Hearts of Smoke and Steam (7 page)

“Zis should be güt,” Grüsser said with a laugh.

“Whatever you'd like,” the Southerner replied. “But it is customary for me to have a second.”

Hughes was quiet for a moment, but the fact that he'd balled his hands into shaking fists made it clear that he was unhappy with the direction that things had gone. “Don't be a fool, Stanton. The man is ten years younger than you are.”

“Do you hear that, Mr. Clements? Mr. Hughes is concerned for my safety. But if you're capable of it, sir, you can beat me to death.” He heard Nathaniel let out a gasp. “That way you can be sure that you've removed the most vocal opposition to your membership in the Society while simultaneously proving that you have the strength needed to actually deserve the role. And if you don't think yourself capable of at least breaking a few bones, I'd suggest that you simply leave now.” Alexander let himself smile. To be honest, no matter what happened, it would simply be nice to have a chance to hit something again.

Clements pulled off his white gloves and began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. “I'm not afraid of you, sir, and I'll gladly accept your challenge.”

Stanton pointed to Nathaniel. “I'll need you to second for me.”

The boy stood up and took off his jacket. “I don't think this is a good idea, Industrialist.”

“You don't have to. Your job is to make sure that this gibbering coward doesn't pull out a hidden weapon in the middle of the battle. And if he does, it will be your job to take revenge.”

Nathaniel blinked a few times. “I'm not sure that…”

“Yes,” Alexander asked him, letting his voice drop a bit, “or no?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And Hughes, since you seem so concerned with the welfare of our applicant, why don't you go ahead and second for
him?”

“I object to your behavior.” Hughes rose up on his frame and began to clank around the side of the table. “But if you are determined to go ahead with this foolishness, far be it from me to dissuade you.”

“Thank you, William.” He slowly unbuttoned his leather jacket. It did provide protection, but he'd only just had it cleaned, and it would be a shame to soil it with another man's blood.

As he stretched to pull off the sleeve, he felt the pain from where the Bomb Lance's harpoon had pierced him and winced slightly. The wound was mostly healed, but not entirely. It would certainly slow him down a bit. Trying to hide his discomfort, he slid the coat off the rest of the way and handed it to Nathaniel. He carefully unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and rolled up his cuffs.

Properly prepared, the two men took up their positions in the courtyard with their seconds standing beside them. “You can end this by simply calling surrender.”

Clements narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said I could beat you to death.”

Alexander nodded and raised his fists into the air. “I've never admitted defeat.”

The White Knight came at him like a freight train, barreling forward with the clear intention of planting one of his slablike fists directly into Stanton's stomach. Instead, Alexander stepped out of the way and jabbed at the man's head, managing to knock him off course.

Now that the fight had begun, a thrilling feeling of satisfaction flooded through him. Darby had always been their conscience, always trying to steer the Paragons away from violence in pursuit of a more “honorable” path. But there was only so far down that path a man—a
real
man—could travel, before he needed to stop being righteous and start doing what needed to be done.

The man in front of him might not be a villain by the standard definition, but he had all the attributes of one: a blowhard, a liar, someone who believed that the world
owed
him all the things that he couldn't work to get for himself. And in the end, it had felt good to hit him, and that
made
it right.

The blossom of pain in his side was as disorienting as it was surprising, and it forced him to let out a shout. Clements had seen an opening and used it to make a low blow to his back. Stanton hadn't even seen it coming, and it proved that his opponent was surprisingly quick for a man of such meaty stature.

He danced away and tried to clear his head. “Good, Mr. Clements. Well done.” This wouldn't be as easy as he first thought. “Better than expected, in fact.”

There was an ugly sneer on the other man's face now. He had tasted blood and he obviously liked it. “Call me all the names you want, Industrialist, but you're about to find out I'm no liar.” He jumped forward, and before Alexander could react, he'd been struck twice, once in the face and once in the chest. It felt like he had been hit by metal instead of flesh, his rib cage flexing from the force of the blow. “I'm not an ordinary man.”

Knowing that the coming pain might rob him of his strength at any second, Stanton struck back hard. His attack was wild, but some of the blows landed directly on the White Knight's neck, throwing him off balance.

The two men broke apart, both gasping and coughing.

The mask of civility that Clements had been so loosely wearing before was completely gone now. Sweat poured down his face, plastering his hair to his skin. “I'm going to send you straight to hell, you pompous son of a bitch!”

