Weather Witch

  He caught the child—his child—as she fell, weeping. The water nearly poured from her then, a deluge from her eyes and ten tiny rivulets running from her fingertips. Clouds moved in above her and liquid crept out of the very stones and crawled across the floor to pool at her feet and await her command.

  “Oh. Oh no,” he whispered, “Meggie…”

  “Papá,” she whispered, eyes wide as she stared at her fingertips and the liquid that leaked from them. “Papá … what is happening to me? I have no control…”

  He shuddered but forced himself to take her tiny hands in his own. “You’re…”

  “An aba—abom—abomination?” she asked, raising her eyes to ensnare his before they darted away to hide under trembling and thick eyelashes.

  He dropped her hands to place a finger under her quivering chin and tip it up, again raising her eyes to his. “No. No, darling girl,” he said, fighting the tears stinging at his eyes. “You are still my bright and pretty daisy, Meggie—my dear little dove…”

  Jordan fell to her knees then, her stomach rioting as realization struck. This sweet child, this tiny innocent had been damned by her own doing … Jordan bent, her broken heart racing, her stomach rebelling as she imagined every cruel thing that had been done to her being done to a child, by her father. She vomited until nothing remained in her stomach and her body shook with dry heaves, her head aching as everything came into awful focus and the pain of all the torture, and the torture of all the exhaustion of the uncertainty, took over, wrapped round her like the whip from before, and tugged her into the darkest place her mind had ever been.

  Above them the cloud cover tripled, pulling in like a shroud to cover Jordan and protect its Conductor. Lightning danced from one black and roiling mass of clouds and reached out to embrace another.

  The Maker gasped, cradling his child in his arms and trying to wipe away the tears that flowed from her and seemed to be never-ending. “You cannot,” he said to Jordan. “You are—”

  “No,” she insisted, seeing what he saw high above. “No. I am Grounded,” she whimpered before collapsing.

  He watched one set of clouds, Jordan’s clouds, whisk away to nothing and he simply knelt with Meggie, rocking back and forth as he stroked her face and said the only soothing words he knew. “It will be all right,” he promised again and again like a mantra. But it was a lie. It was all a lie.

  Jordan Astraea could not be a Witch. It was a scientific impossibility based on her heritage and Bran’s knowledge. Impossible. And yet, the storm had come when she realized Meggie was a Weather Witch … If Jordan Astraea had, against all scientific reason, been Made a Weather Witch out of sorrow …

  His work, his proud tradition, the idea that the little dove quivering in his grasp would not be discovered and that only those of a certain taint in their bloodline could be Made … He shook as hard as Meggie then, knowing the truth of it. That anyone—if taken far enough into the darkness—could be turned and Made.

  And if anyone could be a Witch …

  Then all of society’s structure was at risk. The New World would not be saved through his effort, but ruined. And that was how Bran Marshall would forever be remembered.

  Unless he could regain control. Somehow.

  * * *

  The airship was the easiest solution to most of his problems and Bran called down to the kitchens for Maude, wiped the last of the tears and mucus from Meggie’s face, and set her in Maude’s welcoming arms with the instruction, “Take her, pack two days’ clothes and meet me with the bags in the library. I will not be long—I just need to clean up a bit of a mess.”

  Maude only nodded. Carefully she began the descent down the stairs and Bran waited until he could only see a bit of her before he closed the door and made his next call.

  It was not long before the Wardens emerged from the doorway to lift the dead weight of the unconscious Astraea girl and carry her downstairs, across the street, and up the steps of the Western Tower, Bran following behind and watching her the whole time. She only began to rouse when they reached the top landing and stood by the broad doorway that led onto the balcony and to the ship beyond.

  So close, they could hear the great airship groan as it shifted and pulled against its cables. It flexed within its own odd netted exoskeleton, the ribbed and articulated sail-like wings stitched in Fell’s Point tucked up along the basket manufactured in Boston’s glass- and metal-crafting shops and outfitted with Philadelphia’s finest lumber. Bran paused on the balcony, wondering just where inside the airship’s gut the Conductor completed training. He spent less time wondering how.

