Firestarter

by Tara Sim

  He noticed Edmund watching him. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. You seem tired.”

  Zavier waved his friend’s concern away. “I’m fine, Ed.” He realized he was still standing in the water and walked back to shore, shivering. “Just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Bit of an understatement, that,” Edmund muttered. “You sure we can trust this one, Z? I mean, he did come with the rebels.”

  “He doesn’t seem an essential member of their group. Might only be a supporter.” Zavier checked his timepiece, the second hand chipping away precious time he could be spending on other matters.

  “Hurry up with the radio, Ed. We need to get back and check on our other prisoners.”

  Daphne woke with a start, her heart pounding and her veins throbbing with terror. Her eyes were wide and glassy as they stared at the ceiling far above her.

  Something beyond her consciousness had screamed at her to wake up, to recognize what had scared her. But nothing emerged from the shadows. Nothing slithered from underneath the bed. Nothing latched onto her arms and legs or dragged her across the room.

  Blinking, she turned her head toward a round window. Beyond the thick glass was a purplish haze, like the thickest sludge of her dreams. If she crawled out the window and into that murky twilight, would she be lost in it? Or would she find a new home among the stars just starting to appear?

  Rising onto her elbows, she shook her head. She felt funny, insubstantial. Slowly, she moved to the edge of the bed. Her blond hair fell on either side of her face as she swung her legs over, peeking out of a long nightgown.

  Daphne closed her eyes and swayed, trying to remember. There was something important hidden under the haze, something she needed to recall.

  Small moments flashed across her mind, nearly too fast to take in. An auto. Dust. Tents. An airship. Blood. A needle.

  The last image made her gasp again, and her eyes flew open. As she stood, her stomach began to somersault, and she scrambled to the rubbish bin.

  After heaving out the pitiful contents of her stomach, she pushed the bin away and leaned against the bed, panting. She wiped the saliva from her mouth and grimaced.

  They drugged me, she thought, perhaps the first coherent thought she’d had in days. Over and over, they drugged me.

  It all came trickling back. Colton had run off into the camp to search for Danny, but so had Captain Harris. Partha had taken her and Meena into the city. Then, the gut-churning sound of guns—so many guns, all firing at once. The crumbling clock tower. The cannon blast of an airship. Her and Meena being taken.

  Then came the wave of confusion, the fear. Looking out the window and seeing the ocean far below. Screaming. People she didn’t know trying to calm her. Raking her nails against someone’s face. And then, the needle that promised sleep.

  A couple of crew members had tried to speak to her. Their words were lost, hidden somewhere in her mind. She didn’t know who they were, or what they wanted with her. But the panic had settled now into uneasy determination. She wanted answers.

  Gritting her teeth, Daphne rose to unsteady feet and tottered toward the door. Locked, of course.

  “Water,” she called through the metal door. “I need water.”

  The door opened with a slight squeak and she looked up. A mousy girl, short and thin, stood on the threshold with a tray in her hands. When she saw Daphne, she smiled with pale lips.

  The girl was perhaps Meena’s age, or younger. She kept her hair in twin braids that roped behind her ears and ended in small tufts at her shoulders. Her eyes were gray, almost silver.

  The girl placed the tray on the bed beside Daphne. Daphne looked it over with mild interest. Bread, ham, potatoes. And water. She grabbed the glass and gulped it down, soothing the burn in her throat.

  As Daphne gasped for air, the girl nodded once and turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Daphne put the glass down. “Please don’t go. You have to tell me where I am.”

  The girl stopped. Biting her lip, she made complicated motions with her fingers.

  “I … what?” The girl did the sequence again, pointed to her throat, and shook her head. “Oh. Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize …”

  The girl pointed at her eyes, then her lips, then her ear. “You can understand what I say?” The girl nodded with a “so-so” gesture. “I see. Well, I … I need to know where I am. Please.”

  The girl held up a finger, signaling her to wait. She went into the hall, waved, and came back. A few seconds later, the Indian woman who’d greeted her the first time she woke in this cell appeared.

