Weather Witch (35 page)

Love gave a man a feeling close enough to immortality for Bran’s liking.

He popped open the drawer where he kept the confiscated items from Reckonings. He could use a few in trade to get them where they needed to go. And once he was gone? If he took his main journals Holgate would have no choice but to release the Tanks’ inhabitants. There was no other Maker and no Maker’s apprentice.

There would be no other Weather Witches. There would be no more torture and, although the abolitionists didn’t know about the treatment of Weather Witches, he would change the lives of at least one set of slaves. The entire world on this side of the Western Ocean would have to change. It would end where it began. With him.

The butterflies in the bell jar caught his attention. He would start granting freedom here and now. He lifted the bell jar and then dropped it to the floor. Butterflies soared past him, colorful wings whispering along his face as they sought an exit.

He quickly chose the items he still needed. They would travel light. A jar on the counter began to bubble. And another’s contents rippled with life.

The strange sensation of being watched made the hair on his arms rise up and he turned to where Sybil’s skull sat, covered in the beating wings of butterflies. He had no conscious thought of what he was doing until he picked up the child’s gleaming skull, the butterflies abandoning their eerie ivory perch. “I will find you a place you are finally happy to sleep in death,” he promised, tucking her into the bag at his side.

He strode into the library, slung open his desk drawer, dumped its contents, and withdrew the two journals: the one everyone knew he had and the private one that held his most intimate thoughts.

And fears.

These he slipped into the bag beside the tiny skull.

He crossed the library’s floor to Maude and Meggie and wrapped them in his arms.

That was when he heard the other man.

“Wait.”

Bran froze, looking to Maude.

“Do as he says,” she suggested, her voice strained.

A man stepped out of the shadows and said, “I think it should all end where it began. With you, Bran Marshall.”

Meg wormed out of Maude’s grip and stepped in front of the Maker, her expression indignant, a fire so fierce in her eyes Marion thought she might be capable of melting all of his ice just with her will. “You cannot hurt Papá!”

Marion’s eyebrows shot up. “Papá?” He squinted.

The Maker pushed the girl back behind him, shielding her with his legs and warning, “Do not get involved in this matter, dear little dove…”

Marion said, “Oh. Oh no, I think she is already quite involved in this matter.” He crouched down and smiled the smile he had always used with his little brother. “How old are you, sweet child?”

“Very nearly six,” she answered, peeking warily around her father’s legs.

“So you were Made the same time I was,” Marion whispered, slowly rising back to his full height. “We are like brother and sister—we share a creator. So it is best we are both here—quite the little family—to bear witness to what happens next. Because our world? It’s about to be set right as rain, to be changed. Forever.”

Bran merely looked at him, his eyes as sad as they were dangerous. “You have no idea how right you are.”

“You are coming with me,” Marion said, his eyes flashing. “I have packed your necessities,” he explained, motioning toward a makeshift bag made of a sheet tied together. “It did not take me long,” he mused. “You will not require much as you will not be of this world for long.”

Maude choked, stifling a cry.

“Leave them be,” Bran insisted. “They were no part of your Making—they are innocent in all this. Take me—only leave them be.”

“No, no,” Marion said with a chuckle. “I am not the sort of man to break a family apart.” He grabbed Bran by the arm. “Pick up that bag and move to the door. Make no suspicious moves or I will be forced to”—he shoved Bran forward to grab Meggie instead—“do something to your daughter that would make her believe I, too, am a Maker.”

Meggie cried, looking at her papá, eyes pouring forth tears.

Bran hefted the bag and became as docile as ever he had been. He allowed the man to move his entire family down the hall and the stairs, out and across the main square, and up the many stairs to the Western Tower’s docks. “I have taken the liberty of booking us all passage,” Marion explained. “We shall have one fine family escapade abroad before all the pieces fall the way they should.”

Sunlight burnished the dock before them, two ships bobbing on their cables and chains. One the
Artemesia,
and the other’s side was painted with the word
Tempest
. Before the
Tempest
her questionable-looking crew, led by a copper-haired woman, loaded a wide assortment of goods while guards looked on, eyes full of doubt.

“I have never been so distrusted,” the redheaded woman said, clucking her tongue at the way the watchmen watched her crew’s every move. “You appear not to trust me nor my crew,” she protested to the lead watchman. “And I am a captain!”

“When I see a reason to trust you,” the man said, “I will reexamine my entire world view.”

Laughing, the
Tempest
’s captain feigned a gasp.

A young man straightened from where he had been awkwardly loading oddments, a man a small bit younger than Bran, if he judged right, but taller by a good amount. The young man’s hair was blond, his features striking—making him stand out among the rough and far from handsome crew. He rubbed at a ragged-looking beard. As Marion moved his unwilling
family
forward to produce their passes, Bran saw the young man sneak away from the crew and move around them to come up before Marion.

“What wish you for one pass aboard the
Artemesia
? I want nothing more than to book passage but…” The red-haired captain seemed to be looking for someone. He ducked his head and tried to blend in. “I have thus far been unable to … break away.”

“Sorry, friend,” Marion said, his eyes small. “We are a tightly knit group. I cannot help you. It seems, though,“Marion added, casting a look to the frantically searching female captain “you are quite a wanted man.”

