The Native Star (39 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Heavy Weather

Smells.

Acrid burning flesh and cold congealed blood and aromatic spirits of ammonia.

“Wake up.” A voice resonating in the far distance. A hand waving something under her nose, something cold and bitter and sharp. “Wake up, Miss Edwards.”

Pain woke as she did, stirring like a provoked beast, diffused through all parts of her body but concentrating in agony at her wrist. She turned her head to look at her arm. A bloody tourniquet was tied tightly around it, halfway between elbow and wrist.

“My … hand,” she said.

“Not anymore.” Caul’s voice. He laid the smelling salts aside, next to a field surgeon’s case of brightly polished mahogany. Inside the case, large silver needles shone. “You do present me with the most interesting challenges. Removing clumsy skycladdische love spells is hardly my area of expertise. Comforting brokenhearted Frenchmen even less so. And yet I will be called upon to do both, if Artaud is to be in any condition to extract the power from this stone.”

“You can’t remove the love spell,” Emily rasped. “Only I … only I can. And I
won’t.”

“Your blood will do as I bid it do,” Caul growled. “Your blood is all that you are, every fragment of your will, every moment of your life. And it’s going to be mine.”

Caul began taking needles out of the case, one by one. He showed one to her. It was the size of a pencil, delicately engraved, with a razor-sharp tip.

“One for your
carotis communis
 … here, on your throat.” He touched the place gently. “One for each of the brachial arteries that run along the insides of your arms, and one for each of the large femoral arteries that run along the insides of your legs.” He spoke as if reciting from a book. “You’ll be dry within five minutes,
carissima mia.”

The last words were spoken in Grimaldi’s cruelly perfumed Italian accent. A shadow of distaste passed over Caul’s face. He clenched his teeth, spoke in an undertone.

“Perhaps the most useful aspect of your blood is that I’ll be able to use it to exorcise this greasy Wop from my body.”

She was so cold.

It was the coldness of her hand that made her notice how hot the ring around her thumb had grown. She clenched her hand into a loose fist, ignoring the prick of tears in her eyes.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the needles to slide under her skin, to pierce her, to empty her …

“Stop, sangrimancer.”

Emily’s eyes opened slowly. It was Stanton’s voice, low and shuddering. She turned her head a little, and she could see him standing on shaking legs, pulling himself up against the shelf that held the bottles of chrysohaeme. His skin was the color of plaster; the streaks of dried blood on his cheeks stood out in gruesome relief.

“Stanton.” Caul’s voice was lazy. “And we thought you were dead.”

“There are very few advantages to being burned,” Stanton said. “But there is one. You can’t stop me with raw magic. You might as well try to drown a fish.”

“I’ll remember that,” Caul said. He tilted his head. “You’re just in time to watch me bleed this little tramp. You do remember how they’re bled, don’t you?”

“I’m not going to watch you bleed anyone,” Stanton said. “I’m going to stop you.”

Caul lifted his eyebrows in amusement.

“Stop me? You can hardly stand up.” Caul lifted the large silver cleaver, its edge crusted with Emily’s drying blood. He took a step toward Stanton. “Reclaiming Mirabilis’ power was a dirty trick, but that’s easily reversed. Once you’re dead, I’ll have the stone and the power of the Institute—and even that Aztec High Priest Mirabilis was good enough to obtain for me. In one day, I will have amassed enough power to crush any goddamn foreign subversive who turns an ugly eye on my United States. It’s a great day to be a patriot.”

“Not so much as you’d think.” Stanton pulled one of the glowing glass containers from the shelf beside him. He knocked it against the side of the heavy shelf, cracking it open. He plunged his hand into the shifting, shimmering chrysohaeme.

The transformation was immediate and complete. Stanton lit up like a magnesium torch. His face and eyes and tongue went black as a photographic negative. Around him, a blinding aura of multicolored light flashed and swirled. He raised a hand toward Caul, magic burning in traceries around his fingertips.

