Breath of Earth (11 page)

“I need my kermanite, Cy,” said Fenris. “I can't piece together the engine compartment until I can wire it in.”

“We have more immediate concerns, Fenris. We just escaped from a Durendal full of soldiers.”

There was a dramatic shift in Fenris's expression. “Oh. Are you okay?” He glanced back at the mechanical debris. “If we can get the kermanite, I can assemble the
Bug
and be ready to go by morning if you pack up—”

“Not that sort of trouble. Not yet anyway.” Mr. Jennings sighed and looked to Ingrid.

“Wait a second. You mean you rescued her from soldiers? You put yourself at risk because of
her
?” Those strange raccoon eyes appraised Ingrid and obviously found her very, very wanting.

Ingrid stiffened. The very notion of weakness on her part brought a flare of power to her skin. “He didn't rescue me. He . . . well . . .”

“I was an avenue of escape, that's all.” He said it in such a gentle way that she was placated. “Fenris, don't look at her like that. Here's what happened.”

Mr. Jennings proceeded to summarize the day's events while strategically leaving out the matter of Ingrid threatening to shoot him, or the fact she'd flung him back into a wall and almost brained him with a clock.

That made her think. If Mr. Jennings had been concussed by his strike into the wall, it certainly didn't show in his driving or wits after the fact. He had seen what she did, but hadn't said a thing. Why? Did he intend to hold it over her as blackmail?

Fenris listened to everything, acknowledging points with the occasional nod. Once Mr. Jennings was done, he said, “So you've brought home the person who can get my kermanite.”

“Rather myopic, aren't you?” Ingrid snapped.

He showed no reaction to her attitude. “When I'm in a project, I need to finish it.”

“Well, just about everyone I know was killed today, and Mr. Sakaguchi might be dead now, as far as I know.” Tears threatened again. She did not want to cry in front of these strange men.

“You've dealt with a terrible trauma today, Miss Ingrid. My apologies that you must endure my partner's acerbic nature atop that.”

Mr. Jennings adjusted his glasses on the arch of his nose
and offered her a soft smile. He cared. The knowledge caused sudden warmth to bloom in her chest, and it felt so much like the tingle of an earthquake that she almost dropped to the ground to pull in energy—but the origin of this heat was entirely in the wrong place.

Damn it all. If he kept looking at her like that, she might not care a lick if he blackmailed her.

“I can get kermanite for you.” She almost regretted the words as they slipped out, but she desperately needed allies, even if this Fenris acted like he sat on something spiny.

“You can? Tonight?” Fenris perked up, and then abruptly scowled. “Goddamnit! If the auxiliary's gone, the ready supply of kermanite is nil. Prices are going to go cirrus-high. What sort of rates are you charging?”

“Fenris,” snapped Mr. Jennings. “If she asks market value, then we'll pay what we need to.” He turned to her. “Miss, you've already been through quite enough today. There's no need to fuss over—”

“You helped me. You helped Mr. Sakaguchi. I won't inflate the price, but I do ask for a favor in return. I can't . . . I can't go home. I hate the idea of hiding from my own government's men, but . . .”

Mr. Jennings nodded. “Once the military's decided something, it can be as single-minded as Fenris here.”

“Hey!”

“If you can get me to the Bank of Italy over on Davis, I can access Mr. Sakaguchi's stash of kermanite.”

“The bank can't be open now?”

“No, but the manager lives next door, and I've often fetched
parcels for Mr. Sakaguchi at this time of evening, even on holidays.” She and Mr. Sakaguchi had been visiting the bank often to fill up a particular piece of kermanite that was about head size, perfect for a Sprite. The heat currently brewing in her veins would be adequate to finish the crystal. “You've been especially kind, Mr. Jennings. This is the least I can do.”

“We live as bachelors here, but providing you a refuge is the least
we
can do.” Mr. Jennings turned to his partner and glared. “Right, Fenris?”

