The Native Star Read online

  Explosions shuddered all around them. The Maelstrom soldiers were a picture of intense focus. Each time one lifted his alembic, another booming retort shook the air. Heedless, Mirabilis strode out onto the portico. Planting his hands on his hips, he thrust out his chest and looked down at Caul from within a shimmering sphere of power; the soldiers’ attacks glittered around him, falling away in bright harmless showers of sparks.

  “Come on out, Miss Edwards,” Mirabilis said loudly, gesturing to Emily. “There’s nothing to fear from this pack of little tin soldiers.”

  Caul stared up as Emily emerged. First, he lifted a trembling fist—a silent signal to the soldiers surrounding him. They lowered their alembics, and the explosions subsided. With a sharp wrench of his head, Caul managed to tip his hat, his uncontrolled shaking making the crossed sabers glint.

  “H-h-hello again, Miss Edwards.” He spoke slowly, laboring over each word. “What has h-h-happened to your hand?”

  “I’ve got it locked away where you will never get it,” Mirabilis jabbed a triumphant finger at him. “It is mine, and it will remain so.”

  “I have c-c-come to claim it, Mirabilis. For the p-p-public—”

  “For the public good,” Emily cut him off. “I didn’t believe it when you could say it straight, and I don’t believe it now.”

  A spasm of fury kindled on Caul’s face, but did not stop there; it spread through his whole body, twisting him in his saddle. His poor confused horse shifted nervously beneath him, Caul’s heels tapping against its sides at odds with the big hands pulling on the reins as if they were a drummer boy’s sticks.

  “Insolent t-t-tramp,” he muttered into his own chest. When he spoke again, it was to one of the men standing behind him. “S-S-Sergeant Booth. I n-n-need your help to speak to these s-s-subversives.”

  An ardent-looking young man presented himself at the captain’s side, giving Mirabilis a proud glare before quickly shedding his blue coat, revealing pale bare arms. He reached up and clasped the captain’s hand in a firm, steadying grip. Caul gave the young man a barely perceptible nod. Then he drew the silver knife from his belt and slashed the sergeant’s inner arm from elbow to wrist. The young man flinched slightly, but squeezed his commander’s hand so his blood would flow more quickly. This was not necessary; his blood was already spurting in great arcing gouts, dripping through Caul’s fingers as he clutched the sergeant’s forearm in his fists. Caul closed his eyes and spoke low jagged words. Power massed around his fingers. The young man doubled over as if punched in the gut.

  Mirabilis looked away, his face a mask of disgust. But Emily watched; she could not tear her eyes from the horrifying display. She watched the young man’s face twist in agony as magic enveloped him. She watched as his knees buckled, until finally it was only the strength in Caul’s grip that kept him upright. All the while, power whipped around them both—power the color of bruises and clots and contusions. Finally, Caul opened his hands, and Sergeant Booth slid to the ground, twitching like a butchered chicken.

  Caul took a deep breath and released it slowly. He now looked more like Emily remembered him. Only a lazily spasming eyelid hinted at his previous debility.

  “How many enlisted men do you go through a day?” Mirabilis asked when he could finally bring himself to speak again. By that time, Sergeant Booth had stopped twitching, his body contorted in a painfully unnatural position.

  “My men understand the importance of this mission,” Caul said. “As should you, if you’ve discovered the power that stone contains.”

  “I have,” Mirabilis said. “And if you think I’m going to hand it over to a bunch of sangrimancers—sanctioned by the President or not—you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “If I imagined you would hand it over, I wouldn’t have to waste time and men on you, you filthy anarchist!” The sudden intensity of Caul’s rage made his horse sidestep nervously. Clenching his teeth, Caul paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “We have the same enemy, Mirabilis. Temamauhti, the greatest foreign threat this nation has ever faced. The emergence of the stone can only mean that the time is near.”

  “Temam-what?” Emily said to Miss Pendennis.

  “Temamauhti?” Mirabilis’ voice rose with amused astonishment. “Are you serious? A half-baked doomsday prediction served up by a bunch of Aztec goddess fanatics?”

