Untamed Skies

by Mirren Hogan

  For the next hour, we worked diligently. The situation was surreal. I had restored this old place to abandon it, possibly burning it to the ground.

  At seven-thirty, Rob pulled the truck into the garage, and we loaded my things next to his. Once again, the idea that I was doing this, being proactive in spite of the loss it entailed bizarre.

  Inside, he had the thermostat ready for that fateful setting – cool.

  “I feel a little guilty,” he said. “Not.”

  “Me either!”

  Pulling out the driveway, I took a last look at my dream house, the only house I’d ever own in the United States of America.

  Rob took my hand and brought it to his lips, kissing my skin. The electrical charge ran up my arm, through my body.

  “Excited?” he asked, winking. “I mean about our adventure.”

  “Ha! Yes, about that kiss, and our adventure. Canada, here we come!”

  The End

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  Fortune’s Eve

  Emma Jane Holloway

  Fortune’s Eve

  Emma Jane Holloway

  Title © copyright 2019 Emma Jane Holloway

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Chapter 1

  “If we don’t find the wreck soon, we’ll be obliged to turn back,” said Norton Fletcher.

  Gideon glanced at the sky, calculating the remaining daylight. His father was right. No one risked traveling outside the city walls after dark. “That’s death for the crew of the wreck.”

  “But not for the city.” Fletcher’s face was rigid. “Not for us. Don’t get caught up in the emotion of these missions. It’s a quick way to die.”

  Gideon gave a low laugh to hide his resentment. His father never let go of the impulse to instruct his grown son. “I have compassion.”

  “A waste of energy. Everything breaks and everything mends,” said Fletcher. “Live long enough, and you’ll understand.”

  “Do you truly believe that?” asked Gideon, heat creeping into his words.

  “Yes,” said his father, “and no. It’s what old men tell themselves to stop the ache of fear in their bellies.”

  The words were terse, a bitter blend of the flippant and the true. Questions crowded Gideon’s mind, but Fletcher’s expression closed like a door banging shut, the Scorpion’s captain replacing the father. Not that the difference was pronounced on most days.

  Gideon studied his father, who stood at the pilot’s station with feet planted wide and back ramrod straight. Fletcher wasn’t a large man, but his stocky figure and lined features, weathered by decades of sun and wind, made Gideon think of petrified oak. Fletcher eased a lever forward and the Scorpion dipped closer to the river, twin propellers thwop-thwopping through the mist. Autumn fogs trailed ghostly fingers around the dirigible as if they meant to snatch it from the sky.

  A flare had gone up two hours ago, according to the watchmen’s report. Fletcher Industries—one of the premier airship firms in the city—kept half a dozen rescue craft on standby, but the last week had been busy. When word arrived, only the Scorpion was still at the airfield and the crews were shorthanded. Norton Fletcher—owner, designer, and still one of the best pilots in the sky—had taken the job himself. Of course, Gideon went with him. He was a grown man, heir to the Fletcher empire, but he still took pleasure in watching his father work. Or he had. As the afternoon wore on, that first thrill darkened to anxiety. They weren’t finding any trace of the wreck.

  Gideon peered over the edge of the gondola, estimating the distance to the dense treetops. Ash, birch, oak, chestnut, and the occasional conifer grew in a lush tangle. After the population had fled the countryside, Nature had thrown a party. The result was the beautiful but deadly forest that grew up, covering every trace of civilization. Gideon leaned out another inch, one hand on a sturdy cable. There was still plenty of clearance before they risked scraping the branches, but distance made it hard to see the river. Unfortunately, closing the gap would be unwise. That was the gamble with rescue missions—risk all to save the innocent, and risk becoming a victim oneself.

  A trio of dragons soared above the branches as the ship passed overhead. Their population had grown with the forest, but the city dwellers paid them no heed. Few of the creatures grew larger than a goat, and humanity had far more to worry about than an invasive species of lizard.

  For the hundredth time that afternoon, the broad silver swath of the river emerged from the encroaching trees. The Scorpion had followed a zigzagging path, searching both sides of the water. They had seen a fleet of River Rats—clans of wandering thieves and magicians who lived aboard their crafts—and once a smuggler’s ship with gun ports open. Both had probably been bound for the walled farms to the east. There was gold in river business, for those brave enough to win it. Gideon would take the sky any day.

  The foliage slipped from view, and the water gleamed directly below. His heart skipped as he saw what the Scorpion had come for—the wreckage of a mid-sized sailing craft.

  “There!” Gideon cried, pointing over the side with one hand while he fumbled for his spyglass with the other. “Bring the ship around again.”

  The crew—four hands besides the Fletchers—jumped to obey, hauling on the lines that adjusted the auxiliary sails. Boilers hissed, feeding the engine that drove the propellers. Slowly, the Scorpion, with its twin gray and white silk balloons, pivoted in the sky.

  “Sir, we dare not go lower,” said Higgins, the grizzled senior airman.

  “Then get your gear on,” said Norton Fletcher, guiding the ship into position above the wreck. “We’ll go down for a look, although it’s not promising.”