“Seems she's already dropped us waist-deep in manure.” Fenris shrugged. Sweat and oil seemed to have lacquered his shirt to his shoulders. “If she can get my kermanite and avoid bringing any more gunfights or explosions here, then fine. I just want to get my work done.”

“It's a deal, then.” Ingrid looked to Mr. Jennings. “Let's go fetch that rock.”

APRIL
16, 1906

“Hey.” Something hard nudged Ingrid in the shoulder and shattered the blackness of sleep. She blinked. Ahead of her was a mottled metal wall with rusted bolts staring at her like albino eyes. She shifted on a mattress so thin that the bony knobs of the bed frame left imprints on her body. Unusual stiffness lingered in her back and down her legs. The events of the previous day flooded through her mind. The auxiliary. Mr. Sakaguchi. The soldiers. Mr. Jennings.

That's whose bed she occupied. Mr. Jennings hadn't shared the bed with her, of course. He had grabbed a few blankets and said he'd make do on a car seat down in the shop. His scent lingered, reminiscent of a spilled bottle of ink.

Awareness circled in her mind. She had slept in a strange man's bed. She was still in it. Her hand grazed the thin mattress and wondered how his body fit against it, tall as he was, and smiled at the thought.

Something cold jabbed into her shoulder. She lurched upright with a gasp. Her forehead collided with a wooden shelf. The audible thud ricocheted through her skull. She bounced backward onto the bed as it squawked in indignation.

“He warned you about that.”

Rubbing her head, Ingrid rolled to find Fenris standing about five feet away, a long metal pole in his grip. The bedchamber was little more than a storage closet tucked away in the warehouse loft. Light poured through the window and caused her to wince.

“Did you just poke me?”

Fenris looked at the pole in his hand. “Yes, well, I didn't want to grab your shoulder.” He nodded toward her. “You like him, don't you? Cy?”

She scowled as her cheeks flamed. Somehow, the observation sounded worse from him than it did from Lee. “And if I do?”

“Don't get your hopes up, that's all. We're hopeless wanderers. With his pretty little accent, Cy always has girls fawning over him. He leaves broken hearts wherever we go.”

She masked a flinch. “I don't fawn over anyone.” Cy's voice could probably calm a horse enough to walk through a fiery barn, but she didn't want to think of him with other girls. Or leaving.

Not like she'd made much progress on that goal of world peace yet.

Ingrid swung her legs around to the metal floor, taking care that her skirt behaved itself. The stiff pleats of her pseudo kimono had held up surprisingly well. She reached for her shoes.

“What time is it?” she asked, avoiding direct eye contact.

“Past nine.”

Fenris wore the exact same clothes as the previous night, or maybe all of his clothes were in the same stained condition. His face, however, had been washed, revealing caramel skin lighter than Ingrid's. He could be mixed like her, or of Latin descent. His spindly arms crossed his chest as he watched her, making no effort to grant her modesty.

“You haven't been to sleep yet?” Ingrid asked.

“I'll sleep when I'm dead. In the meantime, there's coffee and work to do. Oh, and there's a Chinese boy downstairs waiting for you.”

“What?!” Ingrid jumped upright, only at the last second leaning forward to avoid the shelf.

“Come on, then.” Fenris left. Cursing, Ingrid shoved her feet into her shoes and hobbled after him, at the last second remembering to grab her hat from the floor. It was hopelessly creased and battered from its misuse the previous day, but she needed some sort of head cover.

Her feet pounded out a metallic drumbeat down the staircase as she looked around the sprawling warehouse. Mr. Jennings had taken her on a quick tour after they returned from their bank errand the night before. He had insisted on paying for the work outright, and she hadn't argued with him that much. Considering everything that had happened in the past day, possessing hundreds in ready cash seemed wise.

The open section of the warehouse was the men's personal playground. The airship, dubbed
Palmetto Bug,
had been made from scrap. How and where a person could find something
as expensive as orichalcum as scrap, she hadn't a clue.

Fenris had the brisk pace of a man with a to-do list the length of his arm, but with her urgent stride, Ingrid quickly caught up. As they passed through the door to the front office where Lee awaited, she slowed down, suddenly overwhelmed with dread. Was Mr. Sakaguchi still alive?

