by SJ Davis
Murunga depressed the microphone button. “Achtung!”
The threat that followed was angry and made even Pierce’s heart cringe.
“A few more seconds,” Liz mumbled.
Murunga continued, growing angrier. His distorted image on the glass plate looked frightening in miniature. What would it be like dozens of meters across?
“Got it!” Liz said, pulling herself from the console. She slammed her hand against the lever on the pulse projector.
The nearest airship’s hull flashed with blue, then suddenly went dark. It drifted to starboard.
Gridley brought the Independence around to face one of the newer threats.
“We can’t stop all of them,” Shepherd said.
“We don’t have to,” Pierce said.
He pointed out the port side windows. A flash had caught his attention, a portal forming in the air. It could have been another German craft, but once the glare subsided, a giant triangle drifted above Berlin half a kilometer away.
Shepherd pressed both palms against the window and peered out. “What the devil! How are you doing that? Or is that a real one? Are there really men from other planets?”
“There very well might be, but that one happens to be a relation. Sam’s on that ship.”
“Your brother? You said he was in New York.”
“Yes, preparing another airship for our little performance. That’s the sister ship to the Independence.”
Liz pulled a pocket watch from one of her pockets. “A minute late, your brother. I’m going to have a few words with him.”
Another flash to starboard, and a second triangle appeared in the west.
“Your father seems to have good timing,” Pierce said.
“Enemy airships withdrawing,” Gridley announced.
Murunga set down the microphone and switched the image back to the triangle disguise. “I have warned them that they will be destroyed if they do not arrange a peace treaty with the other nations. Perhaps my face was enough to frighten them into cooperation.”
* * * *
Walking along the Thames, past the Westminster Bridge and in the shadows Big Ben, Pierce tugged on his stiff collar. He hated the starched wings and tie just as much as Murunga enjoyed them. Murunga, in his finest, now sported a walking stick. Pierce suspected there was a sword blade hidden inside. Between them, Liz looked ravishing in her blue velvet dress, hair in an elaborate coiffeur, a small hat perched on top. Shepherd met them before they reached the Westminster Palace.
Shepherd grinned at them and shook his head.
“Your stunt worked, Harry! The Germans folded, and Kaiser Wilhelm has signed the armistice. The Russians went more easily. They weren’t all that in favor of the war. The Japanese and Chinese capitulated and signed. And they all have agreed to joint explorations without any attempt at colonization. Your world tour seems to have done the trick. The Kaiser insisted on meeting the alien representatives, but he relented after negotiations via your three dimensional projection. Murunga plays an imposing creature.”
Murunga inclined his head. “I will take that as a compliment, Colonel. I merely explained that Earth’s atmosphere was not adequate for my species. That seemed to satisfy the various representatives.”
“It is certainly a fanciful tale worthy of that French writer, what was his name?” Shepherd said. “Much more palatable than travelling in time. How strange that a lie would work when the truth was even more unbelievable.”
Pierce rubbed his chin and glanced at Liz’s stern gaze. “Ah, actually, Reggie, that was a lie, too. We don’t know who built the outposts, but the written languages were nothing like any on Earth, so I doubt they were from Earth’s past or future. Although, nothing seems impossible these days.”
“Another lie?” Shepherd said, glaring.
“He was just getting even with you,” Liz said, “for lying to him when you recruited him for the rescue mission.”
Shepherd straightened and lifted his chin. “That, Miss Fletcher, was in the name of the Empire.”
“So that makes it all better,” Pierce said.
“Exactly,” Shepherd said. “And the time you were gone?”
Pierce held up his index finger. “One year. Not five. Or about six months. When we did come back, we found that the whole world was at war. We decided to use some of what we had learned to put a stop to it. It took a few months to work out all the details, travel back to an outpost or two for parts, and build the equipment, as well as modify the other airships.”
Liz smiled at him for his truthfulness. Now that this affair was over, he no longer felt resentment toward Shepherd and his manipulation. He did feel better with unburdening himself.
