The Eidolon Page 3

  Watching Durad, shivering as rain pelted his coat, smile wide, Emil nearly sighed. His friend surely needed him, more than ever. Needed Emil to remind him where they’d come from, what they’d overcome, and what they could do to help the kids that carried scars identical to theirs.

  Emil secured his own line and nodded at Durad. “Right. Just stay out of my way, princess. I can’t be responsible for losing king and country to a little storm.”

  Durad lowered his goggles. “I would be shocked if you didn’t need my help before the dawn. You forget, Captain, that I used to have my own command.”

  “And you hated every moment of it,” Emil couldn’t stop from pointing out.

  The prince tilted his head. “Yes, but we still won.”

  Emil matched Durad’s grin. “We did.”

  The rain overtook them then, drenching the crew above decks, including Durad and Emil, with wave after wave of water so dense they could hardly see. Emil consulted his compass and pushed the altitude lever all the way forward. He lifted the compiece by the wheel and shouted, “Up!”

  The officers and crew grabbed the rails of the ship just as she tilted back, fighting her way up through the solid shower of water threatening to drown her. Emil wiped his goggles and held on, keeping her steady. He’d always loved this part of being a captain, when it was just him and his ship. Where the struggle between man and nature was real, honest. Not hidden behind veiled phrases and obscure motivations. He’d get them out of this storm and into the cool, grey skies above London. Perhaps it might even be challenging.

  And for a few moments, the feel of the icy water on his cheek and the wind diving in and out of his clothes would bring him to life. Would take him to a place where flesh and bone existed and the future was no farther than the horizon.

  * * *

  “Have any wagers been made?” Emil asked.

  Claude Paget, Durad’s new valet straight from the heart of Paris, stiffened even further and ignored Emil’s question. He did this often.

  Emil popped some kompot into his mouth and chewed loudly, causing Claude to press his hands over his ears. Emil leaned forward and said, “Don’t hold out on me Paget,” he pronounced the name paj-et instead of paj-A. “You and the staff, you’re running some type of betting pool on the prince’s upcoming nuptials and I want in.”

  Claude paused in the middle of folding his Highness’s royal hosiery and shrieked. “I am not a common gambler, you little pirate man. Now get out! It is enough that I am pressed into service for this barbarian. But you, I do not have to endure!” He pointed at the door with the royal shoehorn.

  Emil laughed. “These are my quarters, Paget.” He threw his hands up in surrender and left anyway, whistling. Paget was proving to be an endless source of entertainment. The last few days on the ship, following their escape from the storm, would have been dull without the Frenchman around.

  Pierre Rosseau, first mate of the Hırsız, swung down from the ropes and approached Emil with a crisp salute. The faded white shirt underneath his leather vest alternately billowed and clung to arms corded from years of labor aboard the ship. He’d been Emil’s first hire, a man with whom he’d shared a cell deep in a Russian prison years ago—the man who’d killed several guards upon escape, saving Emil’s life. The entire plan, of course, had been Emil’s, but it would’ve been futile without a second man. There’d been little reason to part since then. Rosseau refused to do so and Emil had never felt inclined to force him. Now Emil couldn’t do without the large, reserved Frenchman, who inspired obedience within the unusual crew.

  Rosseau turned his brown, weathered face west and nodded. “We’re coming up on the hotel, Capitan.”

  “The landing is open?” Emil took out his scope and looked in the direction of the Imperial Hotel. The gilded structure soared higher than nearly another other building in London, over twenty stories tall. The newly laid asphalt landing strip on the northwest side looked clear, while several dozen ships were lined up and docked along the rest of the roof. Two gearmen waited by the strip to assist with the landing.

  Emil collapsed the scope. “They don’t know the passenger we carry?” With Sombor’s rich natural gas deposits, all of EurAsia coveted the fuel. Many foreign emissaries would be waiting to court Durad’s favor.

  Or kill him before allowing the English to ally with Sombor.

