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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


The Silverhawk settled into the clearing like a fat bird landing on an icy pond. Watching from the library sponson, I braced myself as clods of turf and several startled rabbits thumped against the windows. By the time we stopped, the Silverhawk had dug a trench twenty feet wide and three times as long. I shot Adelaide a questioning look.

“Skyhook’s still nervous about having you guys on board. Really lays it on the ground before we crash.”

“That still felt like crashing,” I said.

She shrugged. “You get used to it. So.” She turned the rest of the team. We were all gathered in the library for team assignments. “Tembo, you and Gregory go with The Good Doctor to check out the airfield. Bethany, you’re with me and the Saint. We’ll look at the expo. That leaves John and Chesa—”

“No!” Chesa barked. Adelaide rolled right through her protest.

“—with Ida at the graveyard. Cassius is still recovering, and will be guarding the airship.”

“I’m fit to go,” Cassius growled. “Just need to stretch my legs.”

“Honestly, I’m more concerned about these vampire things attacking the ship. Stay here, watch out for creepies. You’re going to see plenty of action once we find whoever’s behind these attacks,” Addie said.

The big man sulked, which resulted in a cloud of steam wreathing his shoulders, but he didn’t protest.

“I’d much rather go to the airfield,” Ida said. “Can we switch?”

“We know you’d rather go to the airfield, Ida. And we all remember what happened the last time you were there.” Adelaide leaned down to peer into the curly-headed engineer’s eyes. “Don’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, so that’s assignments settled. Any questions?”

“What am I supposed to do? Sip tea on this atrocious flying pigsty?” Evelyn asked.

“I thought you’d coordinate with Nik,” Adelaide said. “Stay back and gather intel.”

“Poppycock. You didn’t drag me out of my house to simply sit around and wait for someone else to do something interesting.” She had changed out of her formal dress and was wearing safari gear, complete with pith helmet and requisite baggy jodhpur pants. Her hellhounds did not apparently enjoy flying, and huddled at her feet like a pair of frightened kittens. “You can send me with the mouthy one. He could use some matronly guidance.”

“That’s me, isn’t it?” I asked. “I’m the mouthy one.”

“I mean . . .” Chesa rolled her eyes. “We’d be glad for your assistance, Lady Lumiere.”

“Bloody right you are,” she said, hopping to her feet. The hounds startled awake, starting to growl. “Enough talking. Let’s be on our way.”


Unfortunately, there were detours.

Ida’s legs protruded from beneath the steam carriage, like some steampunk version of the Wicked Witch of the East, crushed under a flying house. Only in this case, the flying house was a broken down multipede, and Ida was much more gremlin than witch. The owner of the stranded vehicle stood to the side. He apparently couldn’t decide if he was more nervous about the hellhounds pacing around his contraption, the heavily armed medieval peasants glowering at the delay, or the mechanic currently “fixing” his mode of transportation. The vehicle looked like a propane silo tipped over on its side, with about a hundred miniature legs on both sides, driven from an umbrella-shrouded howdah on top. We had tried to keep Ida from interfering, but not even the collective disapproval of Chesa and Evelyn could dissuade her. It was like she was impervious to human interaction of any kind. Evelyn stood to one side, impatiently tapping her foot.

“So that’s why you don’t want to use artisanal water for your pre-boiler injection array. Locally sourced, especially. Way too much silt. Folks think . . .” A puff of smoke erupted from the engine, rolling out from under the multipede and triggering a cough fit from all five of us. The hellhounds started barking wildly, a sound that startled more passersby than the near explosion of the boiler. When she continued, Ida sounded a little abashed. “Didn’t see that coupling. Probably should have tied it off before I released the primary drive. My bad!”

“Can you make it work?” the driver asked, drumming his steepled fingers together. He was dressed like a cross between an arctic explorer and a test pilot, complete with silk scarf, seal skin jacket, and bulbous mirror goggles. His adventurous costume stood in stark contrast to his portly frame, and the fact that he seemed terrified of the machine he was piloting. Or had been piloting, until it rumbled to a halt in front of us. “I have a most important tea—”

“Work? Of course I can make it work. It already works. I’m just trying to make it work better.” Something rattled under the carriage, a sound that traveled through the multipede like a marble shooting through pipes. It erupted from one of the dozen exhaust vents on the walker’s spine. Ida pulled herself out from under the vehicle, wiping greasy hands on an equally greasy kerchief. “There you go. Should get another couple kilos per hour, if you watch your pressure levels and don’t try to turn.”

“You made it . . . faster?” The gentleman looked nervously from Ida to the velocipede. “What’s this about not trying to turn?”

“You’re welcome.” Ida extended her dingy hand. The pilot peered at it distastefully.

“Can you . . . unfix it?”

“But . . . I . . .” Ida blinked in confusion.

I stepped in. “The lady said you’re welcome.” I clapped the man on his shoulder, letting my steel gauntlet come down a little harder than was necessary. “Right?”

