The Eidolon Read online

  “Absolutely not.” Emil tossed the velum invitation onto the desk. The prince had awoken late and was now in an annoyingly cheerful mood.

  Durad snatched it up and held it aloft, waving it like a banner. “This is my last chance to have a bit of fun before I meet my loony bride. I’ll be wearing a disguise, Emil, what’s the problem?” He grinned as he used to, his eyes shining, the corners of his mouth only slightly lifted. That look had led Emil into far too many battles.

  “But a masque, Durad?”

  “Just think of the beautiful women who will don a mask, wanting to escape their lives for one evening in the arms of a glamorous stranger. You would not even look out of place there, my odd friend, with that feminine frippery on your face.” Durad flicked Emil’s scarf.

  “We had an agreement about my eccentricity, your highness. This thing is as much your fault as it is mine. If you hadn’t traveled all over Sombor spreading wild rumor, I wouldn’t need this infernal disguise.”

  Durad laughed. “It wasn’t entirely rumor. Besides, what are the chances a few stories about a Somborian war hero have reached fashionable London? Your scars will fit right in with the other veterans. The women will hardly notice. Or if they do, they’ll want a personal account, if you know what I mean.”

  Emil ripped off his scarf. “I will not show these in public, no matter how far we travel from Sombor.” He turned, leaning his palms on the desk, breathing heavily. His scars burned as they sometimes did, a phantom pain from an injury long healed.

  As he hung his head, he noticed the full, black facial mask sitting there, having arrived with the invitation. Durad reached over his shoulder, grabbed it and held it up to Emil’s face.

  “Look in the mirror, my friend,” the prince said.

  Emil snapped his head up. “Why did you have to choose this particular event to relive old times—” He paused, his eyes connecting with his reflection. The mask did indeed cover his scars.

  “I’ll send Monsieur Paget out to find us two costumes that will make us look devilishly handsome and mysterious. It’ll be just like old times.” He popped open the remaining bottle of French wine and poured two glasses, handing one to Emil.

  While Durad toasted his ingenuity and the upcoming evening, Emil continued to stare at his masked face. He could be anyone. He could be invisible for an evening, without slipping through alleyways or climbing ropes. What kind of information could he gather in a setting where the gentry’s tongues were loosened by wine, their dispositions sweetened by anonymity? Information about the Duke?

  As he listened with half an ear to his old friend, his thoughts turned to Richmond. Not one day had gone by in eight years since the Duke had taken Suzanna from him but Emil had contemplated the prospect of revenge on a man he’d long thought invulnerable, plated with an armor of money and influence. The past year Emil spent searching for him strengthened that belief, for he could not be found. He’d begun to doubt the face of his memories and had finally returned to Durad.

  But now. Now he’d seen the Duke without the fear of impassioned youth, but as he was—a mortal. A man of flesh and blood. With a name.

  And a daughter. Who was about to marry Durad.

  His friend might never forgive him for what he was about to do, nor might Emil ever forgive himself for such a betrayal. He’d barely obtained the prince’s forgiveness. Now he planned on killing Durad’s future father-in-law.

  Yet he lifted his glass to Durad and drank.

  Chapter Seven

  Eight Years Ago

  Emil’s shoulders tensed and his hands shook as he assembled the rotors on the drive wheel. The parts were so small. The damp nervousness of his fingers made it difficult to complete his shift quota, especially when Master Craig was on duty.

  The whip cracked an inch above his shoulder, and Emil nearly dropped the last wheel he needed to finish for the day. The cattail left a thin line of blood where it grazed the skin. He didn’t feel anything though, his skin was too scarred and his focus too narrow. Emil knew what would happen if he failed.

  Next to him, Durad whispered, “Alright?”

  Emil barely nodded. They weren’t allowed to speak. Durad shouldn’t be taking the risk, but his friend had never been good at following rules. Emil had been here for years and knew how to survive. He’d seen dozens of boys like Durad come and inevitably go, too broken to fix. He didn’t know what exactly happened to them, but he knew those who ran the factories and how they treated the boys. Commodities. Efficiency. Production. Quota. They weren’t human beings, only cogs in a machine.

  Emil glanced over—Durad was short three wheels. When he noticed Emil’s look, Durad slumped. Every shift, his frantic work inevitably fell short. It seemed to Emil as though Durad’s fingers were simply never designed for such work.

  Emil cursed silently. This wasn’t his problem. If he helped…there was a reason he’d lasted this long. He’d built a shell, day after day, around the soft part of his heart. The part that would help boys like Durad, that would show weakness in front of the guards.

  Why should he break it just for this one boy? What made Durad special?

  Curses, but he liked the boy. Saw courage in his bones, light in his eyes. Something different from what usually came and went, Durad blinked brightly in this heavy darkness.

  Emil shut his eyes briefly. He’d been here so long.

  Too long.

  Voices broke free of his hardened shell. One after another.

  You’re nothing more than a slave. Worthless. Scum. Gutter trash. Get it right! Again. Again. Again! No one will miss you. No one cares. NO ONE.

  They layered, building up inside his mind. The piercing sound of the whip, the screams as it tore through flesh. The shame as he looked away. Agony as he felt it upon his own back.

  Anger burst through and ran like a current through his entire body. Thoughts multiplied, one upon another until a plan formed in his mind.

  Now. Today. Before they broke Durad, he had to act.

  When the shift bell rang thirty minutes later, Durad was still short two wheels. His eyes dimmed but he turned, feet together, shoulders straight, like all the other boys at their station. For the first time in hours, silence fell, heavy and dense, like a moonless night in a dark forest. Master Craig rose from his chair, stretching up to his full height, at least a foot above the tallest boy, and slapped the handle of the whip into his palm. The crack of leather on skin caused several boys to jump and then hastily resume their stance.

