Sophie quickly scanned the buildings. Gaslights along the side of the main building were out. Lit lanterns on hooks driven into the brickwork long ago gave dim illumination. An empty delivery coach sat by the shipping bay’s double doors, one of which stood open. The other door lay torn from its hinges. Beyond the shipping bay, the generator bay was a heap of brick, charred wood, and metal rubble. Sophie’s gaze jerked back to the mob.
“—got a family to feed.”
“What’re ya gonna do—”
“Get rid o’ the big el—
“I want my—”
“—the Jonah.”
The angry voices overlapped. Their rising volume nearly drowned out Poppa Tom’s voice. “Gentlemen, please—”
She pulled her arm from Kazimir’s grasp and ran toward Poppa Tom. Behind her, Kazimir shouted, “Miss Asher!”
An odor of alcohol enveloped her as Sophie elbowed and shoved her way to her father. “You leave him alone!” she shouted as she reached the steps.
The men quieted briefly as they realized she was there. Poppa Tom glanced worriedly at her, but he seized the respite to attempt calming the mob. “Gentlemen, come back in the morning and I’ll—”
The shouting resumed, but Sophie heard a cry, “There he is!” She squinted in the uncertain light toward the back of the mob. Several men turned to look, their silence more menacing than the shouts.
Kazimir had come closer. Some of the men broke from the mob, encircling him.
A pair of lassoes snaked out from the darkness beyond the lantern light. One pinned Kazimir's arms to his sides. The other tightened around his shoulders and jerked him backward off his feet. The thud of his body and smack of his head on the cobbles sounded in the lull.
Two ex-cowhands slid the stunned elf across the yard toward the shipping bay as though he were a steer to be hung, bled out, and gutted. In the low light of the lanterns, another man was trying to toss a rope over the intact boom of the overhead crane above the bay doors.
Sophie scooped her skirts aside, leapt from the step, and ran to the shipping bay. She snatched the coachwhip as she passed the delivery wagon. Behind her, Bruce roared something. She skidded to a stop and faced the third man who was knotting a noose. “Mike Whitten, what are you doing?”
He lowered his gaze from the crane to her. For an instant, she froze. The man’s expression was sullen but puzzled, without recognition. Rather than bloodshot with liquor and rage, his eyes were glass-bright and unblinking.
Sophie clenched her teeth and swung the coachwhip’s weighted handle in a backhanded strike across the man’s face. Awareness flared in his eyes. He stared stupidly at her, then at the rope he held.
Someone else grabbed her arm.
Her charge had distracted one roper, and Kazimir regained his feet. He fought free of a lasso, but the other still bound his arms to his sides. He tried to dodge the man’s throw to rope him again. The lasso snared his neck and yanked him toward the crane above the shipping bay.
Bruce bellowed her name. Sophie glanced his direction in time to see him smash one man aside, then sweep away another with a swing and backswing of an iron-backed singletree. Bruce waded toward her through the clot of men. A powerful swing of the singletree knocked a man into two others, and all three went down.
From somewhere outside the shipping yard came the clatter of approaching hooves.
“Allen O’Donnell, let go of me!” Sophie yelled at the man gripping her arm. He plucked the coachwhip from her hand as she swung it at him. Not surprised to see the same glazed look in his eyes, Sophie kicked as hard as she could. The point of her boot connected with his shin. Pain did its work. O’Donnell’s expression changed to confusion, then recognition and dismay. He let go of her arm as though she’d burned him.
The sharp crack of a revolver boomed between the brick buildings. Every man froze at the sound of gunfire.
Sophie turned to see two mounted policemen. Their dark blue uniforms looked black in the lantern light. Pinpoints of brightness flashed off the double rows of brass buttons and the silver stars on their chests. She recognized Sergeant Kent when lamplight fell on his face as he surveyed the scene.
Kent dismounted and walked up to the knot of men surrounding Poppa Tom. The men parted before the sergeant. Some still appeared angry, but a few shook their heads or looked around in bewilderment. Poppa Tom appeared disheveled but unharmed. Sophie met his anxious gaze and smiled a reassurance that she was safe. He turned to the sergeant and patrolman.
Bruce leaned against the delivery coach. His face was still pale, but he gave her a faint grin and nod. She went to Kazimir. Standing on her toes, she eased the rough rope from his throat. Blood oozed in a wide line, his skin both abraded and burned. Grimacing, she tugged loose the lasso binding his arms.
