Thunderstruck

  “The question would be, though, would your book be fiction or nonfiction?”

  Loftkin sputtered. “What did you say happened to your predecessor? He never gave me a headache gathering news.”

  “It came to our attention that some of his sources were recycling news. And flat-out lying about certain aspects of what’s occurring in this great country of ours.”

  “Really?” Councilman Loftkin stretched his mouth into an astonished gape.

  “The man was living like a king—getting monies from somewhere. Imagine. A reporter living high on the hog. Not a clean writer’s destiny, I daresay. Makes a man look suspicious, living beyond his means.”

  “Or stupid,” Loftkin muttered. “Run the story or don’t,” he said, tucking his arms behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “The airships will run it and leave you and your newspaper wanting. Reporting is such a very competitive business.”

  Loftkin knew the reporter watched him—studied him—his eyes narrowed, pencil poised above his notepad.

  “What a pity if news broadcasts between airships overtook newspapers on the ground.” Loftkin pulled forward out of the chair and, flexing his fingers, he folded his hands together on the desk. “News broadcast over the airways needs someone with a reassuring voice. I’m not certain there are many associated with newspapers having that quality … Jobs might become scarce if you no longer compete.”

  The reporter tapped his pencil against the pad. “Let me get this straight … The child’s name was Terrence?”

  The Councilman smiled. “Yes. With two r’s.”

  “Very good,” the reporter added, writing as quickly as he could.

  ***

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Most of their group had crossed to the Tempest to ready more automatons. Jordan stayed behind, insisting she needed to watch the ship closely a little while. No one questioned her—no one but Evie really understood what she did and it seemed, more and more, that Evie didn’t care what she did as long as it got done.

  It was never quiet on the ship—the storms that held them aloft whistled softly with distant-sounding winds and the occasional snap of lightning punctuating the steady purr of thunder. But the ship could still feel nearly peaceful if Jordan focused on Conducting and forgot everything else.

  Their group reunited for dinner, though it seemed none of the ones who had gone to help with the automatons (other than Rowen) had any appetite.

  Rowen always had an appetite.

  Caleb moved food around on his plate and Bran simply stared at his, several shades paler than he normally was. Even the Wandering Wallace only ate a few bites.

  “What is wrong?” Jordan finally asked. “Is the food not to your liking?”

  Silent, they stared at the table.

  “Something happened over there, didn’t it?”

  Rowen set down a chunk of bread and looked at her.

  “Don’t,” Caleb said to Rowen.

  “She asked.”

  “So you’ll confirm her misconception?”

  Rowen paused. “Just because one—”

  Caleb slammed his scarred fist down. “He’s pretty, Jordan,” he said of Rowen, “pretty ignorant.”

  “Stop,” she whispered.

  Rowen stayed very still, watching her.

  “Do not insult him, Caleb,” she warned. “Tell me what happened. I’ll choose what to think of it.”

  “Another automaton was switched out,” Rowen said slowly.

  “Switched out?”

  The Wandering Wallace clarified. “A Witch was ill-prepared for rebirth.”

  Caleb covered his head in his hands. “He never stopped screaming …”

  “He couldn’t be reasoned with. A storm erupted in the hold,” Rowen added, “before we could pull the stone. Not horrible, but messy.”

  “It sounds horrible,” Jordan said.

  “Out of all of them, only two failed,” the Wandering Wallace reminded.

  The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. When people finally gave up on eating, they drifted away, taking the elevator to their rooms.

  The Wandering Wallace curled by the horn and accompanying flywheel of the ship’s intercom; Miyakitsu, decked out in so many stormcells it was hard not to notice, stroked a slow hand down his back soothingly. He twitched beneath her touch.

  Caleb and Rowen stayed seated nearby; she felt them watching her work as much as they glared at each other.

  The Wandering Wallace paused and took a sip of water before leaning away from the horn. He cleared his throat.

  This was the most relaxing time of each night for Jordan—the time when the Wandering Wallace concluded the day’s news and headlines and sang a soothing song to the passengers. His “lullaby to the liner.” On nights the ship still felt haunted by its previous captain, the lullaby was what kept her sane.

  She gripped the ship’s wheel hard.

  Closer to sane.

  Caleb’s hand snapped down on Jordan’s and he sought her eyes. “Set the ship so you sleep tonight.”

  She conceded, adjusting a few dials and cogs before stepping away from the dais. Caleb was waiting for her.

  Rowen just watched them.

  “Are you escorting me?” she asked.

  “Yes, darling,” Caleb said with a smile so sweet Jordan’s lips reflected its curve. In the dim light sifting through the cradle of clouds, she looked past his puckered cheek and only saw his undeniable beauty.

  “Good night, everyone,” Jordan said, but she meant it most for Rowen. She wasn’t sure why she felt a need to say good-bye to him, but she did.

  Caleb and she rode the elevator in silence. Caleb stepped out when she did, followed her to her door, and paused outside of it, every bit the gentleman.

  Jordan did something she did not expect she would ever do—she invited him inside.

  “Oh, darling,” Caleb protested, looking at the cabin’s Spartan decor. “You deserve so much more. If I were you, I would take the captain’s apartments.”

