The Eidolon Read online

“There will be plenty of time for that later. First, can we dance? I’ve waited all evening for this opportunity.” He smiled but she could see weariness etched in the creases around his mouth. He must’ve been overwhelmed this evening but he’d born it well. No court in the world, much less Sombor, could possibly host such vipers.

  She squared her shoulders and tried to set aside the last few minutes of the night. “You will have to carry me most of the time.”

  He laughed and swept her onto the floor for the cotillion that had just begun.

  The footsteps in the alley yesterday as she visited Bridges. It could’ve been Blackthorne. Traced her identity through her visit. What did he intend to do with that knowledge? The way he mentioned Alec didn’t seem coincidental.

  She felt trapped inside an hourglass with her future streaming down on her one thin lie at a time.

  “I will arrive at your residence at ten o’clock tomorrow. Does that suit you?” asked Durad.

  They’d stopped dancing. When had they stopped? Veronica nodded in response to his question and threw in an extra giggle for good measure. “I simply cannot wait.” They now stood on the edge of the ballroom, the bodyguard looming close behind the prince.

  Durad wasted no time encircling his arm about her waist as he navigated through the milling crowd to the front steps. Sighs followed their departure.

  She felt cold, as though she should be shivering, but she had to wipe perspiration from her forehead. Her entire body ached with contrasts—trying to be still when it wanted to break free, trying to cool itself when it felt like ice, and trying to maintain composure when it wanted to shout and cry until it slept.

  Yet, for the first time, as Durad led her through the crowd, ignoring the calls of many, she felt support in a man’s touch. His hand was wide and warm on her side, steadying her, grounding her. When the doors opened and the cool air reached her lungs, she coughed over and over.

  “Veronica, are you well?” Durad asked. His hand gripped her shoulder, his face searching hers.

  No. But she swallowed, eyes tearing, and nodded.

  “Can I fetch you a drink? Are you sure you are well?” Durad persisted.

  She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and forced a laugh. “How silly of me. I’m in quite excellent health, I assure you.”

  “I’m not yet certain that I am not the cause of your sudden indisposition.” Durad smiled.

  This time she did not have to force her laugh. “You couldn’t possibly have that affect on any woman, Durad. It must simply have been the damp air.”

  “I’m glad because, Veronica, it was indeed a great pleasure this evening.” Durad bowed, the jewels on his turban clinking.

  She curtsied.

  The mist thinned suddenly and Hale appeared out of the gloom, steering Veronica’s carriage right up to the bottom step, the machine humming like a tame tiger. Hale patted it and hopped down.

  But the bodyguard, Mr. Marcovic, was closer and offered his hand to Veronica. She took it and raised a foot. Her slipper tangled in her skirts. Before she could fall or even stumble, a hand appeared on her waist to steady her and a man’s warm breath fanned her exposed neck. Shock, either from her clumsiness or Emil’s quick reflexes, made her freeze.

  “Steady there, little princess,” he said in a mocking voice.

  She twisted her head to meet his gaze. His eyes were as dark as agate, rimmed by thick lashes, shimmering like a crystal catching a ray of light. The hint of foreign places in his gaze and the scent of turmeric made her head fog.

  How many moments passed she could not say until he placed both hands on her waist, lifted her the two steps into the carriage, and abruptly released her. Then he stepped back into the mist and disappeared.

  She waved a weak goodbye to Durad and escaped inside the cabin. Matilda slid in next to her and instantly drew the curtains. Heavens, that bodyguard. He had quite the presence. Utterly rude though. Veronica would have to get used to him, she supposed. He appeared to be a fixture by Durad’s side.

  She glanced over at Matilda, wondering what she thought of Mr. Marcovic. Oh no, her hands were fluttering.

  Veronica recognized the move. Her companion always looked a hummingbird when she had something to say.

  “The Prince—”

  Veronica glanced away. She’d made a ninny of herself with that man. Hopefully enough of one to support the ongoing rumors about her.

  It didn’t make her feel as good as she thought it would.

  Matilda did not speak for several moments. Perhaps she recognized the rigidity of her lady’s shoulders and the way she would not meet her eyes. Matilda sighed and sank back against the cushions. “Is it such a far-fetched idea that you might be able to find happiness for yourself?” she muttered.

