Dmitri

Mrs. Lyman returned a few hours later with a fresh-plucked chicken and some garden vegetables in a basket. She’d also tucked in half a pie, some biscuit dough in a cloth-covered blue bowl, and a bottle of whiskey. It was clear she meant to make a party of Emily’s homecoming.

And indeed, they had a merry afternoon, with the savory smells of the chicken stew on the stove—and Mrs. Lyman’s garrulous stream of conversation—filling the warm cabin. The little thimblefuls of whiskey Mrs. Lyman kept pouring out were the chief fuel of her discourse; the chief subject was a pulp novel entitled The Man Who Saved Magic, a highly colored recounting of the adventures that had driven Emily from Lost Pine. Emily was astonished that the book had made it back to Lost Pine before she did.

“Heck, everyone in Lost Pine’s read the book by now,” Mrs. Lyman affirmed as she dipped a string-tied bundle of sage into the chicken stew. “Mrs. Bargett down at the boardinghouse, she raised her prices by a dime just ’cause that stuck-up Dreadnought Stanton stayed in her establishment. Puts the book into the hand of everyone who walks through the door.”

Emily flushed, mortification and whiskey reddening in her cheeks. The book, which had been put out by the Institute’s publishing arm, Mystic Truth, was an overwrought piece of melodrama designed to thrill readers with precisely calculated measurements of excitement and adventure. The particularly thrilling chromolithographed cover featured lions (though to the best of Emily’s recollection, she and Stanton had not encountered a single lion on their trip, much less three leaping with jaws a-froth). It had been carefully crafted to have the maximum impact on the minds of readers like Mrs. Lyman, who dreamed of great adventures and great men to pursue them.

The more powerful people believe we are, the more power we credomancers have, Stanton had once told her.

Books like The Man Who Saved Magic were designed to make people believe that little, if anything, was outside the realm of possibility for the type of Warlock who was to be found within its pages.

“But no one understands why you weren’t in it!” Mrs. Lyman said indignantly, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at Emily, as if the faults of the book could be laid at her doorstep. “There was just some swooning nitwit named ‘Faith Trueheart.’ Who’s that, I’d like to know? What about good old Emily Edwards, from Lost Pine, California?”

Emily bit her lip to keep from commenting on the particular prejudices of the editors at Mystic Truth. It had been their decision to leave her out of the epic retelling. Given that it was Stanton who would be Invested as Sophos of the Institute, they were more concerned with building his power. Indeed, in their eyes, his contribution to the adventure was the only thing of credomantic worth—given that he was the credomancer, after all. No use diluting his share of the glory to give it to someone who’d have no use for it.

“I guess they left me out for modesty’s sake,” Emily said finally. “To keep my name from being sullied, or something like that. People in New York have some funny ideas about ladies and names.”

Mrs. Lyman crossed her arms disapprovingly. “Well, people in Lost Pine have some funny ideas about girls who run off with traveling Warlocks.” She paused. “But since you’re going to marry him, I suppose it all turned out for the best.”

They enjoyed themselves well into the evening, finishing the bottle of whiskey and the chicken stew, laughing until the coals on the stone hearth glowed orange and Emily could hardly keep her eyes open. How she longed to climb into her old bed up in the loft and fall asleep, her belly full and her head pleasantly addled. But she knew that she couldn’t stay even a moment longer. She had to get to Dutch Flat to catch the midnight train back to San Francisco. Mrs. Stanton’s lunch was the next day, and even leaving now, she’d be hard-pressed to make it.

“You sure you have to go, Em?” Pap murmured sleepily as Emily banked the fire. “It’s so late. I wish you could stay till morning …”

“The moon’s full, and you know I can get anywhere in these woods even without it.” Emily tucked the warm Indian blanket around him in his chair, and scratched a fat old tabby, one of Pap’s favorites, between the ears. On the rocker by the fire, Mrs. Lyman snored. Emily lowered her voice to keep from waking the old woman. “I have to get back to New York.”