  “No, sir. But the men are prepared.” Rosseau nodded in the direction of the rest of the crew. None had been with Emil less than a full year. Dressed in the flowing white robes common to Sombor, they appeared no more than peasant folk. Their sunburnt faces minimized the differences among them, their long sleeves hiding their scars. They stood at attention for their captain, guns and swords hidden but always ready.

  “Where’s Durad?” Emil asked.

  “In your quarters, sir.” Rosseau placed his palm on the hilt of his sword.

  “Toss ropes!” A gearman shouted from the helm. The crew rushed to the sides and shoved off the waiting lines. Two of them leapt over the rail of the frigate along with their rope.

  Emil placed both hands on the rail and watched his crew land the ship on a pillow of air, without so much as a jolt. He leaned forward, steadying himself as the ship rolled into her reserved dock, born on the shoulders of his men.

  A door slammed as Prince Durad flew out of Emil’s quarters, his turban askew. “We’ve already landed? Aman Tanrım, Emil, your men move like ghosts.”

  “And yours did not, your Highness. Which is why I sent them packing. You’re quite welcome. Come, let’s freshen you up and get you ready to meet your intended. Mustn’t be late!” Emil slapped the prince on the shoulder. He was looking forward to meeting this mental English lady. With a horrible reputation like hers, she might actually be interesting.

  Best to keep a close eye on Durad though. Emil didn’t trust anyone else with Durad’s safety. They’d both attended Cambridge so they knew how dangerous the English gentry could be. At every turn, those rotten nobles could twist an innocent remark into whatever they liked. No longer a simple country lad, he would be under siege from all sides.

  Durad swatted his hand away. “Blast it, why did I agree to have you along again?”

  “Rosseau, find that fussy countryman of yours and bring him along to the Prince’s rooms. We have a ball to attend!” He clapped his hands together twice. “Chop, chop!”

  Durad’s face turned red and he opened his mouth to say something. But when he saw Emil waltzing around the deck, he let loose his breath and laughed long and loud. “Oh let’s get on with it, shall we?” He turned with an added flourish and a little kick of his heel and headed toward the ramp.

  Emil smiled. It might work after all. He could remind Durad what they’d suffered together, won together, and he’d understand.

  After so many years without enough food, without a bed, without warmth, he huddled inside his newfound comforts. Frightened and small. That’s why Emil had returned. To scrub the grease from his friend’s oiled hair and scented skin. To uncover what he believed still remained: a heart braver than any he’d known.

  Chapter Four

  10 years ago

  “You know it’ll only make matters worse to hide from him, Peanut,” Alec’s voice carried through the gardens, disturbing the stillness she never ceased to crave. In the middle of January, among all the long dormant rose bushes, Veronica found a breath of peace. The sound of the brittle branches snapping off in the wind, the cold kiss of snow as it flurried—it was the only place on the Richmond Estate she could remain for hours. She found serenity, somehow, in the winter silence.

  Yet ultimately it mattered little where she went or why, he always found her.

  The crunch of snow under Alec’s boots. An impatient sigh fogging the air. “Come. Endure what you must for now. I’ll stay with you. Always.”

  The soft admonition didn’t ease her fears. She’d not lived a day without them—they refused to leave. If she gave into them, she would lose what little rem
ained that was wholly her. Wholly Veronica. That her light, albeit a small, flickering one, would be extinguished.

  “He’s not in such a mood today. Good news arrived from the front. Please, Peanut, you know the longer you wait—” Alec trailed off, looking this way and that for a sign of her.

  She watched him without moving. Family life had sculpted both of them, Alec perhaps more so than her. Though only thirteen, his cheeks had lost the roundness of their youth—now sharp and edged. His build bordered on gaunt, his shoulders and knees poking out at an angle. He wore a coat with padding, one their Papá gave him to hide his weakness.

  He was tall, just as she was, but neither of them felt it. They both drowned inside their own skins, like Alec in the coat he wore now.

  Today Veronica felt a heavy tiredness, like a blanket, descend upon her. She couldn’t face her Papá. Not this time. She huddled, shivering, wishing that for once, Alec would tell her Papá she’d gone away or left or anything to grant her a day’s respite from his tortures.

