A Study in Darkness (67 page)

“Yes. We have been sharing the night for so, so long—but I am afraid it has been one-sided. Whenever I slept, you forgot all about me. But whenever I woke it was a simple matter to step into your nightmares—as easy as slipping on a coat. Poor, weak Imogen.”

“But you’re an automaton!”

“Is that all I am?”

Imogen’s insides gave a wrench of fresh terror. “What gives you the right to take over my dreams?”

“Right? There is nothing
right
in what happened to me!” Serafina snapped, and this time it was a very human snarl. “All I want is what you have. You got everything!”

Imogen’s hands crept toward her ears. A primal instinct urged her to cover them so that she would not hear one word more.

But the doll kept talking. “Looking out through your dreams was bad enough, seeing everything I’d missed, but then I saw you on the street. My eyes did not know you but some other part of me did.”

“How?” Her hands were almost to her ears, but she was not quite fast enough.

The doll caught her wrists before she could raise her arms any further. “Sister, I would know you anywhere.”

Imogen made a nonsense noise, but it held a world of horror.

“How I hate you!” cried Anna. “You got well again.”

NICCOLO
,
SAID ATHENA
,
A MESSENGER APPROACHES
.

Nick stood at the prow of the
Red Jack
, his spyglass trained on the early afternoon sky. Striker stood at Nick’s side, leaning against the ship’s rail with the same slouch he’d use at the counter at the Saracen’s Head. “What is it? You have that the-ship’s-talking-to-me frown.”

“Incoming message,” he said, sliding the spyglass closed. “An ash rook.”

“Oh, bloody hell, I hate those things.”

They’d left London at first light and now they were on their way back from delivering Mycroft Holmes to another vessel headed north. The man had looked far less composed than the last trip he’d made aboard the
Red Jack
—and this time he kept to himself, barely speaking the entire trip. Nick’s curiosity had been at full throttle, but no amount of coaxing or liquor had made the man talk. He didn’t think it was lack of trust. Mycroft Holmes had been plunged deep in thought, obviously working out some complex problem.

Even without the spyglass, Nick could see the rook clearly now. From the single square of metal laced about its neck, it was Talfryn sporting the rewards of his first mission. Striker had pierced and filed the square of brass himself, despite his supposed distaste for the birds.

Talfryn flapped toward them, wings eating the air with
steady, relentless beats. Then the rook gave a hollow croak and landed in the rigging with a huge commotion of feathers.

Somehow the rooks always knew to land above Striker. He darted back with a split second to spare before the bird splatted the deck. He cursed, checking his boots just in case. The rook croaked again, bobbing its hooked black beak at its own joke. Bird humor, Nick had observed, wasn’t particularly sophisticated.

Captain Niccolo, fair winds
.

“Fair winds, Talfryn.”

The devas below send word to the horse boy
.

Nick straightened in alarm. Only Evelina’s creatures called him that. When he spoke, his reply came out tight with apprehension. “What word?”

There is a sorcerer’s ship as black as my own feathers. He has a hostage, a beautiful maid who is as fair as the devas’ mistress is dark. The dark one bids you rescue her sister-friend
.

“Imogen Roth?” Nick said in surprise. “Why is she hostage?”

I do not know
.

But that answer didn’t matter. If word had come to him from the devas, then Evelina had sent it—and that was enough for Nick. “Where is this ship?”

Turn your vessel to the southwest
, the rook said.

Athena had heard the message as well, because the ship began to turn its head.

“Hey!” Digby’s exasperated shout rose from the helm.

“Why do I even bother?”

“Many thanks,” said Nick to the bird. There was only one sorcerer it could be.
Magnus
. The name alone made him bare his teeth. “Summon your flock and be ready for war.”

The rook was already in flight again, laughing into the wind.
Dark winds ahead, Captain Niccolo, but we will be ready
.

Rooks came to the ship three times that afternoon, relaying information about where the black ship sailed. It seemed to be circling London in a loose oval, but far enough out not to attract too much attention. It was dusk when the
Red Jack
drew near enough for Nick to settle down for a closer look, the last sun fading from the sky in ragged orange streaks.

Nick didn’t use his magic much, unless he was going into battle. Knives were his weapon of choice, for show as well as for fighting. Once, he had earned his bread and meat by showing off his skill with blades. By contrast, he never drew a gun or prepared a spell without very specific reasons. That way, his allies and enemies always knew when he was out of patience.

He hadn’t even used his powers to find the
Leaping Hind
, but that raid had been everyday business, at least to begin with. This was different. This was an innocent life in Magnus’s clutches, and he’d pull out every trick he had to save the young woman.

He took his silver shaving bowl, filled it half full of water, and settled cross-legged on the deck with it in front of him. Then he poured rum onto the surface of the water, and with a word called flame. The spirits caught with a hot blue fire that would last longer than it had any right to. Such was magic. It only ever needed a suggestion from the physical plane.
Air and fire, show me the black ship
.

The crew stood at a respectful distance, watching. He could see their black outlines against an indigo sky, the flames reflecting off the metal on Striker’s coat, the lenses of Digby’s goggles. Their lives depended in part on what Nick could convince the air to show them, but more than that, they needed to believe their captain was magic. He was their luck, and luck was everything to men of the air.

And the black ship took shape in the flames, a ferocious dragon at its prow. And there was the
Red Jack
, smaller and sleeker, still some distance away but with the advantage of height. They could stoop like a hawk and take them from above.
Air and fire, take me to her
.