  “Happiness?” Veronica whispered. She never considered such an outrageous idea. The word seemed to suggest a freedom of self and a lightness that she would never have. Happiness was the good-hearted Melilot in the fairytale Veronica told over and over to the orphans.

  “With Durad, you goose.” Matilda sighed.

  Matilda could never understand such an ending would not be possible for Veronica. There were no fairies in disguise waiting to give her a cottage of her own, means to provide for herself, and a man with a pure heart to watch over her.

  Her children were her happy ending. And she had work yet to do.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The day it started

  After several hours of a sickening display of sycophantism by dozens of oddly dressed lords and ladies, Emil felt as though his head might explode out of his turban. He couldn’t cease tugging on his sash. Durad had insisted on dress robes and not European attire, wanting to make a statement out of it. What he’d meant to say, Emil had no idea. A statement of Somborian solidarity?

  While staying close to the prince, Emil couldn’t manage to keep his eyes away from Lady Veronica. She suffered through the most difficult of conversation partners, most of whom appeared to only be paying their dues to the fiancé of the man who’d become an instant success. Many checked timepieces while nodding absently at Lady Veronica. Some even ignored her altogether. Through it all, she smiled as though nothing mattered in the world.

  He knew how much she despised them all—she’d made that clear last night. She clearly feigned interest in their inconsequential chatter, their narcissistic ramblings. Her standing in society gave her power enough to sway some of the latest on dit toward the issues she professed to care about, so why did she not speak up?

  She certainly had to him. Though perhaps he was missing something, perhaps she had spoken up, enough to be ridiculed and censored by those who thought the subject droll and tiresome. She’d nearly admitted as much to him.

  The more he watched her, the more she grudgingly impressed him. She didn’t fit into this world, where she was expected to act in her own self-interest and twirl among women who dressed themselves as meticulously as one of Fredrich Church’s landscapes. Instead of making herself into something she didn’t believe in, Lady Veronica made herself so pale, she was nearly invisible. Her persona had every single person in this room believing her to be no one of consequence and with nothing to say.

  One man approached her—his entire face red and puffy from what looked like a recent nasty burn. When Lady Veronica saw him, she dropped her wine glass and someone motioned a servant to clean it up while steering her out of the way. He spoke to her for several minutes while her mouth tightened into a thin line and the hand holding her fan shook.

  His clothes were clearly worn, his boots scuffed, not to mention the burns on his face, which would horrify any gentlewoman. Emil had just set on approaching them when Durad abandoned his admiring set to dance with her.

  Curious, Emil slipped away from the prince and followed the man. Ugly slipped through the crowds, head down, the brim of his top hat hiding most of his facial injury, a scarf the rest. No one appeared to notice him, even as they stepped aside to let him pass. He moved like a
dance instructor, graceful and fluid.

  Ugly vanished through the doors to the gardens without gaining one person’s notice. Emil managed to follow, though under the gaze of several suspicious stares. He wasn’t used to this much attention, curse Durad and these white dress robes. Emil could hardly blend in, dressed like this. When he stepped outside, he loosened his belt and tore off the robe with a swift motion, barely taking time to consider what he did. He tossed it over a brace of evergreen bushes along with his turban. He replaced his scarf with the black mask from the previous evening, which he’d concealed in one of the several pockets he always had sewn into his clothing, and secured his rapier at his waist. The chill of the air instantly cooled his heated skin as he headed in the direction he’d seen the ugly man go.

  Emil continued moving as he always did, without sound, a habit he’d learned as a child in the factories. Ugly stepped crisply, navigating the gardens as one who knew them well. Night had long ago settled in, heavy with moisture and a fog that obscured any but the brightest of lights.

  Ugly stepped around a corner and saluted another man, this one dressed in red and gold armor, and adorned with several pieces from the New Era. A complex set of goggles with several levers and lenses hung at his neck, a watch with three faces wrapped around his wrist, a scope had been clipped to his belt, along with several closed leather pouches. He stood with feet regulation width apart, his hands clasped behind his back. When he lifted a hand to adjust his leather aviator cap, Emil glimpsed a Smith & Wesson strapped to his side, underneath his coat, and a head of thick, silver hair.