  The captain stepped out, dressed in a fine woolen suit adorned with big brass buttons that were as polished as his glistening black boots. “Welcome, Maker, to the Artemesia,” he said, extending his hand for a friendly shake. “Is this the new Conductor?” he asked, his eyes wary.

  “Yes,” Bran assured. “She is quite capable and freshly Made—full of vim and vigor.”

  “Better than being full of piss and vinegar,” the captain joked. Touching Jordan’s cheek, he turned her face back and forth, examining her. “She looks as if she has yet to receive Lightning’s Kiss.”

  “True enough, but I do not doubt it will come.”

  “Are you sure she is quite ready? She looks a bit out of sorts…”

  “Her breakfast disagreed with her. And she was so suddenly ill it is possible her memory of the morning’s events may even be tainted. If she says strange things, just disregard them. She will train up quite nicely. Of that I am certain.”

  “Excellent well,” the captain said. “As long as she’s not who the newest rabble-rousers predict is coming like a storm to change our pleasant way of life, I’ll take her. Take her aboard,” he commanded the Wardens. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Maker.”

  “It is my pleasure to serve such fine individuals as yourself,” he returned. Bran stayed and watched as the captain turned back to his ship and Jordan was carried out of the dim tower and onto the edge of the balcony.

  The light hit her dress and dazzled everyone, the sun sparkling across every stitch of fabric. In a dress like that it was no surprise she always got quite a bit of attention.

  * * *

  Rowen, Silver, and Ransom burst forth underneath the open portcullis, flying past the watchmen, and came to a stop only when the dazzling sight of Jordan’s dress showed up in the edge of Rowen’s vision. The horse’s hooves sparked on the cobblestones and Silver slid into a watchman as Rowen stared, transfixed for a moment. They were loading her onto an airship and—his gaze tracked the only imaginable path to her—across the square and up …

  The watchmen shouted at him but it was all like an annoying buzz in his ears. He saw the glint of steel as they drew swords and he nudged Ransom into a trot toward the Western Tower’s base.

  More watchmen burst down a side street; these were mounted.

  Rowen pursed his lips and rubbed his growing beard just a moment before drawing his sword. This was about to get ugly.

  They came at him and Ransom danced backward, the most elegant fighting partner Rowen could imagine. But they were pressed in on all sides and he realized they had retreated until they were pinned in an alley, Rowen’s left foot and stirrup nearly knocking on a door. Still holding them back, he assessed his position in relationship to the tower.

  If he only …

  He slid out of the saddle, using Ransom as a shield, and pushed through the door, locking it behind him.

  Standing in the dark building, he bolted the door and caught his breath, nearly laughing at the rising volume of the watchmen shouting outside. If he passed through the back of the building and came out in the next alley …

  He heard a click and stiffened as a stormlight came on, flooding the room with light. He shielded his eyes a moment, his sword still in his hand.

  “What the hell are you doing here?!” someone shouted, and Rowen said, as calmly as he could, hearing watchmen pound
ing on the door, “Just cutting through.”

  “We’ll do the only cutting that’s to be done,” the voice retorted, and the light was lowered so that Rowen could see nine men standing with their backs against the opposite wall. Nine men dressed in mismatched outfits, the fabric worn and the men’s eyes hard.

  As one, they drew their swords.

  “I need to get to the airship and I want no trouble—” And then he said the only thing on his mind: “Where can I go from here?”

  Someone slipped out of the shadows to stand beside him, disarming him neatly. The smell of lavender and spices washed over him and a rough yet distinctly feminine voice whispered in his ear, “You, my pretty young thing,” she said in his ear, “will come with us. Lower your weapons, boys!”

  * * *

  Bran pounded on the door and waited. Then he pounded again. He wanted to see them—wanted to know his girls were safe.

