Breath of Earth (26 page)

“But the signet ring—”

“She always wore gloves, like some proper lady.” His grip around Ingrid tightened, as did the hard line of his mouth. “Ambassador Blum. I wonder if she's incapable of lies. She'll tell you everything, yet nothing all at once. Most dangerous person I've ever known.”

The dust settled enough that they could see again. Ingrid let the bubble collapse and immediately began to cough. Agony seared through her shoulder. Cy held her upright. She cringed into him, dreading another earthquake in response to her pain. She felt the slightest burble, but the solid metal of the car did its job.

The autocar had become an island in a sea of bricks set within a greater ocean of deep blue fog, like gradients of color around a Caribbean atoll. The building beside them was exposed at the front like a little girl's dollhouse. There was a parlor, and an office with fine cherrywood furniture, and a bathroom where black water spurted from a shower head. A bed looked perfectly made but for a single ceiling beam dropped into the middle. A pale arm draped outside of the sheets.

“Ingrid, look at me. Not the building.” Cy's broad hands cupped both sides of her face and angled her head to look at him. Dust painted his cheeks in blotchy brown. His voice sounded softer again. “Where did Blum stab you?”

She blinked as she struggled to remember what they had been talking about. “My leg. She used dark Reiki right after so
it didn't hurt for long. It's even helping my shoulder now.”

“We've got to get to the docks to meet Fenris.”

“He can't fly through here again? There's no rope ladder?”

Cy gave her a look as he scooped her up in his arms. “Miss Ingrid, that works dandy in books, but in reality, if you have a loose rope dangling beneath anything smaller than a Tiamat class, it'll get sucked up into a turbine and could very well cause an engine fire. That's why mooring is tricky business.”

“Oh.” Bricks slid and crumbled underfoot as he hopped to the street. It unnerved her that she couldn't see his feet through the cloud. Heat still fizzled through her, as present as the miasma. The bubble had helped, but it only offset so much damage.

“Thuggees are behind the attack. I overheard their plot last night as I left Quist's. The attack was set for dawn at Mussel Rock. Maybe they're still there.”

Would San Francisco ever rise from this? Tears and filth burned her eyes. The city looked like a newsreel from Peking or Calcutta or Manila, the aftermath of hellfire and prolonged warfare. This was war. That was the attackers' intent. Why? Why strike here, not at a British holding?

Smoke lashed her face. People hobbled past, crying, muttering, some absolutely still. An older woman limped past in a long calico nightie, chin uplifted and a small straw hat on her head. In her hand she held a cage containing cooing lovebirds.

“How are they doing this? Do they . . . do they have your father?”

What a terrible thought. “Sutcliff and Blum both said Papa was dead. Killed in China. This . . . maybe there are others
like me, like Papa. I don't know. But the man who did this killed everyone else in the auxiliary so the attack could proceed without interference.”

“We'll find him. We'll interfere. But foremost, let's get to the airship and far away from Blum.”

Ingrid could see the spire of the Port Authority still upright straight down Market Street. The shredded skyline revealed mooring towers and gasbags that should have been hidden behind skyscrapers.

“Look,” she said, bobbing her head instead of pointing. Far down the pier, two Portermans were ablaze. Flames clawed the sky as the airships danced and quickly sagged, hydrogen depleted.

“The whole port may go up. If Fenris can't moor here, we'll have to catch a boat and get to Oakland.” He put more hustle into his step, though he already breathed heavily from exertion.

Up ahead, a man sobbed and cried out as he dug through bricks. Ingrid squeezed Cy's arm. “We can work that way, but I'm still holding too much power. My fever must be around a hundred and two.”

“Ingrid.” He said her name in a way that warned her a lecture was coming. “You may not be able to do much. Your power's strong, but it's a bludgeon. These buildings—it'll take time and care to get people out, and God help us all, but they don't have time and neither do we.”

