by Tara Sim
But he couldn’t ignore the wet cloth pressed to his nose and mouth, or the tight grip of someone restraining him from behind. Immediately his vision swam and his knees buckled. A voice sounded in his ear, and he could tell the speaker was smiling.
“Now, now, Mr. Hart,” Archer crooned. “No more of that.”
He fell swiftly into darkness.
Every cough made Colton’s shoulders tense, worsening the ache in his neck and upper back. He’d been carrying that ache for days, ever since the doctor had told them Abigail’s lungs weren’t working as well as they had the month before. Her breathing was labored, and sometimes her lips turned blue.
Their mother was at Abi’s bedside day and night, barely eating, barely drinking water, barely sleeping. Colton had awoken that morning to find his mother slumped against the wall at the foot of Abi’s bed, fingers still wrapped around the knitting needles that had gently click-clacked him to sleep. When he shook her awake, she’d bolted up and resumed her knitting as if she’d never left off.
“Mum, you can’t do this anymore,” he’d pleaded. “Let me take care of her today. Instructor Beele doesn’t need me, and Castor can come and help.”
His mother had sighed and closed her eyes, which were now always ringed with dark circles. “I do need to go to the market, and your father said they might need help by the docks.”
“I’ll stay here with her, I promise.”
So his mother had left to run errands and get some much-needed sunlight while Colton fed Abigail broth and told her a story about a princess with the power to turn anything to ice, while her brother could turn anything to fire. They looked after each other, the princess cooling off the wildfires her brother kindled when angered, the prince melting the icecaps his sister froze when sad.
Abi listened to the story without interrupting, her blue-tinged lips turned up. When she fell asleep, Colton crept downstairs to pre-pare lunch for himself and his mother, whenever she came home.
As Colton cut turnips from the garden, Castor opened the door. The moment their eyes met, Abigail coughed wetly above them. Colton winced.
“Water?” Castor asked immediately.
“No, I’ve already given her some. The doctor says she shouldn’t have too much, in case it goes into her lungs.”
Castor sighed and rubbed a hand against Colton’s neck, fingers digging into the sore spots, as if he knew just where it hurt. As if they shared a body and a mind.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Help me cut these?”
They worked side by side in a silence broken only by the snap of the vegetables and the occasional cough from Abi.
“It’s not fair,” Castor said at last. “She should be healthy. She should be outside with her friends, not cooped up inside all the bloody time. Can you imagine? Spending your entire life confined to one place …” He looked over and swore. “Colton, I’m sorry.”
Colton set the knife down and choked on a sob. He put a hand against his mouth to stifle the sound, not wanting Abigail to hear, but hot tears kept falling down his cheeks and over his fingers, onto the sliced turnips.
Castor tried to wipe them away, but Colton waved him off, hiccupping a couple of times before forcing himself to stop. He couldn’t let his mother or sister see him with red eyes.
“I’m fine,” he said in little better than a frog’s croak, picking up the knife again. “She’ll be fine.”
No, she won’t. She’s going to die.
“Colton, she’s come out of these spells before. In another week or two she’ll be back on her feet. You’ll see.”
Colton shook his head and returned to chopping. “But how long will that healthy moment last before she takes another turn? She can’t keep going on like this. One day, it will be too much for her and—”
“Don’t think like that.”
“Why not? You keep telling me to be realistic. Or is that too real for you?”
Castor’s face clouded. “I’m trying to help.”
“Then maybe you should leave. I can take care of things myself.”
“I just want to—”
“I can handle it.”
“You can’t! You obviously can’t, or else you wouldn’t be weeping over turnips!” He reached out to pull Colton’s arm back from the table, to see his face. “Colton, if you just—”
“I said leave!”
With a pained hiss, Castor stepped back and cradled his hand. Colton dropped the knife stained with Castor’s blood. He had forgotten he was holding it.
The cut wasn’t deep, but blood welled on the side of Castor’s palm and dribbled to the floor. Colton rushed to get a cloth and had Castor press it against the wound. As they waited for the flow to stop, tears stung Colton’s eyes again.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I’ll be all right.” Castor nudged Colton with his elbow. “I probably deserved it.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I’m willing to do anything for you, Colton. Anything. But if I’m going to help, you have to let me. None of this pride and stubbornness anymore. Do I make myself clear?”
Colton sighed through his nose. “Yes.”
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Yes.”
“And no more holding knives when you’re upset. Although I think a scar will give me character, don’t you?”
“Don’t even joke about that. I feel terrible.”
“Don’t.” Castor lifted the cloth to see if the bleeding had stopped. “If it does scar, at least it’ll have been from you. That’s a mark I can wear proudly.”
Scars were memories. Colton didn’t want to look at Castor’s hand and remember when he’d been weak, or when Abigail was sick, or when, for just one second, he’d been glad that someone besides himself was suffering.
Colton opened his eyes, but he couldn’t move his head. It was too heavy. His entire body was too heavy.
He was strapped to a wall with metal bars, two on each arm, one around his chest, one around his hips, two on each leg. He pressed himself against the restraints, but they stayed firm. His cogs were gone, the holder hanging by a heavily bolted door too far away to give him the strength he needed; even the cog from Big Ben was gone from his pocket.