The young man turned away to address another person in the crowd—this one tall, masked, and dragging a colorful trunk, a midnight-black fox at his feet. “You, good wanderer,” he said as Marion and his small group shuffled past, showing their passes and pushing aboard.

Behind them the red-haired woman shouted, “Dear, dear Rowen, it seems you nearly boarded the wrong ship! Trust me, you do not wish to board that bloated belly…” Bran glimpsed movement and guessed the captain had again found her wayward crew member.

Bran glanced one last time behind him, at Holgate, his home for so many years … before he was again shoved forward by Marion, nearly trampling Maude.

The fox slunk through the crowd, never far from her masked master, and rubbed herself, catlike, around Meggie’s little legs until the girl smiled through her sniffles.

The ship’s door closed with a groan. Bran could do nothing but watch and wait for an opportunity. With Marion Kruse—the Frost Giant—guiding both Meggie and Maude now, his dangerously cold grip in constant contact with them, Bran had to be careful. He had wanted to escape his life of Making but hadn’t thought it would happen this way.

Marion was right: Meggie and he had been created at nearly the same time. They were as close to family as Marion probably had as an escapee from Holgate. Bran might use that to connect with Marion … to set things straight.

No one had to die here. No one even had to get hurt if Bran handled things well.

Marion was a problem he’d Made, so he’d correct that problem. Somehow.

Ahead, the captain paused by a bank of windows lining the inside of the ship’s belly, Jordan’s arm firmly in his grasp.

Marion steered Meggie and Maude that direction, too, Bran following. Marion had recognized the look of a battered Witch. “I hope you don’t intend on using that Witch to Conduct this ship,” Marion said, addressing the captain. “She hardly looks airworthy.”

The captain rounded on him. “You a Dissenter? I’ll take none of that type aboard,” he warned.

Marion shook his head. “No, no, not a Dissenter, merely a curious observer.”

Before the captain could grunt a reply, another voice called, “I had similar concerns.” A masked man approached, a fox the color of ink weaving in and out between his feet as he walked.

The captain smiled, his silent captive staring blankly out the window at the other airship still docked alongside. “Well, the Wandering Wallace, isn’t it?” He reached out and shook the masked man’s hand. “I doubt I’d recognize you without some strange mask on.” He nudged Jordan.

She didn’t react.

“She’ll do fine,” the captain assured. “Young. Feeling a bit off just now. Needs a bit more training is all. The Maker himself assured me of her fine capabilities.”

Bran ducked farther behind Marion and away from the captain’s immediate sight, fortunate a crowd was milling in the boat’s bottom as they readied to detach from the Western Tower’s dock.

“The Maker only Makes powerful things,” the captain added.

“True, true,” Marion said, the words so cold Bran felt them.

“So long as you are certain she will serve,” the Wandering Wallace said. “Perhaps it would help if the young lady had a bit of first-rate entertainment? A little something to lift her spirits so she can better lift our fine, fine ship?”

“Are you offering to come Topside and entertain us?” the captain asked with a grin.

“Of course, of course,” Wallace declared. “I want her feeling right as rain!”

Hearing those words both Marion’s and Bran’s heads snapped up, their eyes meeting with those of the man behind the mask.

“And might a curious observer perhaps be invited Topside to see how the operation truly works?”

The captain regarded Marion with a long appraising look before nodding. “Certainly. We will make arrangements to gather all of us together to enjoy some food and fine entertainment before our next port of call.”

Jordan suddenly jumped, reaching out a hand to press her palm flat to the window glass, and Bran leaned around Marion to see what had excited her so much and so suddenly.

In the belly of the other airship was the same young man with the ragged beard and blond hair who had asked Marion for a ticket aboard this ship instead of the one on which he now rode. He seemed as much an unwilling captive as Jordan, and her attention was absolutely fixed on him.

And his attention was likewise fixed on her.

What had the captain called him?

Ah, yes: Rowen.

Across the distance Bran watched as Rowen reached up to his chest and touched the spot where his heart resided before pointing to Jordan and then touching his sleeve.

Cables and ropes slithered across the
Artemesia
’s body, dropping past the windows and slapping as loud as gunfire against the Western Tower. The
Artemesia
drifted away from the dock and out of sight of the anxious young man peering out at Jordan from the gut of the
Tempest.

Stay tuned for the next book in the
Weather Witch
series

STORMBRINGER

Available 2014

ALSO BY SHANNON DELANY

13 to Life

Secrets and Shadows

Bargains and Betrayals

Destiny and Deception

Rivals and Retribution

About the Author

Since she was a child Shannon Delany has written stories, beginning writing in earnest when her grandmother fell unexpectedly ill. Previously a teacher and now a farmer raising heritage livestock, Shannon lives and writes in Upstate New York and enjoys traveling to talk to people about most anything.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WEATHER WITCH. Copyright © 2013 by Shannon Delany. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover design by Ervin Serrano

Cover photographs: girl by Elisabeth Ansley/Trevillion; lightning by Martin Capek/
Shutterstock.com

The Library of Congress has catalogued the print edition as follows:

Delany, Shannon.

   Weather Witch / Shannon Delany. — 1
^st
ed.

          p. cm