Emily thought about telling Pap about the hideous anticipated lunch with her future mother-in-law, but decided to leave him with a more inspiring image. “Mr. Stanton is being rewarded with a special position at his Institute. There’s going to be a big ceremony. He wants me there.”

“Oh, well, if Stanton wants you …” Pap whispered good-naturedly, chucking her under the chin. He was silent a long time. His face became thoughtful, almost the way it looked when he scryed something. “He’s a complicated knot, Emily. Be careful how you untie him. You’re a hothead. All on the surface. You’ll always say too much and at the wrong time, too. But your Mr. Stanton … he’s all underneath. Like a fish deep underwater. He’ll keep secrets.”

Emily pressed her lips together, shivering despite the extreme warmth of the room. She’d already found out how closely Stanton could keep secrets. Like failing to tell her that he’d once studied to be a sangrimancer, a blood sorcerer. And when she had found out, he’d refused to speak of it more, as if life could be sectioned into neat post-office boxes that could be closed with finality, at will. Emily knew it wasn’t so, but she wondered what it would take to get Stanton to believe it.

“That bottle, Em …” Pap’s voice broke through her thoughts. “If you do drink it—and I ain’t sayin’ you should, but if you do—don’t drink it all at once. And don’t drink it alone. You tell him he has to be there with you. Mr. Stanton. He’ll watch over you, and fix it all up if I’ve got it wrong. You promise?”

“I promise,” Emily said.

Emily rode the poor rented nag hard down the mountain, making good time to Dutch Flat. She hitched the tired beast outside the shut-tight livery, then sat on the platform waiting for the midnight train. She tipped her hat down over her eyes, blocking out the yellowish light from the lantern that hung from the platform’s wooden rafters.

She drew out the blue bottle from her inside coat pocket. It was heavy and warm from her body. She held it up in her left hand, letting the lantern light shine through it.

She searched backward in her mind as far as she could go. She’d never remembered much from her childhood, but then, she didn’t know that people were supposed to. Sometimes flashes of memory would come to her, but they would pass and leave no trace, like a leaf thrown in a running stream. The only things she remembered with any clarity revolved around Pap’s cabin: gathering up a handful of pinecones when she was very small, and bringing them to him with great seriousness. She remembered cold winters and brilliant springs, mud on boots and the smell of wood smoke. But before she’d come to Pap’s … nothing.

She opened her eyes again, and the bottle was still in her hand. It was disappointing, as if a wish she didn’t know she’d made hadn’t come true. She felt angry—not at Pap, but that such a decision should exist to be made. Angry that she didn’t know what to do. She wanted the memories. She wanted to know about her mother, and what had happened to drive her to such desperate straits. But she didn’t want the memories just exactly as much. Memories changed a person. What if she didn’t like the person she became after she drank the contents of that little blue bottle? What if Stanton didn’t like the person she became?

She dozed during the train ride to San Francisco; there were plenty of empty seats going into the city, so she could put her feet up. Just outside of Sacramento, she heard someone in a seat nearby speaking Russian. She looked up in alarm, eyes searching wildly, but it was only an old woman in a headscarf parceling out a picnic breakfast to a pair of leg-swinging children. Emily relaxed, but only slightly. She laid her head against the glass, watching as dawn stretched pink fingers over the land.

The Sini Mira were Eradicationists who wanted to bring a halt to the use of magic and replace it with the advancements of science. She’d run across the shadowy consortium of Russian scientists once too many times for her liking.

She remembered her encounter with them in Chicago. She particularly remembered their leader, the ice-white man who called himself Perun.

I can tell you where you came from, Miss Lyakhova. Who you really are.

His voice, like exhaled smoke.

The most puzzling thing was that Komé—the Indian Witch who had transferred her spirit into an acorn—had told Emily that she should go with them. But why would Komé want her to go with Eradicationists who had hired a brutal bounty hunter to capture her?

Emily jolted wide awake as the train rattled over some connections. The image of the white-blond man danced behind her retinas. She touched the bottle in her pocket, satisfying herself that it was still there. She needed to speak with Komé. She needed to know what the Holy Woman knew.

