19. The Guests Are Met, the Feast Is Set

Ridley lay in the salt bath until well past moonrise. Barely a sliver of the Lady of Tides showed above the trees. Out in the deeps, the great lords would be ending their council. Momentous plans had been decided, confirmed, celebrated; the ocean echoed with the dying cries of lesser life after the great feast. Ridley wriggled unhappily in the confines of the enameled tub. Ah, to be glidin’ under the brine, in the court of the great lords! Dearie, show me, let me see that afore I join you. Just once before I cast off, let me swim alongside the Unrisen and hear their battle songs... He sighed. So many wondrous things, his lover had revealed to him; things no ordinary men could fathom, nightmares and phantasias alike. And here I wallow in this bloody tiny tub. Mr Fogchaser, you’ve come down in station, ye have. He looked toward the closed bathroom door, listened to the quiet house. Not for long, though. Not for long.

He uncurled a mass of tentacles from his midsection. The unappealing tan and pink of old skin had almost all turned to the slick, tough grey-brown of krakenflesh. Multiple arms reached from the tub, lashing around a towel bar, the washbasin fixtures, the water line to the commode tank. He pulled himself upright, and noticed his fingers had fused. Soon they would be paddles, like the sensitive appendages of his Dearie. Ridley flapped the useless-looking bits of flesh; softened bones bent without pain. He giggled.

The only thing which distressed him was that if he was turning into his idol, it wasn’t accompanied by an appreciable increase in mass or size. Perhaps that would come, though, once he was fully kraken, shed of this increasingly awkward humanity. He peered down at his legs in the dark room. Mikael’s sister had left him a candle, and he’d let it burn out of politeness to her, but he was happier once it guttered into a puddle of wax. Almost got no legs left! Now these’ll be some true sea legs, oh aye! Experimentally, he slithered one of the limp, thicker limbs over the edge of the tub. It no longer slapped flat to the floor as his feet had, but wobbled a bit, slippery on the tiles. He swung several of the main tentacles after it, and found a vaguely upright balance. The lady had left clean towels in a pile for his use. He didn’t bother. Dripping, he picked up his ragged tunic from the floor. Such silly business, that coverin’ up. The mass of writhing limbs now spread down from his chest, like a hothouse plant shooting out roots to sop up every precious ounce of water, and now the details of his lower anatomy were impossible to discern.

He’d been pleasantly surprised when the lady of the house had asked him if he wished a bath. She in turn had seemed taken aback when he asked for cold, salty water to drench his itching body. He’d scrubbed off the dried sweat and skin, delighted at the gleaming sleekness revealed when he sluiced water through upturned arms, tiny suckers gasping in appreciation of the brine. Good woman, ‘at is, ain’t she Dearie? Mikael was right to send us here. Got rid of ‘at rock, and found Little Sister!

Sobered immediately, Ridley wondered how the child was. He’d peered into her room earlier, and tried working up his courage to go in, but Mikael’s sister had intercepted him, distracted him with the bath. If she’s not better...if she’s still not well...oh Dearie, I’m no sawbones to make her live! I gave her the magic rock, just like you said, but she’s not sproutin’ lovely arms like me...oh, what if she’s ill? Worried, he shuffled around the bathroom. His ungainly leg-arms slipped, and he knocked over a brass plant stand holding a struggling fern, but two of his new limbs whipped out to catch it before it crashed without him even having to direct them. Aye, an’ if ye weren’t such an oafish git, ye’d never have need to whip around such! Now go and see, go and see!

Apprehensive, he eased open the door and crossed the upper hallway. In the flickering light of a krakenoil lamp mounted high on the wall, his shadow bobbled and glided like a strange craft sailing choppy seas. The runner carpet slowed him a bit, and he considered ripping it from its tacks, then remembered he was a guest. He continued, chafing inwardly when the woven India-wool stuck to the larger suckers on what had been his legs.

