Girl on a Tombstone

by Mia Strange

  GIRL ON A TOMBSTONE

  THE TRAVELING TROUPE ACADEMY OF DR. DARK

  Mia Strange

  Contents

  Rails and Wheels…

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  This Author’s Journey

  Coming Soon!

  About the Author

  For Houston, always…

  RAILS and WHEELS,

  IRON and STEEL,

  * * *

  Are you brave enough to ride the tracks?

  Brave enough to not look back?

  If you are, you’ll travel far.

  And you’ll find a home, with those who roam…

  Welcome to The Traveling Troupe Academy of Dr. Dark’s Oddities, Misfits, and Freaks, where we deal in curiosities, the strange, the unusual, the unknown, and most importantly…magic.

  OUR MISSION

  Save the world…one destination at a time.

  Save the world.

  Even if you can’t save yourself.

  * * *

  Hop aboard for destinations unknown…

  Destination:

  The Emerald City…

  Seattle

  * * *

  ARRIVED…

  The magic is in the Steam…

  1

  November 10th

  In the not so distant future.

  Today, on my birthday, as I lay dying on a torn—up slab of concrete in the long abandoned, Georgetown Morgue, I had a sudden spark of genius.

  Or, was it madness?

  The historic Seattle morgue had a history for moments of madness. Who knows, maybe some of it had rubbed off on me.

  My name is Skye St John, and today? I’m eighteen. Yep, I know. It sounds like a totally made—up name. That’s because it is. It’s my stage name, and it’s a good thing I kinda like it. Because for me, my name is a life and death matter.

  You see no one can know who I really am. Well. No one, but Dr. Dark. I’m the hunted one, and so far, I’ve managed to stay alive, by hiding in plain sight.

  And now, years later, I hardly recognized my real name. And I barely remembered that life…

  But I remembered Emma.

  Bleeding to death on a freezing slab of concrete in a rotting stinking morgue was so not the way I had planned to spend my birthday.

  Still. I was alive. Guess that was a present of sorts. I was still breathing. Still bleeding.

  Still hurting like holy hell. But I’d take it. After all, I’m a survivor. At least I was until tonight. But right now? My chances of staying that way?

  Not looking so good.

  My dry lips felt like parchment against my sandpaper tongue. Thirsty. Oh man. Just. So. Damn. Thirsty.

  I tried once again to lick my lips and looked longingly at the drips of condensation that crawled down the dank walls and snaked along rusted metal cabinets. The water dropped into tiny pools that wavered and moved, distorting the reflection of the full moon that shown through a jagged broken—out window.

  I wanted to reach out, trail my fingers through the pools, smear the liquid onto my cracked lips, and suck the cool water into my mouth with my bruised and battered fingertips.

  But that would require moving.

  Which in turn would encourage bleeding. And that? Would end my life sooner, rather than later. And for once, in my rotten, impatient life, I was not in a hurry. Because when you come right down to it, even when there is no choice, I didn’t want to die.

  I squeezed my eyes shut against the tap, tap, tap of water drops as they hit the pools and echoed through the hallway of the old building.

  They sounded like a ticking clock.

  They sounded like a death toll.

  Opening my eyes, I blinked hard against the hot tears that threatened. I was not ready to die. Not yet.

  I hadn’t found Emma. I hadn’t made my move on a certain guy. And just the thought of that sent a familiar heat to my cold cheeks. How lame. And stupid.

  I was dying here, and yet I was thinking about sinful nights, damp tangled sheets, and raw hot sex. All at a time like this.

  Maybe this was not such a bad idea after all. I was trying to warm up…a fraction.

  And in my defense, this was not just any guy.

  This was the guy.

  And if I was being honest, and this just might being my last chance to be honest, I wanted him, in a way a woman wants a man. And I wanted him often. That is if my hot, fevered dreams had anything to say in the matter.

  But let’s get real. More important? I hadn’t saved our crumbling, boiling, dying world.

  Yeah, I know that last one? Kinda a biggie.

  But, secretly, most important, at least to me, was that I hadn’t found, Emma. I hadn’t saved my little sister. That is if she was still alive to be saved.

  If the world was truly ending, if our secret Academy couldn’t collect all the clues, and piece them together in time to stop humanities self—destructive march to the end, I wanted Emma with me. I needed her in my arms at the end.

  For years she haunted my dreams.

  She haunted me now.

  Through the pain and blood loss, I slipped in and out of consciousness which ushered me into that realm where the veil parted, the place where I saw her the most.

  Where I felt her the most.

  And I did feel her. I did. She visited my dreams, in the form of a ghostly whisper. An invisible touch. The smell of lilac’s in spring. A soft tug on a lock of my long hair.

  Tonight, during our show, I once again saw her image engraved on an all to, elusive tombstone, this time somewhere in the ruins of Seattle. The vision hit me, just as someone in the audience had sent her name on a magical slipstream of air… Emma, Emma, Emma.

