Aether Spirit (9 page)

Claire walked through the cool air, happy it wasn’t raining, but kept alert for any inappropriate feelings, or at least threatening ones—she was on a military base, after all—from the men she passed and those who might lurk in the deep early evening shadows between buildings.

A sliver of a moon showed beneath the clouds. Claire passed the workshop, which had a padlock on the door. A pity—she would like to get a closer look at O’Connell’s glowing orb device. Clouds obscured the moon, and she blinked. The darkness pressed in on her, the lamps of the fort bare flickers in the gloom. She held a hand in front of her face. In spite of her gloves being light-colored, she could barely see them.

What is this? I hope I’m not about to faint again.

Footsteps behind her startled her, and she whirled around, all her senses alert. Whoever it was passed by, and she was left with only the sound of her breathing. She blinked but still saw nothing but the flickers of distant flames. Was she dreaming again? Would O’Connell find her sprawled in front of his workshop like a drunken camp whore? And where was the workshop? Disoriented, she felt in front of her. If she could only find the side of the building, maybe she could right herself.

Arms outstretched, she took a tentative step. Nothing. Then another. Still nothing in front of her, and now her breath came bellows-fast, and her heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings in her throat. Dare she call for help? Could she, or would it be like when she screamed in her dreams, a forced cry that came out as barely a whimper?

A third step brought her to the wooden wall of the workshop, and she collapsed against it. Her hip brushed the padlock. It dropped to the ground with a rusty clunk.

All the rain must have weakened it.

When the padlock hit the ground, the sounds of the night rushed back to Claire’s ears, and she wrapped her arms around herself to still the tilting feeling. She must have been tipping toward another flashback dream, and she allowed a curse to escape her lips. She blinked furiously. This time, the buildings and objects around her resolved into dim focus, and her heartbeat subsided. But what to do now? She couldn’t just leave the padlock on the ground. Someone might get into the workshop. Dare she go to find someone?

Or should she take the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity? Ordinarily she wouldn’t consider trespassing, but something about the glowing orb drew her to it. She picked the padlock up from the mud and felt for the door. It opened outward with barely a touch and thankfully no sound. She slipped inside, once again in the dark, but not the pressing pre-dream kind.

Perhaps Radcliffe was right. Perhaps it wasn’t good for her to be here at the fort, for whatever reason. Her brain kept playing tricks on her and trying to drag her into the past, then punishing her for being there.

She placed the padlock on the ground inside the door and looked around for some sort of lamp. The only light came from a high window and—
oh!
There it was, shining dimly in the corner. She didn’t know how she got across the workshop, only that she now stood in front of the glass sphere in which the opalescent mass undulated to a rhythm. The glow reminded her of a demonstration of a new piece of equipment that used electricity, and she thought she felt a similar force moving along her nerves in response to being so close to whatever the thing was.

“What are you?” she whispered. The word “you” echoed around her, and she backed away, but she couldn’t resist the glow for long. Soon enough she stood in front of it again, and this time, she allowed herself to be bold and touch the glass. She tried to sense if there was any emotional energy, and the glass warmed as the mass took on a golden hue. Now she felt it, how it was trapped in there, but if it were to meet the air, it would die. She understood what it was like to be trapped in a glass prison, only able to sense but not see the shapes outside, in her case, her memories of the man she had loved.

“Loved.”
The shadows murmured the word, or perhaps her heart beat in time with the mass now, and its thudding deceived her ears. That must be it—she hadn’t said “loved” out loud, had she?

“Yes, loved,” she said. “I know there was someone I loved, and who loved me, but I lost him along with my memories in the steamcart accident, and I can only trust that fate will bring us together again when it won’t destroy me.”

The door opened. All Claire could see was a dark blob. She ducked behind a table.

“Who’s in here?” an unfamiliar voice called. “Show yourself, or I’ll shoot!”

Chapter Nine

Fort Daniels, 24 February 1871

Chad found Patrick at the mess hall guarding two plates of fried fish and potatoes from hungry soldiers and staff people. The sharp fried smells turned his stomach while making his mouth water. Claire being there had him all mixed up.

