by Beth Cato
Well, the best way to find out was to try one. She sat down as she bit into a roll. Strawberry jam immediately met her tongue. Had she mentioned to Cy that this was her favorite fruit? Or had he just gotten incredibly lucky? She practically inhaled the roll and considered eating more. Instead, she grabbed a sheet of advertisements and formed a parcel around another one. It just fit in an interior pocket of her coat. She would need to take care that it didn’t get smashed.
Ingrid bit into an apple with a satisfyingly juicy crunch as she scanned the headlines of the open newspaper.
tens of thousands dead in san francisco: where will chinamen strike next?
seattle chinatown blockade continues
trash debacle worsens: doctors fear illness outbreaks
neighbor’s words: the enemy is here: why it is not murder to kill chinamen in america
george augustus of augustinian among sf missing
The half-eaten apple dropped to the table with a spatter of pulp and juice. She angled the lantern closer to read the fine text. The snippet was the size of her thumb tip.
She read aloud: “‘George Augustus, the charismatic owner and head engineer of Augustinian Corporation of Atlanta, Georgia, is one of the most high-profile businessmen to disappear in the earthquake and conflagration of San Francisco. The sixty-nine-year-old, known worldwide for his brilliance and hospitality, occupied rooms above the famed Quist’s Restaurant, which was utterly lost to the flames. The worst is presumed. This concludes over a decade of tragedy for the Augustus family. He is preceded in death by his adult twin children Bartholomew and Magnolia, in separate accidents, and by the loss of his dearly beloved wife, Eva, this past January.’”
Cy’s mother was dead? Stunned, she skimmed over the article again, hoping she had misread it, hoping that Cy hadn’t been pummeled by such horrific news. The content of the article remained the same. Ingrid racked her brain to remember the conversation she and Cy had at Quist’s after the opera. Cy had even brought up his mother that night. Mr. Augustus had been very upset but hadn’t said anything about her being deceased.
Now Cy knew his father was presumed dead and his mother was dead. Oh God.
“Fenris!” Ingrid yelled. She shut off the lantern and grabbed the newspaper. “Fenris!”
Seconds later, he was there and gasping for breath. Her tone had squelched any of his usual attitude. “What? What is it?”
“It’s Cy. His parents.” She shoved the folded page at him. Fenris pried off his goggles and, tossing them onto a crate, took the paper. His lips moved as he read.
His dark eyes met hers. “We need to go. We have to find Cy. Now.”
“What, is he going to hurt someone? Himself?”
“No. Not purposely. If it’s anything like when he found out about his sister, his first reaction is to go for a walk, then he’s going to realize he wants to numb everything horrible he’s feeling, and that’s going to lead him to a bar where he will get roaring drunk.”
Ingrid knew what Cy’s family meant to him. How he still mourned the loss of his brilliant twin sister, Maggie, who had practically managed Augustinian up until her death in a laboratory accident a year ago. How fondly he spoke of his parents, of his absolute joy during his brief reunion with his father.
His father. Cy said that George Augustus coped with the stress and guilt of running one of the most acclaimed kermanite-powered weaponry manufacturers in the world by immersing himself in a bottle each night.
“I’m going to secure the Bug and we’ll lock up the building. We have to find him.” Fenris ran a hand through his short black hair, frantically looking around, then scampered up the ladder.
“How will we find him? We’re near downtown and the major ports. There must be dozens of bars.”
“Hell if I know, but I’m not waiting here and staring at my watch.” His footsteps pounded from inside the ship.
Ingrid looked around. “Lee might come back when we’re gone. I should leave him a message.” She rummaged through a box where she recalled seeing paper and pencils, and found them a minute later. Fenris scurried down the stairs and ladder, a rope in hand.
“Wait!” called Ingrid.
“We can’t dawdle—”
“I need to fetch something.”
Propelled by adrenaline, she clambered inside the Bug and went straight to the pantry. The Green Dragon Crescent Blade was exactly where Lee said it would be. At some point in the past day, he had replaced its water-stiffened pouch with a similar one of stitched leather.