From the next room, he heard the dreams of the fire-sorceress. He stopped, though his conscience scolded him for the delay. The lady of the house dreamt of fire, fire chasing over the rocks and trees and fields, a sweeping wave of crimson blazing across the entire continent, leaving charred black earth in its swift wake. Ridley understood she dreamt of herself, but even so, he had to jump out of the way when her thoughts shifted to this house, and for a moment the doorframe seemed to blaze up in a swirl of smoke that turned to maple leaves. Ridley blinked, pulling himself out of her sleeping mind. Dearie had warned him he’d hear all that noise, the constant jabber of human thought. He hadn’t realized he could be sucked into the maelstrom of their dreams.

He heard her moan, and through the crack between door and jamb he saw a flash of raven-wing blackness as she turned in her sleep and her hair flowed from her brow, a river of mourning satin, of oil on the water. Observing the shifting currents of her thoughts with more caution, Ridley saw the curtain of fire slam into a storm of emerald lightning. Rain burst out, the torrents sizzling on the burnt ground. Wind funneled fire and water into a spout of fury. Ridley watched a moment longer, curious, while the crackling aether and searing flames swirled into a dance, a balance, unlikely harmony. The dreamer sighed, and burrowed farther under the heavy quilts.

Turning away, Ridley carefully entered the turret room. Absolute stillness filled the atmosphere here. The Pilot paused, suddenly cast back to days of stifling nothingness pressing upon his ship, out in the Sargasso. Unease washed through him. His limbs squelched on the rug, the boards beneath creaking like an anxious ship becalmed in evil waters. Hunger growled in his empty guts.

She sat motionless, pillows stacked behind her tiny frame, covers drawn up but eyes wide. Ridley found himself holding his breath. The gleam of streetlamps reached faintly around the edges of the shutters, and she watched this shambling collection of far too many serpentine arms totter toward her. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Ridley listened with that inner sense, but he couldn’t hear a single thought from her. Oh lud, is she dead? Is that a bonny corpse lookin’ so strange at me? Heart pounding, he inched closer and closer, hardly daring to look at her. When he finally halted right beside her, and worriedly bent over her to check for the heat of a breath in that tiny, belabored ribcage, the child suddenly turned her head up to stare straight into his night-broadened eyes. He blew out a sigh of relief. Oh thank the deepest lords of the darkest seas! The tiny fingers around his mouth twisted upward in a happy grin. His stomach rumbled again, embarrassing him.

Little Sister looked him slowly up and down. He saw her hands twisted in the sheet, clutching it tightly against herself. A shiver passed through her. The fire had died to glowing coals. Alive, she’s alive, now at last I can worship you right proper, Little Sister! Ridley slithered himself onto the bed; the girl drew her legs up under the covers, away from him. He gently reached a tentacle toward her face, wanting to touch that soft hair, to caress that pale cheek.

She shivered again. “I’m hungry,” she said.

Love expanded his torso, suffused his heart. He withdrew the tentacle, brought it to his lips, and bit off the tip of it. Ichor oozed onto the quilt. He offered the still-squirming bit of flesh to the child. She recoiled, then snapped forward, gulping down the morsel. Ridley chuckled. “Oh now, go easy! Be a bit nasty if you choked, wouldn’t it now?”

She merely stared at him, hunger plain in her eyes. Reverently, Ridley used his sharp beak to tear bits from two of his tentacles, and fed them to his Little Sister piece by piece until she lay back in the bed, sated. Only then did she give him a faint smile. Ridley stroked her hair, wetting it against her head. “You rest now, sisser,” he crooned softly. “We’ll rise soon. We’ll all rise.”

She said nothing, but turned over and snuggled into her pillow. Very soon the gentle movements of the blankets over her told him she slept. Ridley quietly stole from the room, wanting some chow himself. Could eat a bloody whale, I could! Crab broth, crab tidbits, naught but crab for days, ain’t there any proper grub hereabouts? He paid no mind to the smears his bite-shortened appendages left along the baseboards as he put his earhole to the walls, seeking the mind he’d heard earlier this evening. Ah ha. There ya be, fockin’ ugly bastich!