“That won’t do you any good.” Caul reached into his pocket and pulled out Emily’s limp, severed hand. It was loosely wrapped in a blood-sodden handkerchief. “You can throw as much power as you like, the stone will absorb it all.”

“I know,” Stanton said.

And he threw power—a flood of brilliance that illuminated the white walls with violently shifting shadows of color. Caul stood, legs spread defiantly, holding up Emily’s gory hand like a shield. He grasped the severed hand with both of his own, straining against the force of Stanton’s magic.

“You could have stood with me, Stanton!” Caul screamed, a high gleeful scream, tortured by the power surging around it. “You could have used your powers for
good
instead of throwing them away. You called it principles, but it was nothing more than cowardice. I know what you are! You’re nothing more than a goddamn … yellow … coward.”

“I know what I am.” Stanton’s voice resonated. “And I know what I’m not.”

And then it happened.

The stone blossomed. Exploded. It happened so fast that Emily’s blurry eyes could hardly follow it. A black dripping ball of slime wrapped itself around Caul’s hand. The big man looked down in blank astonishment, screaming.

The black mass slithered up his arm like a hundred tiny snakes. His body began to expand. He threw his head back and screamed again—a loud long scream that became high and otherworldly as the rivulets of black slime reached his throat and plunged into it like grubbing maggots.

“Don’t let him touch you,” Stanton said to Emily, his voice echoing as if it were amplified by a million bullhorns. “Get away from him!”

Emily sat up slowly. She could not move very fast. She swung her legs off the table, and the world spun around her. Caul’s shrieks rang in her ears. The brilliance of the air around her, shifting and distorted with magic, made the floor difficult to locate. But she found it.

Stanton’s face glowed stark white, his body burning like the sun.

“Get away!” he screamed.

Caul was expanding to such a size now … bigger and bigger, blacker and blacker, exuding the smell of a field of rotting corpses under a hot summer sun. He was reaching for her, black slimy paws fumbling to grab her. Dodging him unsteadily, she threw herself against a far wall, where one of the gas fixtures glowed softly. She waited as he got closer, until he was almost on her, reaching for her throat …

Then she turned up the gas full blast, the sudden high flame catching a corner of his sleeve.

She dove for safety as he exploded in an inferno of light and color and heat, white and blue and red. Heat battered at her as she rolled behind the dissecting table. The smell became that of fat blood-fed flies roasting in the flames of Hell.

Caul stopped screaming; instead, he crumpled, a slow collapse punctuated by sprays of sparks. Finally he stilled, and then there was just the sound of whistles and bubbles and pops, and flames licking the ceiling and smoke filling the room.

Then, there was a loud
crack
.

From the center of the flaming mass a huge fountain of silver light shot up to the sky, blasting the roof outward in a hail of wood and plaster and tar paper. Looking up through the destroyed ceiling, Emily saw that the night was velvety black, salted with stars.

The fountain of light shot up, expanding like a reversed funnel as it rose, broad and thin and shimmering like the clouds of luminous stellar gas Emily remembered from the memories of Ososolyeh. The colors of it were so beautiful: resonant basso reds, deep echoing blues, shimmering, soaring yellows. The multihued light cloaked the sky in heartbreaking radiance.

Then it began to rain.

Coruscating drops of power sizzled down like tiny comets, phosphorescent glitters like dying fireflies that made the ground glow where they hit. The brilliant shower quickly doused the flames, clearing the smoke from the air, revealing Caul’s charred corpse. Kneeling, his fists were pressed against his forehead.

Emily did not realize how silent it had become until the hollow clank of the empty chrysohaeme container resounded through the room. Emily’s eyes found Stanton’s. No longer wreathed in power, he looked thin and tired. He swayed, gave her a nod, then collapsed heavily to the floor.

She went to him, falling to the ground beside him. Pain jolted through her as she reached to touch him with a hand that was no longer there.