The airship had already been stolen once. Ingrid wouldn’t risk leaving the guandao in it unattended. She tied the pouch strings to her obi.
She hopped down the stairs and ladder to the rink floor. With a tug, Fenris swung the hatch upward and shut. The rope still swaying, he grabbed the ladder to haul it to the side of the rink.
A minute later they were outside. Fenris rigged the door alarm again and stuffed Ingrid’s hasty note in the doorjamb. He squinted in the milky light and adjusted an ill-fitting bowler on his head. The clouds teased of more rain to come.
“Now what?” Fenris stared at Ingrid.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve only been between a single airship dock and here, a matter of blocks. Where are the taverns?”
She exhaled in a huff. Of course he wouldn’t know which way to go. That would involve stepping outside. “You have your Tesla rod?”
He pulled back his jacket to show the rod pressed against the flat of his hip. “I don’t think we’ll need to go to those lengths to get Cy back here.”
“I’m not worried about him in that regard.” She started walking. “The city’s filling up with men headed north. It’s not even noon on a Monday but I imagine many are already toasting to their future fortunes.”
“Oh.” He mulled this for a moment. “That won’t help matters.”
“No. No, it won’t.”
Frustration fueled her strides. She still didn’t want to think Cy would act in such a careless manner, especially after the night they’d had, but she also knew that his reaction wasn’t about her. Once he read that article, all the happiness in him must have fizzled away. If she needed any confirmation of the gravity of the situation, all she had to do was look beside her. Fenris had willingly abandoned the Palmetto Bug in mid-repair. That said everything.
“You’ve seen Cy at his happiest. I suppose it’s only right to see him at his lowest,” said Fenris.
“I’d rather not witness the full range of emotion within a span of hours.”
Fenris inclined his head at that. “You have to realize this isn’t a common reaction for him. He’s not the type to get soused every other day of the week. He might have the occasional beer, but never to excess. He avoids the hard stuff completely.”
“He didn’t want us to bring aboard the scotch from Mr. Thornton’s airship,” she murmured. “I argued for it because I knew how much it was worth. He still eyed the bottles as if they were a slumbering rabid dog.”
“Exactly. He doesn’t even like being in proximity to drinks like that.” The sidewalk ahead was a teeming sea of black and brown coats and hats. Ingrid and Fenris’s progress slowed as they reached a bottleneck over a narrow bridge. Nearby bodies reeked of cloves and stale sweat and leather. Shoulders and bags bumped against Ingrid.
The path widened and the pedestrians spread out. Fenris continued, his raspy voice low: “Some people make for angry drunks. Some are sad. Some are hilarious. Cy empties out. And that’s exactly what he’ll want to do right now.”
Ingrid blinked back tears. More than anything, she wanted to hold Cy as he grieved and offer what comfort she could.
The taverns across the way were overflowing with men. Many had carpetbags or cases at their feet. They gathered in little knots, jabbering loudly with drinks in hand.
All of Ingrid’s survival instincts screamed at her to get away from this place. Few women walked the street. She was conspicuous, and idling would make her
even more so. She had little choice, though. If Cy had managed to get sloshed, Fenris would need her help to cart him away.
“Do you want the Tesla rod?” asked Fenris. Tension rang in his voice. Ingrid imagined his survival instincts were even more honed than hers.
“No. It’d look odd for me to carry something like that. Go on. I’ll wait here.”
Fenris wavered, eyes half shut. “Goddamn it, I hate men. With certain exceptions.” His slim shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath. “Drunkards are worst of all.”
Ingrid knew Fenris was discomfited by physical contact, so she didn’t grab his hand. Instead, she leaned closer. “It will only take a minute for you to check the taverns. Cy is tall. If he’s there, you’ll find him right away. You’ll be in and out, lickity-split.”
“Lickity-split.” Fenris nodded, licking his dry lips. With that, he dashed across the busy street, dodging people and autocars like a rangy tomcat.
Ingrid sank against the wall in a niche between two rain barrels. She tugged her hood as far forward as possible and folded her arms over her chest, her gaze wary. The guandao rested against her body, as heavy and warm as a sleeping cat.