  “If I return without you, he’ll just send Critchton. Please, Peanut, it’s cold as the devil’s nose out here. You must be frozen.” He pulled his coat tighter around his frame, shivering violently. After a moment, he sat on the bench, eyes cast down, and waited.

  Something about the defeat in his posture made her stand up, walk over and take a seat beside him. Alec wasn’t strong enough to stand against their Papá, though she never ceased wishing he were. He didn’t have to come out here now. He’d already paid his toll for the day. Yet here he sat, shaking with cold. For her.

  Besides, she hated the creaky Critchton.

  “It’s alright,” she said, wondering if saying the words aloud might help her believe them.

  Alec wrapped his coat around both of them. The warmth penetrating her skin was painful.

  “Some day it will be,” he said.

  It seemed unlikely right now. “Do you think mama will ever come back?” she asked for the millionth time.

  Alec sighed. He didn’t respond for several moments. He never answered that particular question. Always remained silent. This time, he said, “I’m sorry, Peanut, but no. I don’t think she will.”

  Somehow, finally hearing the words was a relief. “Why did she leave us? Did we do something wrong?”

  Alec rubbed her arms up and down, trying to keep her from freezing altogether she supposed. “I think it was the Duke. He wasn’t very kind to her.”

  “Like how he treats us?”

  “A little differently. Grown up strict. Like telling her how she needed to look and act all the time, to be a good wife.”

  “A perfect one. Just like he wants us to be perfect children.” She fingered the butterfly necklace. One she’d found under her mother’s dresser after her mother left.

  “I suppose.”

  “Why, Alec? We haven’t met many kids yet but none of them seem perfect. They sneak off and do things they aren’t supposed to. They shout at one another, at their governesses.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know for certain. My guess is grandmother and father taught him to be like this. He won’t talk about them but I overheard Critchton speaking with housekeeper Higgins. He said the Duke grew up in a prison camp. Grandmother and grandfather requested to be stationed there. Something about wanting to help reform prisoners. Make them useful to society.”

  “No, he didn’t. Really?” Veronica had forgotten the cold, forgotten why she came out here in the first place.

  Alec nodded. “That’s what Critchton said. The Duke was raised among murderers and thieves. But he doesn’t want anyone to know. Ashamed of it, I think.”

  Her own papá, growing up in such a place. With no one good. In her worst moments, at least she had Alec. Still, she didn’t feel sorry for the Duke, not even close.

  Veronica let Alec take her back into the house.

  Chapter Five

  The day before

  “Which prince are you to marry? Have you met him? Is he handsome?” Matilda looked hopeful.

  Veronica stared. “What are you going on about? I just told you I’m to be sold to a man. Sold.”

  “Oh, it can’t be that bad, my Lady. I think there’s a law stating princes must be handsome. And cultured and charming. He’s most likely a better choice than you’d find at Almacks. I’ll wager he at least cares something for politics and his people.” The carriage puttered up in front of them with their gearman Hale at the wheel. “He must if he’s marrying you,” she muttered.

  “Matilda!”

  She huffed. “Well, it’s true. If he didn’t care about making important alliances, he would never have agreed to marry someone he’s never met. With the reputation of a nitwit, no less.”

  Veronica eyed her companion suspiciously. “Of course.”

  “To Bridges, Hale,” Veronica ordered as she settled inside the Richmond family carriage with Matilda beside her.

  “Yes, my lady.” The gearman leapt up in front and pulled the lever. Instead of the Duke’s navy blue livery, Hale wore sturdy, brown leather breeches, a matching leather jacket imprinted with the Richmond family crest, large goggles and thick gloves. His tall boots were covered in grease with the rest of his clothing in similar disarray. Burly and absent-minded, he looked like a cross between a boxer and a scientist. He was young to hold such an important position in the Richmond household—barely older than Veronica—but only the New Era set seemed to be capable of driving the sleek, new steamcarriages. Though he wouldn’t admit it, she could see how the lever and dials baffled her father. Just as on an airship, he was more comfortable barking orders.