  Maude opened the door and stepped back into the library, holding Meg tight to her, her eyes never leaving his face. Bran rushed past them both and fought briefly with the laboratory door before pushing inside. He’d realized there were things he might need if he was to make good their escape from this life of threats and disappointments, and he shuffled through the laboratory, gathering odds and ends and shoving them into his father’s rifleman’s pouch. He grabbed a second bag hanging nearby and put it over his shoulder as well.

  He had devised a plan of sorts as he made his way down from the tower’s top. They would board an airship as he’d promised, and leave Making behind forever. He’d never have the immortality he always thought he wanted, but he had the girls. He had love and people to care for who cared for him as well.

  Love gave a man a feeling close enough to immortality for Bran’s liking.

  He popped open the drawer where he kept the confiscated items from Reckonings. He could use a few in trade to get them where they needed to go. And once he was gone? If he took his main journals Holgate would have no choice but to release the Tanks’ inhabitants. There was no other Maker and no Maker’s apprentice.

  There would be no other Weather Witches. There would be no more torture and, although the abolitionists didn’t know about the treatment of Weather Witches, he would change the lives of at least one set of slaves. The entire world on this side of the Western Ocean would have to change. It would end where it began. With him.

  The butterflies in the bell jar caught his attention. He would start granting freedom here and now. He lifted the bell jar and then dropped it to the floor. Butterflies soared past him, colorful wings whispering along his face as they sought an exit.

  He quickly chose the items he still needed. They would travel light. A jar on the counter began to bubble. And another’s contents rippled with life.

  The strange sensation of being watched made the hair on his arms rise up and he turned to where Sybil’s skull sat, covered in the beating wings of butterflies. He had no conscious thought of what he was doing until he picked up the child’s gleaming skull, the butterflies abandoning their eerie ivory perch. “I will find you a place you are finally happy to sleep in death,” he promised, tucking her into the bag at his side.

  He strode into the library, slung open his desk drawer, dumped its contents, and withdrew the two journals: the one everyone knew he had and the private one that held his most intimate thoughts.

  And fears.

  These he slipped into the bag beside the tiny skull.

  He crossed the library’s floor to Maude and Meggie and wrapped them in his arms.

  That was when he heard the other man.

  “Wait.”

  Bran froze, looking to Maude.

  “Do as he says,” she suggested, her voice strained.

  A man stepped out of the shadows and said, “I think it should all end where it began. With you, Bran Marshall.”

  Meg wormed out of Maude’s grip and stepped in front of the Maker, her expression indignant, a fire so fierce in her eyes Marion thought she might be capable of melting all of his ice just with her will. “You cannot hurt Papá!”

  Marion’s eyebrows shot up. “Papá?” He squinted.

  The Maker pushed the girl back behind him, shielding her with his legs and warning, “Do not get involved in this matter, dear little dove…”

  Marion said, “Oh. Oh no, I think she is already quite involved in this matter.” He crouched down and smiled the smile he had always used with his little brother. “How old are you, sweet child?”

  “Very nearly six,” she answered, peeking warily around her father’s legs.

  “So you were Made the same time I was,” Marion whispered, slowly rising back to his full height. “We are like brother and sister—we share a creator. So it is best we are both here—quite the little family—to bear witness to what happens next. Because our world? It’s about to be set right as rain, to be changed. Forever.”

  Bran merely looked at him, his eyes as sad as they were dangerous. “You have no idea how right you are.”

  “You are coming with me,” Marion said, his eyes flashing. “I have packed your necessities,” he explained, motioning toward a makeshift bag made of a sheet tied together. “It did not take me long,” he mused. “You will not require much as you will not be of this world for long.”

  Maude choked, stifling a cry.

  “Leave them be,” Bran insisted. “They were no part of your Making—they are innocent in all this. Take me—only leave them be.”