She desperately read Lee's face for clues. He looked suitably blank, a proper errand boy.

“Miss Carmichael.” Lee granted her a low bow.

She didn't care one whit for propriety. “Lee, how is he? Is he alive?”

Lee looked sidelong at Fenris, and Fenris flicked a dismissive wrist and showed no sign of leaving. Lee faced Ingrid again. “He's alive. But it was a grave wound. Uncle almost lost him a few times.” His voice sounded even, but Ingrid detected the anxiety underneath.

“But right now, how is he?”

“He won't be walking out of there anytime soon. He's still on the edge. If infection sets in . . .”

Mr. Sakaguchi could still die.

She closed her eyes, wavering, as she remembered when Mama died. Ingrid had stayed at her bedside through hours of that long and awful labor. Dr. Hatsumi had visited and done what he could, all the while muttering about discordant energies. A Pasteurian had come and said much the same, but in regard to sepsis and bacterial infections. Mama hadn't helped matters as she insisted she'd be fine, even as her skin took on a white and waxy sheen, and she outright refused to go to the hospital.

Mr. Sakaguchi had been on a trip to Atlanta and was on the fastest Porterman home. “By the time I land, I'm sure the labor will be done and she'll scold me for returning early,” he'd told Ingrid over the telephone before he boarded the airship. Mr. Sakaguchi, ever the optimist.

The next call Ingrid made was for an ambulance carriage. By the time it arrived, Mama had slipped away. The hand in Ingrid's grasp turned limp as a cut celery stalk left in the sun.

Mr. Sakaguchi returned home and made it to the doorway of Mama's empty room before sinking into a puddle of grief. Ingrid had grasped his hand then. It had also been limp, but still carried the quiver of his pulse.

She needed to hold his hand, know that heartbeat.

Ingrid took in a shaky breath and opened her eyes. “Take me to him, Lee. Please.”

“Ingrid. No.” Lee's gaze flicked to Fenris and back to her. “I'm just here to tell you how he is. I'm not sure when I'll be able to come back.” A peculiar emotion flashed over his face. Fear?

“Then that's all the more reason for me to go. Mama—you were there when I lost Mama. You know she kept saying she was fine, and then she went to sleep, and . . .”

“Damn it, Ingrid. Don't put me in this position. Please.”

“I've been to Chinatown to go shopping plenty of times along with you and Mama and Jiao.”

“We'd have to go off Dupont for this.” Lee's expression was hard. “You don't belong there.”

Dupont Street acted as a neutral zone where different skin colors mingled for the sake of business. While Ingrid had surmised
that Lee's uncle likely didn't practice in a certificate-adorned establishment, leaving Dupont meant discarding money, morals, and any remaining shreds of virtue. It meant entering the full domain of the
tongs
that had filled the power vacuum left by the fall of China's government.

When Ingrid was young, before Japan claimed Manchukuo, the Cantonese
tongs
had warred with each other in the narrow alleys of Chinatown. Assassinations by hatchet men dominated the daily headlines in
The Call,
sensationalized as anything the Thuggees did now. Since the influx of refugees, the
tongs
hadn't slaughtered their own, nor did they physically fight against Americans. That would have only invited obliteration. Instead, according to the complaints of men like Warden Calhoun, the Chinese
tongs
bled their host nation through vice—opium dens, gambling parlors, and prostitution—all evidence of the weak spirits and immorality of the Chinese race.

Mr. Sakaguchi had always taken care that Ingrid knew the counterpoint to the men's arguments. “True, the
tongs
manage these sordid shops off Dupont Gai,” he murmured, “but the whites are the ones financing them. What does that say of their morals?”

“Mr. Sakaguchi!” she had whispered. “Don't use their words.”

“You know very well that
gai
is another word for street.”

“That doesn't mean I'm
supposed
to know,” she mumbled, wary of the wardens close by.

A wave of sadness passed over his face. “When we kill a word, it's akin to killing off the dodo bird. Nothing can replace it, and it's impossible to know the scope of the loss.”