  “Itztlacoliuhqui is gathering strength,” Caul said, leaning forward on his horse. His eyes were terrifying in their mad intensity. “Even if she lays waste to the rest of the world, with the power in that stone, we can keep her from crossing our borders …”

  “Let all the nations of the world collapse in wretched misery, as long as Americans get to keep their apple pie.” Mirabilis winked at the women behind him. “Sangrimancer patriotism,” he stage-whispered.

  “Clearly, appealing to your patriotism is a waste of my time, Herr Mirabilis,” Caul growled. “I’m sure you’d love to see the United States destroyed. Because you’re like all refugees. You are welcomed as guests, but the fact that you can never be more than that drives you mad. You steep in your bitterness, malcontents collecting like pus in an infected wound … You plot revenge. You foment anarchy.”

  “All while paying taxes and supporting a number of charitable causes,” Mirabilis said. “I don’t know where I find the time.”

  “Even the President has taken note of your institute’s mongrel admissions policy,” Caul continued. “Jews, Arabs, women … even a Chinaman or two. You may pay taxes, Mirabilis, but you’re no American.”

  “I’d ask you to forego the jingoistic claptrap, but it’s terrifyingly obvious you truly believe it.” Mirabilis’ voice was cold. “At least spare me the name-dropping. I may not have the President’s ear, but I have connections of my own.”

  “Like Senator Stanton? The man who’s sold his own soul so many times that no one can figure out who actually owns it?”

  “I own his son,” Mirabilis said.

  “Who is still half a sangrimancer, despite your finest efforts to recast him in your own shoddy mold.”

  “He is no such thing.” Mirabilis lifted his chin and spoke with great dignity. “He is a Jefferson Chair of the Mirabilis Institute, and I have great faith in him.”

  “F-faith?” The twitch around Caul’s eye was spreading to his neck and shoulders, making him wriggle as if someone had dropped ice down his back. Whatever relief Sergeant Booth’s blood had given him, it was obviously only temporary. “Faith in his m-m-mediocrity, I suppose. He’s a rotten credomancer, Mirabilis. And that’s just how you like it, isn’t it?”

  Mirabilis pressed his lips together in a thin white line.

  Caul fixed glittering eyes on Emily. “Speaking of Dreadnought Stanton … where is he? There’s so much I’d like to d-discuss with him.”

  Emily swallowed hard, her heart thumping alarm. She looked at Mirabilis, but the expression on his face did not change. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to the edge of the portico terrace. On the wide railing stood several delicate marble urns, each planted with bright flowers. He ran a negligent finger along the rim of one of the urns, bent slowly, and sniffed appreciatively. When he straightened, his lips were curved in a lazy, self-satisfied smirk that even Emily found incredibly provoking.

  “I confess, I find it difficult to feel very worried about Mr. Stanton’s welfare,” he drawled, “given that you and your boys can’t even knock down my dainty little pansies.”

  “P-p-pansies?” Caul bared his teeth in a horrible grimace, his body clenching in on itself with rage. It took him some time to master himself, long enough that Emily worried that he might call for another sergeant. But finally he straightened. Emily could hear him breathing fast and hard, as if in pain.

  “I’m well aware you’ve spent the past decade making your institute strong. S-strong on that mountebank trash you sh-shovel down the throats of gullible Americans. But I will crack you, Mirabilis. I will shatter you. The attacks will continue unt
il we have what we want. Whether that’s b-b-before your institute is reduced to a pile of smoking rubble is up to you.”

  “You’re not dealing with a small-town Witch anymore, someone you can bully with blood magic and loud noises. I have the stone and you don’t. Really, is there anything more to say?”

  Caul broke into sudden, incomprehensible laughter. It was a low jagged laugh, threaded with genuinely deranged glee, that made Emily’s skin crawl. It was a long time before he could speak again, and when he did, Emily saw that he was twitching again, as bad as ever. “W-w-words are your weapons, Mirabilis. Not mine. If you’ve r-r-run out of them, that’s your misfortune.”

  Then Caul looked at Emily, still smiling broadly, eyes glimmering with malice. His fingers trembled against the brim of his hat, and his gaze lingered on the stump of her hand.

