The Black Carriage

Emily woke with screams ringing between her ears.

Dried tears cracked on the sides of her cheek … or was it blood? Was it blood, flooding over the floor, flooding the world …

Her head ached and her gut was cramped with pain. She tasted vomit in her mouth. Something smelled bad.

She was outside. She was in the street, outside under a gaslit sky, her cheek pressed against hard cold stone. Hadn’t she been inside? In a building? A nice building, made of brown stone … or a kitchen. A kitchen, terrible with moonlight. Where had she been? Where was she now?

There had been rain. It was early, the sun hadn’t risen yet. But the sky was lightening, a heavy dead gray. She was outside, in the street, and it was damp. The pavement glistened. She was laying on the pavement, staring down into the muddy street, at the place where the cobblestones met the sidewalk.

Trash was swirling in the water that was running toward the gutter. She smelled earth and leaves. She felt the presence of something in her mind, something old and vast. Ososolyeh, she thought it was called …

Words formed in the water, in the scumming foam that swirled on its surface:

Gold Eye.

Words formed in the detritus flowing toward the gutter grate. Words built on words, spelled out in orange peelings, tobacco flakes, snippets of dung-stained hay …

You must get to Gold Eye.

Mama’s knife, coming down and down again, and her father screaming an ocean of blood …

“Oh, Da …” she moaned.

Emily curled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her knees. Words trickled from her mouth like blood, and her chest ached as if Mama’s knife had stabbed into her, not into her father.

She felt people looking at her, stepping around her. She was laying in the street, and she didn’t know how she’d gotten there.

You must get to Gold Eye.

The Faery Reader.

Emily sat up abruptly, remembering a smiling Irish accent and laughing children. She sat up, looked around herself. Her feet were cold; something had happened to her shoes. They were gone, and her socks, too. Her feet were scraped and bruised. Her ankles were muddy.

“Here, you, move it along!” The voice came from above her. A policeman stared down at her. He hit the side of a cast-iron fireplug with his billy club; the loudness of the sound made her jump and shake.

“I said, move it along! Sleep it off somewhere else.”

Emily climbed to her aching feet. She wrapped her arms around herself, staggering away from the policeman, her bleary eyes searching for a street sign. She found one. Third and Catherine Street. She was in New York, she remembered. New York.

You must get to Gold Eye. The message echoed through her head, vibrating insistently, and she knew that it was the message that had driven her from the Stanton house. She remembered it now, how she had run through dark tangled streets, stone buildings rising above her like murderous mountains. Everything in her head was so tangled and mixed up. Her father was dead, slaughtered, butchered. Mama had killed him. Mama had driven a knife into his chest, again and again, blood spurting and soaking.

Mama, no … please …

The Faery Reader.

You must get to Gold Eye.

The Faery Reader had given her a card. She felt in her pocket for it, and found that it was still there, crisp and hard. She brought it up to her blurry eyes, trying to make them focus on the small type. She squinted up at the street sign again. She thought she knew how to get there. It was important that she get there. She had to get something back, something she had left with him …

She started in what she thought was the right direction, leaning with one shoulder against the buildings as she walked. She felt unmoored, like a balloon that wanted to float up from the ground. She stopped to vomit again, letting her stomach heave itself up out of her throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand then kept moving.

When she got to the Faery Reader’s shop, there were dozens of people clustered about outside of it, their faces grim and nervous, their conversations low and regretful. And there were police, many police in blue coats with shiny brass buttons. And there was a black cart with the words “County Morgue” written on the side.

No, Emily thought. No, no.

Emily pushed through the crowd, not caring who she shoved. Some people looked at her and cursed at her, told her to watch herself, but she hardly heard them. She pushed herself forward until she came almost to the door of the shop, where a policeman put his hands on her shoulders, held her back.

Emily stared at the shop. The windows that opened onto the street were covered on the inside with blood, thin and viscid, a streaky red film. There was a terrible smell coming from the open door—a rotten charnel house smell.