The hum under his boots and the rush of distant air told him he was on an airship, but it didn’t feel like the Prometheus.
The Builders.
Colton looked up and realized he wasn’t alone. Danny was strapped to the opposite wall, unconscious. His chin fell toward his chest, his weight pressing into the metal bars. Without them, he’d have crumpled to the floor.
“Danny,” Colton called, glancing at the door in case someone outside heard he was awake. “Danny.”
Danny groaned faintly, shifting his head. It took a while for him to raise it and open his eyes, revealing that familiar glassy green. He looked straight at Colton with no recognition, then slowly let his gaze wander the dark, metallic room.
“What’s happened?” he mumbled.
His confusion fed Colton’s panic. What had they done to him? Had they addled his mind?
“The Builders,” Colton whispered. “Do you remember that?”
Danny blinked a couple of times, flexing his fingers. “Yes. Damn it.”
A minor tremor of relief ran through him. If Danny was swearing, his mind was probably sound.
“Where are we?” Danny asked.
“I think … I think we’re on their ship.”
The door opened with a scrape, and Archer strode inside flanked by Builders. Her eyes lit up at the sight of them.
“Well,” she said as one of the Builders closed the door behind them. “It’s nice to see you two awake at last. Have any pleasant dreams?” she asked, tilting her head at Colton.
“How did you get on the Prometheus?” Danny rasped. “What happened to the others?”
“Other than the one who got in our way, I didn’t lay a finger on them. We w
aited for the landing party to enter the city before hijacking one of their planes, and then our contact opened the hangar for us.”
She had said something about a contact in Dürnstein, but Colton hadn’t suspected it was one of the Prometheus crew. “It was a trap,” Colton said. “You tricked us into going to Meerut so you could do this.”
“I like this one,” Archer said to her guards. “He’s a sharp boy.”
“How … How do you know who we are?” Danny asked slowly. “Why take us and not the others?”
She clasped her hands behind her back and tossed her head slightly to move a fallen lock of hair. “A cadet of mine reported encountering a rogue clock spirit in Austria with the Prometheus crew. A British clock spirit, who had the uncanny ability to travel outside of his tower. Now, let’s think. What town in England is currently Stopped? It didn’t take much research to find out the name of the town’s mechanic, considering it’s currently the talk of London.”
Danny’s eyebrows furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It seems you’ve picked up quite an unsavory reputation, Mr. Hart. In any case, I heard the most peculiar report from one of my Builders when he was stationed in Dürnstein about a clock spirit out and about with members of the Prometheus crew.” She gave an overly dramatized shrug with an exaggerated look of confusion. “Well, what on earth could that mean, I wondered—and besides that, how is it even possible? Since then, I’ve been eager to get you both on my ship.”
“We won’t tell you anything,” Colton said. “Whatever it is you’re looking for—”
“My dear boy, I have no interest in what you can or cannot tell me. I know everything there is to know about clock spirits and their towers. Then again,” she went on thoughtfully, walking to Colton’s cog holder, “it seems there is a touch I’ve yet to figure out. How this came to be manufactured, for instance.”
“Then … why take us?”
“Hostages are always useful.” She turned from the cog holder and flashed Danny a grin. “If I can ransom you two for the Prometheus leader, I wouldn’t complain. He’s become rather a thorn in my side, and we’d all prefer it if he’d stop with this Aetas nonsense. Still, I suppose I should have been clearer: I’m not interested in what you know, but I am interested in what you don’t.”
Colton and Danny shared a look of consternation.
“Adorable,” Archer murmured. “Look how in sync you are.” She turned to the guard on her right. The Builder nodded and moved toward Danny, key in hand.
“I’ve never had an opportunity like this before.” Archer walked to Colton and touched his cheek, but he jerked his head away. “A spirit so far from his tower, and all thanks to a silly little contraption. A clock mechanic with a romantic bond to said spirit. It should be a fairy tale.”
The guard began to unlock Danny’s restraints; Danny flexed his arms, as if ready to pounce. Colton felt a deepening sense of dread.
“Alas,” Archer said. “This is not a fairy tale. This is an experiment.”
As soon as he was freed, Danny launched himself at the guard, but the Builder was much bigger and easily threw him to the ground.
Colton pushed himself against his restraints to no effect. Archer noticed and smiled.
“After I saw the hole you punched through Lalita’s door, I couldn’t very well give you an opportunity to break free. You’re very weak without those cogs, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean by experiment?” Colton growled. “What are you going to do to him?”
Danny, still weak and fighting off whatever he’d been drugged with, tried to crawl away. The Builder laughed and pinned him with a boot on his back.
Archer watched on, curious. “I know all there is to currently know about the spirits. I didn’t lie about that. However, you symbolize everything I’ve yet to uncover—and not knowing something tends to make me cranky. I’m longing to know what can make you break. And …” She eyed his restraints. “What can make you stronger.”
The Builder holding Danny down took a device from his belt. With a click, a many-pronged needle burst from one end, like a taloned claw. The device emitted a dull crackle, as if each needle held a bolt of lightning.
