by Elise Kova
“Then give yourself to me now?”
Like he had given her a choice. “I demand something in exchange.”
He laughed darkly against her shoulder. “Of course you do.”
“I want your lungs.”
“My lungs?” he repeated.
If he were to give them to her, perhaps she could make time stop. In those frozen moments, she could let go of her own harsh judgment for loving such a man. She could savor him, as though he wasn’t about to step into a role that prohibited her from standing by his side.
It would be the only part of him she could keep forever.
“Give them to me. Make me Perfect.”
He paused and pulled away. His brow furrowed as he inspected her thoughtfully. His long, blue fingers ran through her snow-colored hair and swept it from her brow in thought.
“Arianna, you were perfect long before the Philosopher’s Box.”
If only it were true.
“Give them to me. Please.”
“If that is what you want of me, then it is yours.” He kissed her again. “I am yours.”
Cvareh crushed her lips with his and encircled her waist with his arms, and Arianna forgot about all reservations as he pushed her against the wall.
FLORENCE
“With this, we will be able to fight Dragons head-on,” Vicar Gregory addressed the Revolvers’ Guild. In his hand was a weapon he hoisted up to his shoulder with ease. It had the look of a rifle, only shorter and fatter through the barrel. Wires connected disk-like multipliers, covered in the scratches of Alchemical runes, along its length. “With this, we will no longer be forced to rely on imperfect alchemy or failed negotiations.”
“Will there be a Philosopher’s Box?” an initiate asked from Florence’s left.
It was disturbingly easy to take stock of the guild. All of them now fit into a single cavern in the Underground. There were about twenty-five journeymen, thirty initiates, three masters, and the vicar. Florence would guess the Revolvers were at one-fifth of their previous size, maybe even less.
“The Rivets are still working on the Philosopher’s Box. But in the meantime, this will give us a real chance to escape the Underground and fight against the Dragons out in the open.” Gregory was back to showing off the weapon. “In fact, the preliminary work on the gun was done by the Master Rivet who designed the Philosopher’s Box herself.”
As murmurs flew between people assembled in the room, Shannra caught Florence’s eyes. There was no mention of Florence, which she could stomach since she hadn’t done much other than receive the letter; but there was no mention of Master Oliver—which Florence knew would not sit well with Arianna—or the last Vicar Revolver either.
She wanted to ask herself how such a selfish man could have landed as the head of the Revolvers. But then she remembered they hadn’t had many options to choose from. Knowing Gregory, he’d likely strong-armed his way into the position when the rest of the guild was still reeling from grief and terror.
“ . . . so I will be taking a select few with me topside this very day. We will go, and we shall use this to cut a Rider from the pack and take them down, so the Dragons know we are working on a weapon that their gliders and coronas won’t protect them from.”
“I volunteer.” An eager journeyman jumped to his feet.
“Take me with you!” A woman joined him, standing tall and resolved.
“I want to see the gun fire!” An initiate was not going to be left out. The Revolvers were nothing if not recklessly curious.
“The masters and I have already decided on the team.” Gregory motioned for them to sit down. “It shall be composed of Master Joseph, journeymen Thomas, Willie, Shannra . . .” There was a long pause, audibly separating the last name from the others of journeyman status. “ . . . and Florence.”
Florence’s ears perked up at her name. She rose to her feet, seeing that everyone else who had been called had done so. Shannra’s eyes squinted slightly at her. She knew they were both wondering the same thing: What was Gregory up to?
That question was the first thing out of Shannra’s mouth as they prepared to go topside in the hour that followed.
“Why would he invite you?” she mumbled, checking her guns for the second time.
“Perhaps he’s using me to help navigate the guild hall?” Florence was already on her third check.
“Did he even ask if you could?” Shannra asked. Florence shook her head. Truth was, she wasn’t even confident that she could, beyond broad strokes. It’d been so long since she was last there.
“I don’t like this, Flor.”
“Maybe it’s his way of thanking me for giving him the schematics?” Florence’s mind immediately jumped back to the vicar’s hasty calculations. “Share the glory of its first use?”
Shannra hummed, unconvinced. “Sharing isn’t something our vicar is known for.” The woman glanced around, but she had maintained her corner away from all the other journeymen. “What Arianna said about Gregory on Ter.0 is true. He’s a good Vicar Revolver, but not because he’s a renowned teacher.”
“It’s because he’s cutthroat.” Florence had figured out that much on her own. It was a strong front for the guild to have right now, especially when the world had gone to pieces and they needed the Vicar Revolver to be a beacon of strength. What was good for the guild, however, was not necessarily the best for Florence.
“He was only ever tolerated because he was effective.” Shannra harnessed her weapon.
The word effective stuck. Florence grabbed the other woman’s wrist, arresting her complete attention. Florence dropped her voice as low as possible.
“When I gave the schematics to him . . . he did some quick calculations, called the problem solved.”
“I hear a ‘but,’” Shannra whispered, evoking a solemn nod from Florence.
“I noticed the error. He ignored me when I tried to point it out.” Shannra’s scowl deepened. “He may have since fixed it.”