“So you manipulated me?” Shepherd said. “Can we eliminate that from any discussion we might have with Her Majesty or with the PM?”
“Of course,” Liz said, smiling. “If it comes up in the conversation, just explain that it was the first story Harry had invented and didn’t go over as well as the creatures from another planet.”
Shepherd nodded in agreement, then looked from Liz to Pierce. “Tell me, are you two …” He wagged his finger between them.
Liz looked aghast. “What? You mean me and Harry?”
“Ah, no,” Pierce said. He glanced at Liz. She immediately averted her eyes. Was she blushing or was that a trick of the afternoon sun reflecting off the Thames?
“Fine,” Shepherd said. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not any more. First time travel, then altering history and unearthly creatures.”
“That one is real,” Liz said. “You knew there were other beings out there when you sent the first patrol through. We just haven’t met them yet.”
“You never really explained what you did find,” Shepherd said.
Pierce took Liz’s arm, wrapping it in his as they walked.
“That, Reggie old man,” he said, though looking at Liz, “is another story.”
Poison
Catherine Stovall
September 22, 1927
The Home of Odessa Olivia Simmonds, Wren City
Poison. Bottles of potions, concoctions, liquids, and powders. Yellowed labels torn and peeling from the colorful glass. I see them now, setting upon the dusty shelf as if they were harmless knick-knacks and keepsakes from another time in the distant past. They are, you know, precious reminders of a time that I had treasured. Each holds a fond recollection of a life lived, loved, and then lost within the confines of the tinted green, purple, and blue vials.
Once, a long time ago, I was not just an ordinary woman. No, I was a powerful voodessa, the medium and toy of the darker realm. I read fortunes, gave out trinkets, and wove talismans for those who came to set upon the stoop and hear a mystical woman tell them what they wanted to hear. However, for those who believed, I turned much darker tricks. I was known during this time, and I guess I still am in certain circles, as Madame Odessa Olivia Simmonds. Most folks just called me Madame O.
For you, my dear ones, the children of my legacy, I leave this, my caution and my wisdom. I am dying. The dark shadow of death has come to me and shown me that my time is very near. Even now, I feel his icy breath on my neck as he watches and waits for the midnight hour to collect my tattered soul. Take heed, my lovelies, this is not the fantastic ramblings of an old woman. For as you come to rifle your dirty paws through my things after I am dead and gone, there is one thing you must send to the grave with me, or it may bring you into the belly of the beast by my side.
Upon the shelf, you will see a small, black box with a gilded symbol on its lid. Take it down, and place it beneath my folded hands once I have left this weak and disheveled shell. Do not open it, don’t you dare. For inside, lies a potion that the devil himself brewed in a pot made from a human skull, with the blood of a thousand human souls, and the dark power only one such as he can summon.
Once you have done this, and my body has been sent to burn, you must cross yourself three times, say a prayer to St. Ant
hony, and wash your hands in holy water. Don’t bother with going to the church for that, there’s some that has been properly blessed in the top drawer of my nightstand. I was never a woman to be caught unprepared.
No matter what happens, you mustn’t open that box. You must resist the urge to feed your curiosity—no matter what sort of whispers, thoughts, or wantings you hear or feel. The contents of that carton came straight from hell sixty years ago, and it must return there when I go to the eternal flames and viper pits.
Now, I know I have piqued your curiosity, and I am not much longer for this world, so let me digress no further. Here is the story, children, of how that box came to be setting on a shelf full of poisons, in an old lady’s home.
June 1, 1867
The Home of Odessa Olivia Simmonds, Wren City
As I sat at my little table, sipping a cup of warm tea, a sudden chill crawled up my spine. The whispers of the spirits came to my ear, telling me that I would soon meet a woman of great power and influence. Now, these voices, they are the spirits of my ancestors and they never lied or tried to trick me. Though, sometimes, they were vague and mysterious in the things they foretold, they had never led me into trouble before.