  “Good day, Miss Edwards,” he said. “I’ll s-s-see you again soon.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Hidden Knives

  Back inside, Mirabilis closed the rattling glass doors against the bangs and flashes of the sangrimancers’ resumed onslaught.

  “Don’t let it worry you, my dear,” Mirabilis said to Emily, over a piercing squeal that terminated in a wall-shaking concussion. “The Institute is my fortress, and this is a minor annoyance at most. I shall see to it that these ridiculous attacks are stopped and that Caul is sent to peel a mountain of potatoes somewhere.”

  The absurdity of the image made Emily smile wanly. Seeing the spark of a smile, Mirabilis stoked it by taking her hand and giving it a warm, fortifying squeeze.

  “You should rest. We’ll talk in the morning. Ben will see you to your room.”

  “And me?” Miss Pendennis pushed forward. “I’m not running that gauntlet out there, so you’d better have a place for me to sleep, too.”

  “Of course, Miss Pendennis,” Mirabilis said, as a particularly dazzling and earsplitting blast made the floor under his feet rock slightly. “Nothing is more important than ensuring the complete comfort of our guests.”

  Emily and Miss Pendennis followed old Ben upstairs to the third floor. Ben gestured to the room that would be Miss Pendennis’, and the large woman paused on the threshold, looking Emily up and down briskly.

  “You’ll be all right? You’re not scared?”

  Emily raised an eyebrow. Outside, the attacks were intensifying, escalating to foundation-rattling blasts. Goddamn right she was scared. But just what Miss Pendennis thought she could do about it, Emily couldn’t imagine.

  “I’ll be fine,” Emily said finally.

  “Don’t you worry. Mirabilis will get these attacks stopped. In the meantime, if you need me, just sing out.”

  Ben opened the door to Emily’s room and showed her in. He spent a little time shuffling around, turning up the gas in the ornate gilt fixtures. The increase in light revealed something to Emily. She stifled a shriek, hand over her mouth.

  Thin trickles of blood were streaming down the wall, fresh and bright red.

  Ben tsk-tsked mildly when he saw the gory streams. He went over to the wall, laid his hand against it, and said something in soft clear Latin. The blood did not disappear, but at least it stopped trickling.

  “Sangrimancer mischief,” he said.

  “I thought the Institute was a fortress!” Emily’s voice was thin. Was there going to be blood running down the walls all night? Maybe finding Miss Pendennis wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

  “A roof will shelter you from the rain, but the damp may get through,” Ben said. It was the most he had said in her presence, and she was surprised by how kind and comforting his voice was. “Don’t worry, Miss Edwards, you’ll be completely safe. I promise.”

  She looked at him. He looked strangely familiar, but she could not think why. Perhaps it was because he reminded her of Pap, gentle and mild and soft-spoken. He possessed an unstrained quality of solidity and dependability—a quality entirely different from Mirabilis’ maneuvering and calculation.

  “You’ll find clean night things in that cupboard, and there’s hot water in the ewer.” He bent his head respectfully. “If there’s nothing more you require?”

  “No … no, thank you.”

  “Good night, miss.”

  It wasn’t until Emily was folded into bed with the covers up well over her chin that Ben’s soothing influence evaporated, and she began to tremble again, anxious thoughts and ugly memories spinning between her ears. Images of the eager young sergeant, blood spurting from his arm—sacrificing his life without a second thought. And Caul’s hideous madness, the thinly veiled threat … So much I’d like to discuss with him, he had said.

  She, at least, was inside the Institute, even if there was blood on the walls. But Mirabilis had sent Stanton away, alone and unprotected. What if Caul found him?

  That thought alone was disturbing enough. But then a different thought, slanting at an odd angle to the first, disturbed her even more.

  What if Caul meant something different?

  What if the words weren’t a threat?