  The whisper had wrapped around me, squeezing my heart with invisible fingers. Like a waterfall, the vision crashed into me, soaking into my psyche, and sent me running into a dark, dank, dangerous city. Alone

  “Stupid, Skye,” I whispered. My throat was so sore it felt like liquid fire, but I still managed to chastise. “So stupid.”

  I had taken the bait. How many times had Dr. Dark warned me? How many times had I pretended to listen? Was it worth it?

  “Emma,” I said in a voice so raw I hardly recognized as mine. “You’ll always be worth it.”

  In the past, I had been told all was lost for Emma.

  I hadn’t believed it then.

  I fucking did not believe it now.

  But I did know I might not find her. I might come up empty, like hundreds of times before. No need in what looked like my final hours, to remind myself of that. After all, I thought about Emma, and failing her, every night, and every damn day.

  And it sure didn’t help that now, as I lay covered in mud and grease and oil, remnants of my ruined world, that I had just discovered the secret of our time. I now realized— no I knew.

  I knew.

  Finally, I had figured it out.

  The magic was in the steam.

  This was my spark of genius.

  And I had to won
der if the ghosts that haunted this place had figured it out, too. After all, they had been here longer. But they weren’t talking…yet.

  Perhaps it was because I was slipping, back and forth, back and forth, through the land of the living and the dead, that the magic had revealed itself. Shown where it lived and breathed…hiding in the steam.

  Bringing my hands up to my line of vision, I looked at the blood smeared on them, and blew out a shaky, shallow breath. I shook my head. Knowing about the magic changed nothing.

  I wasn’t so far gone that I thought my revelation would save me. I could deduce. Calculate, weigh the odds. I could still think clearly. And what did I think? Well, that I was in a shit load of trouble here, and no amount of magic and steam, or a combination of both, was going to save me.

  And right now? I doubted I would be around another year to see nineteen. That could be a fun birthday, right? Because, as I gasped and pressed bloody fingers to my wound…this one? Sure as fuck, wasn’t.

  I had broken the Academy’s cardinal rule of survival one—oh—one. Do not engage. Run. Hide. Survive. But…

  Do.

  Not.

  Engage.

  Great. I just flunked survival class. Who knew getting an F could kill you? Still, I hadn’t revealed my magic. I had kept the Academy’s secret safe. That at least should get me a reprieve. Bump me to a D+. It should be enough to let me live. “Please,” I whispered into the darkness.

  I shifted to my side to try and stem the bleeding. My long dark hair, now matted with blood, caught under my arm as I rolled. Using what strength I had left, I tried to free the tangled strands. I noticed that it was now impossible to tell which clumps, were the burgundy henna high—lighted ones, versus the caked blood—soaked ones.

  The amber glitter, sprinkled in my hair from the last show, bravely shown through, refusing to let a little dried blood stop it from twinkling and winking in the dim light.

  Okay. So, I lied. A lot of dried blood.

  Still, never underestimate the power of glitter.

  I argued to that side of my brain that always saw the glass half empty, the blood had dried, which meant the head wound had at least quit bleeding. Guess that was something. Yeah, answered the same side of my brain that always saw life for what it was— pure shit. What about the belly wound, Einstein?

  Yeah. Okay brain. Thanks. You got me there.

  I bit my lip against the pain, and watched as the magic escaped around me. Harnessed in fine tendrils of steam, it pooled along the floor. Magic rose and twisted through the damp, dark night, pausing at times to caress me. As if to say goodbye.

  Yeah.

  Sure.

  I was dying. I felt the familiar tug of anger and bitterness sweep along the edge of my mind. It didn’t feel like goodbye.

  It felt more like good riddance.

  The magic rose and whispered along my freezing jawline, ruffling my hair. But I knew it would take more than raw, rogue magic to save me now.

  It would take divine intervention.

  A miracle.

  The trouble, being the cynic that I was, I didn’t believe in miracles. And I sure didn’t believe in divine intervention. Where was that intervention? That miracle that never came. The one that left me beaten and drugged in Gov—care for so long? Where had that miracle been? The one that could have, should have, spared my family. The same one that should have saved sweet Emma…and taken cynical, rude, obnoxious me instead.

  Nope. I didn’t believe in anything I couldn’t touch, feel, taste, smell, hear, see— or kill.

  I believed in absolutes. And nothing about magic or miracles, or whispered promises of divine intervention, were absolute. Or tangible.

  And for me that was a huge problem.

  A problem because once, I had not believed in magic. And what was magic, if not a miracle?

  But soon enough, I had to believe, when at five and I was sent to Gov—care, my own magic unleashed, and I brought down a building. That had been a big ‘oops’ moment for me. Since then, I had spent years trying to control my, in—your—face kind of magic. And as I grew older, I spent even more years trying to conceal it. But the damage was done. Our new, shiny, after The—Trade—Wars replacement government, was only too aware of what I could do.

  And everyone knew that our now, lying, corrupt, magic—hoarding government, or ‘The Gov’ as most called it, just loved a kid like me. One chalked full of magic and ready to be used. Like a lab rat.