“What happened?” Emily asked. Her voice was thick and phlegmy. The policeman gave her a scornful, harrassed look.

“I don’t speak Russian, sister,” he said. He said it very loudly, as if volume would help her understand him. She shook her head, tried again. This time the words came out right, but understanding the question didn’t make the policeman any friendlier.

“Ain’t no business of yours,” he growled, pushing her back. “Move along.”

“He had something of mine!” Emily’s voice was a yell now.

“Well he don’t have it now. He don’t have anything. He’s dead. Murdered. The whole family. Guts splattered all over the shop.”

Emily felt her face drain. The policeman eyed her suspiciously.

“You wouldn’t know anything about it? Hey!”

Emily was already pushing her way back through the crowd. Abner S. Pearl and his family … Mrs. Pearl, and the children … she felt like vomiting again, but her stomach was an empty sack. Everyone was dying, everyone was being murdered. Blood was everywhere; it ran in the streets like water.

She sank to the curb, bare feet damp against the pavement. She curled over her knees, hiding her eyes behind them, squeezing her eyes shut tight. Stay quiet, stay quiet. She felt so small. She was just a little girl. Her father was supposed to be here to take care of her. He wasn’t supposed to be gone. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Sobs racked her shoulders. She was lost. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know where she was, or how to get home. Everyone was dead.

“Help me, please.” She muttered, her face pressed into the dirty fabric of her skirt. She put her arms up over her head, shutting out the sounds. “Someone please help me.”

Shush, Emily Edwards, another part of her mind, an older part, chastised gently. No one’s going to help you. You have to figure this out for yourself. You’re Pap’s girl. You can do it.

But the younger part of her, the part that was still five and forgotten, only cried harder. Father had told her to take care of the hair sticks. Father had told her to keep them safe. He’d told her never to tell anyone. But she’d lost them. And Father was dead. Mama had killed him with the knife.

Had she told?

Emily searched her memory desperately.

Had she told Mama about the hair sticks? Had she? Was that why Mama had killed him?

Emily looked down in the gutter, where the trickle of ugly water flowed over her bare feet. And there were words again, another message, spelled out in letters of filth and muck and blood, shining with urgency:

Run.

She stared at the message, hands over her ears. She stared at it, feeling its urgency. But all urgency in her was gone. She should run immediately, as fast as her feet would take her, but it all seemed so hard now, like her feet were cast iron.

Then, suddenly, she felt eyes upon her. Two sets of eyes, men in the crowd outside the Faery Reader’s shop. A tallish man followed by a shorter one; they wore black suits and bowler hats. They were looking straight at her. One of them said something; she could see his mouth moving but she could not make out his words. Then they began moving toward her.

“Run, you idiot!” Emily growled at herself, and the words spoken aloud seemed to bring her back to herself a little. She stood quickly, looking around. The men were pushing through the crowd, bearing toward her. The street was thick with traffic; she darted between a swiftly moving carriage and a heavy cart laden with crates of cabbages, running fast as she could on her bare feet. She could lose them in the confusion of traffic. But as soon as she was across the street, she could see them hurrying in her direction. She ran faster, past pedestrians and tradesmen, vomit-stained skirts tangling around her bare ankles, tripping her. Then she caught a glimpse of another policeman, friendly looking, swinging his club, whistling.

“They’re following me!” She fell on him heavily, grabbing his arm. “Please, I have to get back … I have to get back to …”

The policeman stared down at her, and she watched his friendliness become hard distaste. Glancing backward, she could see that the men were still approaching. They were not hurrying now, but they were walking normally, keeping their eyes on her.

“One too many, sister?” the policeman asked her.

“Those men!” Emily quavered, pointing at them. “They’re following me. They’re after me.”

“After you?” The policeman frowned at her. “Pick the wrong pocket?”

“No, I didn’t steal anything. They’re following me.” Emily tried to make her voice sound calm, but tears were still streaming from her eyes. “Help me, please!”