  A Warlock of questionable dependability, half a sangrimancer …

  Emily closed her eyes, shuddering at the memory of the magic Stanton had worked to cleanse Grimaldi from his blood … acrid words, hot swirling winds, long fingers making gruesome patterns in the dust. Of course it had been sangrimancy. She’d known it the moment she’d seen it. Any fool would have. But she’d pretended blindness. Not out of ignorance or naïveté, but because she …

  Because there was nothing else she could do, that’s why. She’d pushed it out of her mind because it could not be considered at the time. Unless she’d been willing to follow the consideration through to its logical conclusion and leave him, walk away right then and there … and how could she leave him, after everything? After all they’d been through?

  Half a sangrimancer …

  What if Mirabilis had sent Stanton away because he didn’t trust him?

  A sudden coruscation of light illuminated the room through the heavy silk curtains, followed by an echoing explosion that made Emily’s ears hurt. She buried her head deeper in the soft pillow. It smelled of honeysuckle and starch.

  Well, I trust him, she thought fiercely. After all, she owed him that much. Maybe he did know blood magic, but that didn’t mean he was a sangrimancer, not even half of one. He’d been shot and almost burned at the stake … and there had been so many opportunities to redirect the situation to his advantage, if that was his true aim. To think him untrustworthy was ludicrous.

  These attempts to construct a bulwark of certainty kept Emily’s brain feverishly active for a long time. But just when she thought there was no way she would be able to catch a wink of sleep that night, sleep reached up and caught her, folding her in blackness, dragging her deep.

  Night. Low swinging lamplight.

  She dreamed she was on the train, curled close to someone warm. She breathed pleasantly, until she realized that she was really alone after all.

  She sat up, looking around herself. There was no other living creature on the train, just murky yellow light and the sound of a fiddle playing.

  “Sweet, Sweet Spring.”

  Moonlight through the train’s shutters sliced her white nightgown into strips. She looked out the windows at the rolling landscape. Aberrant jackrabbits were easily loping alongside, their long ears laid back flat, their eyes red and glowing.

  There was a voice muttering around her … through her … in her …

  But I try before!

  It was a strange voice. Familiar. Unfamiliar. Masculine when she remembered it as feminine. Looping and perfumed.

  That rock in her hand, it interfere. It did no work …

  T-T-TRY AGAIN.

  The voice that broke in was different. Hard, harsh, and edged with insanity, it filled the compartment, echoing off the walls. It went upward, like a bubble of gas released from beneath viscous mud. Emily looked up, watching it go, and saw that the train had no roof. Above, the
sky was velvet black, seeded with stars.

  God, her head ached.

  I tell you, it will no work!

  AND I T-T-TOLD YOU TO T-T-TRY AGAIN.

  At the far end of the compartment, a dark figure was standing, a huge man. He moved toward her in a hobbling shuffle. He looked lumpy, malformed. Emily wanted to run, but she could not. She could not speak. She could not scream.

  The jackrabbits laughed.

  The man was not a man.

  Rather, it was two men pushed together into one. It was as if each man had been made of clay and a child had wadded them up together. Half a face was squashed up against a flattened skull; one old brown eye leered at her and one insane red one appraised her.

  The thing lifted a hand. Its hand was strong and large. The fingers sank into the soft part of her throat, finding the edges of her windpipe. It squeezed.

  Carissima mia.

  It held her for a long time, each vastly different eye boring into her in its own way. Her head pounded as if it would explode. She writhed under the tightening grip, whimpering. Light sparkled at the corners of her eyes, flashes of suffocation. They resolved themselves into horrific images, knives in brutal hands, honed razors, hollow sharp silver needles. They were coming at her with them, coming for her …

  LEAVE HER FOR N-N-NOW, the red-eye commanded. WE H-H-HAVE WHAT WE NEED.

  Blackness swallowed her at the same moment Emily woke, thrashing wildly under the white sheets.

  She leapt from the bed as if it were on fire. Her heart was racing as she sucked in great gulps of air. Coming for her … razors and needles and knives …

  She rushed to the door, fumbled at the bolt with a shaking, weak hand. When she’d released the lock, she threw the door open. She looked down the hall.

  She had to find someone, tell them … tell them that …

  … that …

  … that what?

  She looked up and down the hall, blinking. What had she dreamed? Suddenly, she could not remember, and the harder she tried, the more the memory retreated from her.