But just as Stanton had been commandeered by the Institute, so had Komé—and even more completely. It had been determined that her spirit could not survive long in an acorn, so Emeritus Zeno had the nut placed into a rooting ball—a hermetically sealed device filled with nutrient fluid. It was hoped that the acorn would sprout and grow, and Komé’s spirit could survive in a new form.

It seemed an excellent plan—the least they could do for the Witch who had given her body to speak for the consciousness of the earth. But more than once, Emily had found herself wondering whom the actions were truly intended to benefit. Emeritus Zeno now kept the rooting ball on his person at all times and was so zealous in his protection of it that one might suspect that he had ulterior motives—motives other than Komé’s future health and happiness.

Oh, surely not, Emily thought. Benedictus Zeno, father of modern credomancy, Emeritus Master of the Institute, having ulterior motives? Impossible!

But as she laid her head back against the cool glass, she recalled the words Professor Mirabilis had always repeated, like a mantra: Nothing’s impossible.

When Emily reached the depot, the summer sun had risen, washing the buildings of white limestone and red brick with the bright promise of a hot day to come. Emily tried to find a cab to take her to the butter-yellow house, but there were none to be had. She sighed heavily, aware suddenly of just how bone-weary she was. She was sure to be a delight at Mother Stanton’s lunch. She’d have to fight to keep from falling facedown into the terrapin soup. Pounding down exhaustion, she started jogging along Third Street.

At Market, she glanced up at the large clock atop the Chronicle building: 8:15 a.m. That meant it was already 11:15 in New York. It would be a tight squeeze, but by heck, she could still make it! Twenty minutes up to the butter-yellow house … a half hour from the Institute to Mrs. Stanton’s … of course, she’d have to change first … She looked down at herself. She was smudged with grime and her hair was oily and limp from having been stuffed under a bowler hat for a day and a half. She looked like she’d just stepped out of California. All right, so she’d be a little late to Mrs. Stanton’s lunch. Fashionably late, she suggested to herself hopefully.

The rumble under her feet started small—small enough that it could be mistaken for one of the hundreds of small temblors that Emily had already grown accustomed to. But it kept shaking, growing in thunderous intensity. This was a big one, Emily realized with sudden dread. The buildings around her seemed to sway; terra-cotta crashed down around her. She hurried to the middle of the street to avoid the falling debris, stumbling as the earth bucked like a wild horse. Then, there it was, the sound from her Cassandra—the horrible tearing, the cracking. The earth was opening up before her, a deep wide fissured gap, cobblestones churning like peas in a stew. The ground fell from beneath her feet, and Emily jumped, landing hard on a ragged jutting outcropping. She scrambled to keep from sliding down into the stinking darkness as Black Exunge flowed up from deep within the earth, covering everything.

Emily screeched and drew up her legs to keep from coming in contact with the foul goo. If any part of her flesh touched the Black Exunge, she would be transmogrified into an Aberrancy—just like the vermin that were blossoming up around her from deep underground. Beetles and centipedes were inflating and expanding with hissing shrieks. As the Exunge deformed them, they expanded to hundreds of times their normal size, otherworldly jaws clattering menacingly.

Of particular and immediate concern were the cockroaches.

They clambered up over the lip of the torn sidewalk, mucus-dripping antennae waving like hairy carriage whips.

Dear Mrs. Stanton, Emily thought, as she looked around herself in a panic for something she could use in her defense, Miss Edwards deeply regrets missing the lunch you arranged in her honor, but her absence was unavoidable, as she was being eaten by giant cockroaches.

She seized a cobblestone and heaved it. She was grabbing another one, but thought better of it when she saw that the first cobblestone did little more than attract the attention of the giant cockroach she’d thrown it at. The thing was heading straight for her.

Boom.