The observation she had made in Portland still held true: the majority of travelers were older white men. They had abandoned their families and jobs, all in pursuit of a foolish dream engineered by a power-hungry kitsune.
If these men even made it to Baranov, how did they expect to be received by the Russians—by the soldiers who guarded the territory, or those who had already deserted in order to stake claims? Rage and sadness mingled together in Ingrid’s chest.
A few women walked by, their hats festooned in lace and flowers. Men trailed them like cats after a fishmonger. Ingrid pressed herself even deeper into the wall. She sensed the attention of passing men but no one lingered.
Fenris emerged and trotted her way. An autocar horn blared at him, but he dismissed the noise with a wave of his hand and didn’t slow down. He jerked his head to motion Ingrid to walk with him.
“He’s not in those taverns, obviously.” Fenris’s scowl was darker than usual. He walked with fast steps and hunched shoulders. “Those places stink of tobacco smoke and alcohol and men and idiocy. Did anyone bother you out here?”
“No, but other women are getting plenty of attention.”
Fenris muttered something indecipherable beneath his breath.
Ingrid’s sense of wariness only escalated as Fenris continued to check establishments down another block. She recognized the sound of a slap as another woman berated a man, much to the amusement of his companions.
A man stopped in front of her. “Ko-ni-chi-wa.” He broke apart his Japanese syllables the way a toddler crushes a cracker. “You waitin’ for someone? You waitin’ for me?” He leaned closer.
Ingrid balled her fists and she suddenly wished the earth wasn’t quite so calm.
“Well?” The stranger’s fermented breath warmed her cheek. “Ow!” He stumbled backward.
“Go sober up in a gutter,” snapped Fenris. He brandished the Tesla rod in his hand. It remained enclosed and inactive, but as a stout copper rod, it still packed a wallop. The man scowled and slinked off. “Did I mention I hate drunkards?”
Ingrid almost laughed at that. “You did. Thank you for the help.”
Fenris shrugged her words away, his expression dark as he holstered the rod. “I don’t like most women either, but you’re an exception.”
“I’m honored. We do have a habit of going on interesting walks together, don’t we?”
“Everyone needs a hobby,” said Fenris. “Though I hope this perambulation doesn’t conclude with me getting stabbed again. Or with an earthquake here.”
“That would get Cy’s attention.”
Fenris snorted, then held out a hand to halt her. A crowd had gathered on the upward slope ahead.
“Are we near Chinatown?” Ingrid asked, thinking of Lee and what they had seen in Portland. This neighborhood wore a heavier Japanese influence in vibrant red and green paints, sloped roofs, and business signs. The heady scent of frying fish carried from nearby.
“No, I don’t think so.” Fenris frowned and wavered in place. He clearly wanted to get the hell out of there, but he grimaced and walked on. “We better see what’s happening.”
They “pardoned” their way deeper into the crowd. A few folks whooped and cheered. Past the shorter Japanese heads, Ingrid recognized a tall, gangly figure.
“Fenris,” she gasped.
He had to duck around two more people to see. “Oh, damn it.”
Cy stood in the street, his brown hair ruffled. His hat and coat lay on the dry ground nearby. His fists were raised. Blood ran in thick rivulets from knuckles to elbow. His Tesla rod remained sheathed at his hip. Across from him stood a man as thick and furry as a bear. His rounded face was ruddy, his teeth bared to reveal numerous gaps. Ingrid felt tiny prickles of awareness and studied the man more closely.
A pudgy pixie was dozing on the brim of his hat. Ingrid had never seen a fairy so obese, more like a fleshy caterpillar than the usual stick-thin fairies that gallivanted around gardens. She doubted this one could even fly. No visible iron bound the fairy to the man, but judging by its tameness and condition, it had to be the man’s pet. The poor thing.
Behind both men, a woman in a simple red cotton work smock stood with her fists clenched. Her straw hat rested askew over an updo of black hair. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her eyes were hard.
“She told you no,” Cy said.
“It ain’t your affair!” yelled the man.