  Hopeful or not, it was still their duty to search for survivors. Gideon grabbed his own equipment, wondering what they’d find. Fools had a way of getting what they deserved.

  The river—cold, fast, and often foggy—was riddled with ruined weirs and the stumps of old bridges. Wise travelers took a River Rat who knew the water’s tricks. According to the harbormaster’s records—all crafts were required to declare their routes before they cast off—Mr. Joseph Ellery, esquire, had flouted every rule when he’d taken out the craft that lay splintered below. On some level, Gideon wasn’t surprised. He’d met the weedy banker at parties and the theater and had been consistently underwhelmed.

  By the time the Scorpion was hovering in place, Gideon, Higgins, and Crewman Yale were ready to descend. Flight crews typically wore supple leather suits as protection from wind and weather, along with high boots and close-fitting helmets. Gideon added a weapons belt and a rifle in a sling across his back, as well as long knives strapped to his thighs.

  “You’ve got an hour of good daylight,” said Fletcher. “Don’t waste it.”

  Gideon tried to catch his father’s eye, but his goggles made it impossible. He wasn’t sure why he bothered—he needed no reassurance, and emotional displays were not the family way. Still, the unknown that lurked below left a hollow in his gut. When Higgins offered him a flask
of smuggled French brandy, he accepted it gratefully and took a swig for luck.

  A square metal plate, about five feet across, formed part of the Scorpion’s main deck. Once unlocked from thick steel hasps, the platform could be raised and lowered with steam-powered efficiency. Cables spooled onto four large wheels that moved on a single automated crank calibrated to keep the plate perfectly level—a key feature of Norton Fletcher’s patented design. The rescue crew mounted mounted the platform, crouching low and grasping the lines for balance while Fletcher himself released the brake. With a whir of well-oiled gears, they gently floated the forty feet to the river’s shallows.

  A breeze caught the platform, swaying it slightly. Gideon didn’t mind. The scent of greenery and rich mud was a novelty, and he inhaled with gratitude. His city home stank of smoke and too many bodies crowded close for protection. The wilderness might be deadly, but at least it was clean.

  They jumped the last few feet, boots splashing in shallow water. The wreck was in the middle of the river, but there wasn’t enough of the ship left for survivors to take shelter. Any who could move had reached dry ground or been carried off by the current. As this was the closer bank, it made sense to begin the search here.

  “By our calculations, that’s where the flare was fired,” said Higgins, pointing a dozen yards ahead. “Anyone hoping for rescue wouldn’t go far.”

  Gideon nodded agreement and scrambled up the bank, not wasting time. He pushed up his goggles, needing his peripheral vision now. As the September sun flirted with the treetops, the fog was already misting above the water. It would be dusk here long before the sun actually set.

  Unholstering his rifle, he strode onward, using his nose as well as his eyes and ears. Death had a smell, as did blood, but the wind was off the river and gave him no clues. A rustle in the trees caught his attention.

  “Ellery? Hello?”

  Gideon raised the rifle and turned slowly, realizing there had been birdsong a moment ago, and now there wasn’t. Somewhere in the treetops, a dragon cawed and flapped in seeming fury. He began to sweat, soaking the shirt beneath his jacket. He was still on the bank, the bush and trees a dozen yards distant and hiding who knew what. Countless ruins lay buried along the riverside, evidence of a world before walls and the terror of the Unseen. Gideon swept his rifle in a slow arc, his nerves alive with dread. “Ellery?”

  The woods to his left exploded with movement and sound. He swiveled toward it, but was a beat too late. He had a swift impression of rags and bony limbs, but his senses failed. A long shriek of rage split the air as the thing hurtled through the air, arms extended. Gideon had no chance to aim.

  Crewman Yale’s rifle cracked, smoke belching from the muzzle. The attacking figure flew sideways, the force of the shot tearing a hole through its chest. The scream faded to a gurgle as its lungs failed, but the bubbling moan didn’t stop. The thing writhed, trying to turn over so it could crawl. The Unseen weren’t immortal, but they were very hard to kill.

  Gideon registered the pale face and wide eyes, the sharp and blackened teeth. The Unseen hated daylight, but they’d brave it for an easy kill—which he’d been a moment ago. Barely aware of its mortal wounds, the creature made it to its hands and knees and gazed at him with hungry rapture.

  Gideon blew its head off. He watched it drop, still twitching, as bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it down, icy and sweating at the same time.

  Yale came to stand next to him. “You’re lucky, sir. It was one of the crazy ones.”

  “Lucky?” Gideon echoed.

  The crewman pulled a face. “It’s the smart ones you have to fear. They’ll do worse than gnaw your bones.”

  Gideon stared a moment at the bloody ground—the bits of bone and gore scattering the weeds. The Unseen weren’t the only horror in the woods, but they were the most common. A sudden urge to run swept over him, but he stood his ground, clenching his teeth to stop the chatter.

  “Sir?” Yale asked, casting him a concerned glance.

  Gideon brutally shoved the nightmare down to the cellars of his soul. “I’m fine.”

  Higgins gave a sharp whistle. He’d stayed close to the platform, guarding their escape. Yates and Gideon turned to see another figure limping from the trees, using a rifle as a cane. It was Ellery, hurt and clearly exhausted.