“Mr. Stanton,” she said. The raindrops of iridescent silver brilliance fell all around them, making the air glow with released power. The whole world around them shone like an illuminated manuscript, brilliant colors made precious with bright nacreous gems. The raindrops glowed in Stanton’s hair, leaving marks of light where they fell on his pale, upturned face.

“Mr. Stanton?” she whispered, brushing drops of brilliance from his face. “Dreadnought?”

He opened his eyes. They were entirely black, from lid to lid.

“I like it better with the ‘dear’ after it,” he said, distantly.

“Are you all right?” she breathed. “Please say you’ll be all right!”

“Of course I’ll be all right,” he said. “Though I am a bit hungry.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Man Who Saved Magic

Dreadnought Stanton stood proudly over the infamous sangrimancer, the blood fiend who clutched and scrabbled miserably at his feet—a wretched spectacle
.

“I die … yes, I die! For you have defeated me in all truth, and the great engines of evil that were at my command! And you have defeated me twice over, for you battled fairly against my methods, which were deceitful and dishonorable! Truly I lose to a better Warlock, and a better man!”

And letting out a final, foul breath, the blood fiend reclined, expiring
.

“Such terrible dangers shall never again threaten our great nation!” Dreadnought Stanton said firmly, regarding the formidable enemy who lay dead at his feet. “The great goals of credomancy shall uphold the virtues of this land, the honor of its women, and the innocence of its youth!”

Emily closed the book, repressing an almost unbearable urge to salute.

The book was fresh from the presses of Mystic Truth Publishers. It had an eye-popping chromolithographed cover that featured Dreadnought Stanton boldly fending off rotting zombies, fearsome sangrimancers with blood dripping from the corners of their mouths, and leaping lions. Emily wasn’t sure where the lions had come in, but they certainly added excitement.

The Man Who Saved Magic
was the title, inscribed in powerful red letters. Emily made a mental note to send a copy to Rose. It would give the girl palpitations.

She glanced at her new hand sitting on the book. It was so strange and yet so pretty; she often felt her eyes sneaking toward it. The prosthetic was made of ivory and silver. The fingers were long and slim, articulated with silver joints that bore elaborate scrolls of machine engraving. There were even sweetly carved pink nails. A smoothly molded cuff of silver, also scrolled with engraving and lined with peach-colored velvet, reached halfway up to her elbow.

“Presented by the Witches’ Friendly Society, this First of June, 1876,” was scrolled along the edge of the cuff. “To Miss Emily Edwards, in honor of her signal accomplishment.”

Next to it, her real hand seemed large and clumsy. But then again, her real hand was alive. She placed this living hand on a small golden ball that rested beside her on the windowsill. It was somewhat smaller than a croquet ball, decoratively engraved. It was called a rooting ball. Hermetically sealed, it contained a special nutrient fluid in which Komé’s acorn was suspended—it was hoped that the acorn would sprout and root so that it could be planted. Emily closed her eyes and felt for the spirit of Komé; the Holy Woman shifted comfortingly beneath Emily’s touch.

“Dreaming the afternoon away, I see.” The loud voice came from the door. It was Miss Pendennis, dressed in visiting clothes: a dark dress with gloves and hat and reticule.

“Just doing some improving reading.” Emily held up the book. “It’s quite thrilling. I had no idea Mr. Stanton did all those things! And I had no idea that I swooned quite so much, or that my name was ‘Faith Trueheart.’”

Miss Pendennis raised an eyebrow.

“Certainly you didn’t think they’d put Emily Edwards in the book,” she said. Then she sat down in a chair with a weary sigh.

“Well, I’ve got news, since you obviously prefer reading trash to picking up a copy of
Practitioners’ Daily.”
Miss Pendennis settled herself, putting her large feet up on an ottoman. “They’ve finished tearing down the terramantic extraction plant in Charleston. Baugh’s Patent Magicks is no more. The threat to Ososolyeh, the great consciousness of the earth, is ended.”