Easing down the staircase proved to be more difficult than he’d anticipated; every step, it seemed, groaned and creaked under his humid weight, though to his mind he was little better than a monster in miniature. Once at the back door, it was a simple matter to unlatch it and creep down the kitchen stoop. A shimmer of coldfire in the air clung to him as he passed through it; he shook himself once thoroughly, and a flash of aetherlight went flying with every miniscule droplet of oily water from his skin. Past the ward, Ridley sought the mind he’d noticed while lazing in his bath. The spy posted by Villard to watch Autumn Hill tonight leaned against a tree in the shadows of a thick copse, inattentive, his pistol sheathed. In the jumble of bored reminiscences through the man’s last trip to the Oro Fino Saloon, and idle comparisons of the painted dancers at that establishment to the less fancy whores aboard the steamboat brothel, Ridley saw repeated references to the Company.

An owl perched in the branches overhead heard the snapping, the gurgling voice failing to form a scream, the muffled, repeated crunching as the Pilot ate a hearty supper. The noise frightened any nearby prey, and in annoyance, the owl beat its silent wings and soared away in search of a more private hunting ground.

18. I’ve Been Wrong Before

She wouldn’t look while he sliced the aetheric lens from the eyesocket of the corpse. If you hadn’t been in such a rush, Vonken scolded himself, you’d already have done this. Waste of a perfectly good opthalic augment, tossing it down here. He’d considered hacking up the body and burning it in the large krakenoil-fueled furnace when he’d dragged Blinky down here, but the telltale black smoke might have been noticed puffing from the chimney. Fortunately, the house had an old coal scuttle; he’d hoped the dusty pile of unused lumps would help the smell a bit. By the time he reburied the body in the scuttle, lens bloody on a worktable, he was covered in coal dust and assorted cadaver effluvia. “Tsk,” he murmured, gathered his energy and focused it on his gloves first. There wasn’t much he could do about the soot-stains, but the other material crackled as it froze. He flexed his fingers and shook his hands rapidly, and icy bits of unpleasantness hit the earthen cellar floor like sleet.

He looked up to find disgust contorting her face. Vonken burst into a chortle. “Well? You don’t expect me to perform delicate Dustcrafting in a contaminated state, do you?”

Holly swallowed, and her voice sounded thick. “You buried him in the coal-scuttle?”

Vonken shrugged, and began sweeping slow arcs of coldfire down the front of his surgeon’s tunic, allowing the smears of blood and putridity to freeze and crumble from him. “The ground’s nearly rock in Hillside. It was either that or cremation.”

“Deep Ones and all destruction take it...” Holly turned away, one hand blocking her nostrils. She’d made the mistake of removing the plague-mask to sip some tea on their way through the kitchen.

“If you have any lavender-water, soak a kerchief and tie it over your nose and mouth.”

She shook her head. “That would only be worse. I’d never be able to stand the flower again.”

Vonken grinned. “As you like. Bring another lamp over.” He came to the worktable, picked up the lens with its dangling wires and tiny Dust-powered gear-adjustors, and turned it in both hands. “Hm. This looks like Trevier’s work.” He set about cleaning it with gentle brushes of his fingertips, his energy crackling over the shiny brass.

Holly joined him, unhappily. She checked the bowl of the lamp, adjusted the wick and produced a tin of matches from a skirt pocket. Vonken flinched at the flare, looking away and blinking rapidly until he could bear the increased light. “Now, let’s see...miniature Teslaic coil, good...gold wire? Very swell. Villard must have paid for this lovely little gadget.”

“What happened to your eyes?” Holly asked. Her gaze was fixed on his face, ignoring his tinkering. He found it difficult to look at her.

“Maryland.”

“They don’t appear damaged.”