  “No, no,” Marion said with a chuckle. “I am not the sort of man to break a family apart.” He grabbed Bran by the arm. “Pick up that bag and move to the door. Make no suspicious moves or I will be forced to”—he shoved Bran forward to grab Meggie instead—“do something to your daughter that would make her believe I, too, am a Maker.”

  Meggie cried, looking at her papá, eyes pouring forth tears.

  Bran hefted the bag and became as docile as ever he had been. He allowed the man to move his entire family down the hall and the stairs, out and across the main square, and up the many stairs to the Western Tower’s docks. “I have taken the liberty of booking us all passage,” Marion explained. “We shall have one fine family escapade abroad before all the pieces fall the way they should.”

  Sunlight burnished the dock before them, two ships bobbing on their cables and chains. One the Artemesia, and the other’s side was painted with the word Tempest. Before the Tempest her questionable-looking crew, led by a copper-haired woman, loaded a wide assortment of goods while guards looked on, eyes full of doubt.

  “I have never been so distrusted,” the redheaded woman said, clucking her tongue at the way the watchmen watched her crew’s every move. “You appear not to trust me nor my crew,” she protested to the lead watchman. “And I am a captain!”

  “When I see a reason to trust you,” the man said, “I will reexamine my entire world view.”

  Laughing, the Tempest’s captain feigned a gasp.

  A young man straightened from where he had been awkwardly loading oddments, a man a small bit younger than Bran, if he judged right, but taller by a good amount. The young man’s hair was blond, his features striking—making him stand out among the rough and far from handsome crew. He rubbed at a ragged-looking beard. As Marion moved his unwilling family forward to produce their passes, Bran saw the young man sneak away from the crew and move around them to come up before Marion.

  “What wish you for one pass aboard the Artemesia? I want nothing more than to book passage but…” The red-haired captain seemed to be looking for someone. He ducked his head and tried to blend in. “I have thus far been unable to … break away.”

  “Sorry, friend,” Marion said, his eyes small. “We are a tightly knit group. I cannot help you. It seems, though,“Marion added, casting a look to the frantically searching female captain “you are quite a wanted man.”

  The young man turned away to address another person in the crowd—this one tall, masked, and dragging a colorful trunk, a midni
ght-black fox at his feet. “You, good wanderer,” he said as Marion and his small group shuffled past, showing their passes and pushing aboard.

  Behind them the red-haired woman shouted, “Dear, dear Rowen, it seems you nearly boarded the wrong ship! Trust me, you do not wish to board that bloated belly…” Bran glimpsed movement and guessed the captain had again found her wayward crew member.

  Bran glanced one last time behind him, at Holgate, his home for so many years … before he was again shoved forward by Marion, nearly trampling Maude.

  The fox slunk through the crowd, never far from her masked master, and rubbed herself, catlike, around Meggie’s little legs until the girl smiled through her sniffles.

  The ship’s door closed with a groan. Bran could do nothing but watch and wait for an opportunity. With Marion Kruse—the Frost Giant—guiding both Meggie and Maude now, his dangerously cold grip in constant contact with them, Bran had to be careful. He had wanted to escape his life of Making but hadn’t thought it would happen this way.

  Marion was right: Meggie and he had been created at nearly the same time. They were as close to family as Marion probably had as an escapee from Holgate. Bran might use that to connect with Marion … to set things straight.

  No one had to die here. No one even had to get hurt if Bran handled things well.

  Marion was a problem he’d Made, so he’d correct that problem. Somehow.

  Ahead, the captain paused by a bank of windows lining the inside of the ship’s belly, Jordan’s arm firmly in his grasp.

  Marion steered Meggie and Maude that direction, too, Bran following. Marion had recognized the look of a battered Witch. “I hope you don’t intend on using that Witch to Conduct this ship,” Marion said, addressing the captain. “She hardly looks airworthy.”

  The captain rounded on him. “You a Dissenter? I’ll take none of that type aboard,” he warned.