  Gideon broke into a run, lengthening his stride to close the distance. “Where’s your crew?”

  “Gone,” Ellery panted. “We were separated in the wreck. The captain fired a flare, but they never stood a chance. I just saw what was left.”

  “You went into the forest?” Gideon was incredulous. “How did you survive?”

  “I had to know it was over for them.” Ellery looked back over his shoulder with air of a man who’d seen his own grave. The Unseen dragged their meals beneath the trees, where they stripped the flesh like hungry jackals. Ellery’s nauseated expression filled in the details.

  Gideon wrapped an arm around him, half-carrying the man toward the platform. If Ellery was the sole survivor, all that remained was to return to the Scorpion and safety. Higgins stood on guard a dozen feet away. Yale was already on the platform, rifle raised to cover their retreat.

  Three Unseen burst from the woods, thin limbs barely covered by fluttering rags. One howled like the first creature, but the other two were silent, their eyes calculating. As Yale had said, the smart ones were dangerous. Dropping his rifle, Gideon heaved Ellery across his shoulders and ran.

  Yale fired, but only winged his target. Two of the Unseen dropped to all fours, springing forward like wolves. Higgins was closest and shot once, twice, but went down under their weight. Gideon heaved Ellery to the platform and turned back to help. Yale was already there, pulling one attacker away. Gideon drew his sidearm, intending to shoot the second.

  The thing’s head jerked up as if it had read his thoughts. Hate-filled eyes scorched him as the creature sprang toward the rifle Gideon had dropped. A smart one, then. It snatched up the weapon, raising it awkwardly. The sight filled Gideon with a new kind of horror. Intelligence made them like him. His pistol roared just as it pulled the trigger. The rifle shot skyward as it dropped, the back of its skull shattered, but the fight wasn’t over. A second creature lunged, hot and horrible breath fanning Gideon’s face before he could react. He bashed the butt of his weapon into face, knocking the creature sideways. The pistol slipped from his hand, spinning away. The Unseen staggered, but regained its balance in a single, dance-like shuffle. Gideon slid one knife from a leg sheath. As the creature surged back, he drove the bade deep between its ribs, twisting until he found the heart. This time, it went down.

  Yale had killed the third Unseen and heaved Higgins to the platform. Gideon jumped aboard and threw the lever that signalled the Scorpion. With a click and a spin of gears, the platform began rising skyward. Gideon sat down hard, panting with exhaustion and relief. Below, Unseen littered the riverbank like broken mannequins. They think, Gideon mused, but then pushed the idea away.

  Higgins was on his knees staring at his arm. The leather was torn from wrist to elbow, exposing a strip of skin. There, a perfect bite mark stood out in angry red, a bruise already purpling around it.

  “I’ll clean the wound when we get to the ship,” Gideon said.

  “No time,” said the man, pulling off his helmet. The shorn gray hair stood out from his skull in sweat-drenched tufts. He drew a knife from his belt and poised it above the wound.

  Gideon grabbed the crewman’s wrist, stopping him. The aftermath of the fight had left a tremor in his fingers, but pride was irrelevant now. Only Higgins mattered, a crewman who had flown into hell to rescue an innocent.

  “That’s just a myth,” Gideon said. “You can’t catch what they have.”

  The look the man gave him was worse than any blow. Gideon released his grip, suddenly conscious of overstepping a boundary. He was the captain’s son, but Higgins was his own master.

  “There’s rules,” said Yale. “It’s the
airman’s way.”

  The knife bit deep, slicing beneath the broken skin in Higgins’s arm. The breath hissed between the crewman’s teeth, but he held the blade steady as it carved and lifted the mark away.

  Yale drew his kerchief, folding it into a bandage as he waited. “It doesn’t matter what the so-called doctors put in their reports. A man has to know he’s clean.”

  Gideon looked away from the spectacle, barely seeing the misty treetops as they ascended. Emotions twisted inside him, fumbling for a truth he couldn’t yet define. The sight of the blood, of the crewman carving his own flesh, filled him with rage.

  His gaze fell on Ellery, who was massaging his swelling ankle. His crew had been eaten, his rescuers attacked, and yet he’d escaped with no more than a sprain. “Why the bloody hell were you out there?” Gideon snapped. “Why risk a river passage? That’s not for amateurs.”

  Ellery ducked his chin. “I’ve done it before. Running into that piling was pure bad luck.”

  Bad luck. Higgins was done with the knife, and Yale was binding his arm. Both were sweating and pale. Gideon tried to keep what was left of his calm by watching Ellery’s expression. The man had the look of someone frozen in horror, as if his time in the woods repeated over and over behind his eyes.

  “And the crew?”

  “I used up my ammunition to save them.” Ellery swallowed hard. “I was stranded. There was nothing more I could do except choose how to die.”

  Gideon digested Ellery’s words. There was no doubt man was devastated, but something didn’t add up. “I didn’t know you’d made the river passage before. The harbormaster said nothing about it.”

  But perhaps that was the point. Ellery had money, and the only reason a rich man would risk his life on the water was to hide something. “Why the secrecy? You know there will an inquest after this.”