Vonken snorted softly. “Luckily, they were still usable, else I’d have lenses like this instead, and not by choice.” He leaned over the table, peering closely at the edges of the lens case. “Variable-focal point. Very nice. Almost like a natural eye.”

“I like yours better,” Holly murmured. Vonken blinked up at her, surprised at the contemplative expression she wore. Immediately she recovered herself, her tone reverting to a practical one. “You’re saying this man wasn’t wearing this...this Dust-powered monocle because he’d lost an eye? That this alteration was deliberate?”

“I’m not an optical specialist, but I saw nothing wrong with the socket. No scarring that would indicate a war wound. I’d be willing to wager my best work that Villard brought Dr Trevier down from Vancouver for this.” He glanced up from the aetheric engine mount to see her frown. “Our illustrious Founder once asked me to build new legs for someone. Offered me a small fortune if I could clothe tireless metal rods and springs in flesh, so that the prosthesis wouldn’t be apparent. It sounded like an interesting challenge. I was ready to agree until I saw the patient.” He returned to gently easing the engine mount out of the coil of wiring connecting it to the lens body. “There was nothing wrong with him. Villard wanted me to butcher and augment him, for some reason known only to himself.”

“But this Dr Trevier...”

“I stayed with Trevier once, three years ago, at a conference of the Order of Krampf.” Vonken grimaced, exerting the tiniest spark of greenfire to persuade the solder closing the back of the engine mount to melt and open itself. “He has quite a nice cottage. Only thirty rooms or so.”

“Ah.”

She watched him in silence. Vonken removed the panel he’d been working on, and held the matchbox-sized Dust-engine close to his face to see inside the gearworks. Hmm. As I thought: designed to be waterproof, airproof. That might work. If I reconnect the wires to itself, to create a Faraday cage of the casing...

“Darius?”

Mildly startled, he looked over at her. Holly’s downcast eyes seemed focused upon the optic cylinder, still upon the table. “Yes?”

“What does that cord connect to?”

The heartlink. Blast, does this woman ever let go of a problem once she’s sunk her teeth into it? He hesitated. She didn’t look at him, standing motionless, the element still in her grasp although she rested the back of her hand upon the dirty table. A smudge of coal showed on the tip of her upturned nose, where she’d tried to rub an itch. Her hair lay loose and dark over her shoulders, gleaming against the dull black linen of the mourning dress in the lamplight. She seemed tired; she wasn’t even trying to maintain that stiff posture he’d become used to seeing.

“It keeps me tethered to my body. My...original body.”

She considered this. He realized his shoulders were tensed, and consciously eased the muscles. “Flesh of your flesh,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

Holly raised her eyes to his, searching his face. He wasn’t sure what to project to her: indifference? arrogance?

Trust?

“You...built yourself a new body...out of your original one,” she said, thinking it through. He gave her a nod. “Metal bones. A heart that beats with Dust-energy.” He nodded again; she frowned. “Why? I presume your body was failing...dying?...but if you could grow new flesh as one might a...a colony of mushrooms...why a false heart?”

“Mushrooms!” He snorted, the spell of uncertain trust broken. “I much prefer the analogy of a new tree grown from a cutting.”

“But how? Why? Why not make a construct to hold your soul, if such a thing is even possible – or make a duplicate of yourself, identical in every measure?”

He sighed. This is not a conversation I ever want to have, my dear. “Because no one has fathomed how to separate the soul from the body and yet keep its physical connections intact, and I haven’t been able to work out how to get the organs right! I was damned lucky to have made Ratchet as dexterous as I did well before I realized I was going to have to rely on her to transplant my brain and eyes!” Holly stared at him, shocked. Vonken returned his attention to the Dust-engine box, fighting back the shame and anger blooming in his thoughts. Stop that. Focus. Emotion distracts. Calm down and focus; this is far more important than how much of an abomination she finds you. He took a deep breath, released it slowly, and studied the space inside the box. Too small. But what if I rearranged the gears, reattached it to the optic cylinder, removed that middle lens, welded over the front and—

“What happens when your heart stops?” Holly asked softly. “Your old heart, I mean.”