  Under cover of the thinning brush in the gardens, Emil crept closer. Silver hair stopped speaking and held up a hand. Two sets of eyes darted in his direction. Silver hair’s arm disappeared inside his coat, probably gripping his gun. Ugly had his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Emil ceased breathing.

  No one heard him. Ever.

  Ugly waited for several moments before bowing to the admiral and continuing on the path away from the house. Silver hair drew his Smith & Wesson and pointed it several inches to Emil’s left.

  He shot. The sound echoed, painfully loud in Emil’s ears.

  A bird flew from the bushes. Emil remained still, even though his body ached to scramble away. If he moved, he’d reveal his location.

  This man Lady Richmond had entangled herself in was involved in high enough stakes that this obviously wealthy man would kill. Without knowing who Emil was.

  Silver hair laughed while he re-loaded the pistol. “Could have sworn there was bigger game in there.” He aimed once again, just to Emil’s right.

  And shot.

  This time, Emil could no longer remain immobile. He flung both his wrists, one after another, releasing the triggers on his wrist sling. One dart bounced off the man’s chest, deflected by some unseen body armor, the other bounced off the side of his neck. Neck armor?

  Impossible. Those darts had never failed Emil. The shock kept him immobile for a moment.

  Silver Hair finished loading his gun and pointed it dead center at Emil’s chest. He fired.

  Emil dove to the side just in time, the shot just missing his shoulder. He rolled and sprung to his feet. The man stood before him, the tip of his rapier pressed to Emil’s chest. He brushed it aside and swept his foot out, clearing Silver Hair’s feet from under him. Emil leapt up and drew his sword.

  The man raised his blade but before he swung, the sound of a scream broke the intent stillness between them. They both froze. Someone must’ve heard the shots.

  Emil didn’t take his eyes off the wealthy fighter poised to strike at him. Silver appeared to be waiting for something. A shout rang out, closer this time. Emil’s gaze flickered in the direction of the sound for a moment but didn’t see anyone. When he turned back, Silver Hair was gone.

  Emil glanced from side-to-side, trying to see in the weighty darkness. He listened. Nothing.

  Why had the man left? Perhaps he feared getting caught. His appearance had quite obviously been of import to him, with his dandified armor and polished boots. That concern might extend to his social status. Murder at Almack’s, after all, is simply not done.

  Nothing else made sense. The man had proven to possess many advantages over Emil—he’d worn armor far superior to Emil’s. Emil had never encountered the like.

  Footsteps sounded, the next hedge over. Emil sheathed his sword and headed back toward the ballroom through the brush, listening for signs of the uncanny Silver Hair and Ugly.

  He and Rosseau would venture into the taverns for more information on an officer with full body armor and a quick blade. Emil had a feeling Silver Hair was somehow connected to the Richmonds. And he hated that the man had nearly bested him.

  Emil snatched his dress robes from the bushes, wrapped them about him in a few swift movements. He then strapped his rapier back on, and re-entered the ballroom, humming the tune they’d played when he’d waltzed with Lady Veronica.

  * * *

  Emil and Rosseau stumbled through the door of The Flighthouse, the supposed hub of gossip in the West End. They were both dressed as English airshipmen, from leather breeches that made Emil’s legs itch to an unbearably hot cap with earflaps. No wonder the poor sods were always so miserable. Emil covered the lower half of his face with a nondescript scarf—one that many airshipmen used to protect their skin from the wind.

  Local tradesmen and enlisted military men mingled at a dozen large wooden tables spread throughout the room. Loud, boisterous chatter flowed in waves, filling every corner of the room. The stale, unwashed smell assaulted Emil, reminding him how much he hated these places. He tried not to detest those that hid their problems behind a mug of tasteless ale, but he rarely succeeded. Whether these men fought for the crown or swept the streets, few of them possessed any conviction for their work.

