Curio (16 page)

Blaise turned away and raised his hands, clasping them behind his head.

“I know you hate this subject, but we must face the truth.”

Blaise dropped his arms to his sides. He did hate talk of revolution, but not for any reason Callis might guess. He wasn't reluctant or afraid to face Blueboy's well-ordered tin army. Quite the opposite. It was the need that frightened him. He longed for confrontation. He longed to march straight into the porcie assembly and declare himself as . . . what? As protector? As other? As martyr?

It was rash and stupid, but he fought the urge to rise up, to instigate revolution, and to bear the punishment for such rebellion.

A high-pitched whine registered in Blaise's ears. Behind him, Callis and Seree had begun the reanimation process. He waited a moment more before turning.

Seree removed a tube from Finnegan's mouth. Callis stood with his porcie ear inclined to the new mechanical leg. He raised his right eyebrow, but the metal ridge above his left eye didn't follow suit.

“The steam is moving nicely.” Callis touched the hammered copper toes. “He's warming.”

Seree positioned herself at the boy's head. Blaise stepped back. His presence was alarming to fully conscious porcies, let alone reanimating children. The boy jerked, his limbs responding slowly to the steam. His lashes fluttered.

A piercing scream filled the workroom. Blaise's jaw locked.

“Shh.” Seree cupped the porcelain cheek. “Shh, Finn, my boy. It's all right.”

The scream faded to a wheezy whimper. “Penny. Where's Penny? I want my Penny.”

Callis shared a look with Blaise. The modified frowned.

Seree smoothed the hair from the boy's forehead. “Penny isn't here now. My name is Seree.”

Finnegan twitched and looked about. “But where did Penny go?”

Blaise fled the room. He burst onto the factory floor and strode toward the door without a thought to where he was going. This morning's dream dimmed the daylight streaming through the large windows in the front of the spacious room. He stopped and pressed a hand to his stomach.

An ache began at his navel, not hunger but a yearning for a battle he was meant to fight. The sensation crept under his skin, a hardening, as though liquid stone flowed just beneath the surface. Fully conscious, he recognized it. The Defender state, a physical reaction meant to strengthen him to battle a Chemist. He was far removed from the Defender justice system, yet his body was preparing for such a fight.

CHAPTER

11

W
hit slid one hand into his sleeve and stopped, frozen. His shirt dangled from his arm, trailing the floor of his room. It wasn't the pain. After a week, the cuts over his back and upper arms were closing. The lines itched and stung, but he was healing. Grey had seen to that. So had his mother.

He clenched his fist. The tight new skin forming over the stripes on his arm puckered and pulled. The angry red lines paled then darkened once again.

Too long. He'd stared at the scars too long. He was transported back to that room, that table. The scent of copper filled his nostrils till his eyes stung. His arms hugged the table, bound beneath at the wrists. Shackles locked his ankles in place. In the corner of his eye he saw again the black and green shape of a Chemist. The man held an instrument Whit could not focus on. Only the glint of sharp metal penetrated his brain. In the background a machine hummed, the sound blending with the rush of blood in his eardrums. He bit down hard on his lower lip to keep back the scream clawing at his throat.

The pain of his teeth grinding his lip brought him back. He was in his room. He swiped at his bloody lip, and the red on his fingers reassured him. He'd seen none of it in the
Chemist lab even before he'd passed out. Only when they brought him home and his mother removed the dressings had he seen his stripes.

He blew out quick breaths and focused on his shirt. No more bandages. No more gaping cuts. The freshly laundered but worn cloth glided over his healing skin.

He stared down at the gap between the edges of the gray flannel. His chest and abdomen looked the same as they had a week ago. Familiar ridges and planes.

The horror of the Chemist facility receded, and he rushed to do up his buttons. The train wouldn't wait.

In the kitchen he found his mother, coat on, gulping down tea. She looked up, dark circles ringing her eyes.

“I'll go today, Mother.”

“No, you won't.” She set the cup down.

He wanted to shake her. Instead he rested a hand on the countertop and spoke with careful nonchalance. “Let me get today's ration. I heard Mrs. Haward tell you I should get out of the house. I'm strong enough.”

“Whit, I'm not sure you're ready.”

He hated the tremble in her voice. Without answering her, he snagged the potion bottles from a shelf by the door and grabbed his coat from the rack.

“I'll be back,” he threw over his shoulder as he banged out of the front door.

Grey's mother was at the end of the Haward's front walkway when Whit emerged. She met his gaze and nodded. He fixed his eyes on the ground. In one night, Maire Haward had gone from a household of four to living alone. Well, not alone. Olan Haward remained a statue, frozen in the family's home as some cruel reminder of the Chemists' complete power. How did she walk by her ossified father-in-law every day? How could she stand to be in the same room with his stone body?

As he fell into place among the mindless stream of people fetching their morning ration, Whit lifted his eyes to the mountains. Today would be different. The cold air pricked the exposed marks on his neck. His feet quickened. Mrs. Haward startled when he overtook her but she said nothing. By the time he reached Pewter Street and began the descent into the center of the Foothills Quarter, he was jogging. His breath clouded before him.

Murmurs rose from the citizens shuffling on their morning errand. Whit gave them a wide berth but retained his pace. He didn't know how long it would take to pick up his ration, return home, fool his mother into believing he'd taken all of his, then make it to the station in time for the hunting train.