Vonken held himself still. He felt nervous sparks of aether traveling down his arm, and forced it to subside. He said nothing. The hesitation hung over their heads a long while. Prodding himself into motion again, Vonken worked up a sparking needle formed of Dust-energy from the tip of his index finger. “I will have to draw upon you now, my dear. If you could remain as still as possible, and allow me access, this should flow very smoothly, all right?” Holly nodded, drawing her shoulders up. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt the urge to flash a smile at her; he hoped it appeared confident. Letting his eyes unfocus, he reached out in his thoughts, sensing the deep well of power within her. He touched it, felt the ripples course through the room.

Dear God, but she’s a bonfire. Must be careful. Her own natural energy was vastly overwhelmed by the element’s pulsing heart; the two sources merged while she held the crystal in her soft, sturdy palm, and he dipped into that well cautiously, afraid of being sucked in and drowned. Slowly, he siphoned from her, felt his heart stutter a moment as power slipped swiftly through him, and directed it up his arm, hand, finger, ‘til the needle of energy was too bright for him to regard. Taking shallow breaths, maintaining his thread with her, he inserted the needle into the gearbox and began rearranging its components, careful not to damage the tiny wires. One by one, he cleared the gold threads from the bundle of false nerves which fed into the aetheric optical generator, snaking them around the edges so that each one would form a contact point between the element and the inner wall of the box. He hollowed out the lens cylinder’s gears, melting them into a shutter, and wired that to the switch on the outside which had controlled the focal point for the inner lens. Holly watched him silently, intently. What if she could be taught to manipulate her power? Imagine what a skilled Dustcrafter she might be then! Normally he didn’t like to be observed while crafting anything; he suspected he looked silly. He had to consciously retract the tip of his tongue when he realized it was sticking out of one corner of his mouth. When he was satisfied with the lens mount, he used a little more of that filtered elemental energy to weld the lens cylinder back to the gearbox. He took a deep breath.

“All right...now comes the hard part.” He drew in his coldfire, and gestured at her hand. “We need to put that vicious little rock into this cage, and seal it shut.”

Holly frowned. “And that’s difficult? You seem adept at making the metal flow however you wish it.” Her eyes widened in comprehension. “But I’ll have to let go of the rock...”

“And I’ll be knocked a nasty loop again,” Vonken finished. “So. I’m hoping the case itself will begin to function as I’ve designed the moment the element touches the inside of it...but I’ll need to be able to aim at the edges in order to weld the backpiece in place, and contain it fully. I think if I –“

“I have it,” Holly said, advancing around the worktable. She took his right hand in hers, and poised the crystal to drop into the hole. It looked as though it would barely fit; she might have to shove it. “Here, be ready to slap on the panel.”

“What are you...”

“I’ve been watching,” she said firmly. “I understand. Ready? On three. One...two...”

“Wait!”

“Three!”

She slapped the element into the box. Vonken felt agony shooting through him the instant it left contact with her flesh, and staggered, but Holly smacked the panel piece over the hole and touched his finger to the seam. “Now! Now, Darius!”

He groaned, his body spasming as he felt her energy wash through him, lava sweeping his own colder power out through his pores. She held his hand in place with surprisingly strong, lithe fingers, and he struggled to do what was needed. His heart jittered. Suddenly her hand was upon it, squeezing it gently, keeping it pumping, keeping him conscious. He sucked in a frightened breath, aimed at the seam, and traced it around the back of the cobbled-together cage. Entwined crimson and emerald sparks sizzled, and the metal fused. He tried to halt the flow of energy, but Holly was still caught up in it, her brow furrowed, holding him in place. “Holly!” he grunted, but wasn’t sure she could even hear him. A high whine built in the cellar. Her glow enveloped him, making him gasp; she still had his heart in her hand, once again reaching through his body as though he were a pool in a creek and the pumping engine a stone in its bed. “Stop!” he cried, his nerves searing, muscles contracting and making his whole frame buck and twitch. She couldn’t hear him. The noise of their strange coupling drowned everything out, the sound of a steam boiler on the verge of explosion.

