A massive wave rose in their wake, threatening to blanket the shore. And riding in the wave was the Kreak, a conglomeration of discordant metal. Oscar could make out its strange, clockwork eyes, and the vulnerable heart and lungs pumping from within its cage of a chest.
He’d never stood this close to the beast. He couldn’t help the morbid fascination that overtook him, despite the wailing pain at his shoulder. Rosalind tugged at him. Victoria called to him, Graham’s abandoned shoes and shirt in hand. But still he stared, transfixed.
It wasn’t a single heart in the Kreak’s metal chest. It was many smaller versions all mashed together like grains of dirt caught in chewing gum. To what purpose?
Sense rattled back into Oscar’s brain, and he gripped Rosalind’s shoulders. “Let’s go!” he cried.
“Graham!” said Victoria, leaping from the boat toward the beast and the roiling ocean.
“No!” Rosalind cried out after her friend. The reality of it overtook her and she fell. Oscar barely caught her before she hit the boat’s soaked planks. Her weight wasn’t much—it never had been—but a sudden heaviness in his right arm pulled, dragging them both to crash against the wetness of the bottom.
“Are you all right?” he yelled over the discord.
“My dress!” Rosalind pointed to her feet.
Oscar knelt, his trousers unable to get any wetter than they already were, and yanked at the soaked fabric caught on a peg just below the boat’s side. It tore, freeing her to fall against him and knock his aching arm against the bench.
The Kreak roared in a terrifying shriek. The town’s siren split the air, shrill and piercing. Harry and Dahlia must have finally seen the beast. Soon the pilots would alight and help, but that wasn’t much of a comfort.
Oscar’s thoughts brimmed with the memories of the woman’s screams, the way her skin had bruised over before melting from her bones, the way her son had trembled, when the Kreak’s taloned arm swooped down and snatched Rosalind by the waist.
“No!” Oscar cried, his arms reaching as Rosalind was lifted far above his head. He’d kill it. He would kill it if that thing so much as harmed her.
He charged toward the beast’s large legs, each the size of a plane and pieced together by circles and scraps of metal. It reeked of fish and seawater, of rust and salt, but Oscar managed to fight the churning in his stomach and latch on to one of the large metal pieces near the thing’s foot.
Adrenaline scoured through him, and he climbed, managing to keep hold despite the slippery wet metal. Desperation fueled him, pushing him higher and higher over the dripping height of the beast.
Rosalind’s scream jarred his attention. Oscar pulled back enough to see the Kreak opening its mouth and lowering Rosalind to its gape. It hadn’t emitted any of its poisonous breath yet, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t about to.
“No!” Oscar shouted. His arm throbbed, growing heavier the higher he climbed. He was at the shoulder of the thing now, but it was no use. Rosalind screamed and flailed, prying against the talon of metal gripping around her.
Graham emerged around the side of the Kreak’s face, a steel bar in hand. Rosalind lowered and lowered, closer and closer to the trap of a mouth. Graham reached in, wedging the bar into a pulsing gland within the orifice, blocking the greenish fumes from building up within.
The Kreak choked and gave off a blood-curdling wail. It fell back, releasing Rosalind who tumbled to the sand ten feet below.
Oscar’s hands slipped down the sides of the metal until he was at a safe jumping distance. He dived to the sand as Graham did. Gritty grains of sand stuck to Oscar’s skin and clothing. He spat out sand that had collected on his tongue, and he broke for the direction Rosalind had fallen.
Several planes boomed overhead. Their flames seared the sky, lighting it with a brilliant haze. The Kreak raised its metal arms, shielding its face, gagging on the metal bar still blocking its breath. It ducked to the side, dodging the flames, crushing the sand. But the planes pressed on, alternating their fumes and pushing the beast back into the sea.
Rosalind had landed, unmoving, near the boat, her head angled to one side. Her hair had come free of its twist, and Oscar could make out the rip in her soaked skirts.
“Is she okay?” Graham yelled over the ruckus. Blood dribbled down his sand-crusted cheek, and his bare chest heaved.
