Preview - book two

The incessant ringing in my left ear is my constant companion, but my wounds have faded to scars and only occasionally pulse with phantom pain. Usually during nightmares of shattered glass, chaos, and blood.

I prefer watching the dancing of the candlelight on the concrete walls to those dreams. It’s almost as if someone is here with me. In my windowless room, a small flame chases most shadows away from the bare walls of my hideout. For the first time in months, I have a room to myself. It’s haunting.

My fingers tremble as if nightmares plague them too while I manipulate droplets into ice shards that hover eerily in the air. They refract the light onto the walls, my shabby bed, and a bedside table that clearly stems from another era. On top of it, a candle drips white wax on the dark wood.

 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, a bustle of people prepare for the day ahead. Their voices seep through the wood and spill under the door like waves of sunlight. What good will they do for the cause today? What mysterious yet wonderful things do they get to do for the future of our Nation?

Unfortunately, for now, it’s my job to be seen as little as possible, so I lie on my bed. Had there been a window in my room, I could at least watch the shadows shrink and fade, or watch people move about their daily business. But instead, the seconds tick by like drops seeping into barren sand.

 

With a turn of my wrist and the spreading of my trembling fingers, the ice shards melt. The Quartz lies on my stomach and lends me its energy while I wash last night’s nightmares out of my memory. By touching my wrists and opening my palms, I make the water separate into minuscule droplets, leaving the room in a light mist.

The air seems to move in the same rhythm as my tremor—another lasting gift of the bombing. The candle hisses its protest against the damp, and I grin. Manipulating water is the only thing that still makes me happy.

The magic of it amazes me even after hours of practicing. I throttle the flame until it sputters, as if I can snuff out my enemies. But the divide of who that is exactly has never been more vague. Faces of people, people who should be my enemy but feel like friends, flicker while the shadows on my wall close in. Onyx eyes flare to life as I dim the light for just a moment longer. An unsteady voice breaks the dark. “Private! I order you to stay!” Then I release so the fire can breathe once more.

I’m alone. And I don’t know which is worse.

 

My mind wanders to my father, as it often does during these long days. Would he have walked around this neighborhood? Was Madame Antoinette’s even here all those years ago? I try to recall his features, but it’s faded. The face of Winchester has morphed into the memory. The stubble, the easy smile, the sparkle in his eyes. Was that father’s? Was father as fond of me as Winchester is of his daughter? Winchester would rage over heaven and hell if his daughter was taken from him and get back to his daughter, I’m sure of it.

It is difficult to dissect the image and determine what is my father’s face and what isn’t. Memories betray me while I struggle to remember the color of his eyes. My chest feels tight. He had a beard. Right? I sigh.

Where are you? Are you still alive?

 

The bustle outside my door has evaporated into the afternoon. I practice manipulating the water molecules until the door opens and Claude steps inside in his white clothes. Light accompanies him into my room, so bright it hurts my eyes and I have to blink a few times. The candle flickers and distorts his aquiline nose.

“Good morning. Ah, you’re practicing I see,” he says in a warm voice. My savior’s smile softens his weathered face as I sit up straight and guide the water to the bucket. The Quartz falls off my lap and rests on the mattress.

“I must admit, I immediately saw you were gifted, Elara, but even I could not foresee how much. And I do have a gift for recognizing talent, if I say so myself. You truly take after your father in that way.” He places his hand on my shoulder. “He will be a proud man when he learns of his daughter helping us get rid of the head of the snake and improve life for everyone in the Nation.”

There is not much else for me to do. But I soften at the mention of my father. I wipe the strands of red-dyed hair out of my face, and despite my overcast mood, it’s impossible to not return his smile.

“And I promise you, he will learn of how amazing his daughter is.”

“You truly think that he’s still out there?” I ask, even though I have asked that question a dozen times before. He is the only family I have left in the world, and family has never felt so important now that I’m a refugee without one.

Claude squeezes my shoulder affirmatively before he lets go. “I know so; I can feel it in my bones.”

A small part of me is too afraid to hope he is alive, but Claude is so sure that I catch myself hoping anyway.

“Did you ever see him heal with water?” I ask with a thirst that surprises even me.