  “No,” she whispered, rubbing her forehead as she slipped out of her shoes. “Never.” She nudged them underneath her bed and sat on its edge.

  He cocked his head but nodded slowly. “Some other posh cabin then,” he said. “But something grander than this.”

  Jordan shrugged.

  “Go about your nighttime ritual,” he encouraged.

  She blinked a few times.

  He laughed at her. “I see,” he said. “You think my gentlemanly ways will vanish if you strip to a mere shift.”

  Jordan fought to keep her breathing steady and assessed his statement. She felt no threat from him. Not of any sort. “No,” she said, sounding as puzzled as she felt.

  “Good,” he said, watching her closely. “Because I am one of the few who is absolutely no threat to you. You are beautiful, but not of my type.”

  She squinted at him, unsure. How could she be beautiful but not attractive? She thought back to their time in Holgate’s grim Tanks.

  “Quite seriously, you need some rest.” He turned his back. “Please change. We can talk as you do and perhaps after, too. Perhaps it is time we exchange stories.”

  “Exchange stories?” she asked, fingers hesitating as she slowly undid her dress. Feeling air on her back, she paused, licking her lips, heart pounding. Her eyes closed and she fought to find logic. To find trust. Caleb never hurt her—he never acted like he might. But she had been hurt before.

  Horribly.

  Repeatedly.

  Caleb’s voice, calm and steady, brought her back. “I answer one of your questions with a story and you, in turn, answer one of mine.”

  Something deep inside her insisted she trust Caleb. She had to start with someone.

  Stepping out of her dress, Jordan swept it aside with a tentative foot, snugged her shift modestly around her shoulders, and announced, “I am ready for bed.”

  Caleb turned, and looking at the crumpled dress on her floor, shook his head. “Dear g
irl, you are most certainly not ready. Pick up that thing you call a dress and at least hang it up. And run a brush through what’s left of your hair. Just because you’ve been through a lot does not mean you should look like you have. Tomorrow I will get a new outfit,” he announced as she did as he had ordered.

  She again sat on her bed. “May I ask you for a story first?”

  “Strike for the heart.”

  She swallowed hard but nodded. “The scars—on your face,” she specified, eyes dropping briefly to the others crisscrossing his fingers, “how did you get them?”

  “Ah,” he said. “I got them because someone disagreed passionately with my choice of lover.”

  She straightened at this, listening more closely.

  “I was known for playing the pianoforte. I was considered quite the artist and held in some esteem. As you can imagine, artists tend to associate with other artists and so I met the most fabulous painter …” His voice grew soft and wistful. “It was as he painted a private portrait of me that his father walked in.”

  Jordan wasn’t immediately sure why she gasped—at the fact he loved someone of the same gender, that he had finally made it clear after alluding to that romantic love while in the Tanks, or the fact he had been caught? Perhaps it was a bit of all three.

  “I was banished from his household—told to never show my face again.” He sighed. “But love does not work that way. I had to see him. We were in love. I did not realize I had been seen until hours later as I strolled a quiet street. They grabbed me.” He looked away, steeling himself. “They had knives. It seemed like dozens of them. One of them said, He said never show your face there again—this is a face you’ll think twice about showing. And they carved into me.”

  Jordan’s hands clamped over her mouth but a whimper leaked out between her fingers.

  “When I did not die immediately, and did not die of infection soon after, his father did the last thing he could short of having me murdered. He accused me of Witchery. And I was taken to Holgate.”

  “You are not a Witch,” Jordan whispered.

  “No, just someone blinded by love.”

  “Oh, Caleb.” Jordan stretched out a hand, but he waved away her concern.

  “No, no, I will suffer none of your pity. I am alive and I have learned important lessons as a result of surviving. One: Money does not equate to class or education. Two: Those with the most power often have the least compassion; and three: Even in this most modern of ages there are barbarians.”

  Jordan’s hand dropped and she hugged herself, staring at him.

  “Now, dear child. It is your turn. Who did this,” he moved his hand in a circle encompassing both her physical and spiritual self, “to you. You have been beaten far lower than Making could have taken you.”

  Filling her lungs and closing her eyes, she struggled to hold all the thoughts—all the pain—together long enough to explain what the Artemesia’s captain had done.

  By the end of her stilted explanation, they were both seated together on her modest bed.

  Crying.

  ***

  Aboard the Artemesia

  It was happening again. She was Topside, on the dais, the ship’s wheel firmly in hand, a sense of control seeping in to fill her with warmth, when he appeared.

  The captain. He strode straight to Jordan and grabbed her, pulling her from the ship’s wheel and laughing as it spun loose, laughing until his mouth covered hers, swallowing her screams. Her arms were nothing but last night’s noodles, soft, weak and worthless no matter how much she struggled … He had a firm grip on her.

  Body and soul.

  The others stood watching her shame, standing still and solemn. Disapproving statues, their eyes were fixed on the captain kissing her, bending her body back, and sweeping her skirts away.

  They watched. They knew.

  They did nothing.

  Why did she think they would stop him? She had not managed to.

