I carefully tore the blueprint from the book, tucking it under my shirt. My heart was pounding again, but this time it was from excitement and urgency at finally being so close to what I needed. “We’re going there. Right now.”
16
Tesla’s Lost Gate
THINGS WERE WAKING up in the Bone Sepulchre as the short day—only a few hours of light, this time of year—got under way. Casey took me to the blocked-off staircase that led to where she said the Gate rested.
This had to be it—not a Gate, but the clock Tesla had conceived. I couldn’t think of anywhere else Tesla could have hidden a doorway into the very dreams of the world. Faulty it might be, but I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
“Are you sure about this?” Casey whispered as I performed my lock-picking trick again. It hurt more this time. My Weird had been making me suffer more and more with even the smallest exercises. I didn’t know what that heralded—iron madness, fatigue, or something worse—but I had to sit down for a moment and catch my breath when the door sprang open.
“No,” I told Casey, swiping at my bloody nose. “I have no idea if this will work. But I have no other options.”
“I hear you there,” Casey murmured, and then whipped around at the sound of approaching footsteps. “Inside!” she hissed, the fear back in her face. Later, when this was over, when things were back to how they should be, if I still knew her, I needed to ask Casey exactly what the Brotherhood had done to her, why she feared them so much.
They wanted to keep me locked up and use my talents as a weapon, and had tried to do the same to my father, so I doubted her story would be pleasant.
We crouched inside the stairwell, which was icy cold compared to the rest of the Bone Sepulchre, shivering and watching our breath form thunderheads as it escaped our mouths. The footsteps approached, passed and retreated. Casey doubled over, gasping with relief. I looked up, cringing when I saw the broken steps in the ice- covered spiral staircase leading up into nothing. “At least we’re not afraid of heights,” I said.
Casey shoved her hands into her armpits, shivering. I already couldn’t feel my exposed skin. If Crosley didn’t catch us, the Arctic chill might. This wasn’t a cold you could shake off—it could stop your heart, freeze your skin and kill you between one breath and the next. We had to be quick and get back to where it was warm.
Casey and I climbed, clinging to the railing that remained in a few spots. Wood, like metal, would peel the skin off your palms at these temperatures. The steps groaned beneath our weight, the same bone-cracking sound the ice had made around the
Casey’s foot slipped through one of the gaping holes in the ice, and she grabbed at me. I grabbed the railing in turn, but the bolts ripped free from the wall. I let out a scream that was choked off when I hit the floor. Casey clung to my leg, dangling in space through one of the concentric holes, as if the floor had been burned away. I felt myself sliding backward and grabbed for a ridge, which mercifully held. I tried to pull us up, gasping. It felt as if I were being ripped apart. My fingers slipped, slicking the ice with blood, and I knew I was going to lose my grip, and then we were going to fall. The thought didn’t make me particularly panicked—it was just a fact, a hard fact.
“Aoife,” Casey gasped. “Don’t let go!”
“You’re going to have to climb over me,” I gritted out. “Use me to get to the next step.”
To Casey’s credit, she didn’t argue. To mine, I didn’t scream when her weight increased exponentially and I felt a sick, wet popping in one of my elbow joints.
Her foot hooked in my belt, and then her weight was off me and her hands were around my tingling wrists, pulling me up by any bit of shirt or skin she could grasp. We both sprawled on the icy floor atop the spiral staircase.
I couldn’t remember when I’d been in more pain. Though, on the bright side, I wasn’t cold any longer.
Once I’d gathered my breath and my wits, I rolled onto my back and looked up at the ceiling. I couldn’t stand just yet, and my arm was on fire, but I was alive, and I decided that for the time being, that was enough.
I saw we were at the top of the Bone Sepulchre, in a spire barely large enough for four people to stand shoulder to shoulder. I poked Casey with my good arm. “Are you all right?”
“More or less,” she panted. “Can’t stop shaking.”
“We’re lying on ice,” I said, and giggled. There was no rationality behind laughing—I was just glad to be alive, even with a busted arm, trapped at the top of a frozen spire. I tried sitting up and found it wasn’t an entirely impossible feat.
The spire room wasn’t polished like the rest of the Bone Sepulchre. The ice was rough here, icicles dripping from the ceiling, as if we were standing inside a pincushion. The walls were covered with black marks, and the floor, when I managed to clamber to my feet, was jagged and uneven.
“This is nuts,” Casey said. “We’re never going to get back down those stairs, and Mr. Crosley will skin me alive for sure.” She looked ready to cry. I held up a hand.
“It’s going to be all right, Casey. With any luck, we won’t have to climb down anywhere.” I hoped, at least. I really didn’t have the faintest idea.
But then I saw Tesla’s Gate. It sat in a corner, almost as if it had been shoved against the wall and forgotten, like unwanted holiday decorations in someone’s attic. Spindly and wholly unlike the Gate the Erlkin had constructed in the Mists, the whole thing rested on three squat legs, like a hat stand. A pair of metal arms arched overhead, a giant circuit connected at the top to a Tesla coil, which was attached in turn to a bulb of aether, sickly opalescent white with age and disuse, that barely moved any longer.
Two dials were attached to either side, just waiting for somebody to activate them, and I shivered, a shiver born not of cold but of pure excitement. This was the experience I’d hoped for, when I’d been holding Tesla’s journals. This connection, across time, to a man who’d envisioned such a thing, such a delicate piece of machinery that had the power to move whole bodies between worlds.
I couldn’t waste any time, I knew. Casey was right—by now, somebody had to have discovered we were both missing from our quarters. I checked for a power source, but the coil was it. I activated it and was rewarded with a spark of electricity before the thing began cycling. I was elated, but Casey shrank back.
“I don’t like the look of that thing,” she said. “Lots of faulty machines back in the Rustworks would kill you if you touched ’em. And that one looks rickety.”
I approached the Gate slowly, reaching out with my Weird. The coil was snapping and the ancient aether was drifting around inside its teardrop-shaped globe, but nothing pricked my Weird. The machine was, for all intents and purposes, alive but dead. It didn’t function, not even a whisper beyond the ions of electricity I could taste on the back of my tongue.
My hopes sank. A faulty Gate I could fix. But one that was simply dead, a lump of iron where a vortex into other worlds should be? I had no idea how to fix that, and my Weird wouldn’t help me if I did.
I tried both dials and was rewarded with electricity writhing across the ground as the Tesla coil released its pent-up energy, but there was still no flutter in the fabric of the space around us. Nothing. My Weird felt nothing. The machine was as dead and cold as the ice field outside.
I wanted to sob, scream, to kick at the Gate until it fractured, but the destruction all around us put me off. At one time or another, the Gate to the dreaming place had worked. I was missing something.
He connected worlds, and his Gate needed a connector. Something to close the circuit that arced energy all