He thanked her, then stared up at the overhead crane. With grave deliberation, he removed his tie and cast it away. “I wish never to wear again.”
Sophie started to smile, started to laugh. Trembling suddenly seized her. She bit her lower lip to prevent her teeth from chattering. Crossing her arms, she tucked her hands against her sides. She drew a quaking breath and felt Kazimir's arm drape around her shoulders. He gently walked her over to the delivery coach, to her brother. Bruce’s arm replaced Kazimir’s. She stared at the damp cobbles, vaguely aware of people dispersing a few at a time.
Boots stopped in front of her. She looked up into Poppa Tom’s face as he smiled down at her. “You did well, Sugar.” He scrutinized Bruce, then turned his gaze to Kazimir. In a voice louder than usual, he said, “I hate to do this, Kazimir, but you’re fired.”
Sophie’s mouth dropped open in astonishment.
Poppa Tom winked. In a much lower voice, he spoke to Bruce. “Take him home. Our home. Have Mrs. Carlton doctor his neck. And you get some rest, son. I’ll bring Sophie.”
“I’ll get a buggy ready for you, Pop. C’mon, Kaz,” Bruce rumbled. He took a lantern down from the nearest wall hook. He and the elf walked to the stable.
Sophie watched them go. “Is Bruce all right?”
Poppa Tom looked toward the front of the building. “Had to have a few stitches on that hard head of his.” He took a step from her, then said, “Wait here, Sugar.”
Under the gaslight by the street, Poppa Tom approached Ted Granthal, who held something wadded in his hand. They spoke and shook hands, then Poppa Tom returned. “Judith forgot her shawl after the explosion. Ted came back for it and saw what was going on. He got the police for us.” He leaned against the coach beside her.
“Was anyone hurt?” Sophie thought her voice quavered a little. She couldn’t stop it.
“Two were killed. Phil Martin. Tim Wayne. They were in the boiler room when it blew.” Poppa Tom took a deep breath as though trying to steady himself. “Mel Damson was taken to St. Luke’s, but I don’t know if he’s conscious yet. I think someone took Little Louis Chester to the new children’s hospital, but no doctor can save a hand that isn’t there. Jimmy Diego got a broken leg. They were the worst. Other minor injuries—bruises, burns, cuts needing stitches.” He snorted. “And whatever damage Bruce did tonight.”
She listened to the rhythmic clopping of hooves on cobbles, Bruce and Kazimir leaving from the corral side of the stable. “When? How did it happen?”
“Couldn’t have been more than an hour after you and Kazimir left.” Poppa Tom’s face appeared haggard. “But I don’t know how. The boilers were fine. I found a gauge that wasn’t smashed. The needle was frozen where it was supposed to be, not up in the red.” He tugged on his mustache. “Anyway, when they blew, it sparked off the main gas line to part of the building. It’s a mercy it was the only line that ignited.”
“Poppa, do you think it might have been those rusalkas?”
He shrugged, then frowned down at her. “Why do you say that?”
“I saw one today.” She scanned the wreckage of the main building. The yards and drive of Asher Metal Works were deserted now. The usual backgroun
d noises of the city and the river seemed muffled. She thought she caught a fading sound of laughter, but she couldn't be certain. “Can we go home, Poppa? I’ll tell you about it later. If that’s all right.”
He sighed. “I suppose so, Sugar.”
Sophie stepped away from the coach and held out her hand. Poppa Tom took it as though she were a little girl again. They walked to the corral where Bruce had tethered a horse harnessed to a light buggy for them. The horse stood rigid, and the whites showed in its eyes. Ripples shivered all over its skin. Sophie’s own skin prickled with unease. She felt she was being watched.
Chapter 5
~*~
Sophie woke to the aroma of biscuits and ham wafting from the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled. Last night, she would’ve sworn she’d never be hungry again. She dressed quickly and ran a brush through her hair. Pausing by her drafting table, she picked up the drawing she’d worked on before going to bed, folded it, and slipped it into her pocket.