Claude nods and stares to the wall and conjures a scene only visible to him, “Ah, Eros… Yes, I believe he was an extraordinary Elementalist and an exceedingly capable doctor without question. The envy of many, I would think. What he did was more an art form than a craft.”

Gran spoke highly of father’s healing, and to be in the same league makes me swell with pride. Claude’s words are as vital to me as breathing.

“A true Master, I suppose. Though I daresay I’ve seen similar feats in my time…”

Lost in thought, he turns around. The scars on my upper back protest as I scramble after him, the tightness sharp as if it’s pulling me back.

 

“Keep in mind that I, of course, condone your skills. But others may not be so forward-thinking, so keep your water in your pouch when you’re outside your room,” Claude says as we walk through the deserted hall.

Only our footsteps stir the silence in the building, echoing against the concrete walls adorned with flower-covered wallpaper. The painting outside my door confuses me; it’s a still life with two plums on a white tablecloth. I glance at it as I follow Claude past his office.

If the Resistance leader himself hasn’t shown you how to find it, you would walk right past it. It has the same wallpaper as the rest of the hall and a painting hangs in its center. A real secret room with a hidden door. It feels highly mysterious, and I am proud he showed this secret to me.

We pass paintings of beautiful women and yellowed drapes that have soaked up the smell of cigarettes and cheap perfume these past years.

“I would desire that there is more you could do, but with the military actively searching for you, I implore you to—”

“Stay out of sight for a while,” I mouth at his silhouette as he speaks the words. His upright posture and strong shoulders pay me no mind as he strides down the two-story staircase.

“And I’m grateful, Claude. Truly,” I say. I mean it with every fiber of my being. Without this man, I would still be a slave of the military. He has nursed me back to health and kept me safe, clothed, and fed.

Claude glances over his shoulder. “Today is a momentous day for our cause, Puppet. It appears a few well-connected individuals are seeing the necessity of change. They are interested in our ways and have expressed a desire to help me subvert our oppressors.”

I open my mouth to ask if he has new information about my father’s whereabouts, but the words get stuck in my throat, seeming trivial to the subject at hand.

Upsetting Claude could lead to that disappointed look, as if the thought of him not being able to share more news claws at him under the surface.

So I let my hopes waver in a sigh and push down the feeling of disappointment. Maybe I’ll be braver tomorrow.

“Of course, one can not let these opportunities slip,” he says. We arrive on the ground floor. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol fills the abandoned room. It must look divine in the evening, with the small tables clean, candles burning, and lights on the stage sparkling. Now, it’s tacky, sad, and dirty.

“But I feel like I could be of more use than just…”

My feet take me behind the bar to get my broom and mop. It’s frustrating that cleaning this place is about as much action as I get working for the Resistance. But after lying in bed for three weeks, waiting for my skin to form scars and go from red to beige, this is literally a breath of fresh … cigarette- and alcohol-filled air.

 

Claude walks to the elaborate coat rack, his shoes click-clacking on the wooden floor. His weathered face crinkles into his familiar smile. “I will have errands for you to run, sooner than you think, but at this moment I believe it’s too dangerous for you, Puppet. And of course, even the most impressive movements in history needed their water closets cleaned. It’s not the most classy business, I agree, but this is bigger than you. One person is but a sprinkle of dust compared to the grand goal. Be proud that you are working on the right side of history,” Claude says. “Stay secure in here, hidden from them until the stir of your little escape has blown over.”

The words wash over me as I sweep the dust from the floor, the weathered wood of the broom dry in my hands. I wouldn’t call my escape little, but for a man such as him who is always looking at the big picture, it is just that. I’m honored he cares.

Claude dons his white fur coat. “Well, it’s been a delightful exchange. Seeing you is always a highlight in my morning. And Elara…” He pauses, resting his hand on the door handle. His tone shifts to a serious one and his expression is grave. “I suggest you show a tad more gratefulness that Ruby is willing to harbor a fugitive like yourself.”

A burst of light, fresh air, and everyday noises steal inside the room – the sounds of people chatting, a horse trotting by – before he closes it behind him. My insides squirm under his last comment. I’m left alone with only the ringing in my left ear, feeling as insignificant as the dust I’m sweeping.

