Shannon Delany - Weather Witch

He dragged her limp form up until she nearly appeared seated normally against the damp stone wall—although her head lolled on her slender neck and her eyes remained unfocused and dull.

The lantern in her Tank was as dead as her expression. She hadn’t even managed to keep her personal lantern powered. Or perhaps she no longer cared to.

Bran reached into the bucket, fishing for the awkward thing at its bottom that was both spoon and cup. His fingers towed it up, gloves coming back slick with a rainbow’s oily sheen. “Dammit.” He kicked the bucket over, water splashing toward the sluggish drain in the room’s center, and he stormed out the door, fist curled tight around the empty container’s handle.

The watchman at the hall’s end raised his head in question.

“When was the last time the Witches had fresh water?”

The man blanched, shrugging his shoulders. “They have water…”

“Fresh water,” Bran demanded. “They cannot Draw Down properly if they don’t drink. And they can’t drink slime.” He whipped the bucket out at the man, clipping his chin with the bucket’s edge. “Do right by me or your reputation will suffer.”

The man rubbed his jaw but nodded.

“As will your face,” Bran added. He shoved out the door and jogged down the last flights, coming out onto Holgate’s main square.

By night the compound was an eerie sight. Built by a Hessian with a penchant for castles and Old World architecture, it was in stark contrast to almost every other place in the Americas. Which was why it was perfect for Making Witches. Close to a large freshwater lake but far enough inland from the bay to make Merrow attacks difficult (Holgate and Philadelphia being determined not to suffer as Baltimore had), the place provided all he needed. Water to make weather, height to catch air and lightning, and rock so chances were less they’d catch fire and burn.

Chances being less were, of course, far from a guarantee.

The base of what the occupants called Tanks and Tower was broad stacked and mortared rock that shimmered when flecks of mica and pyrite caught the moonlight, making the place ripple at night like some otherworldly locale. Bran shook the thought from his head.

There was no otherworldly anything. He was a man of science. His reputation depended on it. The fairy tales and things that still held sway in rustic churches and around fires late at night had been proven to be of this world.

Yes, there were things that stole children from their cribs at night and monsters that ate his fellow men. There were misbegotten and misshapen beasts that haunted deep forests and abandoned houses and there were certainly devils seemingly drawn from man’s darkest desires. And magick. Grim, dangerous magick that tore families and empires apart. But none of that magick was here.

Not in the truly civilized parts of the New World.

The Wildkin, including the Merrow, Pooka, Kelpies, Gytrash, Oisin, Wolfkin, Kumiho, and a host of others were as firmly of this world as the other natives that called themselves the People.

And they were just as unwanted.

Magickers were expressly forbidden in the New World. The only ones that had crossed the ocean were the result of Galeyn Turell’s bizarre Making when the Merrow—naturally occurring beasts only a few distant cousins beyond the normal human family—attacked the ship the girl had been on after an accident that had killed one of their princes.

If Galeyn hadn’t demonstrated her strange weather-wielding powers as the Merrow slithered their way across the boat’s blood- and gore-slicked deck the winds would never have kicked up and hurled the Merrow away, and the ship would’ve never vaulted into the air and made it to the colonies.

And there would be no Wildkin War.

How eagerly since then had foreign authors turned a blind eye to the true nature of the Merrow—Hans Christian Andersen the worst offender, using fiction in an attempt to fashion peace.

Unbidden, Bran’s eyes went from the well and pump in the town’s square to the descended portcullis, and the lake and bay not far beyond. The Merrow were never more than a heavy flood away from Holgate’s lake …

He hooked the bucket onto the heavy faucet’s head and, grabbing the pump’s handle, filled it in one long stroke. He was back inside and up the stairs nearly as fast as he’d come down, the burden of the water secondary to the fact that a dead Witch would mar his record.

Nearly as much as the escape of a previous Witch had.

The Witches were all he had. For better or worse they were his only go at immortality. His was one of the most important jobs in all of the Americas. His might be a name to continue on along with those of other great men. Like that of presidents or generals, or like his father.