The taller of the two men approached the police officer. He was young, with a stock-straight bearing. He had a strange bruise on his forehead, right between his eyes, and his blood-red tie was pierced with a silver stickpin that was set with gleaming obsidian. Emily cowered away from him, clinging more tightly to the policeman’s sleeve.

“Leave me alone!” she screamed.

“Officer, we’re from the Pinkerton Agency,” the young man said, quickly flashing a badge. His voice was thin and raspy, as if his vocal cords had been dipped in acid until nothing but a fine cobweb of them remained. “This woman left the care of her relatives last night, and we’ve been sent to retrieve her.”

“I’ll need some proof of that,” the officer said. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Emily Edwards.” The shorter man procured paperwork and handed it to the police officer. With a burst of energy, Emily tried to run, but the man with the obsidian stickpin caught her easily. His fingers dug painfully into the muscles of her upper arm.

“They’re lying!” she screamed at the policeman, trying to pull away. The hand around her arm tightened, and she winced. “I don’t know these men. They’re going to hurt me. They’re going to kill me. I know it, I know it—”

“Miss Edwards has been drinking,” Stickpin said calmly, fingers tightening even more. Emily could feel his nails cutting through the fabric of her sleeve. “But from the smell of her, I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

“It is imperative that she be returned to the care of her fiancé’s family,” the shorter man said. “I think you recognize the name, don’t you?”

The officer looked over the papers. He tilted back his hat and scratched his head.

“Well, that’s something else,” he said, handing the papers back to the man. “I don’t argue where senators are involved.” His face became stern as he looked Emily up and down. He shook his head and tsked.

Emily screamed, kicked, tried to hang on to the policeman’s blue-wool sleeve, but Stickpin jerked her away, dragging her down the sidewalk.

He raised a hand, whistled for a black-curtained carriage that was waiting a ways down the street. There were more men in black suits riding on the back of the carriage, their faces covered with scarves, glittering eyes visible beneath their round black hats. They were going to put her in that carriage. They were going to take her away. She threw her body from side to side desperately, screaming at the top of her lungs, but Stickpin wrapped his arm around her neck, his hand pressing hard over her mouth. She kept screaming in her throat and tried to bite his dry, raspy palm.

“Stop fighting, you little bitch,” he hissed, and with his other hand, he pressed the sharp tip of a hidden knife up under Emily’s arm—a place where it could slide easily through her ribs. But Emily did not stop fighting. Something told her it would be better to be stabbed than to be put in that black carriage. She kept scrabbling and kicking and trying to scream until they came to the open door of the carriage. Then Stickpin was pushing her in, lifting her and shoving her inside. He climbed in over her, boot heels grinding into her back and legs. Closing the door, Stickpin knocked hard on the roof. The carriage gave a lurch and rolled forward.

“So you want to scrap, do you?” he growled, his voice cracking. He reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair. He pulled her up easily, threw her back into the seat, and raised a clenched fist.

“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” The words came from the seat across from them. “Your enthusiasm in the Goddess’ service is duly noted.”

Emily’s eyes went to the voice. There was another man inside the carriage. Indeed, it was hard to miss him, as he filled an entire half of it. He was massively fat, in an ill-fitting black suit with a high collar. He had tiny shoe-button eyes. His lips were red and cracked, and his pink tongue kept darting over them, moistening them. Emily subsided into trembling watchfulness, staring at him. She knew him.

“You remember me, Miss Edwards?” The man’s features lightened with obvious enjoyment of her fear. “Indeed, we have met before. That night at the Institute, the night of Professor Mirabilis’ gruesome demise.”

“The High Priest,” she said stupidly, her voice a thin quiver. “Heusler.”

“The Faery Reader told us you were to come back in the morning. And here you are.”

