going to work out.
“You aren’t worth the effort, Sloane.”
“Ah, well. You tried at least.” He pulled up my chin to look at my eyes. “Yes, I suppose that’s the most I can expect of a child like-”
I swung my arm up and grabbed his wrist. His bones felt like stone.
“Ah, yes,” he said anxiously. “Yes, yes, yes.”
I punched my elbow at his waist, but he pulled back. I stood. He took my arm in both hands and threw me against the wall. It was a well-built house, and I crumpled to the floor.
“This is much better, I suppose. At a different level. Still. Invigorating.”
I struggled out of the bonds, letting them slip over my legs. I wasn’t quite free when he got to me. His fists were steel, and precise. I yelped.
“Okay. I can’t let this go much longer.” He was barely breathing heavily. “Perhaps another few rounds, and then-”
I kicked both heels into his knee. He went down, his face carefully disappointed. I rolled over him and crawled towards the desk. He came at me from behind, cracking my head with both fists. My nose jammed into the floor. I breathed in blood.
“Gods… fuck.” Sloane struggled up, leaning against the desk chair. “You’re making this difficult, Jacob.”
“Fuck off,” I hissed, then slapped the desk over. The papers scattered, but the pistol rolled next to my hand. I took it up in both hands and fired two quick shots through the room. Sloane stopped talking and jumped. I rolled behind the couch.
“This isn’t going to go well for you, Jacob. We have the girl. If you don’t come out, right damn now, we’re going to ruin her.”
I stood and crossed the room. He stood.
“Good call, Jacob. Hand over the pistol.”
I knuckled the revolver and punched him with the chamber tight in my palm. His lip split, and he went down.
“Where is she?”
“Elsewhere, Jacob.” He smiled through bloody teeth. “Elsewhere.”
“I don’t give warnings, Sloane. Where is she?”
He shrugged. The Badge broke in the door. The wood splintered, and I stepped back. Sloane punched me on the inner thigh and I staggered all the way to the couch. Sloane ducked out. I fired another shot, catching him in the shoulder. He lurched into the street, yelling. The Badge looked back at their boss, just long enough for me to put holes in them.
I went to the door. The cold iron carriage was there, the one I had seen earlier at Emily’s apartment. Marcus’s carriage, I realized. I looked back at his crumpled form. The Badge was forming up outside. There had to be a back door.
As I left the room, I paused by Marcus’ metal form. I thought of the timeless suffering, the taste of brass and the tearing of my soul. There was a valve, sealed shut. I got a length of pipe out of the kitchen and tore it off. He rushed out like an exhausted wave on the beach, his spirit washing through the room in horror and relief. When he was gone, I took another shot out the open door, scattering the Badge, then went upstairs. There was a back balcony off the child’s room. I jumped to the next roof and ran.
I knew it was wrong before I got there. The sounds, the light. None of it was right. I almost turned back before I got there. I stood at the last corner, my hands and face resting on the cold stone for ten minutes. I kept hoping to hear something; Wilson complaining to himself, or working on some experiment. Anything.
The cistern was torn up. This is what had happened, what had interrupted Sloane’s questioning. They didn’t need me to tell them where the Cog was. They had it. They came in here and got it. They had come in with guns, explosives. Stone fell from the ceiling, choking the water. Whatever secret outflow had swallowed the spring was blocked, and the cistern was rising. Dark water was pooling up over the rocky pier, flooding the floor of our hideaway.
Wilson’s things floated in a half foot of water, tubes and shattered jars swirling in the new currents. Specimens, leaves and dead bugs clumped together like tiny islands. His delicate netting was torn and burned, hanging in charred tatters from the bullet-eaten walls. There was blood, smears, spatters, thin whirls in the water, drifting among Wilson’s abandoned wreckage.
No bodies. Shell casings, one of Wilson’s cruel knives, broken and bright in the water. Emily’s shotgun was in a far corner, near the sunken tip of the pier. I waded out there, scooped it up and stared down into the deep water beyond.
I stood there a long time, waiting for something to come out of that water, or for me to sink down into it. Nothing happened. I slung the soggy belt of the gun over my shoulder and went out. I had some questions for dear old dad.
Chapter Fifteen
“Billy, ” I said.
“Master Burn is not-”
I punched him pretty hard. Harder than I meant, but better that than too light. He went down, his lip burst like a balloon. I stepped inside and closed the door.
The foyer was empty, no sound but the half dozen clocks dad kept on display, each one a little out of step with all the others. I dragged Billy into the coat check, tied him as best I could with an old scarf that was lying in the corner, and locked the door.
Cradling the shotgun in my hands, I started to search the rest of the house. I didn’t have any shells, but my father was a rational man. Even the threat of the gun would keep him in line.
I didn’t find him, or anyone else for that matter. Mother lived with the kids, my sister and her officer gallant, upriver in their exciting new life as expatriates. My brothers were in the navy. The Academy wouldn’t take any more chances on the Burns. Father Burn lived here pretty much alone, him and Billy, a couple servants and the rare itinerant mistress. Most of the house was closed up. It looked like father was living mostly in the ballroom, sleeping in one of the private sitting rooms that clustered around the dance floor. How bad had things gotten?
I went back to the foyer and opened the coat check. Billy was in the corner, free of the scarf, using it to mop blood off his face. He stared at me with narrow eyes.
“What was it you were saying, Billy, before I interrupted?”
“You’re a psychopath, Jacob,” he hissed. “Alexander was right, putting you out.”
“I’m getting to that. Maybe you’re right, but maybe you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Now,” I cradled the shotgun in my arms. “What were you saying?”
He looked down at his feet. His shoes were badly scarred, but well polished.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“Where is he, Billy?”
“No. You’re going to kill him, too. You can…” he sobbed, a noble little kink in his voice. “You can do what you want with me, but I’m not going to let you kill him.”
“I can just wait, Billy. I can sit here and lock the door and wait for him to come home. And I know he’s coming home eventually. My old man, there’s nowhere for him to go. Just tell me, Billy. I’m not going to hurt him, but there’re some things he and I need to talk out.”
“You expect me to believe that? Look,” he wadded up the bloody scarf, held out his crimson hands. “Look at me. Look at what you’ve done. You’re a violent, horrible, ugly man. You’re just a godsdamn thug, Jacob. Just a violent, angry, broken man.”
I stared at him. He was crying, but only in his eyes. The rest of him was stick straight and furious.