“Um, yes. Of course. Thank you.” He bowed stiffly, then slowly climbed the ladder up to the howdah. Once his goggles were firmly in place, the man said a little prayer, then started the rumbling engine.

The multipede lurched to life. The whole contraption rattled and shook like a rocket lifting off from the pad. Jets of steam whistled out of the vents, and the clockwork legs twitched in anticipation. With a final look to the heavens, the man released the brake. I stepped back, prepared to shield us both should something erupt.

Whatever the multipede was, it was not fast. The two rows of legs stepped in uneven succession, given the vehicle a rolling gait that made it look like a giant, slightly drunk corgi. The pilot hung on for dear life as his ride ambled slowly down the boulevard.

“That’s faster?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. That thing is a piece of trash. Should be scrapped for parts. But we don’t build for efficiency around here. We build for style.” She holstered the multitool she’d been spinning in one hand, then looked both ways down the street. “Now . . . what were we doing?”

“Looking for the aetheric dampener,” Chesa said. “Because of vampires? Remember?”

“Ah, right. Sorry. Got distracted.”

“I’ll say. That’s the eighth time we’ve stopped to repair something.” The first had been a pair of telescoping boots that were stuck in the up position, followed by a personal zeppelin that had sprung a leak. After that, it all blurred together. “The others are going to be done with their rounds before we even start.”

“My bad. I just can’t stand to see broken machines.” She stuck her hands in her pockets and strolled back the way we’d come from. I hooked her shoulder and turned her around. She didn’t seem to even notice the interception. Chesa and I shrugged at one another before following. “It’s kinda sad how some folks treat their machines. Oh, hey, I think that guy’s spinwheel is misaligned! I’ll just—”

“Nope,” I said, heading her off. “Dampeners. Vampires. Hero stuff.”

“I guess.” She kicked at a stone, but made no further attempt to align anything that didn’t belong to her.

“Lady Lumiere, do you need me to carry your bag?” I asked. Of all the gear she had excavated from her house, Evelyn had only brought the leather bag containing her mother’s ghost. It seemed heavy. But when I reached for it, she hugged it to her chest.

“Non. She is my burden to bear,” Evelyn said. “And I would not want you scuffing up the bag with your clumsy metal hands.”

“She has a point,” Ida said, trying to wipe grease off her nose and smearing it liberally across her cheek. “You’re kind of a klutz.”

“He’s good in a fight,” Chesa said. When I stared at her, she shrugged. “You are. Own it. There’s no reason to always take other people’s abuse.”

“I . . . uh. Okay.”

Ida was watching us with bemusement. Evelyn looked like she was stifling a laugh.

I gave my attention to the mechanic. “So, do you get many field assignments?” I asked.

“Never. They keep me in the pipes. Even when the ship’s docked, I stay onboard. Too much sunlight.” She glared up at the sky. “And, you know, the engine is there. Gotta keep it humming.”

“You were able to repair her, after Skyhook’s emergency landing?”

“The crash? Yeah. Chunks of chicken soup in the main boiler. But that was your fault, so I don’t feel too bad. Had to flush the whole system.” She snorted. “I thought Honor was going to have a fit when Tesla brought you aboard. Insisted we were going to crash and die. Which, I mean, he was half right.”

“Not my fault you don’t believe in magic. You’d have probably made a pretty good rogue, all that climbing around in pipes and picking locks. If you ever get tired of the Gestalt—”

“I will never get tired of the Gestalt,” Ida insisted. “Besides, our food is better.”

“Yeah, you’ve got me there. But we get dragons.”

“I can make a dragon, if I want,” Ida said.

“Well, then you’d need someone to slay it. Either way, you need us.”

“If the two of you will stop chattering, we have arrived,” Evelyn declared. She had stopped about ten feet behind us, beside a wrought iron gate. The hellhounds were sitting at her side, wagging their scaled tails back and forth. Sparks flew from the concrete with each pass. We strolled back.

“Garden of the Dead,” I read. “Y’all really know how to name stuff.”

“It’s a cemetery,” Evelyn said. “We try to wrap such things in artifice.”

“You can get buried in the Gestalt? If we tried that, our corpses would end up rotting in a Ren faire somewhere,” Chesa said. “Neat trick.”

“It’s all thanks to the aetheric dampener,” Evelyn said proudly. “Even the dead can dream.”

The Garden of the Dead was a quiet, tree-lined plot of land. Grass lanes led between closely set stone memorials, most of them decorated with statues, plaques, and other memorials. Even while on the hunt for vampires, it was a pleasant place to stroll. Except we were here on business.

“Map says the crematorium is near the back of the cemetery,” I said, nodding. Despite the odd looks from the other passersby, I drew my sword and shield. “This is prime vampire territory, so be careful.”

“But it’s the middle of the day,” Ida pointed out. “Don’t vampires come out at night?”

