“Johnson’s doomed us all!” someone shouted as the other men scrambled to follow suit, climbing onto the wagons or into the carriages.

Horses bolted, carts jolting away as steeds panicked. Jordan and the other prisoners saw them then as their wagon bounced forward and away—a long line of wet and glimmering speckled shapes, hunched and slithering over the hill toward the retreating wagons.

They moved like fish forced onto land, even their awkward motions made with inherent grace, an alien fluidity that Jordan had only seen basely mimicked by dancing prima ballerinas. They flopped forward, heads covered in spines and long, limp green-and-blue things that shimmered and looked like weeds that grew out of their domed skulls. They pulled themselves onward with broad hands and webbed fingers, thick bodies ending in a long, winding tail rather than a pair of legs and feet. But what caught Jordan’s attention most were their mouths …

Huge hinged jaws removed any chance the beasts might be considered beautiful and were lined with rows of needle-sharp teeth—so many teeth, in fact, the creatures seemed incapable of closing their mouths. Thin, rubbery lips could never stretch far enough to obscure such razor-filled mouths.

Jordan only realized as they raced away that her position in the packed and standing-room-only wagon had changed. Instead of pressing close to the bars to better witness the attacking Merrow, she pushed as far as she could into her fellow prisoners—decorum and all things proper forgotten in the face of horror.

Their wagon was ahead of a few others, and, wide-eyed, they watched as the Merrow paused in their slick progress to coil onto their tails and then—

They launched. Bodies sailed through the air like the school of exotic fish swam in the Mayor’s much-lusted-after aquarium. They were all at once silver and blue and green, flashing like the ocean’s sapphire waves and landing on the closest horses.

One horse reared up and struck out, squealing, forelegs flying. But the Merrow were everywhere—a swarm of flesh and teeth, burrowing wide mouths into horseflesh. Screaming, a horse bucked and broke free of harness and traces even as the carriage’s driver fired his gun and reloaded. Men on the same wagon fired a volley, their guns cracking out their reports’ noise as both bullet and ball left barrels and the sweet scent of black powder filled the air.

The escaping horse went down on its knees and Jordan turned away when blood fountained up from it, but turned back (morbid curiosity winning against fear) in time to see more Merrow launch themselves.

This time at the men.

Those deaths were faster than the horses’. Not cleaner, not gentler, but faster. Bones cracked and heads came free of bodies and Jordan discovered another use for the bucket in the wagon’s corner when she emptied the sparse contents of her stomach into it. She rose again, watching as the bloodshed disappeared from sight, their wagon’s rioting horses calming as they gained greater distance from the threat. Soon the horses slowed to a jog, their sweat a lather so thick it dropped to the road in clumps like freshly whipped meringue.

The awkward caravan paused a few miles farther down the road, pulling to a stop at a broad crossroads. The Councilman and Tester exited their coach and the group reconvened. There were no more worried looks although the men were clearly shaken and filled their sentences with curses. A few fierce words were exchanged and everyone remounted, the wagons going their separate ways. Jordan settled as best she could among the crowd of bodies, wondering how soon—if ever—they’d feel safe again.


Holgate

“You come from a proud tradition,” Bran said, tucking his hands behind his back and leaning forward to better look at the little girl. Her eyes wandered the space, her gaze bouncing from item to item and drinking each in almost as often and fully as she drank up the water he kept handy. “You’ve gotten dehydrated,” he said. “I thought Maude would take better care of you.”

“She took excellent care of me, Mister—papá,” the child corrected, rolling the horn cup between her hands. “She is sweet. My mother—God rest her soul—would have liked her.”

Bran paused and nodded agreement. “Yes. I feel certain she would have. Here.” He took the cup and set it on his desk’s slanting surface. “This is my main library. Here there are three rules you must follow: listen, obey, and never, never open the door to the laboratory. It is here that you will help me do the gentle parts of what Making means.”

“What are the gentle parts?”

“Research. You will fetch me books and learn to read and tidy up as we work,” Bran said.

“And the not so gentle parts of Making?” she asked, her eyes so big and bright his heart thumped oddly.

“There are parts of my job that are—”

“Too hard for me?”

“Too hard for you to see,” he clarified. “It is not an easy thing I do.”

“Is it hard for you?” she asked, her voice soft as rainsong.

