by Arthur Slade
At first she wouldn’t give them up. “Why?”
“Only men drive carriages here. Besides, Lime will recognize you. Get down, into the cabin.”
“You do not give the orders, Modo. This is a partnership!” she said, relinquishing the reins. “At least hold them correctly. You must feel the horses’ mouth from this distance. So, do you have a plan?”
“To smash right into them and knock Lime off his perch.”
“Will your mother survive the collision?”
Modo had no response. Colette had caught him off guard.
“Your plan will fail. The horses will not charge directly into another wagon and besides, they are exhausted. Better to approach from behind slowly and not let them know who we are. We should wake Octavia.”
Modo heaved a sigh, pulled on the reins, and pounded on the roof until the window slid aside. “Yes, what’s all the pounding for?” Octavia shouted.
“They are just ahead of us,” he said.
“Do you have a plan?” she asked.
“What is it with you two?” he snapped. “Of course I have a plan! We are going to catch up with them. Slowly. From there we’ll have to adjust as the situation develops.”
“Ah, we’re winging it, then,” Octavia said.
Before Modo could protest, Colette said, “If you pull up alongside them I will jump across to the back of their carriage, get your mother out of that monster’s clutches, and, if possible, get her back into our wagon. Lime won’t even see me.”
“You won’t go alone,” Octavia said. “I’ll help steal the poor woman from under their noses. Let’s hope your driving skills are up to it, Modo.”
“Then that is our plan,” he agreed. It seemed impossible to pull off, but he couldn’t think of a better idea.
Colette climbed along the side of the carriage, her dress flapping in the breeze. Octavia opened the door and followed her until both were hanging off the back. Having these two on his side was like having ten good men. Modo felt a surge of hope. Lime and his partner wouldn’t know what hit them.
He brushed sweat from his brow. His features were slipping back to ugliness; exertion had sped up the process. What did he care? He’d frighten Lime half to death, then break him like a twig. Do not let anger drive your decisions, Tharpa had told him many times. Well then, he’d use it to overpower his enemies instead.
Modo eased the carriage closer and closer, until it was only twenty feet behind Lime’s. They were now traveling on a winding road toward a town. Étaples, Colette had called it. Modo could see a port in the distance.
Lime lifted a pistol and Modo prepared to swerve out of the way if he turned to shoot. Lime aimed the weapon straight up and fired, sending a flare arcing through the darkening sky.
A few seconds later an answering flare lit the sky. It had come from a large steamship anchored near the coast. Lime was much more prepared than Modo had expected; there’d be swarms of Guild soldiers on that ship.
He urged the sweating horses to a gallop and within a minute he was side by side with his enemy. He wanted to leap into the other carriage. The curtains were drawn and that behemoth of a man was in there with his mother. It was all he could do not to jump.
Remember the plan! He slowed the horses, trying to match the other carriage’s speed, hoping to make it easier for Colette and Octavia to leap onto the back of Lime’s carriage.
“Nous sommes pressés!” he spat out. He’d nearly shouted “in a hurry” in English. “Passagers importants!”
Lime turned and glared. His skin was so pale it was almost luminescent now that dusk was upon them. “Fools rush in,” the man replied, “where angels fear to tread. Nay, fly to Altars; there they’ll talk you dead.”
Colette had been right. He thought himself a poet and was quoting Alexander Pope, of all people, and not even accurately! Modo pointed at his ear and shrugged as if to say he didn’t hear. He edged his carriage as close to Lime’s as possible, so close that his horses nearly rubbed sweaty shoulders with Lime’s horses. Then he felt a lift in the weight of the carriage as Octavia and Colette leapt off.
“Passagers importants!” Modo said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at his cargo. That was when he realized that their plan could be adjusted. It was too difficult to pull his mother into a moving carriage. Modo could more easily hop across and knock the poetic teeth out of Lime’s head, along with his consciousness. Then he’d yank on the reins and bring the carriage to a stop. But how to stop Typhon from hurting his mother?
“Why, dear lass, are you taking so long to pass?” Lime shouted.