“Calm down, Jordan,” Hughes said to the man in half a whisper.

The tone made it seem as if they knew each other, and for an instant Stanton wondered if there was more going on here than he realized, but his reply was certainly not a friendly one. “You can go to hell, cripple. I don't need to be lectured by you.” His eyes flicked to the right as he talked, and Stanton saw a clear opening where he could move in. But instead of damaging his opponent, he found that it was Clements's fist that had impacted with
his
chin.

His head snapped back, and there was a sound in his ears that made him think that perhaps all his teeth had come loose and were suddenly rattling around inside of his brain.

As Stanton stumbled backwards, another blow struck him in his chest, faster than he would have thought possible. This time there was a definite snap as one of his ribs gave way. “That's the broken bone you asked for,” Clements said, and followed it up with another punch to the face that seemed to do something terrible to his nose. Stanton could taste the blood in his mouth.

He tried to raise up his hands to protect himself, but instead he tumbled to the floor, his legs no longer willing to cooperate with his commands. As the other man loomed over him, he found himself simply trying to cling to consciousness.

“That's enough, damn it!” The voice was coming from behind him. It sounded like Nathaniel, although he could no longer be sure.

“It's enough when
he
says it is,
boy
, and he hasn't said anything yet.”

Stanton felt himself trying to speak, but he couldn't push the words out through the blood in his mouth. Instead he just gurgled and moaned. He felt like laughing—he should have never taken off his damn jacket.

The next voice that reached his ears came from Hughes. “Whatever he told you, Stanton is the leader of the Paragons, and we won't allow you to beat him to death in our Hall.”

“Who's going to stop me?” Clements replied, his voice rising to a yell. “You? The boy?”

“If that's what it takes,” he heard Nathaniel say. Alexander forced his eyes open and watched as the young man leapt out in front of him.

At some point, the boy had slid on the Industrialist's leather gauntlets, and his youthful speed combined with the metal-studded fists quickly overwhelmed the other man.

Whatever superhuman speed and strength the White Knight might have had, it vanished under the attack, and Clements became little more than Nathaniel's punching bag. After a few solid blows to the head, he joined Alexander on the damp concrete floor.

“We are the Paragons, you sad bastard, and when you take on one of us, you take on all of us!” Nathaniel shouted.

The yells of triumphant rage ringing in Alexander Stanton's ears were familiar—something he hadn't heard since he had left behind the blood-soaked battlefields of the Civil War. And as he fell into unconsciousness, he realized that his anger had, once again, led him into a terrible mistake.

N
ot being a believer in bad feelings or otherworldly intuition, feminine or otherwise, Sarah had convinced herself that it was simply a desire to see the Brooklyn Bridge again that had pushed her to leave behind the warmth and safety of the main cabin and head out into the cold spring air on the upper deck.

The sky outside had been gray and threatening when she boarded the boat, but the weather on the East River was worse than she had imagined. Not only was the day cold, but a bitter wind seemed to penetrate every part of her—exposed or otherwise.

As she looked up to the incomplete structure of the span, it seemed even more unfinished than when she had been on top of it. That dizzying view had, for a moment at least, made her feel as if she were standing on Mount Olympus. Now she had fallen from those great heights and was riding the river Styx into the underworld, trapped beneath pointing girders and dangling wires.

As she looked up to the tower where Darby had died, Sarah wondered if any traces of his blood still remained. But even if there was still a red smudge to mark his passing, it wouldn't last long. Only stone and steel survived in New York.

Looking across the gray sky, her eyes caught on a black object hanging in the air. There was a moment of curious familiarity that turned to frozen shock as Sarah remembered seeing a similar spot before: the black balloon that they had seen on that January morning before Darby had been killed.

Sarah laughed at herself for being so hysterical. Every trip to Brooklyn couldn't be followed by a villainous attack. But her smile faded with the realization that there was a long smudge of dark smoke trailing out across the sky from behind the black object. “Impossible!” she blurted out, but there was no doubt left in her mind that this was the same flying machine that she had seen before.

A jumble of thoughts attacked her at once: who was piloting this ship, and how could they know she was on this ferry? She'd been so careful, but clearly not careful enough!

Sarah stepped backwards, cowering until she could feel the cold iron bars of the ship's railing pressing into her back. Shocked by the sudden press of metal, she turned and looked over her shoulder. She could make out the lip of the lower deck below, a firm line against the gray and unforgiving waters of the East River that lay just beyond.