Oscar’s heart seemed to beat on the outside of him, pulsing all over his body, making him more aware of the salty air, of the noise of the planes pushing the beast back into the ocean, and of the ache in his shoulder. He waited for her to move, for her lids to blink. She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be.
Victoria ran from the Kreak’s direction, relief overriding the desperation on her face, and threw herself into Graham’s arms. Oscar couldn’t hear her words. He heard nothing but Rosalind’s overwhelming silence. The sand played tricks on his feet, tilting him this way and that. How could anything be upright if she were gone?
“Come on,” Graham said, shaking him. Oscar fought, pushed him away, but Graham shook harder, forcing Oscar to meet his severe eyes. “We can’t stay here!” Graham shouted.
Sense kicked back in. Oscar bent to lift Rosalind’s motionless form from the sand. Her head hung back. Her mouth dangled open, and he carried her away as her skirt swept across the damp sand.
Twenty-eight
Dahlia’s body tingled in a way it never had before. The wind whipped her hair, flapping her dress, and she battled with the thoughts raging in her skull. Her injured ankle throbbed, shouting all the hurt she couldn’t quite put a finger on.
Feelings that seemed to get their start from that very injury swirled in her chest. The evening had all gone as she’d hoped. She’d been invited in. She’d flirted. Coaxed herself into Harry’s lap and finally gotten him to kiss her—something she had wanted to do for far too long.
The evening had passed in a similar fashion. She’d guided Harry to the pad serving as a bed in the shack’s corner, stealing his attention from the shore where it should have been. They’d kissed, giggled, and whispered, sharing their thoughts.
Then the pain had come, ripping at her leg. She’d released a cry and lifted her skirt for a look at her ankle. Silver cogs split the seams of her bandage. She tore the ruined dressing from her foot and stared in terror.
“What in the devil’s name is that?” Harry had asked, horrified at the sight of the metal, as though a clockwork appendage had taken place of her foot.
Dahlia’s mouth had gone dry. She couldn’t answer before the noise outside had drawn Harry’s attention away, back to his window.
The lesions under her skin. The pain. She’d had no idea it was turning her into that. Her foot looked as though it had been pieced together by bits of metal. It looked like . . .
Like . . .
After triggering the siren too late, Harry had run out to help Rosalind, Graham, and Oscar. And now Harry’s body lay broken on the beach, crushed by the Kreak’s massive foot, and no one noticed but Dahlia.
She stared at his lifeless eyes that an hour ago had been so doting and mischievous. His hands that had held her so gently were crushed and mangled. Blood stained the sand behind his head.
She shouldn’t have come. She should have been at her place in the Aviatory. She could have helped.
Her sorrow pooled down, collecting in the pain gnawing at her ankle. She wasn’t sure what to do about it. The newly formed metal appendage grew heavy, bulky, pulling her to the sand beside Harry. She stroked his forehead.
“What fools we are,” she said, watching the rising tide, willing the pain to disappear.
The water called to her. It assured relief and respite, the way a hot bath sieved out the stress after a long day. She could feel the declaration with each lapping wave.
Come, it said. I offer comfort.
Her ankle heavier than she could bear, she
dragged herself toward the tide, gripping handfuls of sand until she reached its packed-down wetness nearest the sea. The water would help this all-encompassing pain, she was sure of it.
Small waves licked their way toward her. She welcomed the slithering wetness, tears finally escaping to join it. With enormous effort, she pulled herself—and her substantial leg—until the water engulfed her entirely.
She did not emerge from its depths.
Twenty-nine
Muscles Victoria wasn’t even aware she had ached. Even at the smallest crevices on her back, her thighs, her calves. Everywhere.
She blinked to find herself studying not the exposed metal framework of the Aviatory’s ceiling from within the darker, velvet curtains surrounding her bed, but the gauzy white canopy draping over her bed at home. Her uncle stood there among the curtains, and she gasped, drawing the blankets to her chin.