Mrs. Carlton, the Asher’s cook and housekeeper, greeted her at the bottom of the stairs. At the sight of Sophie's divided skirt, her wrinkled face melted from a smile to a scowl. “Young lady, your mother—God rest her soul!—would roll in her grave if she saw you now.” Mrs. Carlton lowered her voice. Her words possibly carried as far as the street. “You’ll never attract a gentleman dressed like—”
“I’ll try to remember,” Sophie interrupted, not quite matching the old woman’s volume. She hastily re-buttoned the panels of the riding skirt, then patted her stomach. “Breakfast smells wonderful.”
Mrs. Carlton nodded, and her smile returned. “Yes, breakfast is ready, but I think Bruce and that young man with the funny ears finished off the scrambled eggs.”
Cringing inwardly at the housekeeper’s volume, Sophie smiled back at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Carlton.” She moved on. She’d almost reached the kitchen when she heard an abrupt scrape on the wood floor.
“Nyet! That is abomination!” Kazimir’s voice sounded angry and nearly as loud as Mrs. Carlton’s.
“Easy, Kaz. Just askin’.”
Sophie entered the kitchen. Seated at the long table, Bruce drummed his fingers on the rim of his coffee mug. Standing opposite her brother, Kazimir glowered, outrage leaching all warmth from his eyes.
“Good morning, Bruce. Kazimir.” She took an empty plate from the end of the table and went to the stove. No answer. She split a biscuit and ladled ham gravy over it. “Good morning, Sophie. Did you rest well? Why, yes, thank you. Of course, yesterday I learned an elf works for my father, I saw a water demon, and I got in a brawl.” She poured a cup of coffee. “Today, I think I’ll learn to knit.”
“What was that?” Bruce’s voice had a lazy, slow quality no matter how perturbed he was.
“Nothing,” Sophie said. She carried her coffee and plate to the table. She took a chair next to Bruce and eyed his fresh bandage. “How’s the head?”
Bruce shifted in his chair but didn’t look at her. “Still hurts. Not as bad as yesterday.”
She smiled brightly and picked up a fork. “So, what’s going on?” She took a bite of biscuit. In the silence, she heard a log shift in the cookstove. Someday, Poppa Tom would win the argument with Mrs. Carlton and install a gas stove.
Kazimir sat down. “Your brother,” he said through clenched teeth, “had question about tools.”
“Which was?” Sophie prompted.
“I asked about the micrometer,” Bruce said. “I saw what he did with some raisins.”
Sophie shrugged and picked up her cup. “I’ve wondered, too. It’s not like any I’ve seen. What kind of markings are on all those thimbles?”
Kazimir’s answer was somewhat calmer. “Not marks for size, Miss Asher. Marks are for time. Year. Month. Day. Hour. Minute. Instrument moved fruit to early time on vine.”
She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “Can your other tools do similar things? Can any of them move you in time?”
“Da. Maybe perhaps. But instruments belonged to Pyotr. He did not yet show me how.”
“What I asked,” Bruce’s deep voice cut in, “was if he could go back in time to save someone from dying. Or bring ’em back to life.”
Our elf here is right, Sophie thought. That is an abomination. “Why go back in time at all?” she asked.
“To remove stain of rusalka. For living person. Not for dead person.”
Sophie shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“Last night.” Kazimir spoke slowly, carefully. “If life says, ‘Kazimir, it is time for you to die,’ then I die. Maybe perhaps thief shoots Kazimir. Or horse kicks Kazimir in head.” He grimaced and clutched at his chest. “Or heart stops. But I do not die by hands of men touched by rusalka. They would not live with stained burden of my death. They live with whatever stain is already in spirit. By nature?” His voice softened. “Only stain of circumstance, Miss Asher.”
Stain of circumstance, Sophie mused. “What about your brother and his wife?”
There was both sadness and pride in his brief smile. “Death of Pyotr and Ilyana was accident. We finished work in Boonville.” His gaze shifted to Bruce. “Please to forgive my angry. You had reasonable question. To return dead person to time of life would not give life back to person. It would allow demon to make corpse move. Not alive. Abomination.”
“Not a problem, Kaz.” Bruce scooted his chair back from the table. He went to the cookstove and brought back the coffeepot. “What we need to figure is how fast we can get rid of these demons. These rusalkas.”
“Rusalki,” Kazimir corrected him firmly. “Rusalka is one. Rusalki is more.” He spread his hands as though indicating a crowd. “Many.”