A shotgun blast, close enough that she could smell the powder. A man was beside her, a blur of motion. He leveled a short-barreled shotgun at the huge slimy cockroach bearing down on her and pulled the trigger of the second barrel; the creature exploded in a rain of chitinous black parts and slimy mustard-yellow guts. Thrusting the spent shotgun into Emily’s good hand, he unslung a rifle from his back and aimed it at another cockroach that was waving greedy grasping mouth parts at them. He blasted a load of silver into what would have been the thing’s face, if it had a face, rather than a clattering maw. It collapsed, whistling and keening, hairy black legs twitching.

The man wrapped a hand around Emily’s arm, dragged her down the side of the crumbling mound of earth and rock, then pulled her back behind an overturned wagon. He crouched by her side, putting the wood of the wagon bed at his back. Taking the shotgun from her, he reached coolly into his pocket and pulled out two more shells. He chambered these and clacked the weapon shut, thrusting the gun into her hand.

And at that moment, Emily got a good look at his face. She realized suddenly that it was the brown man, the Russian who’d given her the ticket to Lost Pine. Despite the fact that death was approaching them rapidly, she stared at him for a moment.

“Do you just hang around San Francisco waiting for me?” Emily said.

He tipped his hat to her.

“I have been sent to protect you,” he said. He dropped a handful of silver-packed shells into her lap. He nodded toward a rat that was sniffing curiously at the edge of a flood of Black Exunge. “Keep your eye on that one. He will go at any moment.”

And indeed, the rat did; the moment its pink quivering nose touched the Exunge, the little creature stiffened and began to grow. Steadying the shotgun against her prosthetic forearm, Emily unloaded the first barrel. Silver shot tore the beast’s head into a cloud of black and blood.

“You’re one of the Russians that was up bothering my pap!” Emily yelled at him. “Sini Mira.”

“We did not harm him,” the brown man said. He lifted the rifle, his bullet somehow finding the eye of an ant the size of a greyhound as it scurried over the top of the wagon. Emily winced as sticky bits spattered her clothing and her face. “We had only a few questions.”

“He doesn’t have any answers for you,” Emily said. “And neither do I.”

“As I said, Miss Edwards, I’m just here to protect you. If you will cover me, I have a way to get us out of this terrible predicament.”

Emily lifted her shotgun again. An earthworm was whipping and flailing up from the ground; she wasn’t quite sure where she should put her shot. Finally, she just blasted the thing in two. She wondered if, like a normal earthworm, the thing would continue to live in two sections. But it had stopped wiggling toward them, at least.

“What does the Sini Mira want with me?” As she struggled to reload, she noticed that he had taken a pineapple-shaped device from his jacket pocket. He pulled a small glass vial from somewhere inside his shirt, pulling out the cork with his teeth. He poured the contents of the vial into the device and screwed the top shut as he spoke.

“I apologize,” he said finally, “but that is not for me to answer.”

Then, popping up from behind the wagon, he depressed a button on top of the pineapple-thing and threw it into the vast black pool of Exunge that was gathering in the middle of the ruined street.

There was a bright flash as the contraption exploded. A sparkling, glowing mat spread over the Black Exunge. Little glistening bubbles formed, glittering edges rushing out from the center of the pool like a piece of paper burning from the center. The Exunge solidified like cooling magma, turning an ashy-gray color. No more Aberrancies blossomed from within it; those that were still alive slowed, their movements becoming stiff and jerky.

“Aberrant-resistant bacteria,” he said. “It neutralizes Black Exunge, then devours it. It is a sadly fumble-handed technology for the battle situation. The bacteria must be kept warm, by the body, until it is ready for use, and then mixed with a high-powered glucose solution at the last minute.” He paused. “My name is Dmitri.”

Emily gaped at him, trying to think of what she should say to that when something slammed against her head, staggering her backward. Everything went blurry. There was a high buzzing sound and the rapid sound of beating wings. She thudded to the ground, her foot catching between two loose stones, twisting her ankle. Pain sparkled up her leg. She was aware of dark hairy parts pawing at her face and chest; she brought up her shotgun to fend the thing off. A flying thing, buzzing and whirring, with a long tubular mouthpart. A mosquito, Emily realized, hazily. A giant goddamn mosquito.