“You could have given mine to one of the boys,” Chad said and slid on to the bench next to his friend. “They need it more than I do.”

“No, Doc, you need to keep up your strength,” Patrick told him. “Besides, these Southerners know how to fry things almost as good as my gram.”

Chad shook his head but took a bite of the fish. The cornmeal batter crunched on his tongue and released a sweet-salty flavor that brought him back to his childhood and his mother teaching their cook how to make a fried onion batter, also out of cornmeal.

“Good, eh?” Patrick asked and nudged him. “It’s hard to be grumpy with good food in your belly.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Chad said. But he admitted to himself he had been ever since Claire had walked through the doors of Distillery Hospital. Speaking of Claire… “I’m ready to start working with Eros again,” he said.

“And that’s more good news. Let’s go after dinner.”

“What?”

“I’m not letting you lose your nerve. We’re going to the workshop after dinner.”

“Let me stop by the room first. I need to drop something off.”

They finished their fish, and Patrick surprised the head cook, a round woman named Mathilda, with a peck on the cheek. Chad dragged him away from the teasing, and they trudged back to the barracks through mud and fog that swirled around them. The damp cold seeped through Chad’s overcoat and made for a spooky contrast to the warmth of the mess hall.

“What is this?” Chad asked, gesturing to the wisps of vapor. “I don’t remember fog like this, at least not outside of the mountains.”

“Whatever it is, we need to get inside,” Patrick said with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Something doesn’t feel right about it. Run your errand, and we’ll spend the night in the workshop if we need to.”

Chad chose not to tease his friend about being superstitious, at least not at that moment. Patrick was funny like that. He’d joke about mostly anything until a sensitive nerve was hit. He’d never talked much about his childhood in Ireland, although Chad had given him plenty of opportunity. He could worry about Patrick later, though.

Chad darted into the barracks and back to their room. He pulled the chest from under his bed and took the ring from his pocket. They’d kept the Eros Element aether at a neutral frequency, but if he were to turn it into an interventional form of energy, they’d have to bring it into a riskier state. He didn’t want his emotional attachment to the ring to interfere with what they were trying to do. He tucked the ring into a little jewelry box and didn’t have time to put it below the chest’s false bottom—it would require him taking everything else out—but he told himself he would later. He put everything back as neatly as he could and locked it before sliding it back under his bed. Then he joined Patrick in the yard.

The fog had thickened but still moved in swirling ghostly patterns that made Chad’s arm hairs stand on end.

“Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow,” Chad said.

Patrick shook his head and blinked. “The damn stuff is mesmerizing. And no, we’re not waiting. Come on.”

Chad wrapped his coat around him and stepped into the gloom. The patches of mist were no colder or damper than the rest of the air, and he scolded himself for giving into superstitious thoughts. His tendency toward paranoia was likely due to his suspicions about the low likelihood of him, Claire, and Bryce all ending up in the same place. Someone’s hand was trying to get them all together, and he aimed to know who. Or, rather, to confirm who and why. He made a mental note to send a telegram in the morning.

When they reached the workshop, Chad bumped into Patrick’s back when the Irishman stopped suddenly.

“What is it?” Chad asked and rubbed his nose.

“Someone’s in there.”

* * * * *

Well, that was dumb.

As usual, Claire’s voice of reason chimed in after she was in trouble. She had a vague—weren’t most of them?—memory of someone teasing her about it, but in an affectionate way.

“What in God’s name is that?” The soldier at the door peered in, and he started toward the corner of the room where she hid. The glow behind her illuminated his wide eyes and barely whiskered face, but she focused on the weapon he aimed in her direction. She breathed as shallowly as she could, praying he would neither find her nor be startled into accidentally discharging the gun. He exuded wonderment, but mostly fear and hope that he could prove himself. The writhing light in the sphere drew him as it had her. She shrank back, and her bustle bumped a stack of crates, which shifted. They creaked and swayed over her, and the soldier aimed his gun in her direction.

“Who’s there?” he asked, and his voice cracked. Her heart would have broken for his stolen youth had he not had the means to kill her in his shaking hands.