Sarah tried to compose herself. The how and why of it could wait for later. Right now she was trapped on this ship, and the only thing she could be sure of was that whoever was on the balloon had nothing good planned for her.

She lifted up her small suitcase and clutched it to her chest, feeling the objects inside banging against the leather and cloth. If she was going to survive, she wouldn't be able to do it by running away. And if the Children of Eschaton were coming after her, she should at least be dressed for the occasion.

But if she was going to face her enemies as the Adventuress, first she'd need to find a place to change—the deck of a ferry was certainly no place for a lady to disrobe.

Sarah charged for the stairs only to find herself blocked by a young couple standing in her way. The man was tall and somewhat swarthy in complexion. He was clearly foreign, although he was not quite foreign enough that her friend Jane would have referred to him as “exotic.” Still, there was no doubting that the word
would
be a perfect description for the woman standing next to him.

Her skin was so olive that it almost glowed, and her black hair bounced around her head and shoulders in a cascade of springy curls.

“Excuse me,” Sarah said, trying to sound as resolute as possible. “I need to go downstairs.”

“You need help, pretty lady?” The man's accent was enticingly strange, and she immediately recognized it as Italian.

Sarah glanced up and almost gasped when his bright blue eyes caught hers. Perhaps she had been too quick to judge…But the last thing she had time for was pointless flirtation with strangers. “No, no thank you.”

She leaned first to one side and then to the other, trying to find a way between them. As she took a second look, she realized the two of them must be related—cousins, perhaps? The girl looked almost like something out of a fairy story, although Sarah thought that she would be better cast in the role of the witch, casting a glamour on an unsuspecting prince.

“Are you afraid of the baloney?” the man asked her, his fractured English falling to pieces.

Why were they stopping her? Sarah felt the Stanton anger rising up in her. “What are you talking about?”

“Baloney!” he said, emphasizing his gibberish as he pointed up to the sky.

“It's called a
balloon
, you idiot!” The girl's frustrated tone reminded Sarah of the way she might have spoken to Nathaniel. “Now, lady,” the witch-girl said to her in surprisingly well-formed words, “maybe me and my horse's ass of a brother can help you with whatever is bothering you.”

For a second Sarah considered taking their offer. It would have been a relief to share her burden with someone, and something about this woman looked surprisingly strong. But any thoughts of finding an ally were wiped away by what had happened the last time. In her mind's eye she saw an image of Darby, half dead, and Nathaniel screaming, pinned to the stone tower by a shining metal barb. Her eyes glanced up to the nearby tower where it had all taken place. “You can get out of my way!” she said, and pushed past them, rushing down the steep stairs.

“We sorry, miss! Please let's help you!” the man with the blue eyes shouted after her. She ignored his charmingly naïve plea and concentrated on navigating the remaining steps without losing her balance or the suitcase.

Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, she ran for the corner. She had made it as far as the main cabin door when the entire ship shuddered around her.

The shock made her drop the case, which bounced off the railing before landing miraculously upright next to the edge of the boat. For a moment it seemed safe, and then it began tipping over, heading toward the water. A shock ran through her from head to toe as Sarah desperately fumbled to keep it from falling into the river.

Unable to reach it with her hands, she brushed her foot against it. It tipped back toward her and fell flat onto the deck by her feet.

Before Sarah could breathe a sigh of relief, she heard screaming from nearby. She turned, and saw the source of the sound through the main cabin window. It took a moment for her to resolve the mayhem she saw on the other side of the glass. Then it all became clear: the shaft of a massive metal harpoon had penetrated the main deck and plunged down into the passenger cabin below, mangling anyone inside unfortunate enough to be caught in its path. Men and women alike were desperately trying to help a man who had been squarely penetrated by the device, but from the amount of blood that surrounded him, it was clearly hopeless.

A moment later, both the lance and its victim were pulled up into the air. The ship lurched as the hook pulled tight against the cabin ceiling, eviscerating the harpooned man completely. The would-be Samaritans screamed as they were drenched in a shower of the victim's blood.

Unable to witness any more, Sarah turned away from the horror and continued forward. If she had harbored the slightest doubts as to what villains might be riding the airship, the appearance of an enormous harpoon had wiped them all away.

As terrified and sickened as she was, a small part of her relished the idea that she might have an opportunity for revenge against the villain who had caused her, and so many others, so much pain. At the very least, she could stop him from killing anyone else.