“We don’t know the rules for these guys,” I said. “They’re not real vampires. Maybe daylight doesn’t stop them.”

“Or maybe you just like walking around with your sword out,” Chesa said.

“I’m just . . . I’m careful! Never mind. It’s this way.”

“You know, if you added some hydraulics to that sword”—Ida pulled my sword arm to the side, examining the forte and hilt of my blade—“it could really—”

“I don’t need hydraulics!” I yelled, storming off. “What I need is for you to stop trying to fix everything!”

“Touchy,” Evelyn said before I was out of earshot.

The columbarium sat slightly higher than the rest of the cemetery, a white marble neoclassical building with a golden dome that would have looked perfectly comfortable masquerading as a personal estate in the countryside, surrounded by formal gardens and stables and more money than you could overthrow a king for. Two wings led off the main building, with hallways open to the elements. The walls were lined with small doors for urns. Each door had a shelf in front of it, where mourners could leave flowers and other mementos. Most of the plaques had some kind of memorial by them.

“Kind of a strange place for a scientific device,” I said.

“The aether follows the spirit of the age,” Evelyn answered. “This place is a cornerstone of the Gestalt—figuratively speaking. The dampener’s downstairs.”

“Of course it is,” I said. “So it’s a dungeon crawl?”

“They’re crypts,” Ida said. “Not the same thing at all.”

A terraced staircase led to a second set of hallways, and more walls containing urns. The air here was damp, almost fetid, and the walls were draped in vines that tumbled over the terrace like a green, glistening waterfall. Evelyn walked at our fore with purpose, but my attention was drawn by the memorials. The dates were all over the board. 1887. 1482. 2058. 58 BC.

“Okay, wait a second. BC? 2058? How are these even possible?” I asked.

“We get some time travelers. The Wellsian types. Nik thinks they’re creating their own Gestalts, maybe, or just alternate versions of ours,” Ida said, pausing to examine the plaques. “A couple go back to your timeline.”

“I’m starting to see the appeal of the Gestalt,” Chesa muttered.

“Hey, don’t abandon me with Greg,” I said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said with a smile that was actually a smile and not a bitten-off retort. She patted me on the arm, then hurried to catch up with Evelyn, who was marching with the determination of an army general.

I took a second longer to peruse the plaques. All these names, all these people, had lived and died and were buried inside the Gestalt. I shook my head.

“That’s so weird.” Despite my numerous brushes with death, I hadn’t given a lot of thought to where I would be buried. Part of me assumed I’d go back home, to be mourned by my confused parents and planted by the presbytery. Could I be buried in my domain? Or would the World Dog just dig me up? I didn’t relish the idea of my skull being a chew toy for all eternity.

“It’s over here. The old section,” Evelyn called over her shoulder, pointing to the far side of the hall. An arched doorway engraved with gothic-style carvings led to an underground chamber. Ida and Chesa were right behind her. I strolled toward them, my sword mostly forgotten at my side.

“You know, I think I’ve figured out one difference between us,” I said.

“Besides hygiene?” Evelyn asked icily.

“Your citizens are mostly normal people who have entered the Gestalt. You have very few native denizens. But the Unreal is entirely mythic, with the exception of Knight Watch and our allies.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right,” Chesa said. “The Gestalt is created by folks like Nik and Evelyn’s dad. When you meet someone in here, they’re just regular people dreaming out loud. But in the Unreal, dragons really are dragons, and valkyries really are valkyries.”

“Don’t sound so proud of that,” Ida said. “It’s a sticking point for Tesla. He doesn’t agree with the way Esther restricts access to your timeline. Thinks it’s too authoritarian. Here, anyone can be what they dream.”

“We could probably have used a little more restriction,” Evelyn said quietly. She craned her neck up at the entrance to a hallway. “Here we are. Come.”

“It also means anyone could be the villain,” I said. “You don’t have demons and angels. Just people. And people can be bloody terrible.” We reached the archway. I looked up, my gaze tracing the gargoyles that hunched overhead. There was a plaque at the center of the archway. “Creepy.”

“This was a family crypt before the columbarium was built,” Ida said, ignoring the archway. “Family’s long gone, so it was the perfect place for the dampener.”

“Enough history. We need to check on the dampener,” Evelyn snapped.

“Yes, yes. Cool your boilers,” Ida said. She got a few steps into the room before fishing around in her tool belt and producing an extremely complicated-looking torch. The thing apparently ran on butane and friction, because it took her a couple pulls on a cord to get it lit, and when she succeeded it blossomed into a cloud of blue flame before she was able to tamp it down to a simple light source. Once that was sorted, she motioned us forward. Evelyn was already charging into the darkness, one hand resting comfortably on her accompanying hellhound.

But I was still staring at the archway. Because in that brief blast of forge-hot light, I had seen the words on the plaque embedded into the peak of the entrance. Not a family, nor a place name. It was an address.

La Rue de Mort.


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