  Flames simmered in the corner fireplace, while several bar maids sashayed to and fro, hands full with brimming mugs. Paintings of famous dirigibles, both military and pleasure cruisers, covered the walls, their frames made of gears and cogs. Lamps hung low over each table, the light glowing enough to illuminate faces, while still concealing much.

  Rosseau pointed to a darker corner where several, miserable looking men sat clutching mugs of beer. They sported long, dirty beards and dark circles under their eyes. They could be wearing their only set of clothes, with how threadbare the fabric appeared and how it molded to their thick arms and wide chests.

  A bar maid smiled at both of them as she approached, revealing yellowed teeth. Still, she was pretty in an ordinary kind of way, and Emil wished she didn’t have to work in a place like this.

  “Your order, gents?” she asked.

  Emil gave her a coin and then said, “See that lot over there? I’d like to buy them a round.”

  She nodded, shrugged and then left. Emil and Rosseau approached the weary men. Rosseau, who could be good with accents when the circumstances required, took over. Emil gladly let him do so. It’d been a long evening already at that insufferable ball. The sooner they got information on Admiral Silver Hair and got out of here, the better. He sniffed. He now smelled of sweat and spirits. Wonderful.

  “We’ve ‘ad a long day. Could we join ya?” Rosseau asked.

  One of them waved as if it didn’t matter either way. He rubbed his hand over his brown beard and said, “Names Carter. This ‘eres Jones and Dutton.”

  Rosseau plopped down with a sigh of weariness. “’Evenin’ I’m Taylor and this is Walker. We jus’ enlisted. Airfleet. Used ta be Cleaners. Got tired of those nasty factories.”

  Carter raised his mug and saluted Rosseau. “God love ya. We’re all Sweepers here. Nasty job, especially in The Grave.”

  Jones nodded. “Right foul stuff.”

  “No kiddin’?” Rosseau asked. He sounded only politely interested, as though humoring the men.

  The bar maid finally delivered new mugs. The Sweepers accepted them with nods of thanks. Jones downed half of his in
several gulps and then glared at the rest, as though wishing more might appear. Emil longed to pick up the cups, dump them on the Sweepers’ heads and demand they quit whining. These men were exactly the kind Emil detested—lazy and rotten to the core.

  Dutton said, “After that Eidolon fellow comes, it’s wors’. Those Enforcers get after the guards wot failed.”

  “What’s an Eidolon?” Rosseau asked.

  Dutton glared at Emil and Rosseau. “You not from aroun’ ‘ere? What chap doesn’t know about the Eidolon?”

  Rosseau shrugged. “All we do is work. Don’t get out much, ya know. Bosses are bleeding tyrants. Work, sleep, sometimes eat. That’s it. Not much of a life.”

  Carter leaned forward, eyes clouded, words slurred. “The Eidolon. The angel of The Grave. A gentleman of sorts, wears a cape and top hat. Sweeps in and steals them useless orphans from Lord Grillett. The womanfolk gave ‘im the name. Ridiculous if ya ask me. Kids need a purpose. We all remember hows it used ta be. Before Grillett cleaned up the streets.”

  Rosseau shook his head in sympathy. Emil took a sip of the foul ale. Astonishing. Someone with the guts to stand up to this Lord Grillett, the man that ran factory district in The Grave. Steal his orphans right out from under him. This bit of gossip was worth the several baths he’d need to take to wash out the stench of this place. First Lady Veronica and now a gentleman soldier—both shared his sympathies, his conscience. An odd feeling came over him. Something light and airy. He wasn’t alone in this fight.

  Jones chimed in. “Ever seen ‘im? Lord Grillett? Wears golden armor, can’t miss ‘im.”

  Emil choked on his drink. Rosseau thumped Emil on the back and said, “Nope, not in person.”

  Several pieces clicked into place for Emil. Lord Grillett—a man with a powerful enough title to gain admittance to London’s highest society—ran the factories. The Duke controlled the factories, so he must control Grillett. Grillett, therefore, must work for the Duke. Emil had no idea why yet. Money, influence? In the end, it mattered little.

  It seemed that once Emil killed the Duke, he would also have to remove this Lord Grillett. Or the factories would remain and Emil would’ve only succeeded in one part of his plan. Ruin the Duke. And ruin what he holds dear.