The most powerful, that of Great Great Grandfather Magnus Magellian Simmonds, told me to show caution.
The woman is not what she seems. The devil has a care with this one, Odessa, and you should too.
I had never before been warned about a client, other than the occasional whisper of a thief or someone who lied about why they needed a potion or spell. Therefore, when Magnus spoke, I listened. Looking out my little window, wariness crept in, as the woman he had spoken of appeared on my stoop. She stood beneath the old, hand-painted sign that announced a mystic lived within, and she looked directly up at me as she gently tugged on the bell rope.
I nodded to my dear friend and housekeeper, Margaret, who scurried down to open the door—crossing herself as she went. I readied myself, trying not to show my obvious curiosity and the bit of fear that crept up my spine, as I listened to their tread on the hallway carpet.
The door to my sanctuary opened, and the woman entered in a calm and unassuming manner. She was dressed in all black, with shining silver cogs for buttons and intricate clockwork designs at the heel and toe of her shoe. A mourning veil hung from a small bowry cap to cover her face, so that only her full, pouty, rose tinted lips showed. I knew from the sight of her that she was a true believer, someone who was not afraid to use the black arts to her advantage. The strange aura of swirling gray mist that twisted around her spoke of something I didn’t quite understand.
“Madame Odessa, I am Jeanne Copperbelt, and I am of need of your expertise.” She crossed the room in three long strides, and extended her hand.
“Ms. Copperbelt, have a seat, and I will see what I can do to assist you.” I took her hand and turned it over, examining the ring she wore. “That’s an interesting bauble. I’ve never seen one with clockwork inside the stone before.”
She slipped her hand from mine and smiled. “It’s Mrs. Copperbelt, actually. The man who gave me this ring, my late husband, is the reason I’ve come. But, first, I must have your assurances that all that is said here will be kept in sacred confidentiality.”
Now, I had always been a woman who was known to keep secrets better than those who wished not to share them. “Mrs. Copperbelt, I assure you that all my clients receive the utmost respect and all that is said here, done here, and seen here remains safe within these walls.”
“Madame Odessa, I do not mean to offend. However, if word of the troubles that have befallen me would reach my enemies’ ears, they would certainly move to take advantage. You see, Reginald passed rather unexpectedly last month in the arms of another woman, and he’s left me searching in vain for his will.” Jeanne produced a handkerchief from her clutch and dabbed at her eyes beneath the veil.
I was twenty at this time and had heard the same story many times from many other grieving wives. The only difference between the woman in front of me and all the others that had come before her, was Magnus’s constant whispers in my ear of how she was a danger to me and my kin. The fact that I was an only child of only children, made the ominous prediction about the woman’s influence on my family worse. I wanted to ask if he meant those who had already passed, or if he meant those to come.
“So, you would like me to contact your husband and ask where you might find the will.” I ran my hands over the smooth velvet tablecloth and waited for her confirmation—I had made the natural assumption after all.
“No. I’d rather never speak to that cheating bastard ever again. Besides, he left his will in the possession of his mistress, and she is the one I wish to contact.” As she spoke, Jeanne lifted the veil and her startling hazel eyes bore into me, waiting for my reaction.
“It is the mistress you would like me to speak with then, and would you like her to still be breathing when I am finished?” Even as I spoke, I was already scanning my shelf of deadly concoctions, trying to decide which to use.
Now, children, understand that I have that collection of poisons for a reason. My services did not end with the telling of fortunes or communication with those already passed on. For the right price, and on the right occasion, I did act as an assassin of sorts. The pay was good, the hours short, and the little box of souls I kept had earned me quite a few favors from those on the other side of the veil. Not all my customers were still breathing, you see. Anyway, I digress. Let me return to the story at hand.