“Sorry. Anyway, spring regatta is coming up.” Bruce looked at her. “By the way, Mel passed away sometime early this morning. Pop said to tell you.”
Sophie pushed her plate away. Mel had been the first employee Poppa Tom had hired. She pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting a sudden stinging burn, the prelude to tears. As soon as she was certain she wouldn’t cry, she cleared her throat. “Some of the men last night were influenced by . . . rusal–rusalki.”
“I also saw it too.” Kazimir touched his unbandaged neck. The angry wound from the rough rope for lynching him appeared deeper and worse in the light. “But I do not know why,” he went on. “Shop of your father is too far from river.”
Sophie recalled the rusalka she’d seen hadn’t appeared until the train started over the river. If Kazimir didn’t know how the rusalka had reached the shop, she certainly couldn’t hazard a guess. “Any idea why the boilers blew?”
“Shouldn’t have happened,” Bruce said. “We’d just done maintenance on ’em while they were down for filter changes. The backup boilers were working fine. When we shut off the city supply and re-opened the valves . . .” He fell silent. His widened eyes met hers.
“What is problem?” Kazimir asked.
“The valves,” Sophie finished slowly, staring at her brother, “of the plumbing that brings water in from the river.”
“Pop isn’t safe there.”
Poppa Tom’s quiet anger: It tried to kill my boy. Sophie felt suddenly ashamed. She hadn’t asked Bruce what had happened to him. “Neither are you.” She shifted her gaze to Kazimir. “Or you.”
Bruce stood. “I’ll drive you there. You better stay here, Kaz.”
Sophie took the drawing from her pocket. “Could you look this over while we’re gone?” She unfolded it and showed it to Bruce before handing it to Kazimir.
“Tool to throw flame, Miss Asher?” Kazimir studied the drawing. “You have good hand for blueprint.”
“Call me Sophie. We’re too involved to be formal.” To her bemused annoyance, she saw Kazimir look to Bruce as though seeking her brother’s approval.
Bruce waved a dismissive hand. With a humorless grin, he focused on her. “The tank that split—we used river water when we pressurized it to test the design.” He left the kitchen.
So
phie rose to follow him, but Kazimir’s voice stopped her.
“Miss . . . Sophie.” Kazimir didn’t look up from the paper before him. “Please to take housekeeper with you.”
“Why?”
He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug but his gaze remained on the drawing. “I do not know. My thought is that it is right for you to do.”
Frowning, Sophie found Mrs. Carlton and took her to the front drive where Bruce waited with the buggy. The roan gelding turned his head to regard her, then nuzzled Bruce’s coat in search of a treat. Sophie shook her head at Bruce’s questioning look as he came alongside to help the old housekeeper into the buggy. After a brief internal debate, Sophie decided she didn’t want to bellow a conversation all the way to Asher Metal Works. She climbed onto the front seat next to her brother.
The spring morning was comfortably warm, but when they reached the iron gates of the business, an oppressive dampness displaced the warmth. The roan gelding stopped. Sophie glanced at Bruce, then at the horse. The gelding’s ears flattened to his head, and his skin spasmed in fly-bite quivers from withers to rump. “Bruce?”
He made no response.
She looked at his slack expression. His unblinking stare grew glassier by the second. Almost like Kazimir’s distraction yesterday. More like the captivated men in the mob last night. She reached up and smacked him smartly on the back of the head where the bandage covered his stitches. “For God’s sake, pay attention!”
“Ow!” He put a hand on his head. “What was that for?”
“What?” yelled Mrs. Carlton from behind them.
Pain—that was what broke the rusalki’s influence. Sophie shook her head. No, not just pain. Bruce was in pain last night and didn’t seem vulnerable to the demons’ enchantment. The kiss worked for Kazimir. Striking Whitten, kicking O’Donnell. The shot the police fired.
Anything that startles—sharp pain, loud noise, she thought, maybe that’s it. “Let’s find Poppa. Just leave the buggy here.”
Silence as oppressive as the dampness blanketed the shop yard. Had Poppa Tom closed the business for the day? Sophie saw no rusalki but sensed their presence. Her skin felt as though it would start quivering as the gelding’s had. There was no sign of Poppa Tom.
Tools of the Trade (The Suntosun Chronicles) Page 3