“I doubt it. Gregory was never much known for theory.”
“We’ll just have to be extra careful.”
They each packed an additional box of canisters before setting off to the arranged meeting point. It was a narrow room that had a ladder leading into the Ravens’ Guild hall. Vicar Dove had spared one Raven to guide them, inadvertently proving that Florence was not along to navigate. It was a young man who was looking very uncomfortable with the whole idea of what they were about to do.
“Our objective is simple,” Gregory instructed the small group. “We will head into the hall and up to a waiting point and wait for a whisper from a lookout. When Thomas gets the signal that a Dragon has landed, we will run to intercept, dispose of the Dragon, and return.” He said it as though doing so would be the simplest thing in the world. If Florence had learned one thing, it was that nothing was ever easy when it came to Dragons. “This is nothing more than a test run for the weapon.”
“Do you have any reason to believe the weapon may not work?” Florence just couldn’t keep her mouth shut.
“Are you questioning my work?”
“Is it not the nature of a journeyman to question?”
“It is. But you are no journeyman.”
“What am I, then?” Now was not the time to make such a demand, especially not when they were about to enter a dangerous situation. But Florence didn’t hesitate. “You said I was a Revo on Ter.0.”
“The masters have not yet discussed your official status, Florence.” Master Joseph stepped in to play damage control. “Perhaps that is something we can look into after this test.”
Gregory looked at Florence the entire time Joseph spoke. Florence didn’t take her eyes away. She refused to allow anyone to think they could intimidate her.
“Let’s go.” Gregory motioned for the Raven to lead up the ladder.
Florence had entered the Underground through the Ravens’ Guild, but this was a different pathway than last. She tried to make sense of where she might be,
dredged up old memories of her childhood in the guild, but it wasn’t until she saw a level marker along the main helix that she knew. They had a long way to go before they could even be seen by a Dragon, and that assumed any were currently flying around.
“It’s odd to see it so quiet,” Florence mused softly as they stepped onto the main track.
“I could grab us a trike?” the Raven offered, clearly compelled to fill the space with the sounds of engines churning and wheels spinning.
“Best to keep it quiet,” Gregory shot down the idea. “Don’t want to draw too much attention.”
They continued up the track on foot. Florence adjusted her grip on her gun, peering around corners as they passed. She had seen Dragons landing on the guild hall for stretches of time before taking off again. But it was entirely possible that they had begun to set up operations as they cleared different portions of the building, working their way downward in search of their prey.
There were no markers of Dragons anywhere, however. No markers of any other life, and the silence quickly became uncomfortable. Florence swallowed hard, looking around the group. There was no reason why they should all be so silent. The path they walked had every appearance of being safe and no one—not even Thomas with his Dragon ears—had any reason to believe there were enemies nearby.
Nevertheless, their lips had been sewn shut with invisible strings.
“We’re here,” the Raven said finally. “Halfway.”
“Take us to the closest room with one exit and no windows,” Gregory demanded. “We’ll wait there.”
The Raven led them to a small interior room that was little more than an access for the back panels that supplied electricity to the guild. It was a good thing the Alchemists had been hard at work developing alternatives to electricity, because the generators had long since stopped running and the room would’ve been completely dark without each of their torches.
“How long do you think it will take?” the man named Willie asked.
“However long it takes.” Vicar Gregory settled into a seated position, his prized weapon across his lap.
Florence used the opportunity to inspect it more closely. She scanned the wires, the multipliers, the gold channels that ran along the outside and peeked out from the inside. There was something about it that seemed off, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. As a result, she couldn’t even be sure there was anything wrong. Perhaps Gregory had seen his error after all and fixed it. Maybe that was why he’d let her come along—a silent nod to her help, however little credit he’d actually give her.
“So, does it use a canister?” Master Joseph made the Revolver’s equivalent of small talk.
“Only as a primer to get the reaction going. The rest is magic, after that.” Gregory seemed much more inclined to discuss the logistics of his weapon with someone he deemed his equal.
“So the wielder must be a Chimera?”
“Yes, though not a Perfect one.”
Florence couldn’t deny the merit of the idea. Making Perfect Chimera already felt like it was taking too long, and she was likely the person who would be the most patient with Arianna on the matter. It was also resource-intensive and mostly untested.
But making a gun . . . Most of those still alive on Loom were Chimeras—the healing powers of magic helped many who might not have otherwise survived the attacks on the guilds. If they could perfect this weapon and mass-produce it . . . Between that and Perfect Chimera, Loom would be unstoppable.
The conversation had faded and several of the party were dozing by the time Thomas sat up straight. Florence felt the familiar crackle of magic in the air that heralded a whisper link. Thomas brought his hand to his ear.
“Yes?” Thomas asked the person on the other end of his magical tether. Everyone in the room roused swiftly. “Middle floor . . . landing area . . . by a large crane . . .”
“Airship test pad.” The Raven knew the place instantly.
“Is it far?” Gregory stood.
“Not very, up a bit more.”