The simile had made her roll her eyes at the time. Mr. Sakaguchi could make anything into a school lesson.

Now Ingrid would pay her weight in kermanite if she could hear him lecture again. He just needed to be healed and out of Chinatown before hatchet men became aware of his presence.

“Off of Dupont.” Ingrid nodded. “Very well.”

Lee shook his head, clearly exasperated. “Ingrid, this isn't a place for you to go. Ever.”

“Take me there, just this once, Lee. Please. Let me have the chance to . . . to say good-bye. Just in case.” She knew she had Lee when he groaned and trailed a hand over his face.

“I'm the first to admit that social conventions are a weakness of mine.” Fenris shifted as he leaned on the wall. “But even I know that a woman needs a proper escort into Chinatown, and a Chinese boy doesn't qualify.”

“Where's Mr. Jennings?” she asked.

“Making deliveries, and probably will be for a while yet. But I suppose I can go.” Fenris straightened and sighed as if he took on an onerous burden.

The man was right, damn him. She and Lee couldn't go about on errands together; it wasn't proper, or safe. Lee took a risk every time he walked the city. Most American men in their majority had fought against the Chinese and had the scars, synthetic limbs, and grudges to prove it. Some regarded the death of any Chinese as a favor to the war effort abroad.

She grudgingly nodded. “Thank you. It's greatly appreciated.”

“Anyone else you want to invite along?” Lee asked. “Maybe the grocer? A fishmonger?”

“No, but it would be nice if we could drop by the house for a change of clothes.”

He shook his head, his unruly black hair draping over his eyes. “That, I definitely nix. There's a Durendal parked out front and several soldiers on watch. Jiao's too scared to even try to go inside. I can go elsewhere to get a lady's coat to cover your stained dress.”

“That'll do,” she said. Lee always had his ways. She looked at Fenris. “Mr. Jennings only called you Fenris. What's your full name?”

“Fenris.”

Ingrid clenched her fists. It was a good thing she didn't hold any energy now, or Fenris might find himself blasted into the nearest wall, whether she intended it or not. “I can't call you that in public. We're not that familiar.” And we're not going to be, she wanted to add.

He rolled his eyes as he stepped closer to the door. “Then call me Mr. Fenris.”

The morning was crisp and cloudy, and the people of San Francisco bustled about their normal business. Ingrid, Lee, and Fenris melded with the crowd. Paper boys hawked the morning news. Rubber-lined and wooden wheels rattled and rolled by. On high, airships were blips against the gray canvas of sky.

Lee made a quick stop at a strange house and emerged with a tapestry-style overcoat that worked well to cover Ingrid's dress. Considering the circumstances, she wasn't about to ask questions. She tied the belt at her waist and walked on, afraid of what awaited her in Chinatown.

Afraid of what awaited the city, period.

“I haven't been out in a while.” Mr. Fenris took in a deep breath, as though the air was pleasant. “And to be out walking with a lady!” He sounded surprisingly happy.

“Considering your personality, that must be a rarity,” she snapped, then cringed.

Mr. Fenris looked away and sped his steps, but not before Ingrid saw the wounded look in his eyes.

Ingrid cursed beneath her breath, hating the meanness of her words and knowing it was far too late to take them back. He'd even called her a lady. Fenris was peculiar, but he was helping her, even if he was doing so only because she had fetched his precious kermanite. She tugged her hat tighter onto her head, as if that might inspire her wits to function.

With Mr. Fenris walking a short distance ahead, Lee fell into stride with her.

“What do you know about these men?” Ingrid asked in a low voice, and nodded toward Fenris.

“They've been here for a while. They have a reputation for high-quality work, but they're rather odd in that regard.”

“How so?”

“They'll take any customer—Chinese, Mexican, Brit, anyone who drops into port—and they charge an honest rate, same that they'd charge a white. Plus, no abuse comes along with it. They probably get more business than they can handle now. Jennings is the front of the partnership. No one ever sees this Fenris Braun.”