She swung the shotgun blindly, trying to beat the thing back, but it was on her, probing and groping, heavy as a small child. Dmitri was trying to pull it off her.

But the needlelike feeding mouth of the thing was feeling for the place of bare skin between her belt and shirt …

Then the tube plunged in, and Emily screamed.

“Quiet now. Don’t try to move.”

A sour liquid was trickling down her throat, spilling over the corners of her mouth. Coughing, she spat it out. Her entire body vibrated and hummed; she felt like a string that had just been plucked. She itched all over.

“Slowly now, Miss Edwards,” Dmitri said as he helped her sit up.

Her hand fumbled at her waist, encountering a welting wound that was the size of a dinner plate. It itched like mad. She scratched with momentary frenzy before Dmitri pulled her hand away.

“Don’t,” he said. “You will make yourself bleed.”

Emily looked over. Nearby, the giant mosquito lay dead, its head blown half away, its myriad eyes dull and lifeless. Dmitri had the rifle by his knee. He was putting the cap on a small bottle that he tucked back into his pocket.

“What was that?” she asked suspiciously. Her voice sounded far away in her own buzzing ears.

“A restorative elixir … nothing baneful,” Dmitri said. “I know you don’t trust me, Miss Edwards. But as I have said—”

“Yes, I know. You’re here to protect me.” Emily blinked thick mucus from her watering eyes. She rubbed her face, trying to will away the terrible itching. Whatever the restorative elixir was, it did seem to be helping. The buzzing in her body was subsiding slowly, leaving only soreness and a faint nausea in its wake. The military had finally arrived, and dozens of soldiers were surveying the damage. They shouted as they clambered over the wreckage of the street.

“Come along,” Dmitri said, casting a meaningful glance at the soldiers. “I don’t expect you want to be delayed answering questions.”

“Delayed?” Emily started as fresh panic surged through her. How long had she been out?

She looked up at the clock on the top of the Chronicle building. She did a swift terrible calculation.

It was 1:41 p.m. in New York.

Emily closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and let it out.

“Oh … fiddlesticks,” she muttered.

She climbed to her feet, wincing. Her ankle was badly twisted. She took an experimental step, stumbled; Dmitri caught her. She pushed him away, willing herself to be steady, increasing the weight on her bad ankle slowly. After a bit, she was able to walk—hobblingly—over the broken jumble of brick and cobblestone toward Kearny Street.

Dmitri followed.

“Leave me alone!” she yelled over her shoulder, as if scolding a persistent cat.

“It is a free country, Miss Edwards,” Dmitri called back. “I have as much right to walk in this direction as you do.”

Emily stopped and waited for Dmitri to catch up with her. When he did, she whirled on him fiercely.

“You tell the Sini Mira that I don’t have anything for them.” She jabbed a finger at him for emphasis. “If you wanted the stone, that’s gone.”

“We know,” Dmitri said.

“Then there’s nothing else to discuss,” Emily said, starting along Kearny Street again. “And while I appreciate your help with the cockroaches, I do not need your protection.”

“Miss Edwards, if you think it pleases me to protect a Witch, you are deeply mistaken,” Dmitri said. “But it is the assignment I have been given, and I will do it to the best of my ability, whether you like it or not.”

Shaking her head, Emily walked on as quickly as her sore ankle would allow. Dmitri continued to follow in silence. He did not speak again until they’d turned up Clay Street.

“I am sorry you do not trust us,” he said finally.

“Trust you?” Emily growled. “You people sent a bounty hunter to capture me … a very brutal bounty hunter.” She shuddered, remembering how her will had melted like butter under the command of the Manipulator Antonio Grimaldi. Under the bounty hunter’s psychic control, she’d handed the knife that murdered Professor Mirabilis into the hands of his assassin without a moment’s hesitation.

“It was a matter of necessity,” Dmitri said. “Nonetheless, you have our apologies for it.”

Emily snorted derisively.

“Not enough,” she said, remembering how the knife had cut Mirabilis’ still-beating heart from his chest. “Not enough at all.”