Or he could be forgotten, leaving nothing of note behind.

He could fail.

“Here,” he said, scooping the water and pressing the ladle against her thin, pale lips. Water poured across her cheeks and chin, spilling down her throat to soak into the linen shift she wore.

She shivered and choked, but she swallowed. She drank. So he scooped more and poured more and she sputtered, her already large eyes going wider. He slowed the flow of liquid, letting her catch up with a few eager swallows before she shook her head and mumbled something.

“What?”

Her eyes, now slightly brighter, remained unfocused and her lips fluttered before she had air enough behind her thoughts to form words. She blinked at him, coughed, and tried once more.

Her voice strained and small, she said, “They come. And there is naught to be done for it.”

She gasped and the stormcell in his lantern blazed so bright blue he fell backward, blinded. The lantern flew from his hands, glass splintering as the thing burst into pieces, the glaring soul stone tumbling free and into the thick and dusty hay.

By the time it returned to its normal intensity and most of his vision was back, Sybil was the cold of death, the very same cold as wildly running water.

“The stone,” Bran hissed, sifting through the wet straw and grime, his fingers blackening with filth as he hunted for the elusive sparkle of a soul stone. “Aaah!” he exclaimed, pulling his hand up to his face, glass sticking out of it like porcupine quills. “Damnnn…” Bleeding and cursing, he pulled the splinters free, and stood to sweep the floor with his booted foot instead, fingers plunged into his mouth and filling it with the taste of iron and dirt.

His stomach dropped when he heard the distinct sound of something scraping across the last bit of a grate before clinking its way into the darkness of the room’s single and filthy drain.

The soul stone was as good as gone.

Philadelphia

In the generously appointed rooms that Jordan Astraea called her own, there was a flurry of activity in preparation for her natal day celebration.

“No. No!” a young woman in a fine gown snapped, swatting away a servant’s hands as they tried to fix her friend’s hair just so. “Laura, leave it be,” Catrina demanded.

The seated girl spoke, her voice soft, nearly shy. “Chloe…”

Another servant, this one older than the first by a dozen years and larger by at least the same number of pounds, stepped forward, her hands flying up to adjust the calico bandana always knotted crisply atop her head. “Yes, Miss Jordan, milady?” She curtsied, spreading her heavy broadcloth skirts with hands the color and scent of exotic spices and more tropical climes.

“Please do go see to my good lady mother.”

Chloe nodded. “But your hair…” she said in echo to Laura’s earlier protestation. “You have not all your ribbons in place.”

Jordan groaned, leaning back on her damask-padded bench as far as her dress’s snug bodice allowed. “Leave it be,” she requested.

“Indeed,” Catrina added. “Leave it be. Surely we can handle such a mundane task.”

Chloe blinked. “If miladies so desire.”

Drawing each word out with a separate breath Catrina Hollindale, ranked Fourth of the Nine, said, “We so desire.” She clapped her gloved hands together. “Do go on now,” she urged the servants. “I daresay women of our status can finish placing a few ribbons.”

Chloe again nodded. “Far be it from me to argue with her ladyship, but it is precisely due to your superior rank and status that we merrily dress your hair for you.”

“Chloe.” Catrina’s tone was thick with warning. “Go now before I become quite cross and throw something at you.”

Both the servants and Jordan glanced at the walls, papered with boldly alternating stripes and vines and covered in numerous equally bold nicks and dings from the girls’ frequent tantrums.

Jordan’s gaze slid back to Catrina.

“I will do it,” Catrina’s pitch rose, her tone going shrill as her hand stretched out to the silver-plated brush on the mahogany dressing table before her, her eyes narrow and fixed on the servants.

Laura raised her hands and scurried for the door, Chloe close behind, but her eyes never left Lady Hollindale’s twitching fingers. The door slammed shut, and, for good measure, Catrina hefted the brush and whipped it, a wicked grin twisting her full lips when it popped against the door and the servants gasped on the other side.

Jordan watched her best friend—a girl more like a sister to her than her own two sisters by blood, young ladies who would most likely not even bother being in attendance at the evening’s festivities—warily.