Moving forward, Sarah came to the stairwell to the lower deck. She pushed herself against the wall as a number of uniformed crewmen rushed past her, clearly intent on discovering what had happened to their ship.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped for a moment. The noise of the engines was almost painfully loud, and she could feel the vibrations of it through the soles of her feet.

This area wasn't forbidden to passengers, but it was hardly inviting either: the paint was old and chipped, the wood decking rougher, unfinished, and stained with pitch and oil.

Sarah had only walked a few feet before she found an entrance with the words “Crew Only” marked on it in bright yellow paint. The door had been left ajar, and Sarah stopped to look inside.

The corridor beyond was cramped and dark, and it stank of musty sea-water and lubricant. Sarah stopped for a second, trying to listen for any signs that some of the ship's crew might still be around, but if they were, it would be impossible to hear over the chugging and hissing from the nearby engines. It sounded to her as if they were straining, and Sarah guessed that the ship was struggling as it dragged the balloon behind it.

As she stepped through the doorway, the sound of the engines was muffled slightly, the thick metal absorbing the thundering noise. Sarah had only walked a dozen feet before the distinctive tap of shoe leather against the iron decking became clear. She jumped into an open door to her right and hid as the footsteps grew closer, holding her breath for the moment they passed by. Whoever it was, he was clearly more concerned with the emergency up above than with any possibility that there might be a young woman stowaway.

When the threat had passed, Sarah looked around and discovered that she was in a changing room of some sort. Clothes were strewn all across it, and it stank of sweat, smoke, and general maleness.

It made her wonder how it was that creatures as different as men and women ever found happiness together under the same roof. Certainly it hadn't been possible between herself and her father, and their house had allowed them to remain utterly separate.

Still, it seemed an appropriate place to do what she needed to do. Sarah flipped open the suitcase and began to undress.

She began to pull out her costume. The Adventuress's outfit was still the same hodgepodge of clothes that it had been when she first put it together, but at least it was no longer a bulky mess. Sarah may have been hopeless with a needle and thread, but if there was one thing that was not in short supply in New York, it was capable seamstresses.

It seemed that hidden behind every tenement wall were dozens of women doing ironing and piecework. And no matter how odd the looks had been when she first laid out her clothing, she had found that compared to the penny or two they could earn for churning out collars and sleeves, most girls would gladly take a nickel to rework a man's shirt and coat to better fit a young woman's frame.

Sarah had also replaced the original riding pants with a rugged pair of canvas leggings. Not only were they stronger, but she hoped they would do a better job of keeping out the cold. Either way, as she pulled them on, she couldn't deny that simply putting on a pair of men's trousers somehow made her feel more like a hero.

She had also had the bodice reworked so that it could be quickly hooked up the side. It didn't fit with anywhere near the same snugness that it would have if Jenny Farrows had been pulling the strings with her usual efficiency, but there were also no friendly housemaids to be found in the stinking bowels of an East River ferry.

Sarah slipped on the leather coat and felt the weight of the pneumatic gun in the pocket. She was tempted to fire it now and see if it still worked, but she could only imagine the damage it might do in close quarters if it did.

It had been an incredibly effective weapon when she'd used it against Lord Eschaton, but that had been months ago. The Automaton had warned her that there was only a limited supply of fortified steam contained within it. Who knew how well his hasty modifications had effectively sealed in the gas? Perhaps all she would hear the next time she fired it would be the sound of a villain's laughter…

But it was the only weapon that the Adventuress had besides her wits—which she honestly wasn't sure were in good enough condition to be facing men who could fire harpoons and shoot lightning bolts from their hands.

Sarah wrapped the wide belt tight around her waist, almost completing the costume. Once all the pieces had been adjusted to her specifications, she took a look at herself with the help of a dingy shaving mirror that was hanging on the wall.

Even in the murky light, Sarah had to admit that Jenny was right—there was something slightly scandalous about her outfit, although she had done her best to retain a demure look.

Lastly, she pulled down the mask over her face. She had removed the curtain of leather that hung over the lower half of the face, leaving only her eyes and nose covered. Sarah had considered replacing it with a lace veil, but that had somehow seemed horribly old-fashioned—like something a grandmother might do.

And even the original mask had done nothing to hide her identity from her father. She prayed that most people would not have the facility to guess who she was simply from the color of her eyes.

Sarah threw her dress back into the suitcase, wedging it around the paper-wrapped object and notebook that were still inside. When she had swaddled the contents as best she could, Sarah closed the lid and buckled up the straps.