Vonken wrenched her hand out of his chest, yanked her close and pressed his lips to hers, desperately forcing his greenfire from his mouth to hers to create a feedback loop and short her out. Holly grabbed his arms, shocked, her hips slamming against him as the power wracked her a moment. With a pop that made their ears ring, heartfire and coldfire smacked into each other at the point of their kiss, and abruptly sparked. Holly squealed, flailing backwards; Vonken grabbed her by the waist as he also fell, and she ended up sprawled atop him, both of them breathless on the floor.

She blinked rapidly at him, her chest heaving. He felt barely able to think. They panted, inches apart, stunned. Vonken forced a hoarse croak from his mouth. “If...you’re ever going...to do that again, my dear...I shall have to wear...protection!”

Holly stared at him. He managed a weak grin, feeling absolutely stomped flat. Good lord...are you really becoming aware of the position of her thighs upon you? Blast it, man, a little dignity here! Unfortunately, Holly also suddenly felt what he did, and scrambled up, hauling herself to unsteady feet by grabbing the worktable’s edge. When he was able to do the same, he noticed a definite reddish hue remained on her cheeks...and down her neck...and into the décolletage which had become a bit more exposed in their tumble... He averted his gaze, and realized he didn’t feel stabbing pain in his skull anymore. “Oh, thank every negligent angel, this may have worked!”

Holly looked from him to the table, and flushed pink again. “Oh – the container! Really? You...you don’t feel ill?”

Vonken shook his head, straightening his tunic, attempting to regain some composure and to chill certain parts of his anatomy. Holly also adjusted her clothing, her fingers quick and precise, and immediately turned all her attention to their craftwork. “The element is safely contained, then? Will that hold it indefinitely?”

“It ought to,” Vonken said, tentatively touching a finger to the metal. He could feel the thrumming of the cage, the power of the crystal channeled into keeping its own prison of aetheric energy coursing through the metal of the fused gearbox and cylinder. “And when I’ve devised some manner of testing it, all I need do is unlock this switch...” He indicated the tiny button on the side of the optic case. “In theory, that will release a focused beam of its power.”

“In theory,” Holly repeated, giving him a doubting look.

Vonken shrugged, still short of breath. “Well, nothing’s certain but death and Dust.”

“Hmf.” They both stared at the little instrument which now held the most destructive thing known to man. The silence in the cellar after the painful whine of resonant power felt like cool rain to his spirit. “Well...good. Now what?” she asked.

Vonken sighed. “Well, now, with your permission, Miss Autumnson, I will take my leave, and take this little box of death with me.”

“Hell yes, get it out of my house!” Holly visibly relaxed, relief settling over her. “I heartily wish you’d take that as well.” She tossed her head at the coal scuttle. One pale hand stuck up from the black briquettes.

Her hair, mussed around her temples, caught a ray of lamplight, and Vonken was entranced by its shifting hues of ebony. Shaking himself out of the odd reverie, he chuckled. “As do I. I hate wasting anything. I’m sure there are some hungry salmon in the river who’d appreciate him.”

Holly scrunched up her nose. “I find your sense of humor inappropriate, Dr Vonken.”

It felt somehow disappointing to him that she’d reverted to using his title, but then again, perhaps resuming some measure of formality after they’d just...ended up in a far too compromising position for a young woman of her standing...was for the best. Vonken gave a light shrug, his nerves calming. “Take it as you will. And now I’ll take this evil from your doorstep, my dear.” He gingerly picked up the container; it felt solid enough. In truth, the shock of power which had melted the metal seemed to have done so thorough a job it was unlikely the apparatus could be cut open easily again. That’s probably not a bad thing. He tucked it into a pocket of his tunic. “Well. Miss Autumnson. Always lovely to stop by.” He gave her a mock half-bow.