Modo shrugged. “Je ne parle pas anglais.”
“How do you know I’m speaking English?”
“Je ne parle pas anglais!” Modo repeated.
Lime chuckled. “The little mockingbird doth sing.” Had Lime seen through his ruse? Modo gave the reins another snap; then, once he was a few yards ahead of the other wagon, he yanked the reins to the left, forcing his horses to cut across the path of the other carriage. At the same time he cracked his whip at Lime, hoping to knock him off his perch.
As if it were a well-rehearsed feat, Lime caught the end of the whip and pulled so sharply that it flew out of Modo’s hand. Lime used his own whip to attack Modo, the leather flying with such precision that it caught Modo below the eye.
Modo raised both his hands to protect his eyes, but the whip laid open the flesh on his cheek. He screamed with rage, but even through that he could hear Lime’s high-pitched cackle. “ ‘Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven!’ ” the man yelled. Another crack and Modo’s left ear was stinging with pain. Modo released the reins and leapt, hoping he was soaring toward Lime.
A shot rang out.
22
A Hole in Your Skull
It had unraveled far more quickly than Colette had imagined possible—A poor plan falls apart like a house of cards, her father had drilled into her. She’d leapt across to the back of the other carriage and swung around the far side, all without Lime noticing. Octavia was only a few handholds behind her. Colette gave her a smile and Octavia grinned back.
After a signal to Octavia, Colette pushed aside the window, revealing red plush curtains. A stench like dead meat assailed her nostrils.
She moved the curtain back slightly and peeked in. The side of the monster’s head was inches away. She moved the curtain a little farther. He was staring down at Madame Hébert. Her bonnet was in disarray, her face ghostly pale, and eyes downcast, as if she did not dare look at her captor.
Colette noted Typhon’s matted, dark hair, the greenish ear stitched into place on the monster’s skull. It was as if this man were not born of a woman but sewn together by a tailor. Was it possible? Was that why she couldn’t kill him with bullets? He might not have had a heart, but whatever his making, she was certain he had a brain, and most men preferred to keep their brains within their skulls. With one hand gripping the wagon, she brought her derringer up, used the barrel to thrust the curtain aside, and then placed it against the side of Typhon’s head, whispering, “Don’t move or I’ll blast a hole in your head.” She nodded to Octavia, who had to crawl over Colette to get to the carriage door.
The hulking thing made no reply. Was he deaf? Colette dug her derringer harder into his temple. That would get his attention. He turned his head ever so slightly, the pale skin wrinkling, his dull eyes measuring her. They held no intelligence. No pity. Nothing human.
“Do not move,” she repeated.
Octavia opened the door and climbed in, scrambled over the monster’s legs, and rammed open the opposite door. It would be a short leap to the other carriage. She then turned her attention to Madame Hébert, grabbing her arm and trying to yank her out of the prison on wheels. But the woman wouldn’t budge or even open her eyes. She might have been drugged.
“Madame Hébert! We are here to help you,” Colette whispered in French.
Before Colette could react, Typhon smashed his fist through the thin carriage
wall and grabbed her wrist, squeezing her arm so tightly that she felt as if bones would break. She pulled the trigger, her derringer fired, and at the same moment the wagon lurched to one side. The monstrous man was still squeezing her arm. Had she missed his head? How was that possible? He was less than an inch away from the barrel of her gun! She pulled the hammer back again, with her teeth. She wouldn’t miss a second time!
Before she could finger the trigger she was yanked into the cabin through the window, glass breaking around her, and landed on the floor beside Madame Hébert. The wagons crashed together, tearing off the door of Lime’s. Octavia fell out, nearly pulling Madame Hébert with her.
“Octavia!” Colette shouted. Had she survived? Colette saw a flapping dress—Octavia had found a handhold on their carriage and was pulling herself inside. Colette grabbed Madame Hébert’s hand, intending to pull her across.
“Woman stay,” Typhon grunted. He yanked Madame Hébert out of Colette’s grip and sat her, almost gently, across from him. He turned to Colette, who was reaching for her stiletto. “Woman go.”
