of the theaters, shouting for cabs in the dark streets. City watchmen were scattered every few yards, controlling the crowds, patrolling for any ruffians attempting to take advantage of the blackout, and directing traffic. So many people were trying to get out of the Orbicle, the doormen didn’t spare a glance for a small boy trying to get in.
Where was the Mechanist? Had the Amazifier even had a chance to perform? Questions upon questions rose in Carmer’s mind as he darted through the exiting crowds. The usher he passed on the way in merely shrugged as Carmer edged inside and didn’t even ask for a ticket. Carmer supposed there was hardly any need. The house was nearly empty.
But there is an old show business adage that says, “The show must go on,” and against all odds, it seemed to be doing just that. There were hardly fifty people left in the audience, but they had all been ushered forward to fill in the first few rows. The only light came from oil lamps set on the stage, and the curtain was already half closed.
The Amazifier sat on the edge of the stage, Kitty cross-legged beside him with her elbows on her knees. She and the remaining audience members watched him fan a plain deck of cards from hand to hand. He spoke at a near normal volume; there was little need to project for the crowd here. Carmer hung back in the shadows.
“I’d like to thank you all for staying tonight,” the Amazifier said. The cards danced around his hands, appearing in one and then the other, twisting in and around themselves in complicated patterns. He made it look effortless.
“Though we magicians like to pretend we are infallible, that our illusions are airtight and each trick goes off without a hitch, there are always mistakes. Unfortunately, tonight you witnessed a particularly dire one. And as we try to one-up each other, to make each trick grander than the last—to be bigger, flashier, more dangerous than our competitors—the risks also increase.”
The Amazifier rubbed his hands together and threw his fingers outward. The cards burst from his hands in confetti-sized pieces; Carmer heard a collective intake of breath from the audience. But the Amazifier didn’t milk the moment. He scooped up the card pieces off the stage and into his hands.
“Perhaps, as the devices get more complicated, as the stakes get higher—and as our egos grow larger—we lose sight of the simple wonder that drew us to magic in the first place. I would like to believe that wonder can still exist, even in competition with shock and awe.”
He cupped his confetti-filled palms together and blew on them. The cards, whole once more, peeked out from between his fingers. He spread out his palms to show the entire deck before throwing them up in the air, where they vanished. Another collective breath.
“I would like to think we can still be amazed,” said the Amazifier, almost shyly. He exchanged a look with Kitty, who smiled.
“Check under your seats, folks,” she suggested.
Tentatively—Carmer couldn’t blame them, at this point—people did. Every one of the fifty people sitting in the front rows reached under their seat and came up grasping a single playing card. There were a few gasps and exclamations, but mostly just that slight intake of breath, the small moment of “How did he do that?” before smiles of delight broke across their faces.
It reminded Carmer of the first time the Amazifier came to his orphanage—what felt like a lifetime ago. The magician had put on a small show in their shabby hall, simply because he was “passing through” and thought the children might like to see something new. He was a welcome bright spot in their gray lives, and Carmer was instantly entranced. He was ever curious even about everyday phenomena, and the Amazifier’s magic tricks proved even more fascinating for him. He knew there was a plausible explanation lying beneath the surface of every disappearing dove, every coin plucked from behind a little girl’s ear, and he resolved to figure it out. The Amazifier had noticed Carmer’s intense attention, and the rest was history.
Until now. Now, all was changed again. He was no longer the Amazifier’s apprentice. He knew the secrets behind one kind of magic, but now the real thing was knocking on his door. Carmer didn’t think he could ever make sense of it all. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to.
While the audience clapped, Kitty Delphine rolled out a cart with a black cloth draped over it to the center of the stage. She and the Amazifier lifted the drape to reveal three model buildings, each about two feet tall. The one in the center was an exact replica of the Moto-Manse, complete with a leaning attic tower. On the right was a big top circus tent, and on the left, a simple farmhouse with a windmill.
“Many years ago,” explained the Amazifier as he and Kitty wound the mechanisms attached to the back of each model, “these devices were all the rage. We’re all much more accustomed to machines now, and clockwork creations are not nearly as impressive as, say, electric lighting.” He gave a sly smile, and a few of the audience members chuckled.
“I admit, these have been collecting dust in my attic for a long time,” said the Amazifier, “but as I have little else to offer you today, I think they’ll do. Ladies and gentlemen, please sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.”
Kitty and the Amazifier pulled levers behind each of the automatons. Gears whirred to life inside them, and for a moment, the only sound in the theater was the soft clicking and grinding emanating from the stage. Then the automatons began to move.
A tiny farmer walked out of the farmhouse to lasso a horse trotting toward him. The tower of the Manse swayed back and forth. There was a pop and a puff of smoke, and a gray-haired figure opened the tower window to wave at the audience as if to say, “It’s all right here, nothing to see!” The figure bore such a resemblance to the Amazifier, even viewed far from the stage, that the crowd had to lau
gh. The circus tent opened and lengthened, revealing little trapeze artists in bright silk costumes swinging back and forth.
The few remaining members of the orchestra struck up a simple tune, and soon the audience was clapping along as the farmer chased his runaway horse, the little Amazifier turned the wheel of the Manse, and jugglers took the place of the trapeze artists.
The Amazifier and Kitty wound the automatons again and the scene changed.
All three buildings folded in on themselves. The farmhouse flattened, disappearing into the heavy base of the machine, with only the spinning windmill remaining. The circus tent furled upward like a blossom. The Moto-Manse appeared to be turning itself inside out, panels of the house flipping backward to reveal a dark, bark-like texture on their other side.
That was when Carmer noticed the change in the air. It was slow, at first, but he sensed it all the same. Then, one by one, the stage lights began to turn on, bathing Kitty and the Amazifier and the metamorphosing automatons in bright golden light.
“Ah,” the Amazifier noted, “it seems our power issues are being resolved as we speak.”
For a moment, Carmer feared the Mechanist had somehow restored the Hyperion, but that would’ve been impossible in such a short time. And this didn’t feel like the light produced by the Hyperion. It felt warmer, somehow. Right.
Where there was once a farmhouse, a mobile mansion, and a circus tent, there now stood three small trees. Carmer knew these machines well. He’d spent hours and hours studying their many parts, the chain reactions that turned each windmill spoke into a tree branch, each wall of the Manse into a thick trunk. He knew the hundreds of components that went into every movement, how it was timed just so, and found himself—well, amazed—by his mentor’s skill.
The audience clapped, but the show wasn’t over. The trees blossomed—small white buds, at first, and then into real oranges, apples, and pears. At smaller dinner party performances, the Amazifier often plucked them from the trees and presented them to the guests to taste and confirm their authenticity. The blooming orange tree was by now a famous and well-worn device, but the Amazifier had built an entire garden.
The Wingsnatchers Page 23