“You killed them all.” Emily breathed hard. “Even the children—”

“How do you think we got Pearl to tell us everything he did?” Heusler smirked. “Howling little monsters, but he seemed attached to them—”

Emily screamed, throwing herself at him. Lieutenant Stickpin held her back, but Heusler drew in a breath of sheer delight at the attack, gasping as if she’d offered him a tender caress. He licked his lips as the lieutenant pulled her back, held her down, his heavy hot hand pressing against her breast.

“What do you want?” Emily snarled at Heusler, trying—and failing—to push the hand away. “I don’t have anything. I don’t know anything.”

“The Black Glass Goddess has everything she wants now,” Heusler said. “The hair sticks, inscribed with the formula for Volos’ Anodyne, are on their way to her as we speak.” He paused. “But there is one small matter that remains. One little thing that she desires. You. Dead. In the most lingering and agonizing way I can imagine.” He leaned forward and spoke the next words as solemnly as if he were swearing an oath of true love. “And I have a very good imagination.”

The fat man lifted a soft heavy hand. He pinched her chin and cheeks between thick fingers, his palm clammy with sweat. He turned her face from one side to the other, scrutinizing her.

“You have very nice eyes,” he said finally. She tried to flinch away, but Stickpin held her fast as Heusler put his puffy, slick thumbs over her eyes. He pressed them against her lids harder and harder. “The eyes are always such a good place to start …”

But then, suddenly, he let his hands fall away. He settled himself back into his seat. His belly was rising and falling rapidly. He licked his red, rough lips.

“I’m going to take you to a place where I can really get to work,” he said, wiping the sweat from his palms onto his trousers. “No point in ending things too soon.”

Then there was a jolt. The horses at the front of the carriage must have spooked, for the vehicle stopped abruptly, tossing all the passengers forward.

“What the … ?” Heusler braced himself against the walls of the carriage, and Stickpin scrambled to push aside the black curtains at the windows. Outside, there was the sound of guns. Rifle shots. In the confusion, Emily reached for the door, wrenched it open. She threw herself out onto the cobblestones. Lieutenant Stickpin jumped down after her, swearing in a querulous rasp. She scrambled backward. Stickpin snarled as he lunged for her.

There were men near the front of the carriage, men holding the heads of the panicking horses, men with shotguns, yelling to each other in Russian.

“Wait!”

“There she is!”

“Hold the horses!”

Emily wrenched herself from Stickpin’s grasp and ran. He started on her heels, but one of the Russians was on him, striking at him with the butt of a rifle. Emily saw him reach inside his collar and draw something from beneath it.

More rifle cracks. Emily ducked as a bullet whizzed past her ear, and dived for cover under a heavy drayage cart. She watched as the carriage outriders—the black-suited sangrimancers—jerked down the scarves masking their faces and raised their alembics high in glowing fists. The sound of spells chanted in a guttural, ugly language filled the air. Dark sinuous magic wreathed a large man in a loose embroidered tunic—one of the Russians—holding the plunging carriage horses. He screamed, crossing himself as he fell to his knees, his body cocooned in smoke and green flame.

She could see where the gunfire was coming from now—dozens of men in rough clothing were pouring from side streets, rifles raised. Screams echoed as pedestrians scattered in all directions.

She saw one of the sangrimancers fall, half his head vanishing in a spray of red. But the rest remained standing, shielded with spheres of terrible power. Emily saw Lieutenant Stickpin, alembic held high, muttering up a heavy black storm cloud around his hands. Little strikes of lightning sizzled within it. With a cry he released it upward into the air, and it spread over the whole block, a churning tempest. There was a crack of unearthly thunder and rain began to pour down—black rain that hissed and sizzled as it hit the pavement. The men with the rifles screamed when the rain struck their bare skin. Arms over their heads, those who could not find shelter fell shrieking and writhing beneath the downpour. Under the heavy cart, Emily jerked back with a cry of pain as a few drops of the black rain splashed onto her bare arm. It burned like molten lead.