She raised her arms, but he smacked her so hard that she flew out the opposite door, and, at the last moment, Octavia caught her and dragged her into the other carriage.
“Anything broken?” Octavia asked.
“No.” Colette wasn’t certain. “We need an elephant gun to kill that thing. A cannon.”
Then there was a great crash and the carriage disintegrated around them.
23
A Moment of Beauty
Modo was wrestling with a human eel. Every time he thought he had a firm grip, Lime slipped out of his hands and landed another blow. And all the while Lime was laughing and shouting, “Tra la la!” He was absolutely cracked. Modo did manage to knock a knife from the man’s hand, but he was rewarded with a fist right to his throat.
They had reached the outskirts of Étaples when the carriage veered off the road and struck a post and then the side of an inn. Modo was thrown face-first to the ground and then scrambled to his feet.
Both horses had broken free and were charging madly down the road, dragging their harnesses behind them. All the carriage windows were smashed, and it had landed with the front jammed into the ground, the back wheels still spinning in the air. A moment of silence passed, enough time for Modo to see that his carriage was on its side a hundred yards behind him, the two horses trying to pull themselves out of their harnesses.
The door to Lime’s carriage smashed open and Typhon leapt out, clutching Madame Hébert. She was flopped over, so Modo couldn’t see her face.
But this was Modo’s first good look at the giant. Nearly twice as tall as Modo, legs like the trunks of trees. Modo felt for a weapon, but his stiletto had fallen out of its sheath. He had no gun, but Colette had said that bullets were useless, and now Modo believed her. Typhon hadn’t moved, but he was looking around, for Lime, perhaps.
And now, more horrible than this monster, rising in the air over Typhon’s shoulder, was what Modo first took for a dark cloud. Then he realized that an airship was approaching, scudding earthward. It had probably taken off from the deck of the steamship. It was steel-plated and would be heavily armed. Typhon began lumbering toward the dock.
Modo ran and jumped, aiming squarely for the monster’s back, but in midair a whip wrapped around his throat. He was jerked backward and flipped hard onto his spine, the breath knocked from his lungs. He grabbed the whip and pulled. Lime came tumbling off the roof of the carriage. Modo hit him with a palm strike, knocking him to the side. Modo ripped the coils of the whip from around his neck, charged toward Typhon, and head-butted him in the spine. Typhon kept going, the woman now draped across both his arms. Modo struck him again and this time the giant turned, gently set the woman down, and faced Modo. The airship was getting closer.
For such a massive creature, Typhon moved with great speed. Modo dodged his first blow and came in under his arms, planning to execute a body throw, but the thing countered quickly and locked hands with him. Modo had never met a man stronger than himself; he had lifted wagons, even an airship’s boiler with his bare hands, but he couldn’t budge Typhon. He was hefted like a sack and held in the air. The man’s eyes were empty, his face a map of scars and stitches.
“Woman to skyship,” Typhon grunted. “Must get her.”
“Don’t talk him to death,” Lime shouted. He walked underneath the struggling Modo, rubbing blood from his nose. “Break the bastard’s spine, Typhon,” Lime spat, grabbing Madame Hébert’s arms and dragging her to the ropes that dangled from the airship.
Modo was lifted higher, and had a clear view of the airship. No sign of Miss Hakkandottir, though a black Clockwork Guild flag flapped at the bottom of the aircraft. Along its side was the name Erebus. Six soldiers in gray uniforms were rappelling to the ground—Guild soldiers.
“Let me go!” Modo shouted.
“Break spine.” Typhon lifted Modo even higher and maneuvered him so that he was hanging over a stone fountain next to the inn. Then the monster let out a small huff of air and Modo fell to the cobblestones.
“Leave him alone!”
Colette was between them now, her stiletto buried deep in the center of the creature’s chest. Typhon yanked the stiletto out and stared at the black sludge clinging to it. Colette swung a piece of the carriage, but it broke on Typhon’s arm. He dropped the knife, grabbed her by the shoulder and legs, lifted and spun her as one might a child in a playful game. Wildly, Typhon released her. She flew several yards through the air, out of Modo’s line of sight. A moment later there was a crash and a groan.
