The Iron Thorn

blanketed us. “Is it supposed to …” The aethervox that Harry no doubt used for ship-to-ship was smashed beyond repair, just a slag heap of no use to anyone. Wires and char marks were flung to the four corners of the room, and the recorder roll, the drum covered in thin brass coating that recorded messages sent across the aether, had rolled away and bumped against my feet as the Belle banked. “This can’t be an accident.”

Dean spun away from the hatch and ran for the cockpit. “Sure isn’t. That’s sabotage.”

Jean-Marc let the shredded wires from the vox run through his fingers as if he were holding the last scraps of a broken treasure. “Fire ax, capitaine. They chewed it up and spat it out. Wondered why I wasn’t picking up no chatter from the aether broadcasts.”

Captain Harry punched his fist into the bulkhead. A dent blossomed. “Merde. You see anything, boy?”

Dean shook his head. “We were outside. I was showing Miss Aoife the ship when we found it. She’s never flown.”

Harry turned his ruby goggles on me and I focused on the zigzag scar across his chin instead. “What about you, mademoiselle? You eyeball any black rat bastards taking steel to my ship?” His bellow made everyone, including Dean, flinch.

“No, sir,” I whispered, not able to even look at his face.

“You got enemies, girl?” Harry demanded. “You got a reason to go aliénée on my poor Belle?”

My cheeks heated to boiling as his accusations crept too close to truth. “No, sir! I didn’t do this.”

After a long stare, Captain Harry snorted. “Aye. Get back to the hold and stay put,” he ordered. “You too, Harrison.”

I marched in lockstep with Dean back to the benches, relief warring with worry for a spot in my head. Alouette watched us through the sliver of open hatch to the cockpit, her fingers moving over the controls with their own will. Altitude and windspeed tilted and righted, and my insides with them. But the Belle couldn’t land at night without a ping from the radio tower in Arkham, could she? Couldn’t call for help. We’d had our eyes put out. In daytime, an airship could fly without a radio, but at night in the wind … I shuddered.

Cal tugged on my sleeve. “What’s going on?”

“Someone destroyed the aethervox,” I murmured. “Dean said it was sabotage.”

“Well, it wasn’t me or Alouette,” he said. “She was right here talking with me about the city life until you two started hollering for the captain.”

“I didn’t say your precious Alouette had anything to do with this,” I growled. Cal darted a glance at Dean and then leaned in so that only I could hear.

“Are we in danger, Aoife?”

We were. I had the same certainty I got when I knew Professor Swan was springing a surprise quiz. “We’re fugitives from the Proctors, Cal,” I said aloud. “What do you think?”

At that moment, Jean-Marc and Captain Harry stepped into the hold and I stood again. Jean-Marc held the recorder drum between his palms. Small clusters of nail taps paraded over the surface, the groupings in Mr. Morse’s code spelled out for posterity in the paper-thin brass. If we went down, someone would know what happened.

Jean-Marc’s spider-fingers caressed the drum like a blind man searches for meaning on the surfaces of the world. “I got the last transmission, Capitaine.”

Captain Harry’s lips tightened until they nearly disappeared. “Tell me.”

“ ‘Fugitives on board. Bearing north-northwest, destination Arkham. Send reinforcements.’ ” Jean-Marc held the drum out to Harry. “Sent after we flew this night, boss. Someone on board, still on board.”

I shot a look at Cal, but he was rapt, his eyes on the captain. He didn’t seem to share my alarm.

Captain Harry’s massive hands changed to fists, so tight that his leather airman’s gloves popped their hand- stitched seams. “Thrice-damned Proctors. Voxed from my ship.”

Dean stood up. “Are the Proctors wise to this flight?”

I had the same question. If the Proctors knew where we were going, I might as well give myself up now. They’d be waiting when we landed in Arkham, and I’d be going somewhere that the Academy threatened us with when we got out of line.

It didn’t seem real.

“Harry,” Dean snapped. “Answer me—Proctors, or no?”

Before Captain Harry could respond, a sound reverberated from the cockpit—the sound of a body striking glass. Alouette let out a shriek and her nails left a constellation of half-moons in the oxblood hide of her chair.

We turned to the cockpit as one and met the glaring gaze of a raven, its mangled gears and brass-boned wings spread across a cobweb of broken glass.

Beyond it, in the wind-tossed night sky, a dozen more sets of eyes sprang to life. I stared, unable for a moment to move, as if my heart and blood had turned to glass.

“Ravens!” Jean-Marc squeaked. “Boss—”

“It ain’t the ravens we got to worry about.” Captain Harry slotted himself into the pilot seat and pushed the throttles to full. “It’s their masters.”

A whine cut the low growling of the Belle’s fans, the sound of gears brought to life by coiled inertia. A winding engine, used by some jitneys, sleek British beetles that hugged the road, and warplanes.

Cal grabbed for me, but I evaded his hands deliberately and cycled the deck hatch, leaning over the rail to look toward the Belle’s six o’clock. Bouncing in the wake of the big ship like pilot fish, twin chrome gliders swooped like owls in the moonlight, matching the Belle’s speed.

“Buggies!” I shouted at Dean as the wind stole my breath. We were speeding so fast it felt like all of my skin was being stripped away by the wind and cold. “P-51 Mustangs!” The snub-nosed shape and the fixed wing were unmistakable.

The moon showed its face, gibbous as the eye of a Great Old One, and revealed to me twin black wings stamped on the Mustang’s noses.

I froze, caught out in the moonlight. I could even see the pilots, black leather caps and black goggles shielding their faces from the punishing air. I could see the long guns swiveling, coming to bear on the corpulent bulk of the Belle’s gas balloon.

Dean yanked me back through the hatch by my collar as the first line of lead cut loose from the Mustang’s guns. I fell against him, boneless for a moment, shock rendering me deadweight.

“Your buddy got one thing right,” Dean said, righting me. “To Proctors, these cats are pirates. And pirates get shot down.”

The Belle shook. Harry bellowed orders in French. Cal clutched his tie-down harness and squeezed his eyes shut.

“What do we do, Dean?” I grabbed the nearest rail as another volley ripped through the night, bouncing the Belle as if it were a toy.

“Ride it out. Or ride it down.” Dean grabbed my arm and dropped me into the seat next to Cal. “Strap in, miss.”

The Belle dipped and swayed, dancing with the air. I grabbed for Dean’s hand. It was the only solid thing I could reach, and just then I needed something solid very badly.

Cal shuddered as another burst from the Mustang’s guns rattled past the hull like knucklebones. “We shouldn’t be here,” he blurted. “We should land. We should land and turn ourselves in and beg for mercy. They won’t burn me if I give myself up … they won’t …”

I wanted to comfort him, but before I could say anything, Alouette was in front of us, clutching the cargo net. I saw the fury in her face first and then the pistol in her hand.

“The Belle lands for no Proctor.” Her voice was as cold as her eyes.

“Allie”—Dean held up a hand—“put that away. The kid’s just scared.”

“That better be all, or I’ll throw him out the hatch for the Proctors myself. I swear by the gears of this boat.”

“Leave Cal alone!” I snarled. “Maybe if you didn’t hire traitors we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

The pistol bounced toward me, and my next stream of invective died on my lips. Never knew