Madame Antoinette’s is the last place I’d ever thought I’d end up. It’s unnerving how quickly it all became normal, how fast the smell became familiar.

I’m grateful that the ladies clean their own rooms, but their noises keep me up at night; not even the ringing in my ear drowns out their disgusting moans. I’m grateful Gran has never seen me in a place like this.

Glass clinks as the broom moves the broken pieces from under a small table. It shimmers faintly in the dim light escaping through the heavily draped windows. I long to open them for some fresh air, but with the wanted posters outside bearing the sketch of someone of my likeness, it’s better to remain hidden for now.

The military doesn’t appreciate soldiers who desert them, especially when the soldiers have special skills.

My first days at Madame Antoinette’s, all I did was sleep and thrash in my nightmares. One of the first coherent memories I have of my time here after the bombing is Claude on the side of my bed, telling me there was a big search in the city for me, and he would ensure my safety. The fear was debilitating, but I put my trust in Claude.

When I could walk again for short bits, Claude didn’t even let me downstairs during closing time because he feared someone would catch a glimpse of me. Now, I’m allowed downstairs to clean a bit before going back into hiding, but the curtains must always be drawn.

 

“Oi, you there.”

I spin around, startled by the voice in the room. A barefoot woman with flaming red hair peaks through the elaborate spindles of the staircase.

My face reddens. I recognize her from the very first time I walked into this … this … establishment. Ruby. At the time, I was searching for the Resistance but ran when I saw what this place actually was. Of all the irony, the Resistance was actually here all along. I pray to the Gods she doesn’t remember me. Her whole being sends warning signals through my body.

“Startle easy, do ye? Aye, ye the new cleaner, then?” She takes a few steps down to get a better view of me. “Yer doing a piss-poor job behind the counter, though. Sticky as hell back there, feels like walking on a toffee apple since Crystal smashed that bottle. If ye dinna scrub it proper, we’ll be stuck tae the floor like flies on shite. Get it sorted, aye?”

I stay quiet, a part of me frustrated with what Ruby just said and the other part amazed at her strong accent.

The handle of my broom is hard under my grip while I settle my trembling hand, battling with Claude’s words, my ego, and translating in my head what she just said. I can’t risk making a bad impression or, even worse, making an enemy.

“D’ye understand me? D’ye talk, or are ye just a wee bit slow?”

“Yes—I mean, no. I’ll take a look at it.”

Ruby furrows her brow and strolls down the stairs with bare feet as if she owns the place. Which she does. The wood groans under her weight with every other step.

“Well,”

Groan.

“I hope ye’ll do more”

Groan.

“than just gawp at it.”

Groan.

“An’ while ye’re at it,”

Groan

“there’s this stain”

Groan.

“on Opal’s mattress”

Groan.

“that needs sortin’.”

Groan.

“I tried, but canno’ get rid of it.”

She arrives at the bottom of the stairs.

With a deep breath, I hear Claude say to show a tad more gratefulness that Ruby is willing to harbor a fugitive like yourself. Although the thought of cleaning one of the girls’ mattresses, where they do the unspeakable with every filthy man who visits this place, almost makes me retch.

I turn around to hide my disgust about the request. “I thought the girls had to clean their own rooms,” I mutter under my breath, but she hears it and places her hands on her hips, crinkling her beige pajamas.

“Wha was tha’? Speak up or keep that trap shut, got it?” she says, not expecting an answer.

I stammer one anyway. “I-uh, nothing. I’ll get to it.”

“Claude said tha’ ye’d be useful, not a burden. That’s the only reason why I’m letting ye stay instead of freezing in the snow where the Dogs can find ye. Ye won’t be keepin’ this gig much longer if ye don’t start pulling yer weight.” She stands in front of me, eyes blazing.

She’s got me in a mental headlock. I have no desire to be thrown out on the street for the military to find, disappoint the man who saved me from their clutches in the process, and lose all the chances of finding my father. “I’ll do it, just…”

Her eyes bore into mine. “Just what?” she demands. My knuckles are white around the broom as I cast my eyes down at the floor.

“Nothing.”