Revolutionary Magic (with Bonus Content) (12 page)

Smith barked a response. "If we'd meant to snuff your wicks, we would have done so already. We are heavily armed while you are defenseless!"

This response did not blemish the Binghams’ steadfast gazes, though their servants appeared appropriately uneasy.

Anne Bingham turned to Trisella. "Tris, be a dear and tell Mr. Peeples to prepare the De Sota and bring it around front so that we may depart."

The wide-eyed servant looked to us for support.

"You left another servant on the property unguarded?" seethed Ben.

Mrs. Bingham gave Ben an annoyed glance. "Mr. Peeples attends the steam carriages. I would not think to allow him in the house. He's a disgusting man, though he keeps our stable of vehicles in good working order."

Then Anne, realizing that Trisella hadn't moved, marched over, grabbed the servant by the arm, and dragged her towards the door. She undid the rope around the handle and opened the door without a moment of hesitation, pointing into the darkness towards the back of the house.

"Tris, I gave you an order. If you still want to be a member of this household, attend my request."

Trisella looked ready to faint again, which would be to her benefit. I willed her legs to collapse, but it seemed Anne's iron grip kept Trisella from daring that escape.

"But the creature," said Trisella, lips quivering.

"It was merely your imagination," said Anne. "You're a weak-minded girl—you're lucky to have a job with us. If I tell you there was no creature, you must believe me."

Trisella took a step towards the open door, her terrified expression a cry for help.

"Good girl. Fetch Mr. Peeples, and when the De Sota is ready, you may ride around front with him," said Anne, as if it were a generous reward.

Before Trisella could take another step forward, I marched to the open door. "Sending her alone would be a death sentence. I'm going with her."

"I will assist," said Smith, joining me.

Anne narrowed her gaze at me before giving consent. "I will allow it."

"I didn't ask permission," I said.

We faced off, Mrs. Bingham giving me her most steely gaze, one she clearly used to intimidate. I responded with one of my own, except mine had been honed on kings and empresses.

Eventually, she turned, waved her hand in dismissal, and walked back to her husband. "Fine. But you may not ride in the De Sota."

We collected candles for light. Ben gave us a grim nod before we left, and Mr. Bingham closed the great room doors behind us, the ominous sound goosing poor Trisella when they shut.

"Shall we fetch the De Sota?" I said gaily, trying to lighten the mood, receiving a hesitant smile from Smith. Trisella clung to Smith's coat, the light from her candle quivering.

With weapons drawn we advanced into the darkness.

Chapter Twelve

The darkness loomed before us, its malignance created from our fears. In truth, it had no power except to obfuscate. Darkness was not a danger, but those who used it wrapped its shadowy veil around them to perform deeds ill suited for bright lights.

I was not unaccustomed to this sightless world. The court of Empress Catherine, despite her desire to instill the ideals of the Enlightenment, was a place of dangerous shadows. Pretenders hawked her from all sides, their plots growing in forgotten corners like mold.

Even I had used the darkness, when I helped depose her husband Peter and place Catherine on the throne. I remembered that night well—running across the packed snow, footsteps crunching, the tingle of fear on my skin.

I'd passed messages between conspirators, as Emperor Peter's retinue never thought to question the movements of an eighteen-year-old girl. Each time I crossed the grounds amid the grand buildings of the Winter Palace, I expected men to appear out of the shadows and cut me down.

It was then I learned that those wanting to build in the light had to learn to fight in the shadows. So I moved forward through the Bingham home with pistol and rapier held at ready, keeping my balance slightly to the forefoot should I need to pivot and fire, or block an attack with my rapier.

I won't say that I wasn't afraid. Anyone who bleeds can feel fear. The trick is to embrace the fear and wrap it around your shoulders like a favorite cloak.

We moved room to room, stopping at the end of each to ask directions from Trisella. Each time we had to coax her from her stupor as she clung to Smith's back like a barnacle.

A pathway led us through the gardens in back. A fountain commanded the center, water tinkling.

"Where is the carriage house?" I asked in a hushed voice.

Outside, the oppression of wandering through dark halls lifted from Trisella's form. She stretched her arm out and pointed towards a dark clump of trees through which speckles of gas light shone.

"Back there," she said, teeth chattering.

"See," I said, "we're almost there. Nothing to it."

At the corner of my vision, I thought I saw a flicker of movement. I checked with Smith, whose wide eyes told the same tale.

We moved carefully. The bushes along the path held many hiding spots. I aligned myself to each one as we passed.

It did not feel like we were in the middle of the city. While the glow of the streets beyond the estate painted the low clouds in brassy colors, the whine of an airship passing overhead fell upon our ears, though we could not see it, and growling steam carriages provided the backdrop of a cityscape, my soul felt like we were in the coldest forests of Moist Mother Earth.

Getting to the carriage house required traversing a dark path that split from the main garden. Its entrance was purposely hidden, as the Binghams wanted no guest to wander upon the mechanicals of their home.

Bushes tugged on our sleeves as we passed. The path was claustrophobic. Trisella whimpered. I thought it would never end.

Then we stepped past a hidden wall and into the light of the carriage house. The building had two sections, which appeared to have been repurposed from a stable. The first was a roofed area beneath which three steam carriages waited. The strong smell of coal indicated one of them was kept hot. The other part was a brick building from which gas lights emanated.

We stepped through the door to find the guts of a steam engine disassembled. A grease-smeared man sat with his back to us, legs splayed out, digging into the engine with a wrench.

"Yer late, Albert," said Mr. Peeples without looking up. He had a barely intelligible accent, the origins likely the western Pennsylvania wild lands. "My gut's been growlin' for over an hour waitin' for my fixins. Is the master of carriages to be forgotten like an old shoe?"