Typhon lumbered back and glared down at Modo.
Modo could only raise his arms, like some upturned insect flailing on its back. Was his spine broken? Typhon leaned over and stared directly into Modo’s eyes. It had a hideously ugly face. There were stitches across its cheeks, and its eyes were two different colors.
Modo tried to shift his own face, to go back to his own ugliness. Perhaps that would shock the creature.
Typhon held his massive hand a few feet above Modo’s chest. Oddly, it had a disproportionately small pinkie finger. Modo was briefly mesmerized by that finger, and his own suddenly itched.
Typhon poked him hard in the chest. Modo groaned.
“You broken,” Typhon announced, then lumbered toward the airship.
For several moments Modo couldn’t move. He heard the pop pop of pistol fire. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to roll onto his side. Octavia was crouching behind a statue of a man on horseback and firing her derringer at the airship. Modo still couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t get up. He turned his head to see the airship beginning to rise, the soldiers aiming rifles at them. A bullet struck the cobblestone near Modo’s head, spraying him with stinging chips of stone.
A bell rang in a nearby church. Modo blacked out, for how long he couldn’t say. When he opened his eyes again, his head was in Octavia’s lap. “Modo! Modo! Wake up! Wake up!”
With great effort, and her help, he was able to slowly sit up. “Don’t move too quickly,” Octavia said. “You look like hell. Your face has some rather wicked gashes.”
Modo nodded. Townspeople had gathered, and he could hear the buzz of their whispering. “Where’s my mother?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Modo. I tried to stop Lime, but he’s got her.”
“And Colette?”
“She’s …” Octavia averted her eyes. “She’s over there. She’s not doing well.” Octavia helped him to his feet and he limped to where Colette had been thrown.
“It’s really bad,” Octavia warned him.
And it was. Colette had struck her head and was bleeding from several scalp wounds; a trickle of blood leaked from her nose. Her body was crumpled on the cobblestones, her left arm obviously broken. Her eyes were open.
They crouched over her.
“Colette,” Modo said.
She raised a hand as if to wave. “Did you … did you save your mother?”
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“No.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Ah, I am so sorry, Modo. This is what happens when you do not have a proper plan.” She gritted her teeth. “I—I am not long.… ”
“I won’t hear of it,” Octavia said. “Someone’s gone for the doctor.” She squeezed Colette’s hand and tears came to her eyes. “We still have too much to argue about.”
Colette managed a smile. Modo dabbed a handkerchief at the blood on her face.
“Tavia—may I call you that?”
“Please.”
“May I”—she coughed, but her voice remained weak—“have t-time alone with Modo?”
“Of course.” Octavia left and Modo could hear her trying to keep the townspeople back, saying, “Non! Non!” The total of her French vocabulary.
“Modo,” Colette said in a faltering voice. “I have failed you.”
“No, you haven’t.” But to himself he said: We failed. We failed, failed, failed.
“I ask—” She took a sharp breath and it was several moments before she sucked in another. “Will you show me your face? Just once more.”
“No.”
“Please, Modo. Don’t deny me this. I must see it.”
It was easy to shift his shape as he was completely exhausted. He let his features slide, his face blossom back into ugliness. A few moments later it was as deformed as it had been at birth. His hair began to fall out in clumps. Modo prepared for her reaction.
She looked up with red-veined eyes, blinked. “It is beautiful,” she whispered, so sincerely that he wondered if she were delirious. “Merci, my bonne chance friend.” She closed her eyes and breathed one last broken breath.
He brushed her dark hair back behind her ear and began to sob. She was, despite her wounds, still so perfectly elegant. So much lost. His sob turned to a low howl, his body shaking.
After several moments he felt Octavia’s hands on his shoulder, pulling him away. “We have to go, Modo. Gendarmes will soon be here.”
He stood and turned around to see that a very large, noisy crowd had now gathered. A few braver townspeople explored the wreckage, perhaps looking for more victims; the warier ones had gathered at the edge of the debris. Some backed away from Modo when they saw his face.