A full five-story building was alight. One side of the structure had caved in. It slouched against its neighbor like they were sailors leaving a Barbary Coast saloon. Dark windows lit up with
flashes of red. People stood in the street and dumbly stared.

A loud bell dinged behind them. Cy turned. A fire wagon made to turn and confronted debris. Swerving away with the bell still ringing, the wagon rumbled down a side street, taking with it a load of half-dressed helmeted men.

Tears coursed Ingrid's cheeks. Even if the firemen made it down the block to that particular building, there wouldn't be any water. The mains had likely snapped beneath all of downtown.

Blood-streaked women stumbled past. In the road, a milk wagon sat unblemished, its wooden sides ornate with swirls of color. On the far side, a dead horse slumped in the shafts. Bricks almost completely buried it from head to yoke. Tufts of mane emerged through dust like grass in a sand dune. The horse's haunches were still propped up as if it knelt to drink from the shifting blue fog.

“You got a light?” a man asked. He stood outside a wrecked building as if he waited at a cable car stop. A gigantic suit jacket draped over his bare torso and red flannel pants. An unlit cigarette waited between his lips.

“Don't light anything,” snapped Cy. “The gas lines have been ruptured. The slightest spark will start more fires.”

“Damn.” The man lifted a hand to his cigarette. The large sleeve slid back to reveal half of his fingers in a mass of mangled, flattened flesh. Spears of bone pierced through the tips. His hand trembled violently and lowered again. “Can't think why, but I can't work my lighter.”

Ingrid sucked in a sharp breath. “How does he not know?” she whispered.

Cy walked on. “He's in shock. It happens in battle.” Rivulets of sweat trickled around his goggles and dribbled clean lines down his neck.

The tower of the Port Authority still had to be seven or eight blocks away. It was hard to gauge with other landmarks shattered. Several gunshots cracked the strange quiet of the morning. Something moved down the street. Several somethings. People screamed. Ingrid squinted to see.

Bulls. Just a few at first, then a full herd. They crowded the avenue. Even from blocks away, she could hear the mad clatter of cloven hooves on asphalt.

“God. The pens down at the port. Cy—”

He twirled in place as he looked to either side, back up the street, and then to the stampede again. “There's nowhere to go!”

Down the way, a man was tossed up by a pair of horns. He flew upward, slack like a doll, and landed somewhere amid the pounding of hooves.

“Kneel down,” Ingrid ordered.

Cy immediately dropped down to one knee, Ingrid's derriere supported by his bent leg. Her bare feet dangled; the ambient heat of the miasma stroked her skin and scalded her nerves. She drew in her breath with a sharp hiss.

Hoofbeats reverberated through the pavement and sent shudders through their bodies. Cy hugged her closer. A gun fired once, twice, followed by a bovine wail.

Ingrid shifted enough to face the onslaught, and instantly regretted it. Even after all the awful things she had just seen, she quailed to be at leg level to a mob of frenzied cattle. Their
black eyes had rolled back to reveal glints of white. Froth flew from their lips. They were a churning wall of brown, their musky scent so thick it blocked the stink of smoke and dust.

Half closing her eyes in order to focus, Ingrid thrust out a hand as if to halt the bulls.

Heat poured from her palm like water from a pitcher. The bulls didn't slow or swerve. Ingrid grimaced and ground her teeth as she braced for impact. Cy's grip on her strengthened. If he dug in any tighter, he'd rip through silk to her bare skin. The basalt underfoot shuddered and then the lead bulls smashed into her shield.

There was a blur of brown, a vision of flailing hooves, and a deafening cacophony of squeals and grunts. She poured out more heat as the bubble flexed and quivered. A bull reared up and bounced off the top. She felt it—the weight, the momentum, even the surreal scratchiness of the scabbed hide—as it slid off the far side. Then came the next crash. A bull crumpled headfirst, neck snapping. Its back end flipped up like another layer of shielding, followed by fleshy smacks and slices and squeals. Hot blood and gore splashed against the bubble. The hide tore apart like parchment. Entrails showered over them
in glossy chunks. She flinched, blinking, anticipating the hot splatter. Instead, the bubble glazed over in red.