Danny’s eyes widened and he fought to get away again, fingers scrabbling at the ground.
“Stop!” Colton shouted over the crackling of the device. “Don’t touch him!”
But his plea went unheard. With a motion of Archer’s finger, the man jabbed the needles into Danny’s lower back.
The room filled with screams.
Colton fought against the metal strangling him, struggling to break from the wall. The cogs in the corner jerked and brightened, responding to his terror.
“Stop it!” he kept screaming, but he could barely be heard above Danny’s wails of pain. After a moment, the Builder removed the needles long enough to kick Danny onto his back while the other man held him down. Danny weakly fought as they opened his shirt and pushed the electricity-crackling needles into his chest. He threw his head back and screamed, his heels thumping against the floor as his body twitched violently.
Archer hummed as she watched the cog holder rattle against the wall. “I had a theory that cogs were tied to a spirit’s temperament. But perhaps the power in the spirit’s body waxes and wanes with emotion, and the cogs tied to the spirit are therefore affected.”
“Let him go!” Colton begged. “Please, I’ll do anything! Just make them stop!”
Archer tsked, but lifted a gloved finger and the Builders paused, removing the device. Danny lay there gasping, his unseeing gaze fixed on the ceiling. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Small red dots peppered his chest where the needles had pricked him.
“You must care for him quite a bit to react as strongly as you did,” Archer remarked. “Ah, and the poor lad’s already been through an ordeal.” She indicated his bullet wound and the newer tear. “Shame.”
“Danny,” Colton called, trying to get his attention. Danny’s eyes locked on Colton, so full of fear and pain that he had to bite his lower lip to pull back a sob.
“He’ll be fine.” Archer nodded, and her men roughly pulled Danny up. He struggled, and one of them smacked Danny across the face and he went down again. Danny grunted as the other kicked him in the ribs.
“That’s enough,” Archer barked. Sheepishly, they lifted Danny back to his feet and forced him back into the metal restraints.
“Whatever you’re planning,” Colton whispered, “just do it to me. Don’t touch him again. I don’t care what you do to me, but don’t … don’t hurt him again. Please.”
Archer gave Colton a look of what might have been genuine sympathy. It was hard to tell, as the sharpness of her eyebrows gave her the appearance of constant displeasure. “Don’t you worry; tomorrow will be your turn. That’ll give the lad some time to rest.”
“But—”
She raised her hand and the Builders followed her to the door. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’ll be taking this for examination.” Archer plucked the cog holder from the wall, but then pulled a smaller cog from her pocket—Big Ben’s cog—and tossed it at his feet. “Hopefully this will tide you over.”
The door slammed behind them, throwing Danny and Colton into darkness and silence.
Danny’s breaths were ragged, his eyes unfocused. Blood stained his lower lip. His shirt was still open, and Colton could see every wound, every scar. Those horrible memories, all carved into his skin.
“Danny,” Colton said again, but the farther Archer carried his central cog away from the cell, the weaker he became. His vision darkened, his body sagged. He only had time to whisper “I’m sorry” before he sank back into his memories.
Danny was alone. It didn’t matter that Colton was in the same cold, forbidding room; he’d been unconscious, semitranslucent ever since Archer had taken his cogs away. Only the small cog Archer had left kept Colton from turning completely see-through. Danny wished he had the cog Colton had given h
im, but it was back on the Prometheus, and he’d probably never see it again.
Since Danny was alone, he didn’t feel quite as ashamed to cry.
The shock from the needles had traveled across his body in waves of agony, setting every nerve on fire, jabbing into his brain like a thousand knives. He couldn’t feel his back or chest. He could barely feel his heart pumping.
The pain had been worse than anything. Worse than the tasers. Worse than the bullet. Worse than having his shoulder torn open. Worse than his father’s absence and Matthias’s betrayal.
He wondered if Archer meant to kill him.
Impossibly, he fell asleep. It was a dreamless state, the kind where he couldn’t be sure if he had slept at all. He thought he woke once to find a couple of Builders observing Colton and writing notes in ledgers, but when he opened his eyes again they were gone.
The next time he woke was with a half-hearted slap to the face. A Builder stood before him, short-haired and grumpy.
“Open your mouth,” she ordered. He pressed his cracked lips together, trying not to wince; the bottom one had split.
The Builder grabbed his nose and tilted his head back. He struggled as she forced water down his throat, and it was either swallow or drown. He coughed and sputtered.
She stuffed a couple pieces of bread into his mouth and left without so much as a glance for Colton. As the door clanged shut again, Danny spat out the bread. For all he knew, it could have been poisoned.
“Colton,” he called, but the spirit was still out cold. Every so often, though, Danny saw a finger twitch or heard Colton mumble. Once, he thought he heard the name Castor, and a dark emotion stole through him.
That’s not important right now, he thought wearily.
He looked down at himself. Large, dark bruises bloomed on his chest. His lower back ached and his left shoulder was red and puffy, though the sutures were holding.
Had the Prometheus’s crew learned what had happened by now? Had Jo ever gotten his message? Had the Builders attacked them in Meerut? Had another mechanic been killed so a new tower could rise?