Between the arrest and what little Grey had hinted at over the years, Whit put together what Grey's father had actually been doing with his ration each day. But would there be someone waiting at the outpost for Steinar Haward? Maybe they'd given up when he hadn't come for days.

Whit was one of the first in the ration line. His skin burned, and he struggled to slow his breathing and calm the heaving of his chest. At the sight of the deputies standing sentry on either side of the ration counter, he squared his shoulders.

The woman behind the protective glass—Lara was her name—looked surprised to see him. She tapped a B into her typing ball, but her hands paused over the keys that stuck up from the green orb like porcupine quills. “How is your mother, Whitland?”

The deputy on Whit's right eyed him lazily then resumed a bored posture.

“She's well, ma'am. Thought I'd let her rest this morning.”

Lara's fingers flicked over the device, then she dropped her voice to a whisper. “And you?”

“I'm well, ma'am,” Whit said through his teeth.

The deputy shifted toward them. “Enough chitchat.” He glared at Lara. “Do your job.”

She scuttled away to fetch rations for Whit and his mother.

Where was the other dispensary worker? What was her name? Nothing came to mind but an image of yet another middle-aged woman in fading red clothes. He didn't dare ask Lara when she returned with two small bottles and slid them into the indentation under the glass.

A weight settled in Whit's gut as he plucked the bottles from the compartment. It wouldn't be enough.

Stowing both bottles in his pocket, he spun and headed for the door. The scars on his back seared as though flames licked his skin. He took a breath and shook his head when he reached the street. It was just his imagination. A deputy's stare couldn't burn you.

Back at home, he had Mother to deal with, but lying to her was easier than he expected. He fished one bottle out and handed it to her. She took it and narrowed her eyes.

“Where's yours?”

He wrapped his fingers around the second bottle in his pocket so that all liquid was obscured, then pulled it out. “Already took it.”

She glanced at the ration in his hand then returned to scanning his face. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “There's color in your cheeks.” She came closer and reached up to brush spikes of hair out of his eyes. “It's good to see you like this. Are you sure it wasn't too much, fetching the ration?”

“Not at all.” He stowed the full bottle back in his pocket. “In fact, I think I'll head into town. It's time I took my name off the recuperating list at the station.”

She snatched his wrist. “Whit, you're not mended enough to return to the mines. Take a few more days. Heaven knows there are plenty of workers, and we can get by on my wages a bit longer.”

“Can't you see I want it behind me?” Whit snapped. He reined in his tone when she flinched. “I need to work, not just so we can eat. I need . . .” How could he put it into words? He needed the crushing fatigue of a day's work to replace the terror of his dreams with blessed oblivion.

She clutched his arm a moment longer but the tension in her face smoothed. “I understand.” She let go of him and turned toward the kitchen. “I'll have to check your back when you get home. We need to keep applying the salve a little longer.”

Whit swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat and made his escape. Pulling his collar up against the February wind, he made for Reinbar but turned onto Colfax rather than continue on to the Foothills Quarter station. The shops on the thoroughfare began to open as he strode toward the hulking brick buildings of downtown. His steps slowed as he passed Haward's Mercantile. A tacked-up board barred the doorway, and a sign printed in ornate letters read “Closed by order of the Chemist Council.”

Whit pressed his face to the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes to block the glare of the morning sun. The mercantile looked like the pictures of the Galveston hurricane damage. Lamps, knickknacks, and furniture—Olan's precious antiques—lay broken and scattered on the floor next to piles of gadgets and Chemist contrivances. No signs of life met Whit's scrutiny. He dropped his hands to his sides and turned. In the corner of his eye, a figure moved. His heartbeat jumped into his throat and sweat coated his palms. Instinct told him to keep his eyes on the sidewalk ahead of him, but his gaze slid across the street inch by inch.

A dark silhouette edged in green leaned against a street clock across the way from Haward's Mercantile. The black top hat shaded his features and made his head look disproportionate to his slim-shouldered body, but Whit didn't need to see the face to know the Chemist studied him. His throat went dry and his mind blurred. Was it true they read thoughts? He couldn't tear his focus away from the thin figure framed by the shop door. The Chemist reached inside his coat and drew something out. His outline flickered, and Whit stared at empty space.

He threw a last glance at the Haward's store before returning to his errand. Had he drawn the Chemist's attention, or did the man simply watch Olan Haward's closed shop?

And where was Grey? Her absence gnawed at his insides. Her mother said she was safe, but the way she said it offered no reassurance. More was going on with the Hawards than Maire admitted. The ration missions Steinar ran to the mountain outposts were just one of their many secrets. Whit meant to uncover them all.

The Four Points station lay to the west of the Chemist tower in the heart of Mercury City. A shadow of the black spire fell over the sandstone building and all who moved along Boyle Street, hurrying to their destinations in the orderly fashion of Mercury residents. Carriages, motor cars and delivery trucks, and men on horseback navigated the road. A gleaming black steamer chugged past, its driver muffled in a thick coat, scarf, and goggles. As the boxy vehicle turned onto Lavoisier and disappeared into traffic, a strange excitement raced through Whit. But the station clock in the center of the courtyard showed ten till seven. He had no time for dreams of speed.