  Like a weapon.

  Yeah. They loved me all right. They loved me almost to death.

  Water pipes burst when I was thirsty. Flames sprang to life when I was cold. When the decaying, urban stench became too much, and I longed for a cooling wind, I’d conjured up a breeze. Unfortunately, those childhood summer breezes I remembered, showed up in the form of a typhoon. And when a building collapsed, killing dozens of Gov—workers, that’s when I was locked away for good. Beaten, along with a heavy dose of drugs for company, I’d been probed and poked and punched. I fought back. But it only resulted in more restraints., more vicious blows. More needles.

  I had nearly died.

  And when I didn’t, and I was locked deep in the bowels of what remained of my city, Cincinnati, I knew then they would never let me go. I’d be trapped in Gov—care forever.

  Their desire to control me was only overshadowed by their desire to own my magic. Chaos Magic they called it. Strong magic. Powerful. Rich. Dark…rare.

  Dangerous, deadly.

  That was me. Is still me.

  And how they wanted this Chaos Magic. Salivated for it.

  How they wanted me.

  In the years to come, they would try to break me, through bruises, needles…blood. Anything. They’d try anything, to get at my magic, to dig it from my core, to squeeze it from my soul, pry it from my heart.

  I thought I would surely die in Gov—care. The Gov—kid who had no one left on the outside to remember her. Much less love her.

  For eight years I lingered in that broken, cruel system. A system that locked away freak kids like me. Kids that held the magic. Kept in a drugged stupor that subdued my power while they studied and tested and threatened, they almost broke me. Almost.

  But I could still dream.

  And for eight years I dreamed of the one thing that kept me sane. I dreamed of Emma.

  In my dreams she was alive. Well. Safe. Whole.

  That was the Emma of my dreams. But some nights, I broke through the haze of the drugs, and woke up, soaked in sweat, screaming. I had once again seen visions of Emma as she most likely was. Either dead or living gray, locked and linked, shambling and shuffling along, in a chain—gang for the rotting dead.

  The last dream, the most violent, visited again, the night before my thirteenth birthday. That night, the legendary Alchemist, Dr. Elijah Dark came for me. And like a fabled knight, one dressed not in a shiny suit of armor, but more like a vampire’s Halloween cloak, he whisked me away, and enrolled me into his secret academy.

  Into, The Traveling Troupe Academy of Dr. Dark.

  We even rode away on a horse.

  Albeit a clockwork one.

  With echoing, iron hooves clattering hard on pavement, we escaped on a black steel horse made of gears and cogs, instead of hide and blood.

  And now, under the guise of a traveling troupe, I’d been riding the rails with the Academy ever since.

  The Academy was now my home. And I fit right in. After all, in my opinion, I was the biggest freak of them all.

  Dr. Dark, and his Traveling Troupe Academy of magical freaks, oddities, and misfits, had saved my life.

  Seems someone had remembered me after all.

  2

  I caught movement and cringed as a large sewer rat scurried across my boot. Without thinking I kicked at the creature, jolting my knife wound in the process. I stifled a scream as piercing, burning pain shot through my body. I saw the rat’s dusty gray aura trailing behind it as it fled. The damn thing was just as afraid of
me, as I was of it.

  Its aura dripped onto the concrete and disappeared into a crack, but not before reminding me that the last aura I’d seen, the gray, surrounded the men I had found myself up against tonight. Their gray auras clung to them like a second skin. There wasn’t a whiff of magic on them. Magic had passed them over, slighted them— ignored them. And it made them deadly.

  People without magic became dangerous for the want of it. Bitter, disillusioned, desperate— most became the bottom feeders of our disintegrating society.

  They became, ‘The Ignored.’ And they were to be avoided. At all costs. Seems I had forgotten that little tidbit from Sociology Class. Great.

  Living on the fringe of the Ash Lands, or hiding in the bowels of our crumbling cities, The Ignored roamed freely, hunting in packs, like wild rabid animals. They thieved and plundered everywhere, even venturing into the Rust Belt, a scary, dark place that oozed radiation and sent plumes of noxious gas into the atmosphere.

  The ‘Rust’ was where the Tinkers lived. The men and women who horded, created, invented. The ones who built contraptions, and inventions, only to rip them apart and start again. They were the last of their kind. The last mad scientists left in our world. The last…except for Dr. Elijah Dark, perhaps the maddest of them all.

  Like starving wharf rats, The Ignored picked clean the Tinker’s spoils. And even though the Tinker’s were now pulling their heads out of their chemical clouds and fighting back, The Ignored continued on, joyfully leaving a crimson trail of blood in their wake.

  They were always on the hunt. And tonight? It had been my turn.

  And I had to wonder why.

  Once more, I thought of the rat, and for the first time ever, I could see an aura without my goggles. The magical, precision goggles Dr. Dark had built for each of us to safeguard our eyes, also detected magic in auras. Not an exact science, but in the right situation, more than helpful. Mine had been stolen right off my head tonight. Dark would not be pleased to hear that.