Sepulchre? It’s supposed to be haunted, you know. A place built centuries ago, with engineering not of this earth. They say you can only see it if you’re about to die.”
“I told you,” I said. “I’m trying to stop what’s happening back in Lovecraft. All the chaos and monsters everywhere. Sooner or later, it’s going to cover the entire world, like the Storm did. The Brotherhood makes deals with the Fae and other creatures. They’re the problem that needs destroying. And I’d …” I took a breath—I had to avoid saying too much. “I’d really like to have a good night’s sleep,” I finished.
“Wouldn’t we all,” Rasputina muttered, moving another piece. “I win,” she announced. “You’re horrible at this game.”
“I’m better at machines than games and puzzles,” I said. “My brother always beat the pants off me when we played backgammon.”
“He’s dead?” Rasputina said, with only the barest interest.
“No!” I exclaimed, alarmed that she’d automatically assume everyone I knew met a horrible end. “I mean, no, he was alive when I left. Angry at me, but alive.”
“Hmph,” Rasputina said. “Take it from me—family is like having a hundred pounds strapped to your legs.”
“I take it you have one, then.” Though I couldn’t completely disagree with her about the weight, my life had certainly been simpler when I’d only been responsible for myself.
“I did.” She shrugged. “My father was a drunk who had only his boat, and my mother barely survived an attack by the deathless creatures that roamed our village. She was bedridden, and her medical bills cost us everything except the shack we lived in. They’re probably dead now. I haven’t seen them since the Crimson Guard took me.” She collected the backgammon pieces and shut the board with a hard snap, her face rigid and carefully expressionless. “We’re going under the ice in a few hours. We’ll surface to scrub the air and then we’ll be under until we get to the Arctic.”
“How will we know when we’re there?” I asked, surprised by her abrupt change of topic, but not willing to push her about her family. I knew how much that could sting.
“Stories go that the Bone Sepulchre can be seen under the aurora borealis,” Rasputina said. “There’s a launch for journeys over the glacier that pirates carved out a few hundred miles along once we go under the ice. We can come up there and look at the northern lights, see what we see.” She sighed. “And I cannot believe I’m navigating to some place that I’ve only heard stories about on the say-so of a teenage girl.”
“You’re nineteen,” I said with some indignation, having learned this fact during our earlier conversations. “Three years hardly makes me a girl in comparison.”
“It’s not the years,” Rasputina said. “It’s how you spend them.” She waved me away. “I’ll call you when we’re under the ice. If you want a look at the sky before we dive, go up when we replenish our air. It’ll be the last you’ll see of it for a few days.”
Diving under the ice was nerve-racking, even more than I’d imagined, and what I’d imagined wasn’t pleasant. The sub scraped the underside of the glaciers, and chunks of what Sorkin told me were free-floating ice bumped the hull with alarming regularity. Once, we came upon a pod of whales and kept pace with them while Oksana, the radar officer, played their song through her speakers.
I distracted myself from the fact that one wrong turn could bring thousands of tons of ice down on the
The Crimson Guard had built the boat, but she’d been modified to run on aether batteries rather than a steam furnace that meant diving for only a few hours at a time. There was German tech in the sub too, salvaged from the war—air scrubbers and depth gauges and torpedoes. Its periscope had come from a Proctor vessel Rasputina had found stranded on the Outer Banks off North Carolina and salvaged ahead of a hurricane.
The batteries were running down, but they could still power the propellers and basic life support for days at a time, creeping along under the ice at a pace that seemed to be even slower than that of the glaciers above us.
The closer we got to the Arctic Circle, the less I slept. My dreams were tangled and terrible, no longer visits to the dream figure but often just writhing, screaming black masses that exuded the same kind of cold I imagined I’d feel in outer space, a cold that froze me in place so I couldn’t run, couldn’t even scream. Nobody else was dreaming, though—Sorkin remarked to me once that he was sleeping like a baby, deep and dreamless.
I knew what was happening—the iron was creeping into me. I realized after I woke up screaming for the third day in a row that I probably had less than twenty-four hours left before I started raving like Jakob. I had to get off the boat before then. I just hoped Rasputina knew what she was doing, and that the launch she’d talked about was where she thought it was.
That afternoon I was drinking some of the sludgy black Turkish coffee the crew swilled by the quart, trying desperately to keep my thoughts in order and not fall asleep again, when the screws of the
13
The Spine of the Earth
NOTHING COULD HAVE prepared me for the cold outside the submersible, or the strange half-night sky that confronted us, bright on the horizon but fading to velvet black at the top, much like the ever-shifting sky of my dream place. I’d thought the wind was bad back home, that the ice and snow that enveloped Lovecraft from Hallows’ Eve to spring thaw most years was as cold as anything could be, but it wasn’t.
Even wrapped in a thick coat as I was, mask strapped over the lower half of my face and fur-lined goggles over my eyes to protect them from the wind, the cold crept in through all the cracks and stole my breath. Rasputina, wearing a navy greatcoat and a similar mask and goggles, gave no indication she even noticed it, and I envied her fortitude.
It was so cold that I felt like I might shatter, drop off the top of the
“That’s strange.” Rasputina gingerly held a pair of binoculars. It was so cold that any spots of moisture clung to her gloves and ripped out tiny chunks of leather. She aimed the glasses at a tiny wooden shack at the edge of the launch. It barely hung on to the ice along with a ramshackle dock.
“What’s strange?” I tried to shrink deeper into the coat and fur-lined pants and boots I’d been given, which wasn’t hard since everything was at least two sizes too large. Another kind of cold crept in, that sixth sense I was developing that said things had gone horribly wrong. I was getting it now, and I hoped I was mistaken.
“There’s no moon,” Rasputina said.
“New moon,” I said with a shrug, trying to seem unconcerned even though my heartbeat had picked up and my shivering was no longer entirely from the bone-deep cold.
Rasputina shook her head. “Half-moon. I checked the chart.”
I turned my face up and scanned the sky. More stars than I had thought existed scattered the silver-black field of the sky, turning their unearthly white light on the glacier, which glowed as if alive.
But no moon. Not even the pockmarked slice Rasputina had said should be there. Not a sliver.
“That is strange,” I agreed, because saying anything else would come across as either silly or panicked. Celestial bodies were constants. They did not change.
This was unnatural, and I wondered what had happened to make the sky so foreign here.
“I don’t like this at all,” Rasputina said, echoing my thoughts aloud.
I turned a slow circle. We were alone. I had never felt so exposed as I did at that moment, certain the great eye of something as ancient as the starlight was turned on the boat, the same something that was blotting out the moon and causing the dead, chill atmosphere that wrapped the
“We’re leaving,” Rasputina said. “This launch has always been a bad spot. The captain who told me about it