Mrs. Copperbelt looked at me, quite astonished, but in a pleased way. “The tragedy that took my husband took his harlot as well. Though I admire that a young woman such as yourself is so very enterprising, I will just need the location of the will and the opportunity to tell the homewrecker to burn in hell’s flames.”
I felt for this woman. I had not yet married, but I knew that when and if I did, I would kill anyone who hurt me as she had been hurt. Despite my respect for another woman who could and would dispatch of a dishonest spouse, I reminded myself not to let down my guard. Murder meant nothing to the spirits of the dead, and I was quite certain that Magnus’s insistence that she was trouble had nothing to do with the woman’s guilt.
“Very well then, I will need something that belonged to the departed. The more personal the item, the better chance we will have of making contact. Return here once the sun has set, and I shall hold the ceremony. I must warn you, Mrs. Copperbelt, the spirit of someone who has met with a violent end can be a nasty thing. She may not reveal the information that you ask for, and she might attempt to seek revenge.”
The woman reached into her small clutch, and pulled out a dainty white glove. “This belonged to Reginald’s whore. Will it suffice?”
Just looking at the lifeless cloth fingers sent shivers of psychic energy down my spine. “Yes, that will do very well.” Keeping the pleasant smile on my face, I had her place the glove on top of a black silk cloth. As I folded the contents into a neat bundle, careful not to touch the dead woman’s possession, I asked, “Are you comfortable with the risk you are taking, ma’am.”
Jeanne laughed, and for the first time, I saw the monster that lay behind the picture of the grief stricken woman. “Quite sure, Madame. For what I stand to lose, I would walk through the very gates of hell without so much as silk slippers on my feet.”
I had no doubt she would. “Very well, please see my housekeeper, Margaret, and she will arrange your fee.”
I rang the little bell that I kept for just such purposes, and Margaret silently slipped through the door. Once she had led Jeanne away, I returned my attention to Magnus. Have I done the right thing, Grandfather?
His voice came like rustling fall leaves dancing through my head. Yes, Odessa, you have done the right thing. The dark prince has use of this one.
As was my custom before an evening séance, I finished my tea and went to my room to rest. An afternoon nap was not a matter of pampering, rather it was a necessity. C
ontacting the souls trapped on the other side of death’s veil was taxing on both my mind and body, and something told me that I needed to be prepared. So it was with the heavy drapes pulled tight against the mid-day sun and some lavender smoldering in my smudge pot that I snuggled under the thick quilts and quickly fell into a long sleep.
*****
I dreamed of strange and prophetic things that left me gasping for breath, though I couldn’t recall more than a few fuzzy faces in what seemed to be an ancient crypt. However, I awakened knowing that the night before me would be the beginning of my end. I was sure I would live to tell this tale, but all that I knew would be altered. A strange thing it is to know you will be greatly changed, and still have little control over what will happen—but so is the life of a mystic.
I dressed in my usual fashion, a long, free flowing skirt and a simple button up shirt with belled sleeves. I had never been one to uphold the fashions of the times. My congregations with sprits were not always a pleasant little jaunt and the breathing room was far more important than the appearance. However, I did place a single jeweled cog clip atop my head, to hold back the endless sheath of raven colored hair.
Wandering into the formal setting room, I was impressed with the atmosphere Margaret had accomplished. The crystal ball, not glass, gleamed at the center of the deep purple cloth without a single smudge on its polished surface. Every corner was clean and dusted, but perfectly shadowed as the light of a dozen white candles flickered in their tapers. The smell of white sage and lavender filled the room to offer a combination of pleasantry to the senses and protection against evil. She had even started a low fire in the hearth that would chase the damp chill from the ancient rooms.
Taking my seat in the high backed, velvet chair, I breathed in and out slowly. Allowing myself to center within the room, I became one with my surroundings. After the standard few minutes, Margaret brought my evening tea— Earl Grey spiked with just a hint of spiced rum. Loving the feel of the heat on my hands and the rich aroma that floated upward in the steam, I sat with my eyes closed and my mind open.