He straightened, twisting his fingers together before him. “It used to be,” he finally said, his voice matching hers in gentleness. “Yes. It used to be nearly impossible.” But he smacked his hands together and she gave a little hop. “But. We both come from a proud tradition,” he assured her, perhaps more to assure himself than the blond little sprite before him. Why did the words trouble him so much now?

They were hardly a lie …

His father had said the same words every day that Bran could remember. And, if nothing else good might be said of his father, it could always be said he was honest.

Brutally so.


Philadelphia

Rowen couldn’t remember a time without Jordan. It was strange knowing there was no Jordan to call upon, no Jordan to joke with, no Jordan to frustrate to the point he swore steam would pour from her ears …

No Jordan to confound.

And no Jordan to court.

He played with his hair a bit more, focusing in the mirror with fierce determination deep-set in his brow as he ran his brush through it again. He paused, staring at “fierce determination” reflected back at him, and he snorted. Such an expression would give him wrinkles prematurely. And although wrinkles on a man were a distinguishing mark of character (whereas on a woman they were simply ugly) Rowen did not care to add any character to his face until he was at least forty. Or fifty if he was fortunate. So he relaxed every muscle in his face and stared slack jawed into the mirror.

“Young sir.” Jonathan’s voice startled him from the other side of his door. “You have a visitor, young sir.”

Rowen opened the door and arched an eyebrow. Thinking better of the wrinkle that too would eventually bring, he slid his eyebrow back into place and stared flatly at Jonathan. “Who is it at this hour?”

Jonathan smirked. “At this hour? It is nigh unto one in the afternoon, sir.”

Rowen grinned. “Well, that explains why I am so famished.” He reached out and smacked Jonathan on the back. “And just who is here visiting me?”

“Lady Catrina of House Hollindale.”

“Sweet Jesus. What a way to ruin a man’s appetite.” He dropped his arm from around Jonathan and rubbed at his brow. “Why is Catrina here?”

“It seems your good mother sent for her.”

“Of course.” He groaned.

“Your good mother has a stake in a successful match being made of you,” Jonathan pointed out. “If you rise, she will be better taken care of in her advancing age.”

“I am well aware of my mother’s grasping nature,” Rowen assured. “And quite unimpressed with it.”

“Catrina may be a bit of a reach.”

Rowen snorted. “Perhaps according to rank, but…”

“Understood, young sir. She does seem to be quite smitten with you. I daresay she has been for some years.”

They walked down the hallway side by side, Rowen shaking his head. “It matters not one whit. Not any of it.”

“Because you are in love with Lady Jordan?”

Rowen stopped dead and, turning, stared at him. “I am not in love with Jordan.”

“Right, right,” Jonathan said. “My mistake.”

“You could send her away.”

“Would you wish me to? Your lady mother would be incensed.”

Rowen sighed. “No, no. But do bring us some sandwiches from the kitchen, please. With cucumber aplenty.”

“But, sir … Cucumber and you…”

Rowen’s smile slipped to one side of his face. “Agree as much as Catrina and I do.”

* * *

That day Lady Astraea slept soundly. She did not cry out, she did not die, she showed no sign of fever—if anything, she showed so little sign of life Laura was puzzled about the true nature of her existence. As far as Laura could tell her ladyship had not even rolled or moved in bed since John first placed her there the night before.

Laura gently removed the pillow from beneath her ladyship’s head, fluffed it, and reset it. Then she moved around the room dusting and adjusting the positions of things so it did not seem so absolutely unlived in. She returned to her lady’s side and carefully unwrapped the bandages on her arms, laying the skin bare to the air’s caress. It was odd knowing how little time had passed and yet how healed the flesh was already.

Laura applied the salve to her arms and rewrapped them. It was not impossible that if she slept a few more days and the salve continued its miraculous work her wounds would be completely closed—perhaps even to the point no mark remained.

* * *

That evening found Rowen on a table, arms wrapped around Kenneth Lorrington and Chadwick Skellish, two of his like-ranked fellows, while belting out a song few of them remembered when sober and Rowen only recalled when drunk off his ass. But drunk off his ass he was and his friends didn’t mind because at least Rowen was moving forward—in a sodden and weaving sort of way, but still it was forward. Never had “The Apparition of a Dandy” been so boldly sung and the regular crowd knew, if Rowen stayed on, he’d follow it up with “All for Me Grog.”