Emily liked the grand finality of Miss Pendennis’ statement. And while she was highly pleased that the threat to the great consciousness of the earth was ended, the first thing that crossed her mind was Lost Pine. Now that Baugh’s Patent Magicks was out of business for good, there was sure to be plenty of work waiting for her there.

Miss Pendennis sighed with satisfaction. “All’s well that ends well.”

“Didn’t end too well for Mirabilis,” Emily said.

“Poor arrogant fool.” Miss Pendennis shook her head. “A victim of his own hubris, really. He was so supremely confident of his abilities. That’s a credomancer for you!”

So confident of his abilities, he was willing to risk the lives of everyone around him to see his plans fulfilled, Emily thought. “How’s Mr. Tarnham?” she asked quietly.

“Home in the bosom of his family, never to practice magic again.” Miss Pendennis shook her head. “They like him a whole lot better now that all he can do is stare at the wall and drool. Poor boy. He was so attached to that ferret.” She sighed heavily. “Maybe if they pray hard enough over him, he’ll be able to speak again someday.”

Emily looked at her ivory hand. “I guess Caul wasn’t the only one with a ready supply of Sergeant Booths.”

Miss Pendennis shook her head, letting the dark sentiment linger for a moment before dispelling it with a falsely bright tone.

“Speaking of arrogant fools, I dropped in on the Stantons the other day.”

Emily inclined her head. She did not look at Miss Pendennis.

It had been nearly a month since Emily had seen Stanton last, on the pier in Charleston, the world around them drenched with the light of Ososolyeh’s released power. Before she’d stirred from the drowsy drugs they’d given her to relieve the pain of her amputation, Stanton had vanished from the hospital, whisked back to New York by Benedictus Zeno and a coterie of senior professors from the Institute. Emily was left to recuperate in the hot, muggy hospital in Charleston. A well-trained staff of efficient Witch Doctors had accelerated the healing of her amputated limb, and had cleansed her of the compulsion the Manipulator had hidden in her blood. She had written Stanton a letter to tell him that, as a matter of fact, she had found the live chickens and bone rattles very fascinating indeed. There had been no reply. After she’d left the hospital, she’d returned to New York to collect her twenty-thousand-dollar payment from the Institute. Emeritus Zeno—as he was respectfully called now—was extravagantly hospitable, drafting her a check with extreme haste, providing her the use of the Institute’s most lavish and uncomfortable suite, and offering to help her with any travel arrangements she might wish to make. It all left Emily feeling distinctly that she was not wanted. So she’d gone to the Grand Central Depot and bought her train ticket back to San Francisco.

“How is Mr. Stanton?” Emily asked softly.

“Looking well, I guess.” Miss Pendennis shrugged. “Up and about. The senator has reporters and political cronies in at all hours to meet him. He’s a veritable attraction at the brownstone on Thirty-fourth; the senator might have to start selling tickets.” She paused, pulling off her gloves and reaching into her reticule. “Listen, Em. He asked me to give you this.”

It was a slender envelope, inscribed with Stanton’s firm angular hand. It did not look promising.

“Do you want me to …” Miss Pendennis started to rise.

“No, don’t bother,” Emily said, unfolding it. “It’s short.”

Dear Miss Edwards:

Emeritus Zeno tells me that you are returning to California. I suppose you are going back to marry Mr. Hansen. I am glad for you. You are a brave and wonderful woman, and you deserve the joy and security of a long, settled marriage
.

I wish you every happiness
,

Dreadnought Stanton

Insufferable.

She folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. Emily didn’t know her hand was trembling until Miss Pendennis laid a hand over it and stilled it.

“Em, may I speak bluntly?”

“I would be shocked if you didn’t.”

“You wouldn’t make a good credomancer’s wife. You know it as well as I do. You’d be squinking him from noon to night. A credomancer can’t have a wife who’s always squinking him.” She paused. “If he were going to marry at all, which he wouldn’t because … Well, anyway, if he were going to marry, Stanton would require a wife who worshipped the ground he walked on, that’s all.”