Nausea rose in Ingrid's throat and she clenched her eyes shut, but sounds left nothing to the imagination. Raw, juicy tearing of flesh. Animal screams. Hard hooves sloshing and sliding. Thuds and thunks of tons of bodies clashing against them. Cy's fingers pressed deeply into her thigh, almost painful, but she didn't want his hold to slacken. They clung to each other, breaths rapid in terror. Then, abruptly, the pounding faded and the shudders moved past.

She opened her eyes. The fever still flowed through her, but her mental clarity had increased. Perhaps too much.

Thin light filtered through a dome of red dye accentuated by black spatters of God-knew-what. The blue fog couldn't mask the slaughterhouse-sized piles of meat mounded around them. It was as though the bulls had been packed with explosives. Some remnants were recognizable as hooves or horns or scraps of hide, but the rest was red, mushy pulp.

The air already felt drained and swampy within the bubble. Her extended hand trembled, the weight of the chain dragging on her wrist. “I've got to . . . I've got to . . .”

Cy sucked in a quivering breath. “I'm ready.”

Ingrid shut her eyes, cringing, and let the shield fall.

A slurry of hot blood and flesh rained over them. Ingrid had thought the meat market on a hot day was bad enough, but nothing compared to the fresh, raw, and rank odor that surrounded and coated them. The mush that had leaned against the barrier slid inward, sloshing against Cy's legs. Something slippery and warm pressed against her bare feet. She shuddered.

Cy cupped her body closer and stood. His arms trembled with exertion; strong as he was, he was wearing out. His feet slid as he gingerly stepped through the muck. He made it about ten feet to perch her on the tiny unburied bumper of a metal wagon. She clung to the iron caging as Cy turned away and retched.

“There,” he said. He reached a hand to wipe the back of his mouth, then looked at his hand and thought better of it. Instead, he swept a thumb over the lenses of his goggles.

“Cy, you're strong, but you can't carry me all the way.”

“I can throw you over my shoulder.”

“I wouldn't be able to see what's coming to shield us!”

His eyes clenched shut within the goggles, and then he opened them again and looked past her. “Mother of God. Not them, not now.”

Ingrid was barely able to shift on her precarious shelf to look down the street. Soldiers. “There are thousands of soldiers at the Presidio. These can't be Sutcliff's men.”

“Blum'll have the full fort at her disposal. If you're alive, you'll be in this area. They'll be told to look for you.”

“Good thing I decided to switch to a red dress.”

A weary smile creased the bloody dapples on his face. “I have an idea.”

He carried her down the next block, past more bodies and debris and a few bulls that'd been shot square in the head. He headed down a side street. Heavy smoke rolled over them and caused them both to hack and choke. Cinders whirled on the wind. This whole block was bound to go up in minutes.

“Oh, of course! There's a boarding stable over here.” Ingrid
could see the wooden storefront still intact. “But we can't trust any horses right now. They'll be as crazed as the cattle, probably more so.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Ingrid, but any sort of noble conveyance will need to wait for another day.” The wooden gate to the stables had already been busted down by an ax or hooves; whatever had done it had left the posts splintered. The sound of frenzied neighing rang out from the enclosure. Earthquakes, and now fire. The horses knew.

Cy headed straight to a wheelbarrow half filled with manure. Ingrid couldn't help but burst out laughing, even though it sparked more pain in her shoulder.

“Really, Cy?”

He kicked off the peak of the fecal mountain and looked around, as if for a place to set her down. With no options in sight, he plopped her onto the fetid pile. She winced at the prickling of straw, but by God, she was not going to complain. It couldn't make her look or smell worse than she already did.

Cy shook out his arms. “What? It's going to be a cushy ride—better than a wooden bench.”

“It's a good thing I'm not some proper lady,” she said.