  Something inside her curled into a ball.

  Withered and died.

  The ship groaned beneath her feet, the deck splintering, boards popping loose. It opened, a cracked maw, sucking her down into the darkness, stealing her from his grip. The great and drifting ship fed her into its every fiber, running her like water until she flooded the ship’s bow.

  She was the figurehead with her arms flung wide and her head bent back. She was the woman with angel wings unfurled, not struck by the ship but guiding it forward with a joyful smile and a burst of song.

  She and the ship were one, flying, merged beyond flesh, bone, and wooden beams, one living, breathing entity with only a solitary desire: to feel freedom fill her wings and speed her to bright new adventures and places unknown.

  ***

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Jordan jumped, her mattress creaking, waking to the image of a man by her bedside. He did not move. Did not jump or grab her, did not … she forced the thought away and let the haze of sleep clear from her vision.

  Caleb sat in the chair only a foot from her bed, his head nodding on his neck as he slept and fought sleep at the same time. Faithful as a hound, she thought. As unconditionally loving as the finest dog. And handsome to the point of being pretty—even though scars had rearranged the alignment of the features on his face years ago.

  He was pretty inside and out.

  She curled a fist beneath her cheekbone and watched him. Pretty inside and out, and he understood where she’d been, how she’d changed. Why then did she not feel the things for him she logically should? Yes, he had mentioned a man when they had been in the Tanks together at Holgate with only most of one wall separating them. But the man could have been a brother or uncle or cousin. Or simply a faithful friend.

  Defining a person’s relationship status was a difficult thing when you barely knew the person himself. And how dare she define anyone’s closest relationship when she couldn’t even define her own?

  He snorted in his sleep, his head lolling. He sniffled and snorted again, his eyes popping open, and he smiled drowsily at Jordan. “You’re awake.”

  “And so are you,” she said.

  “I will leave you to your morning routine,” he said, rising and stretching. “And I will return for you soon. Perhaps then you might indulge me.”

  She sat up in the bed, feeling the mattress shift beneath her. “How so?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  But he was already by the door, and he merely turned to her and smiled, saying, “I guess you will need to wait and see, dear girl.” The door closed.

  Jordan rose slowly from her bed, her eyes fixed to the chair. It was the first time anyone had stayed in her room and not hurt her. She smacked her lips together. It was the first time she had trusted anyone enough to fall asleep near them.

  Caleb was … She rubbed her hand across her head, feeling the way the hair stood straight up or stuck out to the sides, creating what looked like a dark-brown painter’s brush that resided on her head. Caleb thought she was beautiful. She knew she was not, and even his gentle attitude and the way he overlooked her obvious flaws—even that did not move her to finding him attractive.

  Pretty, yes. Beautiful in an odd way. But … Her stomach squeezed at the idea of finding him attractive.

  She was not sure she even found Rowen attractive anymore. The weight in her stomach warned her not to examine that line of thought too closely, and she obeyed, moving to the mirror to make her hair look less …

  … offensive? She ran her fingers through it, managing to get most of it to point in a similar direction.

  Well, it did not matter now what she thought of Rowen. Not after he had seen her looking the way she did. He was far too caught up in physical appearances to want to be seen with anyone who didn’t look at least as handsome as he did.

  Even with that awkward hairy growth on his face that some might define as a beard and mustache.

  He was still Rowen.

  Chapter Nine

  Love and hate are e
motions that feed on themselves.

  —Honoré de Balzac

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Jordan turned away from the ship’s wheel, surprised to see Rowen standing there, holding out a steaming cup of coffee. She blinked at him, not sure what to do or say.

  He held it out, making it clear it was intended for her.

  Hesitantly, she took it, holding both cup and saucer. “Thank you,” she said, staring into the pale brown drink. He had added cream. She only had coffee with him one time, during an adventure into the Below. She had wrinkled her nose up at the black and bitter drink until he tempered it with cream …

  She took a long, slow sip.

  … and sugar.

  He remembered.

  “Thank you,” she said again, but more earnestly, closing her eyes and reveling in the rich scent that was all at once dark, sweet, and somehow spicy.

  She felt the weight of his gaze like something solid and warm traveling across her face. Like sunshine had found her through the clouds.

  It had been only a few days since they boarded the Artemesia, and though many things had changed, some things seemed as if they never would. His presence still knotted her stomach and made her eyes dart to every place but where he stood. His existence reminded her of how unworthy she was—reminded her at least as much as the regular nightmares that tormented her.

  “You look tired,” he whispered.

  She shrugged.

  Evie would have retorted with some joke. Meggie would have said something achingly adorable in explanation. Miyakitsu would have given a sweet and knowing smile. And Maude might have winked, depending on who stated such a thing.

  But Jordan could only invest herself enough to shrug.

  “This is too much for you, isn’t it? Pulling two huge ships around the heavens …” He looked around as if searching for Evie to make her take responsibility for the Tempest. Jordan nearly smiled, but instead she sipped a bit more, enjoying the warmth slipping down her throat.

  Spotting Evie, Rowen moved to confront her, but Jordan reached for him.