“You’re awake now, are you?” he said gruffly. Every one of Uncle Jarvis’s stern features seemed to glare at her. She’d never noticed how long his sideburns were.
The events of the previous night crashed back into her memory. Her Naut training had given her a false sense of confidence, she realized. How stupid they were. And now Rosalind could be dead because of it.
Guilt twisted her stomach. “Is Rosalind all right?” Victoria asked. “And Graham—is he here?” And the Kreak, had they accomplished anything at all? How foolish we were. Of course the Kreak would notice our movement on the water and attack.
“Rosalind is partially blind. It seems while she was being held by the creature, it managed to breathe some fumes in her direction. Not enough to kill her, but sometimes death isn’t the worst thing that can befall a person.”
“Good heavens,” Victoria said in complete shock. Her thoughts rehashed every horrifying detail. Rosalind wasn’t even meant to come. Why, why had she come?
Victoria attempted to rise against her pillows. She winced and slumped back.
Victoria had been sure she’d died, if not from the fumes, then by falling from such a height to the sand. But blindness? That was awful.
“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves.” Uncle Jarvis loomed over Victoria’s bed. “Your snooping has incurred unnecessary wrath from our enemy. Now who knows what that creature will do? Mr. Birkley damaged it—he gave me the pieces he was able to extract, but they tell us nothing. Nothing! Did I not tell you our methods were fine? Did I not warn you to leave well enough alone?”
Fear pulsed through her at the rage in his eyes. “Yes, Uncle,” she forced herself to say. “I’m sorry for what happened. To Rosalind, and for all of it.” She pressed her chin to her chest, the words too overwhelming.
Jarvis bent to yell in her face. “A watcher lost his life last night, are you aware of that? He lost his life because of you!”
Victoria let the words sink in. Harry Fenstermaker.
Harry was dead, and it was her fault. She’d been the one to come up with this plan. She’d been the one to invite Dahlia along for the sole purpose of distracting Harry. If he’d been able to do his job, he’d still be alive.
“And Dahlia Covington has gone missing. Because you—”
“What?” Victoria succeeded at pushing herself up this time.
She scrambled to understand. Dahlia was her best friend. A tingling was taking over her chest, making it harder to breathe. Where had she gone?
“What do you mean she’s gone missing? What is being done to find her? Are the constables searching for her?”
“Of course they are!” he snapped. “But they wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t decided to defy my orders again last night!”
Uncle Jarvis backed away from her, pounding a fist against her bedpost.
Tears pricked Victoria’s eyes. Dahlia, missing. What had become of her? Had she been taken captive by the creature when it killed Harry?
Grief washed anew at the thought. Harry wasn’t much older than she. How could this have happened?
Part of what he said was true enough, but the injustice of it all spiked her blood. She could not claim all the blame. She fidgeted, her muscles screaming in protest. Oh, how she wished she could stand instead of having to sit there in her bed and endure him towering over her.
“Perhaps if you had decided to help us,” she said softly, “something more could have been accomplished. We cannot go on with the way things are. Surely you must know that.”
Jarvis’s nostrils flared. He said nothing for a long while. They stared at one another in glaring silence until he finally moved, turning his back to her.
“Whatever the case, Mayor Goshawk has returned, and he will be addressing you four in front of the Town Council this afternoon. Rosalind and Oscar, I’m sure, will both be punished by their parents, as will you. And needless to say, Mr. Birkley is no longer welcome in our house.”
The Town Hall was crowded by the time Victoria and her mother arrived. Victoria stared at the masses congregating in the one-roomed building, filling rows and rows of pews that lined the open space before a small stage. Two sets of staircases, one on either side, led to a balcony above.
A constable was stationed at either staircase, and Victoria shuddered. She’d been to the jail cells on the far end of the town only once, with her father long ago. They were dark and dank, and prisoners were often taken with illness soon after their incarceration. She did not want to go there.