“I thought you were quite proper last night.”

“Well, yes, and this is the morning after.”

“What's tonight going to be like, then? No. I don't even want to know.” He grinned, shaking his head. “Now, if you'll pardon me for a moment.”

He advanced into the stable. At the opening of the door, the desperation of the horses grew louder—squeals, kicks, panicked snorts. She heard the snap of a lock. A horse galloped
past, then another, then a dozen. Sweat soaked their withers and left long salty lines down their crests, as though they had been hauling heavy wagons uphill all day long. Embers waltzed down from the heavens.

Cy emerged, and at that moment Ingrid realized she was utterly, incorrigibly in love with the man.

Something must have shown in her gaze; he gave a little dismissive shrug as he stepped behind her to grab the handles. “I have a deep and abiding affection for horses. Wasn't about to leave them to burn.”

Yes. She loved him.

Ingrid gripped the metal sides of the wheelbarrow as he heaved it up. He wheeled her out to the street and deeper into the mishmash of businesses South of the Slot. The wooden wheel roared against the asphalt. A few reedy boys darted past, their arms loaded with burlap bags. Somewhere nearby, screams repeated to a strange rhythm. She hunched up her shoulders as if she could block out the sound. Cy jogged down a block, then two, dodging debris. Several buildings smoldered. A rancid stream of black water gushed from a sewer grate.

“Stop! Stop there!” a deep voice yelled behind them. Cy turned. Ingrid leaned to see around him. A portly man advanced on them, holding out a rod with a blue crystal on the tip.

“Sir?” asked Cy, as pleasant as always.

“I need that wheelbarrow. Fire's coming, and I must empty my vault.” Ashes danced on a wind that was far too warm for a crisp April morning.

“I'm sorry, sir, but this woman is injured. We need to get to the dock. If you go to the stable a few blocks back—”

“No! You're here, my building's here!”

The blue fog churned, boiling. “Cy!” Ingrid gasped.

That slight distraction was all the stranger needed. With a wildness in his eyes reminiscent of the stampeding cattle, he dove forward, Tesla rod extended. Cy shifted to draw his own rod, but she knew he wouldn't be fast enough.

The thin structure of the wheelbarrow hardly filtered the heat that coursed upward and directly into her spine. Her vision speckled in black. She reached out blindly for Cy and found the backseat of his pants. Propriety damned, she planted her palm against his pocket. She pushed out power just as she heard the electric zap of the rod and a loud crackle as it made contact. Cy cried out.

No. She would not allow him to be hurt.

Ingrid couldn't see the electricity with her eyes, but she knew it. She knew power. Heat channeled through her palm and through Cy. She envisioned him like a lightning rod on a rooftop, the electricity passing straight on through. She sheathed his skin, creating a formfitting bubble, but the power still needed an outlet, as hers did. The blast from the Tesla rod coursed atop his skin but couldn't penetrate. She felt the spark against her palm like a question, a test, as it tried to enter her instead. She gritted her teeth and shoved it away.

Denied, it glanced back across Cy's body and straight into the rod, which promptly exploded. The recoil sent Cy lurching backward over the wheelbarrow handles. The wheelbarrow tipped. Ingrid screamed as she slid off her bed of manure.

She couldn't touch the ground. She wouldn't.

She made herself stop.

The boiling heat of the miasma licked and lapped at her skin. Ingrid opened her eyes. She hovered inches over the basalt, floating atop the blue fog like an Italian fishing boat on the bay. She vented energy in order to stay up, even as she absorbed more.

“Cy, if you don't mind, can you pick me up?” Her voice sounded unnaturally high to her own ears. Cy stood with a scrape of boots on basalt bricks. The wheelbarrow rattled as he set it upright.

“Woman, you amaze me. I don't know how you did that, how you do any of this.” He bent beside her. His arms fit against her curves. At his touch, she undid her hold on gravity and sagged against him.