“Master Joseph, you focus on protecting the Raven as he leads us,” Gregory commanded. “I will be up running point with them. I want Thomas and Willie watching flanks. Florence and Shannra, take up the rear.”
It was an important and sometimes life-saving position, but no Revolver wanted to be put in the back, away from the front line and all the action. Yet again, Florence had no doubt this would come back as some slight against her.
They all voiced their agreement and set off as Gregory had instructed. If the tension was heavy when they ascended the tower, it was multiplied several times over now that they knew a Dragon was present. Everyone kept their breathing low, weapons drawn. Florence wished, not for the first time, that she had sought out an Alchemist for Dragon ears. Not having them suddenly felt like a severe limitation.
Shannra glanced around warily; Florence put her trust in the other woman’s magic and long pointed ears. Her head jerked and the Master Revolver held up his hand, looking in the same direction that Shannra was fixated on. Magic pulsed. Thomas raised his hand to his ear.
“Two more have—”
“One incoming!” Shannra announced, leveling her gun in the direction of a side hall. If Florence could feel the pulse of magic from Thomas’s whisper link, then surely any Dragon would’ve been drawn to it.
“I have the bastard in my sights,” Gregory proclaimed, hoisting his weapon.
Florence watched as the vicar’s gun slowly lit up. She felt his magic spike and the metal began to glow. Magic sparked off the gold in rainbow fractals that shone like embers and disappeared before hitting the ground. Alchemical runes shimmered. Power continued to build in the multipliers, lighting up the gun like a beacon to all Dragons nearby.
All at once, Florence knew why the gun had seemed so wrong to her.
She remembered the weapon she had made at the Alchemists’ Guild hall. It too had a series of runic multipliers, a series that Florence now knew had been flawed. That, combined with the magic discharge . . .
Florence looked to the door that everyone else had leveled their weapons against. She could hear the footsteps now, closing fast. She was torn between what she ought to do, and what she wanted to do. She wanted to get back at Gregory for every rebuff. She wanted him to bear the responsibility of his haste and hubris. But Florence wasn’t inclined to put herself above the best interests of Loom. Not even now.
“Gregory, put the gun down! There’s a mistake! The runes are wrong!” Her voice rose, as if to convey the severity of what she was saying.
Gregory did nothing. His eyes remained on the door, his magic pouring into the weapon. It was too late. The proverbial bucket holding his magic had tipped too far into the gun, and there was no way he would be able to disentangle himself from it now.
“Everyone, get back!” Florence could still feel the shrapnel and daze from the gun exploding in the skeleton forest. “It’s going to blow!”
Florence ran away. She didn’t care how it looked. She didn’t give two canisters about Gregory. All she knew was that she had to survive.
The door they had been watching slammed open, but Florence didn’t even turn. She threw herself down the hall, hands over head. Her ears filled with the sound of a Dragon’s snarl and then the explosion of magic.
Metal and concrete groaned; Florence was slammed into the ground. She tumbled, allowing the momentum to carry her further away along the shock wave. Another body rolled beside her, wheezes betraying life. Florence forced her eyes open and her hands under her shoulders. She pushed upwards, raising her head.
Willie slumped, dazed, against the wall to Florence’s right. She would’ve presumed him dead from the streak of blood that led down to his head, were it not for his groans. Thomas rolled in pain nearby, his lower half burned to a crisp. Even with magical healing, it would likely scar, but the man would live. Shannra was also finding her feet, about as bruised and scraped as Florence. Their position as the rear g
uard had likely saved them both.
Dragon and Fenthri guts lined the walls, floor, and ceiling out from the epicenter of the blast. Had Florence not known the men who had been standing there moments earlier, she may not have been able to piece together enough flesh to identify them. Gun parts littered the floor.
“More are coming,” Shannra warned. “We need to retreat.”
Florence stared at Willie and Thomas. She had no attachment to these men, no kinship with them. Most of the journeymen hadn’t even given her the time of day while she’d lived among them in the Underground. So, it was surprising to feel her lips form the words, “We can’t leave them.”
“What?” Shannra hissed. “This is the life of a Revolver; they knew—”
“I won’t leave my guildmates behind!” Florence sprung forward into a sprint. She collected up the largest pieces of Gregory’s weapon, pulling them together and flicking aside scraps of flesh.
“What are you doing?” Shannra followed her.
“Leave us . . .” Thomas groaned.
“I know what was wrong with it. I saw a similar weapon once before. Riders used it to shoot down the airship Ari and I were on. The magic . . . We think that magic should be colored, split, but if you put all the colors together you get white. The discharge should be white, not rainbow. It’s not an airship that diffuses and breaks magic apart for lift . . .”
“What are you going on about?” Shannra was utterly lost.
“I knew this before . . . But I was wrong on the Alchemical runes to multiply without splitting. Gregory made the same mistake, but in a different way, which means . . .” Florence began to frantically sort out the parts.
“Florence, there’s no time for this.”
“I can fix it.” Florence laid out her revolver. The barrel would be shorter. She’d have to account for that when it came to how many multipliers she stacked, and the range it would be effective in before the magic beam unraveled. “I can make it work.”