And the wind subtly shifted, aiming the pirate ship like an arrow from a bow. Athena bound her own strength to the powers Nick summoned, forming a web of elemental force that spanned the planes of body and spirit. He set the bowl aside, leaving the devas to do their work. He poured an extra
measure of rum into the flames, letting them leap high.
With thanks
.

There were some spells that drained strength, but sighting a quarry never failed to energize Nick. He got to his feet. “Ready the grappling hooks. We have work to do.”

“There she is!” Striker called, looking through the spyglass. “She’s called the
Wyvern
. Fardlin’ hell, she’s magnificent.”

Nick ran to the side and took the glass from him. He adjusted the tube, bringing the vessel into focus. She was indeed a large, beautiful ship, the dragon prow a fierce, snarling thing with fire in its eyes. The double helix of an aether distiller glowed green in the darkness. Not a hydrogen ship then. They could use their guns. “I’d sooner just blow her out of the sky, but there’s a hostage.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Paralyze her.”

Striker shook his head. “We used all the stopwatch beetles on the
Hind
.” That was his name for the tiny clockwork gadgets that swarmed the deck and immobilized any machines made of metal. “I haven’t had time to make more. I had to play captain while you were being bloody Florence Nightingale.”

Nick grunted. “Then we get the hostage and blow the ship out of the sky.”

“Is that actually a plan?” Striker said with a sarcastic bite. “I’m just asking in case I’m missing the details.”

Nick snapped the spyglass shut, addressing the crew as a group. “We don’t know what we’re going to find. Not with magic involved. I’ll take two men. The rest stay here. We’re down there for fifteen minutes, and then we’re back here and gone. No exceptions.”

Beadle nodded and began issuing orders. Within seconds, all the group had dispersed except Striker and Digby.

“I wish we’d got that bastard sorcerer the last time,” Striker muttered, crossing to a weapons locker.

“Seems we didn’t kill him enough,” Nick said, shrugging.

“Let him try these on for size.” Striker passed out weapons. The barrels looked like three metal oranges glued together
with twisty blue and green tubes. Nick hadn’t seen them before.

“Have you tested these?” he asked suspiciously.

Striker gave him an innocent look. “Of course. My honor’s on the line.”

Nick bit his tongue at that one and holstered his regular weapon as well, just in case. Striker had his own sense of right and wrong, but it obeyed different rules.

They were coming in toward the
Wyvern
at an oblique angle from the stern. With the devas’ help, it was possible to silence the engines and make an approach that was not only close to invisible, especially against the darkening sky, but also silent.

The grapples were fired and caught. Digby tugged on one experimentally. “We got ’er.”

Nick hopped up on the rail, testing the line himself. It was good. Then he grabbed the bar on the pulley, ready to go—but he paused, a thousand misgivings sliding around his bones. He couldn’t put a name to what he felt, but it turned him cold.

“What’s wrong?” said Striker.

There were a dozen ways Nick could have answered, none of them helpful. Foreboding? Superstition? None of that would help Imogen Roth, especially when he couldn’t even say what it was he feared. So instead he jumped off the rail, sliding down to the black ship below. A few seconds later, Striker and Digby followed.

Nick dropped to the deck. It was dark and unfamiliar, and the first thing he wanted to know was where the watch was. He crept a few paces, looking around as he heard the other two land softly behind him. Then Nick spotted the watchman. So did Striker. They exchanged glances and Striker gestured, pointing out the blue sash that identified the Blue Boys. Nick nodded, filing away that information.

But as they approached, the airman seemed slow to react, his movements dreamlike and clumsy.
Mesmerized, and not in the usual way
. Nick’s scalp prickled, feeling the aura of sorcery around the man. Magnus was using the Blue Boys to man his ship, and they hadn’t volunteered. It might be a
problem. A crew of mindless drones didn’t always behave as one expected.

“Who—” The word only half emerged before Striker silenced the man with a blow and lowered the limp body to the deck. It was good to know blunt force still worked despite the magic.

“Now we need to find the prisoners,” Nick murmured.

Digby pointed to a door. “My money’s there. That’s where the cabins would be on a ship like this.”

Since Digby had been an airman longest, Nick took his word for it. He advanced on silent feet, pulled the door open, and stepped inside a tiny corridor. Each of the doors had a minuscule window, and he began ghosting along, searching for damsels in distress.

E
VELINA CHOSE THE
workshop of the Magnetorium as the meeting site, and then got there before the appointed time. Nick had been right—the place was empty except for the tables and the workbench. It was dark outside, and the shadows clung to the rafters and corners, making the vast space seem small. She remembered that the last time she’d been there, the Others had watched her with empty eyes. They weren’t there now though she could still smell the stench of sorcery.

She circled the space, lighting what lamps and candles she could find. It was good to have a job to do, because it would be all too easy to give in and let the enormity of what had happened pull her under. As she reached up for a lantern on a high shelf, the scars on her stomach pulled.

The wounds reminded her that she had nearly been killed, and she was organizing a battle against the evil that had created her attacker. Was she ready to take responsibility for what would happen if her plans failed and Magnus turned on her friends? The idea of it robbed her of breath, and she leaned against the workbench, momentarily dizzy. Her strength wasn’t back yet. All she had was her willpower.

She heard the creak of the wooden door behind her. She turned. “Uncle Sherlock!”

He was tall and neat as ever, his tall hat and black coat impeccable, but his face was haggard. “Great Scot, Evelina!”

It was all he said before she flung her arms around his neck. She couldn’t remember ever embracing her uncle before—he just wasn’t the type to welcome it—but she didn’t care. He must not have, either, because he held her tight for a long, breathless moment, telling her without words how worried he’d been.