She snorted, brushing coal dust from her hands ineffectually. “You’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Of course...though I may be some time. I’ll send a construct over in the morning to assist you in any errands you may need; I noticed your pantry was a bit thinly stocked.”

“Oh...thank you. But you...you will come back?”

“I will.” They ascended the cellar stairs. Holly bolted the door behind them when they emerged in the darkened kitchen. “Our friend upstairs will need to be dealt with somehow. I hope, now that he’s not carrying this thing inside himself, he might calm down further and be able to tell us more about the expedition. Any detail he recalls might be useful to us.” She didn’t seem pleased, but she gave him a nod. For now, the Pilot would have to stay.

Holly walked with him to the front hall. “What are we going to do about Villard? Can...can Mikael be avenged?”

Vonken considered his reply carefully. “I would very much like to see his entire empire fall, although I wonder what might rise in its place. However, I take not a little smug comfort in knowing his desire to possess the element has been thwarted. I’ve seen the factories in the north assembling what looked very like a battalion of cannon. Dust-cannon. If he was able to power them with this stuff somehow...”

Holly laughed hollowly. “You speak as if there’s anything left for him to conquer.”

Vonken shook his head. “We can’t be the only region to have recovered. The Cataclysm was irregular, sporadic, and indifferent; there may very well be other aggregates of humanity left in other parts of the country – the world, for that matter, besides Columbia Pacifica. I believe Villard believes there are, and he’d very much like to rule them as well. The man’s hunger is Napoleonic.”

Her lips set in a grim line. “Then it’s your job to determine how to use this thing against him.”

Vonken wasn’t sure about that. “Perhaps. At the very least, I intend to keep it out of his hands, and try to find the best way to use it.” He gazed at her straight, austere shoulders, such a contrast to her delicate features. And that tiny body can channel such power...power enough to stop a charging kraken, if only she knew how to employ it. “Perhaps...we already know a way,” he murmured.

She stared at him a second, then blushed. “Be careful.”

“I will. You as well. Keep that plague-mask on, just in case, and lock your doors. I don’t think the Pilot is any danger now, but...” He didn’t want to frighten her, merely caution her, so he let the thought trail off. “Well. Thank you for an exceptionally interesting visit, my dear. Please make sure you eat, and rest enough. Dustcrafting can be draining.” Yet this time, he felt quite the opposite of drained. He paused, remembering his medical kit still upstairs. “May as well leave my bag here; I have another at the clinic. I’ll –“

Suddenly she was on tiptoe, her hands on his shoulders, her lips brushing his moustache. Surprised, Vonken allowed the kiss, not daring to fully return it. She dropped her heels, her dark eyes locked on his. He had no idea what to say, how to feel, though warmth rushed through his chest. She took a step back. “I’m sorry about...about grabbing your heart,” she said. “I thought if I could hold your steady, maybe I could help you direct the light at the instrument.”

The light? She sees it as light? That fantastical melding of two energies, that collision of Dustpowers, was just a beam from a lantern to her? He stared at her. She flushed, continuing: “That is...I knew I couldn’t make the aether work the way I wanted, but perhaps together we...”

Vonken gently pulled her close again, and bent his head for a very soft kiss. “Oh,” Holly mumbled, then allowed his tongue past her lips. She tasted of cinnamon and aether, fire and something else. Something he hadn’t sampled in a long time. He savored her, tasting, his hands slipping along her arms, down her sides, ‘til he held her by the waist, lightly. Her breath tickled his moustache. Then she pulled away, though slowly. What was that like, for her, that astounding coupling of energy? Did her heart slam through her ribs? Did she feel the coolness of my power washing her like a spring rain, as her own sent winter bonfires through my limbs? Was she also...also aroused?

He didn’t quite dare ask her.

He stepped back, and they released each other. Awkwardly, Vonken touched his fingers to his brow in a salute. “Until tomorrow, Miss Autumnson.”