  “You’re up again.” She didn’t sound too happy about it. “How do you feel?”

  “Awful,” Daphne said. “Where am I?”

  The young woman cleared her throat. “You’re on the Prometheus. My name is Prema, if you do not remember”—Daphne didn’t—“and this is Sally.” She gestured to the girl. “We know that you are Daphne Richards, and that you are a clock mechanic.”

  Daphne’s heart tripped a little in her chest. “And what exactly do you want with me?”

  “Zavier has spoken to you before. Do you not remember?”

  “No, that drug you stuck in me probably addled my memory.”

  Prema shifted. “I’m sorry for your discomfort. If you like, I can bring Zavier here to speak with you again. He’s out at the moment, but should be back soon. Until then, is there anything you would like?”

  Anger, hot and tight, rose to choke her. She was a prisoner here, and they were trying to pretend she was a guest.

  “I don’t care about Zavier. I want to know why I’m here and what’s happened to Meena.”

  “Meena is safe, as are the others.”

  “Others?”

  Sally’s eyes widened and she glanced at Prema. In a flash, Daphne understood. They weren’t supposed to reveal that detail.

  “You have Danny,” Daphne guessed. “He’s here, isn’t he?” The women remained silent. “Isn’t he?”

  “Why don’t you eat up before—”

  “Tell me where he is!”

  “Daphne—”

  “Is Colton here, too? What about Akash? Harris? Partha? Where are they?”

  “I promise we’ll explain everything,” Prema said, taking Sally by the elbow and making for the door. “But we’re not allowed to speak of any of this until Zavier’s returned. Until then, please eat and recover your strength.”

  Daphne rushed at them, but her weakness made her trip. The door slammed shut and a key scraped in the lock.

  Daphne banged on the door. “Just tell me they’re all right!” she yelled through the metal. “Please!”

  She slid to the floor, shaking and cold. Once she had calmed down, she wiped her face and struggled back to the bed. Despite her fear and her anger, she was starving.

  She stared at the wall as she mechanically chewed. The ham was rubbery in her mouth, but she needed to fill her stomach. She needed enough strength to get through the next few moments.

  The others were here, she was sure of it. There was no telling about Harris and Partha, but Danny …

  Danny had been kidnapped weeks ago. An airship, very much like this one, had attacked them on their way to India. It only seemed right to put the two incidents together.

  But then what had happened to Akash? He’d gone off to find Danny, but had he succeeded?

  She touched the diamond tattoo at the corner of her eye. God, Akash. What if he had gotten tangled up in this as well? What if these people had found him, and hurt him?

  Strength. She needed strength.

  Packing her doubts and fears into a small box in her mind, she scanned the room. She nearly laughed as she studied the food tray. Someone had been stupid enough to give her a toothpick.

  Kneeling in front of the door, Daphne carefully inserted the pick into the lock. She had to be careful; the wood would break if she used too much force. But the tumblers were hard to find, and she cursed under her breath, feelin
g for them blindly.

  Her mother had locked her in her room enough times for Daphne to learn this particular trick. But the lock before her was different, one she wasn’t used to, and it took several minutes before she heard a hopeful click.

  Breathing out a relieved sigh, Daphne palmed the toothpick, remaining on her knees as she slowly eased open the door. It would be just her luck if Sally or Prema were standing guard. Thankfully, she saw no one through the small crack. Opening the door farther, she peered into the hallway. Clear.

  She stood and hurried down the corridor, covering her mouth in an attempt to stifle her loud breathing. Her nightgown fluttered around her ankles, whispering as she moved. When she heard voices up ahead, she darted behind the corner, waiting for them to pass. Surprisingly, the speakers had German accents, but she had no time to wonder about it.

  I’ll be caught at this rate, she thought bleakly, listening as their footsteps retreated down the hall. And then they’ll drug me again.

  She moved down a flight of stairs, down endless corridors. How big was this airship? Passing a set of doors, she could hear the sound of metal pounding on metal.