“Goddamn it, Cy would get in a stupid, drunken, public fight over a matter of chivalry,” growled Fenris. “All the man needs is silver armor and a white stallion.” He wedged forward, his elbow jabbing out as he unholstered the Tesla rod again. Ingrid used her height and width to shove through to the perimeter of the audience.
“I’m none of your affair,” the woman snapped at the brawny man. “I was minding my own business on my way to work and you grabbed me.” A sewing basket lay on the ground, tipped. She crouched to gather up her scissors and spools of thread that had rolled into crevices in the bricks.
Ingrid stalked into the open circle. “Here, let me help,” she said, and began to pick up spools. The woman granted her a strained yet grateful nod. A few men on the outskirts of the crowd began to help as well.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Cy said over his shoulder.
“Seemed like a nice time to go for a walk since it’s not raining yet.” The Tesla rod sizzled as Fenris extended it.
The bearish man wiped his face with his knuckles. “You’re not the only one who can get help from friends. Charlie! Godfrey!” he yelled.
Ingrid dropped the last few spools in the woman’s box. “Get out of here!” she hissed.
The woman shot her a frown. She stood and strode past Cy to stare down the other man. “You’re a lout. If your mother’s alive, I pray to God she doesn’t know the measure of the man she raised, and if she’s already in heaven, every time it rains you should know she weeps over you.” Everyone stared in stunned silence, including the gawking brute. The woman brought back her arm and slapped him across the face. Spittle flew. At that, she turned away. The crowd parted like the Red Sea to let her through.
“Charlie! Godfrey!” the man roared. His full attention turned to Fenris and Cy. He straightened his hat. The pixie hadn’t moved. If it wasn’t for the buzz of magical energy, Ingrid would have guessed it was dead. Maybe it was drunk.
“We’re coming, boss!” someone yelled from up the street.
Ingrid met both Cy’s and Fenris’s eyes, and with a synchronized nod to one another, they took off at a sprint. Cy hesitated just long enough to grab his hat and coat.
Within some twenty feet, Ingrid was reminded yet again that running was a very bad idea. Her legs burned, her breath huffed. She wasn’t physically fit enough to run, anyway, and now the magical exertions of the past week had dropped
her endurance to pathetic new lows. Cy and Fenris passed her and slowed to flank her instead, much to her frustration. She glanced back. The man pursued them at an incredible speed for a person of such bulk. His face was scarlet, his hat gone.
“Enough of this,” said Fenris. He halted and lashed out with the rod. A brief look of bewilderment passed over the man’s face, and then he hit the ground, convulsing and screaming as if he’d been swarmed by wasps.
Cy tugged on Ingrid’s arm. Whistles pierced the air. She didn’t need another reminder to skedaddle. She clutched an arm to her waist to hold the guandao still, and ran. The last thing they wanted was a trip to a local precinct where a bulletin might advertise her name and likeness for Ambassador Blum.
They ran down the next block, slowing as the crowds diminished, and then walked to blend in. Fenris put away the rod. Cy slid on his leather coat, cringing as the sleeves passed over his fists.
“Well, fancy meeting you here,” he repeated.
Fenris stopped in his tracks to face him. “Yes. What the hell were you thinking?” he hissed. “Leaving like that. Getting drunk. Starting street fights over some strange woman.”
Cy flushed. “I’m not drunk. I haven’t had a single drink.” He looked between Fenris and Ingrid, his gaze lingering on her.
This certainly wasn’t how Ingrid had imagined things would develop after their night together. She simultaneously felt the need to wallop him for dashing off in such a foolish way and a desire to hug him in sympathy for his grief . . . and also wished to take off all his clothes to inspect him for injuries and perhaps help him to forget those wounds as well. While chastising him most strongly.
Ingrid gestured Cy and Fenris into the shelter of an awning. She leaned on the wall. She was weak, and suddenly she felt famished as well. That single jamu-pan and a few bites of apple hadn’t sufficed.
She felt a sudden spike of fear. Cy had been right to worry about her. Ingrid would need to take extra care not to absorb more earth energy in the next while. Her miserable sprint just now acted as a reminder that being physically strong was far more important than being magically strong.