She opened her mouth to reassure him she meant no harm, but the door banged open. The soldier lifted his weapon just before he spun around, and Claire jerked back. Whatever she was going to say came out in a squeak as the crates tumbled around her. One struck her left wrist with a bruising corner, but thankfully they were empty of anything but packing material. She cowered underneath the pile of wood and straw, her hands over her head. Her glasses had fallen off, but she couldn’t look for them now.

“What’s going on in here?” It was O’Connell’s voice. Oh, she was going to get it now.

“Private Derry, is that you?” And Radcliffe’s.

Great. Why did he have to come? He’ll really think me a fool now.

The boy soldier’s words spilled out in a melted rush. “Doctor Radcliffe, Engineer O’Connell, I saw the door open, and I came in to investigate, and there’s someone in here.”

“Whoever it is, we’ll take care of them,” O’Connell said. “Get out of here before you shoot something you shouldn’t. And stop waving that revolver around.”

“Your shoulder isn’t healed enough to handle the kickback from that,” Radcliffe added gently. “And thank you for investigating. We’ll take it from here. Do you mind if I borrow that? I know it was your grandfather’s gun, so I’ll be careful. I’ll return it when you come to see me tomorrow.”

Claire allowed a little smile to creep to her lips as the boy’s embarrassment at O’Connell’s words warmed to gratitude and pride at Radcliffe’s. If she didn’t know better, she’d guess the doctor had abilities similar to hers. Or maybe he just understood people better than most of the neuroticists she’d known in Europe.

“And don’t tell anyone what you’ve seen here,” Radcliffe told the boy. “It’s a top secret project for the general. You did a good job cornering the intruder.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The scraping of his boots on the hard floor of the workshop turned to muffled thuds in the mud outside and disappeared.

Now it was just the two men, one irritated and the other one curious. Claire could guess which was which. O’Connell had the red hair and probably the Irish temper to go with it. Radcliffe would want to know who was in there and why.

“Under the crates and straw,” O’Connell stage whispered.

“Yes,” Radcliffe said. “I have no doubt that whoever is under there knows we’re here and that he’s been discovered. No need to whisper.”

“Or maybe it’s just a big rat,” O’Connell said. “The best thing might be to shoot it and be done with it.”

Claire didn’t want to be shot, and she didn’t know the extent of the Irishman’s ruthlessness. She couldn’t hope for them to leave her undiscovered, so she called out, “Gentlemen, a little assistance?”

She cringed when she felt their attention—and possibly the barrel of the weapon—aimed toward her, but she had to add one more thing, “And if you could tread carefully, I’d appreciate it. My glasses are somewhere in this mess.”

Of all the voices Chad might have expected to come from the pile of wood and straw in the corner of the workshop, Claire’s was not one of them. He was glad she couldn’t see Patrick turn to him with a grin and mouth, “Just like old times, eh?”

“You can take the girl out of the workshop,” he mouthed in return. He’d take care of Private Derry later. He supposed he should be glad the intruder wasn’t a man with a gun or a member of the Clockwork Guild or neo-Pythagoreans. No, it was just Claire’s curiosity and clumsiness getting the better of her as it had in the past. But how had she gotten in?

“Gentlemen? Doctor Radcliffe? Mister O’Connell?” Now she sounded plaintive. “Please help me out. I don’t know how much is on top of me, otherwise I’d extract myself.”

“Watch out for her spectacles,” Radcliffe reminded Patrick.

“Aye. And her pride. I don’t suppose we can keep this a secret from her now.”

They moved the crates off Claire and dug her out of the straw. Patrick found her spectacles with unbroken lenses, but one of the arms had snapped off. She stood and accepted them. They sat crooked on her face, and she held them with one hand while she attempted to brush herself off with the other. Straw stuck to her clothing and in her hair. Chad put his face in one hand so he wouldn’t laugh at her, his silly Claire, or cry that she wasn’t his anymore.

Why did she have to be the same scrape-finding girl he’d fallen in love with?

“And what were you doing in here?” Patrick asked. “I told you the workshop was off-limits.”

Chad regained his composure and emerged. He couldn’t say anything about it being typical of her.