  As she descended another flight of stairs, something began to tug at her. The familiar sensation lodged itself in her midsection and urged her onward like a boat being pulled in from the tide before it could be lost at sea.

  It was darker down here, and colder. Daphne found herself at the mouth of a corridor closed off by a heavy door. Heart pounding, she looked through the small porthole in the door, but the other side was dark.

  Taking slow, even breaths, she pushed the door open and walked inside. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling like a ghost in her pale nightgown. That familiar sensation tugged her forward, icy metal kissing her bare feet with every step she took.

  There: a small, barely perceptible glow.

  Daphne hurried forward. Bars lined the walls on either side, doors leading into cells. And in one of those cells—

  “Colton!” she whispered sharply.

  The clock spirit looked dead. He sat leaning against a wall, his head hanging forward. Colton had always had the image of a teenage boy, his hair blond and his skin bronze like the metal of his clockwork. But now his skin was pale, his hair lackluster, the faint glow of his body gone. In fact, she realized he was partially transparent.

  Daphne fell to her knees and gripped the cold metal bars. “Colton! Colton, please wake up!” He didn’t respond. Daphne looked around and spotted his central cog, tucked into the power-magnifying holder that Christopher Hart had built for him before he’d left England in search of Danny. Daphne grabbed it and pushed it through the bars, as far toward Colton as she could manage.

  He twitched. A faint glow returned to his body. When he raised his chin, his bright amber eyes were open.

  “Daphne,” he murmured.

  “Yes, it’s me.” She reached through the bars. “I came for you.”

  He touched his fingertips to hers. A small shock traveled through her, as if time had jumped across her skin. The hairs on her arms stood on end.

  Colton pulled the cog holder closer, pressing it to his chest. He made a relieved sound.

  “I’m going to get you out of here,” Daphne said, studying the lock above her head. A flimsy toothpick couldn’t trigger the tumblers on this one. She would probably have to come back with something sturdier, if not with the key itself.

  “Daphne.”

  Something about Colton’s voice made her look at him warily. His face was grim, his lips pressed together. It still awed her that a clock spirit, only a pale imitation of a human, could look so … well, human. But here he was, thousands of miles from his clock tower in Enfield, still living. But barely.

  The thought terrified her. What if he died before they could bring him back home?

  “Daphne,” Colton said again. “Do you know where they took Danny?”

  “No, but I’m going to find him. And Meena, and anyone else these bastards took. Then we’ll all escape. Together.”

  But Colton slowly shook his head. “They won’t tell me what happened to him. I don’t know if he …” His voice wavered, and although clock spirits couldn’t cry, Daphne could practically see his eyes welling with tears.

  “If he what?”

  Colton hugged the cog holder tighter. “They shot him. They shot Danny.”

  Daphne’s senses grew muted, as if traveling through a funnel. In her mind, she saw Partha shooting Lieutenant Crosby, the blood spraying from his body. She remembered the blood-soaked clothes of the boy with the tinted goggles. The smell surrounded her, metallic and dusky.

  “Is Danny alive?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything.” Colton closed his eyes. “Daphne, what if he—There was so much blood. And the look on his face. The pain he must have felt.” Colton hid his face with a sound like a small, wounded animal.

  She reached through the bars again to touch his sleeve. “You can’t think like that. I’m sure he’s all right. If I go and look for him, I can—”

  A throat cleared behind her, and she flinched. Colton looked up with an expression she had never seen him wear before, raw and stark and visceral.

  Pure hatred.

  She turned to find a young man regarding her from the doorway. He carried a lantern, which cast a sickly yellow light across the floor.

  The young man looked between her and Colton with a mixture of exasperation and pity. His eyes were gray, almost silver.

  “I was wondering if you’d made your way down here, Miss Richards. I have to admit, you impress me more every time I encounter you.”

  She grimaced. “And how many times would that be?”

  He touched the back of his head. “Three. The first, you clobbered me with a pipe. The second, you nearly gouged out my eyes. The third”— he gestured to the scene before him—“I find you orchestrating a prison break.”