"Albert is dead," I said, bringing Mr. Peeples' head sharply around.

Mr. Peeples climbed to his feet. He had a wide face like a frog on a thick neck. A blackened piston was in one fist while the other held a wrench.

"Are ye bandits here to claim my soul for the reaper? I won't go quietly," he said, hefting his wrench like a weapon.

"Your worries are right, but misplaced. Something on the property killed Albert and wants to do the same to the Binghams," I said.

I purposely left out the part about the memories, since the truth would only confuse matters.

"Who are ya?" he asked, as I wondered how a backwoods Philadelphian had become the Binghams’ carriage mechanic.

"Friends of the Binghams," I said. "We shouldn't waste time. We need the De Sota to take the Binghams away from danger."

Mr. Peeples cocked his lips, his rubbery face bulging comically. "What say you, Tris? Are these two practicing the black arts?"

Trisella shook her head. It was good that we'd made it to our destination. She looked ready to faint again, her skin pale and greenish.

"Right, serious folks, ye are," he said, throwing the wrench and piston into the pile. "I'll get the De Sota steamin'. Wait right here."

"We'll come with you for protection," I said.

Mr. Peeples snorted as he moved to the carriages. "Doubt someone like me needs yer protection. I'm nothin' but gristle and nobody like that in the teeth."

"Nevertheless, we shall provide sentinel," I said.

The mechanic squinted as he climbed onto the carriage. He turned levers and adjusted knobs expertly while barely looking at them. "Thems break-teeth words, but I think I get yer meanin'."

We stood guard while Mr. Peeples performed his duty.

"How long will we have to wait until we can take the vehicle?" I asked.

"Only a tick's fart longer," he said, standing to the side and brushing his hands together. "I keep one of 'em hot in case the Bings, that's what I call 'em, have someplace gettin' in a hurry."

When Mr. Peeples grinned, I returned a warm smile. Despite the tortured diction and grubby exterior, his callous-worn intelligence was evident. I wasn't sure the Binghams knew how lucky they were to have this man servicing their steam carriages.

"Well," said Mr. Peeples, crouched in front of the steam carriage, tapping on a dial, "I think she's—"

A shape moved from the darkness, striking Mr. Peeples right as the smell of rotting oranges hit my nose. A sickening thunk silenced the mechanic. He collapsed on the stones, eyes gone to white.

Trisella heard the wet noise and screamed, then crumpled into a heap as if her legs had been knocked clean out from under her. Her head struck the stones hard.

Adam Smith fired his pistol at the creature, which moved faster than I expected. I got a good look at the thing—it was the same creature I'd seen at the provisioner's place. I lifted my pistol, but the creature moved around the carriage so I couldn't fire.

Smith pulled me down the path as he aimed his weapon behind. I thought briefly of the fallen Trisella and hoped that we drew the creature's attention, leaving her safe in the carriage house.

Without a candle, we plunged into darkness. My light starved eyes saw nothing. We pawed through the path, using the clutching branches to guide us.

I stumbled to my knees, hitting the fitted stones of the main avenue and scraping my palm when I tried to catch myself.

"Do you see it?" said Smith, helping me to my feet.

I thought I heard the pad of footsteps to our left, on the other side of the fountain. Smith fired his pistol in that direction and the flash of fire exploding revealed a shape moving towards us.

I lunged forward, guessing the spot the creature would advance, hitting flesh. The creature screamed sounding like the scraping of a nail on a lyre string.

The creature retreated, leaving us with our heavy breathing. It moved in the direction of the house.

"Did you hit it?" asked Smith.

"Yes, but I'm unsure if the wound was significant," I said, sniffing the end of my rapier. The scent of rotting oranges was faint.

"Should we go back to the steam carriage to get Trisella, or forward to warn them?" asked Smith.

"Trisella should be safe for the moment. We can get her on the way out," I said. "And I fear for Franklin. The Society would be lost without him, so let us return in haste."

"Spoken truly," said Smith. "I share your thinking. Let us advance. We should have never split ourselves."

Without Trisella to guide us, we moved hesitantly through the Binghams’ estate. After a few missteps, we found the great room, but only because the door was partially open, letting significant light into the hallway.

Smith went through first. I heard his gasp and knew the scene would be terrible even before I rounded the door.

Even as Smith fired his pistol to his left, my gaze fell upon the limp forms of the Binghams. We'd come too late—the creature had returned.

My head swung around at the same moment a ball of electricity flew through the air and struck Adam Smith. He flew backwards into an armoire which shattered upon impact along with the vase in his way.

Standing over the fallen form of Franklin was the creature. Its toothy mouth spread wide and a hiss issued forth. Blood painted its thin lips.

I fired my pistol, taking the creature right in the face. The smell of rotting orange exploded into the room as it fell backwards. Bile rose in my throat.

I found Franklin with his eyes closed. They fluttered open when I touched him, and relief flooded my limbs.

"You're alive," I said.

"It bit me," he said.

I found the wound. His sleeve had been ripped away and a bloody mash of muscle oozed.

"It doesn't look fatal," I said, helping him to his feet. Ben wavered, and I caught him before he fell.

"Something rots in my veins. I suspect I am poisoned," he said.

Leaving Ben to lean against the high-backed couch, I checked on Adam Smith. The vacant gaze and open mouth marked his passing, nestled amid the broken furniture. A check of his pulse confirmed his fate.

"He's dead." The words slipped from my lips. "You and I are the only ones alive."

Ben grunted. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. "The Binghams live. The creature took their memories after slaying the servants and knocking me out."