Heusler dragged his ponderous bulk from the carriage, his massive form surrounded by a glowing sphere of protection. He looked bored and angry. Emily tried to scramble backward under the heavy cart to the sidewalk beyond, where she would be free to run, rain or no rain. But Heusler’s eyes found her. He lifted a hand, and magic glowed.

“Stay where you are,” he muttered.

Emily felt her muscles cramping painfully, her hands balling into fists, even the bottoms of her feet tensing and curling inward. She felt as if she were being crushed under a terrible weight. Then Heusler turned away from her, lifting his hands like a preacher giving an invocation. He spoke words that rang off the tall buildings around them. From the puddles that had formed from the burning black rain, a huge snakelike thing grew, raising an eyeless black head. The thing struck out at whatever Russians were still standing, heedless of their bullets. Opening a huge mouth, it swallowed one of them whole. The man shrieked, dissolving in a conflagration of red and gold.

Over the sounds of the shrieking was another sound—a sudden cry, high and furious. Heusler staggered forward as a man threw himself onto the High Priest’s back. Even though he was wearing a heavy overcoat and gloves, she recognized him.

Dmitri.

Dmitri wrapped a hand around Heusler’s forehead and pulled the fat man’s head back. Then he brought his hand up, slashing abruptly. Emily did not see the knife in Dmitri’s hand, but she did see the blood fountaining from Heusler’s throat. Heusler fell, his hands reaching up with futile magic streaming from them. Dmitri rode Heusler’s body to the ground, then leapt up, pulling his shotgun from a holster on his back. Emily felt the spell cramping her muscles slacken, fall away. The writhing snake collapsed inward on itself, becoming a spreading thick puddle of black. Smoke rose from it, acrid and foul.

New waves of men were storming into the fray now, and they were all wearing heavy overcoats and dark smoked goggles. They fell upon Heusler’s men, grappling wildly. With Heusler bleeding on the ground, it seemed that more rifle shots were finding their mark; Emily saw another sangrimancer fall, a cavernous hole blown in his chest. Everything churned—swirling freshets of black rain and humming waves of glowing red magic hissing up like mist and vapor, the close sound of firearms and breaking glass, the screams of the wounded and dying. Dmitri looked up the street. Emily followed his gaze.

At the end of the street a man stood alone, carefully working some kind of device. He was ice-white, neatly tailored, calm.

Perun.

He stood within some kind of egg-shaped shield that glowed yellow and green; the black rain sizzled and smoked against it. Like the other Russians, he was wearing dark goggles. A cigarette dangled forgotten between his lips. He glanced up at Dmitri and gave a small nod. Dmitri quickly lifted a similar pair of goggles hanging around his neck and fixed them over his eyes.

Then, to her horror, Emily realized that Heusler was not dead. He was inching his bulk toward her, his fingers clutching at the black, slimy cobblestones. The wound on his throat closed even as she watched, creeping magic seaming the lips of the wound, stanching the gouting spurts of blood. The black knife was in his hand.

At that moment, Perun punched a button on the device in his hand, then tossed it away from himself. She watched it roll out onto the cobblestones with a small tink tink tink.

It was the last thing Emily saw.

The device exploded with a rumbling boom and a flash of light that made everything go stark white, like the light of a hundred midday suns.

She felt Heusler’s hand on her arm, then on her throat. He pulled her out from under the cart and pulled himself up over her body, panting like a dog. She felt him raise his arm.

There was a lone rifle crack. Warm sharp chunks splattered across her face. Something dropped beside her head, shattering. Shards of it sliced into the flesh of her neck. Burning pain flamed through her.

Heusler’s bulk fell over her, a smothering weight.

“Cursed Warlock,” Emily heard Dmitri’s voice say. “Let him heal himself of that.” She heard him grunt as he rolled Heusler’s body off of her. Then he was helping her sit up. She felt warmth spill down the side of her throat, down into the well of her collarbone. His hand brushed something from her face, sharp bits scratching her skin.

“You see, Miss Edwards?” he said. “I told you I had been sent to protect you.”