Rosalind sat beside her father in the pew nearest to the stage. Lord Baxter stared ahead, solemn, never once looking over at his daughter or the white bandage wrapped around her eyes. That didn’t stop others from staring, however. Several ladies spoke behind their hands, noses sniffing and chins raised in the Baxters’ direction. Lord Baxter’s eyes dared them to ask what happened to his daughter.
It was mortifying that her friend was on display like a freak show. It was like a flag signaling their failure. That was probably the reason Victoria’s uncle had arranged for this trial.
A riot of emotions tumbled through her. Shame and guilt took precedence among them, tingeing like bad wine on her tongue. What had they done? And what were they going to do about it?
She glanced and found the Covingtons sitting in their pew. Dahlia’s mother’s face was shrouded by a black veil, and she intermittently snuck a handkerchief beneath it to dab at her eyes.
Victoria’s heart stung at the sight. Dahlia’s disappearance was her fault too. Where could her friend have gone? And why? Victoria shuddered to think that Dahlia might have been killed as well. She wished she could sit with Graham, that she could ask if he had any theories about Dahlia’s disappearance. Where was he?
She scanned the surrounding area, desperate for a glimpse of him.
There. In the balcony, Graham sat beside Oscar and his parents. A narrow cut nicked Graham’s cheek. Victoria waited for him to meet her gaze, but his attention was on Oscar. The two boys whispered, glancing down at Rosalind occasionally. Graham shook his head adamantly as if trying to convince Oscar of something. And then, slowly, Graham’s eyes slid to Victoria’s.
The room shrunk at that look. The balcony lowered and offered him to her in an instant. Victoria’s mouth was a desert, her heart a mallet. Graham tipped a finger from his forehead down in a sort of salute, and she nodded back.
She longed to abandon her mother and go to him, but she dutifully sat on a side bench beside Enid Digby. She faced the center of the stage where her uncle and a few of the other town lords sat. The mayor’s seat in the center was still vacant. Victoria wondered at that. Wasn’t it he who had called this meeting?
Movement caught her eye, and she turned to see Bronwyn, Aline, and Emma approaching, arms folded. Bronwyn’s dark eyes narrowed into a glare.
“You should have told us what you were planning,” she said.
A lump formed in Victoria’s throat. She attempted to rise, but Bronwyn shoved her back down by t
he shoulders.
“We could have had the craft ready. We could have helped you!” she went on in her deep, brassy voice.
“A true leader doesn’t go off on her own and endanger the whole town,” Emma added forcefully, much different from her usual reserved manner.
Victoria could feel eyes penetrating her from all sides, but she forced her gaze to the Nauts. “You’re right,” she said, a sick twisting in her belly.
Aline opened her mouth as if to argue, or as if surprised that Victoria wasn’t defending herself, Victoria wasn’t sure which. She didn’t know Aline well—not the way she did the other girls. Aline had only taken Maizey’s place within the last few weeks. But she felt guilty about that too, at the moment. She was their leader. A squad needed to stick together.
“I just—I wanted you all to be safe,” Victoria added.
“Horseradish,” said Bronwyn with a sneer. “You worried we would rat you out. And now Dahlia is gone.”
Victoria’s eyes closed. There was no question of it now—she would lose her position over this, for good this time. But she hadn’t lost it yet. She was still their leader.
She rose to her feet.
“No one is sorrier than I am about Dahlia. We will find her. But I tell you now, something had to be done. You know as well as I, you would not have been equipped and at the ready.” Bronwyn opened her mouth to argue, but Victoria spoke over her. “You would have balked at me and gone straight to my uncle. You wouldn’t have known that the Kreak would attack any more than we did, so calm down, ladies. It is not your place to question me.”
The three girls sniffed and exchanged glances. Bronwyn straightened her stocky shoulders. “It’s no secret I don’t like you. You’re arrogant, and the only reason you’re the leader is because of your uncle. But as you say, you’re the leader. We would have followed you.”
Victoria gaped at them as the three girls veered off to their pew a few rows back. Was Bronwyn right, and she had underestimated them?
The Perilous In-Between Page 19