  The blood-soaked clothes. The tinted goggles. “You’re the one who tried to get Danny killed on the Notus.”

  “I wasn’t going to kill him.” The young man set the lantern down and walked to where she remained crouched. She scrambled closer to Colton, who grabbed her hand as if he could protect her even from behind bars. “I assure you, I only wanted him to help us.”

  “And where is he now?” Colton demanded.

  “I’ll answer all of your questions in time. Miss Richards, I want to help you. Now that you’re stable again, I want to give you an opportunity.”

  She gripped Colton’s hand tighter. “What sort of opportunity?”

  “The chance to talk with Meena.”

  Her face went slack. Meena.

  “If you would like to speak with her, please follow me. If not, then I’ll have to escort you back to your room.”

  Daphne took three deep breaths before nodding.

  Colton tugged at her hand. “Danny,” he said urgently. “What about Danny?”

  “I want to speak with him, too,” she demanded.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible at the moment. But if you wish to see Meena, you have to come with me.”

  Daphne looked at Colton, an apology in her eyes. “I’ll find out where he is.”

  She stood on unsteady legs. The young man made to help her, but she shied from his touch.

  “Daphne, please don’t leave,” Colton begged. “Not with him. Please.”

  “I’m sorry, Colton. I promise I’ll come back.”

  The spirit’s face crumpled, and she had to turn her back before she could give in to guilt. She needed answers, and as far as she knew, this was the only way to get them.

  The young man picked up his lantern without so much as a glance at Colton. Daphne followed him out, her body slow and heavy.

  “Who are you, anyway?” she asked.

  “I’m sure I’ve told you my name before,” the young man said, “but perhaps you were too … indisposed to remember. I’m Zavier Holmes.” He glanced at her, and she spotted th
e fading scratch marks on his cheek. “Would you like to change before seeing Miss Kapoor?”

  “I’m fine.” He’d already seen her in her nightgown; she didn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry for all the trouble we’ve put you through.”

  Daphne barked a mirthless laugh. “Don’t bother. I’m never forgiving any of you for this.”

  He opened his mouth as if to contest it, then thought better of it and gave an unconvincing shrug. “Fair enough.”

  Zavier led her to a room guarded by a large Indian man wearing a turban.

  “No disturbances?” Zavier asked. “Has he come yet?”

  “Not yet,” the man said in a startlingly deep voice.

  “Good.” Zavier gestured to the room. “You’ll find her inside. Let us know if you need anything.”

  Daphne gave them both a cool stare and walked inside; the door closed gently after her. The room was different from the one in which she’d awoken, more of a sitting room with a table by the window surrounded by three chairs. In one of these chairs sat an Indian girl with a dark braid resting over her shoulder.

  “Meena,” Daphne whispered.

  The girl looked up, her eyes widening as she rose. “Daphne!”

  They hugged each other with desperation, with relief. How many days had they been on this airship? How many times had Daphne been drugged? How long had she been alone?

  Meena stepped back and looked Daphne up and down. “Where are your clothes?” The Indian clock mechanic was wearing her traditional salwar kameez, and she even had a red bindi on her forehead. Daphne, in her nightgown and her hair a mess, suddenly wished she had taken Zavier’s offer to change.

  “I was trying to find everyone.”

  Meena motioned for her to sit. A pot of tea rested on the table, and Meena poured her a steaming cup. A clock ticked somewhere in the room, but Daphne didn’t bother to check the time.

  “What do you mean, trying to find everyone? I heard that you were … resisting them. I did, too, but then they explained.”

  “Explained what?”

  Meena sighed and sat beside her. Daphne glanced at the healing burn mark on the girl’s face, received when the Meerut clock tower had exploded. “We’re prisoners on this ship, but they don’t want us to be. These people, they’re the ones who have been bombing towers around India. They say they know how to make time continue on without them, though they haven’t explained how yet. They want us to help, but …” Meena shrugged. “I think your answer will be the same as mine.”