“I'm learning as I go.” She nestled back into her bed of manure. The fever made her fuzzy-headed again. Her vision warped the cityscape like a mirage. Venting power didn't do enough, not as the quakes continued. She let her eyes close. “That was . . . almost flying.”

“Don't tell Fenris. He may want to test that hypothesis.”

“What happened, back there? The man, he—”

“He's gone, Ingrid. The metal shards, they . . . just take my word.”

“Oh.” A pause. “I killed him.” She expected more guilt, more emotion, but instead she just felt tired. Her stomach roiled, and even with the world in black, everything bobbed and wavered.

“You didn't mean to.”

“I bet Papa didn't mean to kill anyone in China either, but he did. What am I? What is this? For God's sake, geomancy is
supposed to be a business venture, all about energy and rocks. Not this. Not this.” Her words slurred.

“We're almost to the dock. Hold on.”

She did. She clenched the curved metal lips of the wheelbarrow and shut her eyes against the world. The foulness of smoke increased. Buildings crackled as they burned. She licked her lips and tasted blood and soot.

The fresher scent of salt and fish carried on the wind. The fierce roar of kermanite engines on high, louder now with the lack of ground traffic, almost drowned out the madness along the Embarcadero.

“Come on, lads! Get aboard!”

“Should we grab the freight? We need to get paid! This lot's expected in San Diego—”

“Please, let us on! We don't have money but I swear—”

“Mama! Mama, it hurts, it hurts!”

Ingrid squinted. The world still wavered. “Damn it all, why won't you behave yourself?” she growled at the blue-fogged ground.

“What?” asked Cy, leaning closer.

“Nothing,” she muttered.

“I don't see the
Bug
along this section,” he said. The wooden wheel whirred beneath the cart as he pushed her along at a good clip.

“Hey! You, with the wheelbarrow! I'll pay you five hundred cash for that!”

The wheelbarrow rolled faster. “She's injured! I need it for now!” Cy yelled over his shoulder, then muttered, “I should probably carry you again. This many people, there could be
a riot over this cart, but I would feel better if I could—there! I see it!”

“The airship?” she mumbled. Dirigibles often looked alike with their white or parchment-colored envelopes and golden orichalcum cockpits. They looked even more alike now, as airships danced in place like chorus girls, multiplying as she watched. She giggled to herself. At least airships didn't kick their heels in the air.

Blurry as everything was, she did recognize a larger craft farther down, the bold red circle of the rising sun on the side. She shivered at the thought of Ambassador Blum.

“Ingrid.” Cy's hand rested on her forehead. “God Almighty. You're almost as hot as when I found you.” His skin, sticky with matter, tugged at hers as he pulled away.

“Every time I vented, more quakes,” she mumbled. “Couldn't . . . wear it down. If had kermanite . . .”

“There are empty crystals on board, I made sure of it. They're small, but better than nothing. Stay with me, Ingrid.” His arms scooped around her waist and thighs again. Nuggets of manure plunked onto the ground as he lifted her.

Her head rocked against his chest. It was nice there. Cozy. “Like it how you say my name, even when you say ‘Miss.' ‘Mizzing-red.'”

“I like saying your name, Miss Ingrid.” His low whisper sent a different kind of hot chill through her.

“We survive this . . . I want a bath. And . . . kiss you again. Not at the same time.” Not that that was such a bad thought for later on, but during this particular bath? Absolutely not. The tub would need to be steeped in bleach afterward.

Cy smiled beneath his goggles. “Let's focus on surviving first.”

Being so close to the airship brought a new spring to his step. They abandoned the wheelbarrow and he worked his way through the teeming mob. Men and women yelled up at the towers and airships, waving cash in hand. Men with shotguns guarded mooring towers. Children cried. Babies wailed. Caged chickens, in a frantic and fluttering mass, showered the ground with speckled feathers.

“That ship can fit my boys! We aim to take it, and no damn pigtail's going to stop us! You been beaten, but we can finish the job.”