“That certainly does seem to leave me out of the running,” Emily said.

“Never mind,” Miss Pendennis said briskly. “I’ve got something to get your mind off Warlocks. The Witches’ Friendly Society would like to book you on our upcoming lecture tour. I’m leaving next week, going all around the world. Why don’t you come with me? There are hundreds of women in the magical community who are dying to meet you.”

“I don’t think so,” Emily said. “I’m going home.”

There wasn’t much to pack for her trip, and when it came time to go, Emily went to find Benedictus Zeno to say good-bye. She knocked softly at the door of Mirabilis’ old office.

A low-toned voice mumbled something that might have been “come in”; she opened the door.

“Emeritus Zeno, the carriage is waiting, I just wanted to say—”

She stopped abruptly, silenced by the look on Zeno’s face—a look of strange annoyance, as if the very act of her walking through the door was an affront.

She’d never seen his face arranged in any manner other than smiling pleasantness. But, frowning, his face looked terrible and old and unsettling. It was so strange and unexpected that it took Emily a moment to recover. In that moment, she noticed that there was another man in the office with him.

It was Stanton.

The men were standing together; Stanton had his coat on and his hat in his hands.

Emily and Stanton looked at each other. The last time she’d seen him in Charleston, his eyes and tongue had been black as a photographic negative. Now he looked neatly tailored and pressed, as if he’d just been unwrapped. He regarded her from what seemed a far greater distance than the few feet that separated them.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, flushing. She turned quickly to go.

“No, Miss Edwards, wait a moment,” Zeno said. The look of annoyance had vanished quickly, but his voice bore a faint hint of exasperation. “Mr. Stanton is just leaving.”

Emily studied the floor while Zeno and Stanton moved toward the door. It seemed to Emily that Stanton hesitated for a moment. At the hesitation, Zeno extended a hand and said firmly: “Good day, Mr. Stanton.”

Stanton took Zeno’s hand and shook it resolutely.

“Good day,” he said. Emily looked up in time to see his back as he hurried through the door, closing it behind himself softly.

When he was gone, Zeno came to Emily, took both her hands, looked at her traveling costume.

“Well, Miss Edwards,” he said softly. “All ready to go, I see.”

“I’m sorry, Emeritus,” she said, uncertain why she felt so compelled to apologize. “I’m terribly sorry.”

Zeno nodded toward the door through which Stanton had left.

“Mr. Stanton will be taking the position of Sophos, director of the Institute. He’s the only one who
can
, given the … unorthodox circumstances.” Zeno paused, regarding Emily with steady, calm eyes. “The role of Sophos will occupy every moment of his day, and every ounce of his energy. The Institute is perhaps the most influential credomantic establishment in the world, and he will serve as its Heart.”

“He will do a wonderful job,” Emily said.

“Yes. He will.” Zeno stared hard at Emily. Then he relaxed, a small benevolent smile creeping back over his lips. “Now then, when does your train leave?”

“In a couple of hours,” Emily said. She felt suddenly despondent and out of place. The magnificence of Zeno’s office—the office that would be Stanton’s—was suddenly oppressive and horrible. She tucked her reticule tight under her arm, the impulse to flee strong and strange. “I suppose I should go.”

Zeno took her hand, her living hand, and gave it a strengthening squeeze. The gesture had an immediate impact; she felt invigorated, brighter. She lifted her chin, drew a deep breath. She longed suddenly for the smell of pine.

“Thank you for everything, my dear,” Zeno said. “You have done the world a great service. These troubling matters no longer concern you. Go home now. Go home and flourish.”

Emily walked into the empty hall and took a deep breath. The sun came through the windows; the day was beautiful for traveling. She let the breath out. The carriage was waiting. She walked away from the office quickly, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

She paused only a moment beneath the statue of the wise-looking goddess that held up the Veneficus Flame. She looked up. The flame was high and strong. Emily placed her hand on the statue and closed her eyes; she could feel the power of Ososolyeh thrumming beneath her fingertips.