She actually curtsied at him. “Doctor.” She opened the front door, holding it for him to walk through. He nearly forgot to mumble the password for the ward. He heard the tumblers click into place as he stepped down to the drive, and looked back. Her distorted shadow played on the cloister window beside the door a moment, then vanished further inside. She’ll be safe now. He walked down the driveway in a fog, unable to clear his thoughts enough to plan a sound strategy for beginning experiments upon the element, and was some yards along the street before he realized he’d left his velocipede behind. He hesitated, then decided he felt more than vigorous enough to walk home. Besides, the evening chill rising from the rivers served to dampen the fire smouldering in his body...

He was crossing into midtown when he heard the clanking sound of a patrol. Irritated, he slipped into a side street, waiting for the metal chicken, as the street children jeeringly called it, to pass by. It didn’t. It halted opposite him, blowing a gust of black smoke. Did they spot me? Blast and damn. He regularly broke the curfew, but tonight of all nights he didn’t feel confident about a confrontation. He turned to cut through the side street, but hadn’t even gone three steps when one of the City Watch stepped from the shadow of a tavern, blocking his path. A twinge shot up his spine. Killing Hammer had been unpleasant but necessary; tangling murderously with the Watch might have worse consequences, especially if anyone witnessed it. Vonken backtracked, picking up his pace, hearing the boots of the Watchman ringing out on the cobbles.

He darted into the main road, recalling the top speed of the patrol constructs was not typically matched by much maneuverability; if he zigzagged, and took the next narrow alley, he could –

A thick, tall figure stepped in his way, and an arm like steel slammed into Vonken’s chest. “Whooof!” he gasped, knocked off balance. The man lunged at him, grabbing his left arm and twisting it behind his back; he summoned a burst of coldfire, but another Watchman appeared suddenly on his right and clapped a tapered, fingerless gauntlet over one of his hands, then the other, so swiftly Vonken could barely twist aside. His energy crackled harmlessly inside the aetheric dampers. Furious, Vonken struggled; a billyclub thwacked the back of his knees. It would have downed a normal man. It hurt, but Vonken kept his feet. Another Watchman dropped from the belly-hatch of the patrol construct, running over to help restrain him, and the tall man let go. He reached into an inner pocket, brought out a cigar, and lit it with an elegant flint-strike. “Down him,” the man drawled.

“Sons of bitches, unhand me! This is assault!” Vonken snarled, trying to throw the men away from his shoulders, his hands linked behind his back. Power swelled within his chest, and he braced himself to unleash it as a crude blast, meaning to knock them aside and run for it. Get to the workshop – the ‘cog can bite through – A cannonball of power hit him squarely in the chest. His heart stuttered. He tumbled, ending up on his back, arms pinned beneath him, gasping, pain singing in every bone. Letriver emerged from the shadows, his face a mask of smugness.

“Well, hell, Letriver, that the best you can do? I was wanting him out for awhile,” the burly man said. His voice was deep, authoritative, and unconcerned. Through his pain, Vonken recognized him.

“Lappeus...you know goddamned well...this is illegal!” Vonken wheezed. The former sheriff and current head of security for the Northern Pacific Company regarded him mildly, puffing on his cigar. The smoke blended unhealthily with the vapor rising off the river.

“Bring him.” Lappeus turned, grabbed a handhold on the construct, and swung himself up to the back platform. He hooked one arm securely around the banner-pole there, and watched his men in the street as the patrol clanker rose and lumbered off. Vonken coughed, trying to judge whether he had enough residual energy to blast these jackasses across the damned river when they tried to touch him again. Letriver approached, hands raised, aetheric orange sparks at the ready.

“You fucking bastard,” Vonken spat.

Letriver smiled. “Pretty words, from a Pre-churched blasphemer.”

“Release me at once or you’ll see some fucking blasphe—“

He never completed the curse; Letriver hurled a ball of energy right at his head. Pain seared through his eyesockets into his skull, and then fire sucked him down with a roar.