  “Can’t we pull the curtains, my lady?” asked Matilda.

  Veronica smiled. Her companion detested the harrowing ride from the townhome to Bridges. Hale slowed for little and narrowly missed everything. Veronica lifted her hand to the rope binding the curtains, but paused. Her few freedoms would soon be subject to another man’s whim.

  But for Matilda, she could make this small concession.

  As the Duke’s vehicle passed through the wide, clean streets of the fashionable section of London, Veronica peered through the curtain, recognized a few of the families and their gearmen. Hale tipped his top hat to some, calling out a greeting. Veronica pulled back the curtain a fraction and waved gaily, not shrinking away from the sneering glances of the rich and titled. She knew they whispered about her. Her papá’s position with the queen, his title and his estate made her family an endless source of fascination during the Season. She cringed as she remembered they’d have even more to gossip about when they heard of the engagement.

  Her engagement. Merely another phrase contrived by society to create excitement about submitting to its’ rules, its’ whims.

  Veronica peered through the curtain again. They would be getting close now. The banner rising from the engine in front waved from one side to another as Hale entered the merchant district and swerved away from an apple cart and a flower peddler. One of the thin trails of steam on either side of the carriage caught one man directly in the face. He sputtered and cursed at Hale, who, of course, paid no attention.

  “When do you meet him, my Lady? The Prince?” Matilda asked.

  “I’m to be presented to him at the ball tomorrow evening,” Veronica replied. The thought exasperated her. The entire affair was ridiculous. As if marriage to a person could guarantee anything. Everlasting love. Devotion. Happiness. It was all nonsense. Marriage had done nothing but drive her mother mad.

  An imposing, brick building materialized out of a cloud of steam a half block away from them with the sign, “Send-out Laundry Workhouse.” Sandwiched in between a book shop and a ladies’ trinket store selling goggles, pendants, looking glasses and the like, the ten-story workhouse dwarfed the adjoining buildings like an encyclopedia between novels.

  It was a place of miracles, where they raised boys and girls from the hollow graves they’d stepped in, restoring the pink glow to their cheeks and life to their lost souls. Though
it certainly didn’t look like it at first glance.

  Hale eased them to a stop by the bookshop. They never used the front entrance to Bridges. It would look odd for a lady of her stature to visit such a place.

  Veronica accepted Hale’s proffered hand to help her down from the carriage. “Now they’ll be no more talk of princes or engagements. We’re here to be with the children.”

  Matilda’s eyes flickered to Hale as he helped her down the step to the pavement. “Of course, Lady Richmond,” she said.

  Veronica raised a brow. Matilda’s manner was always remarkably stiff in public, and even more so in front of her gearman.

  “We’ll be done at four o’clock, Hale. Please return for us then,” Veronica ordered.

  He bowed, his leather jacket creaking and stretching over his large frame. “Yes, my Lady.”

  Veronica and her companion waited until the street was empty and then slipped behind the bookshop. She heard a rustle of fabric, possibly the soft pad of a footstep. Veronica glanced back down the street and then upward, but saw no sign of anyone. She remained still, watching.

  “Something wrong, my lady?” Matilda asked in a hushed voice.

  With the advent of tin trash collectors, even the alleys in the market district were impeccably clean. If she did indeed have a pursuer, they had nowhere to hide.

  She couldn’t conceive of a reason for anyone to follow her. She dressed conservatively enough—a footpad wouldn’t mark her as a great score. The Duke had many enemies, though none had yet shown an interest in her. No one cared about the comings and goings of an admittedly vacuous, frivolous Lady. Men and women both snubbed her as thoroughly as penniless gentry looking to marry money.

  It would do no good to worry her companion. “I’m sorry, I’m nervous, that’s all. It’s just this marriage business,” Veronica said, resuming their progress toward Bridges.

  Matilda squeezed her arm gently. “It might not turn out as badly as you think.”