  Emil waited for Master Craig’s one word assessment of the boys’ work, which would determine the type of punishment doled out. Two wheels short, Durad would get last draw for sure.

  Master Craig surveyed the room and barked, “Lazy.”

  The sharp inhale of breath marred the silence. That indictment was one of the worst.

  He strode down the row, noting the number of wheels in each boy’s station. The boys faced forward, every moment drenched with tension while they waited for the final tally. All stations were neat and orderly, with the exception of Durad’s. Emil wiped his damp palms on his trousers. He pushed three of his wheels silently over to Durad’s pile. Durad’s eyes widened and his mouth lifted slightly in what might have been a smile.

  The sound of heavy footfalls, dense and crisp, arrived before Master Craig did. Face darkened with soot and streaked with oil, he leaned forward to count Durad’s wheels. He snorted while his hand shot out to grip Durad’s chin, “Impressive, boy. You made quota for the first time. But your station is a mess. And you know how much I care about workplace safety. You will be last.”

  Durad’s eyes met Emil’s, resigned. He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug and nodded his head, showing he didn’t blame Emil for trying.

  Last draw. Emil hadn’t planned for that. A line of sweat dripped from his temples. He wanted to tell Durad to hang on, to survive. Just one more time.

  Master Craig’s fetid breath turned toward Emil and hitched for a moment when he surveyed Emil�
�s station. His large fist immediately lashed out, catching Emil’s ear. Master Craig turned back and tossed an order over his shoulder, “Cuff this one.”

  A guard, one Emil didn’t recognize, shot up out of his chair, ran to Emil and snapped a set of cuffs on his wrists. The sound echoed in the cavernous factory room, and several boys flinched.

  “Take him to the furnace,” Master Craig ordered, waving them away. The guard, his face shiny with sweat, nodded and pushed Emil down the hall. As they left the room, Emil heard Master Craig order the boys to the hitching post. Before the door closed behind them, Emil heard the sickening crack of a whip on bare flesh.

  Emil stumbled down the hall, imagining Durad tied to the post and the scorch marks of the cattail as it bit into his poor friend’s back. Master Craig, though not a fan of personal hygiene, cleaned his whip regularly, reserving the vinegar dip for the last boy.

  Emil hardly noticed where he was until the guard shoved him through a door and a wave of unbearable heat hit his face. He didn’t know why he was here, nor had he heard of this brand of punishment before. But he knew better than to ask questions.

  The guard snapped the cuffs onto the side of the furnace. Emil’s hands brushed the metal door and he jumped, yanking back. He turned to the guard.

  “What is this?” Emil asked, while a horrible idea rose violently in his mind.

  “It’s your fault, kid. You know Master Craig doesn’t mess around,” the guard said. Though his words seemed sympathetic, his tone was smug. He turned and left the room, the lock clicking into place behind him.

  This wasn’t a punishment. It was an execution.

  Emil frantically yanked at his hands again and again, trying to get them away from the heat. In minutes, his clothes were drenched with sweat and he could hardly see. He managed to position his hands so his skin wouldn’t burn, but the effort of maintaining the pose made him tremble.

  No one could survive this heat or the torture of being burned over and over. Emil inhaled a breath of warm, sooty air and forced himself to think. After a few moments, he glanced down at his cuffs and yanked again. A plan formed in his mind, and with new resolve, he thrust his hands toward the fire.

  Chapter Eight

  The day before

  “You simply must go, my dear. I will not hear another word on the matter.” Veronica’s brother, Alec, swung his walking stick up to poke her in the chest, emphasizing each word with another jab. “Despite what our estimable Papá thinks, you are too,” jab, “much,” jab, “of a stuffed,” jab, “shirt.”

  She whipped her arm up and grabbed the stick. “I’m a proper society lady, remember? I’m supposed to be boring.”

  Alec rolled his eyes. “You’ve succeeded very well at that.”

  “Yes, well, not as much as our Papá would like,” she muttered. Since now I must be married off in some type of power play. If Alec thought her boring, wait until he heard she was engaged to a prince. No one had less fun or less freedom than royals. Or so she could imagine. If she thought her life now restrictive, what would it be like to never have one moment of freedom? To be constantly analyzed by a people she didn’t know or couldn’t understand?

  “Hello. Peanut, pay attention darling. If you don’t go, I’ll be forced to drink until I’m well in my cups at some club and disgrace our family name.”

  “How is that different from what you do every other night?”

  Alec laughed but it lacked mirth. “Ah, but this time I’ll set up shop at the gaming tables.”

  Veronica let go of his walking stick, making her brother stumble back a few steps. “You wouldn’t. You know how much you lost last time. You’ve little enough left for your future.”

  Alec simply raised one brow.

  “No.” She scoffed. But he continued to stare at her. Underneath the mask of humor and devil-may-care attitude her brother always wore she recognized the Richmond stubbornness. He would do it. He’d never cared much for himself. Their papá’s indifference toward Alec since his return had nurtured a kind of desperation in him.

  If Veronica wouldn’t listen to him, or care what happened to him, who would?

  Quick as lightening, she snatched his walking stick and held it up to his neck like a sword. “Alright. I’ll come to your silly masque. But I’m only staying until midnight. And Matilda is coming too.”

  The corners of Alec’s mouth turned up into a polite smile. “Are you sure you want her tagging along? She’s about as lively as you are.”

  Veronica removed the stick and handed it back to him. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, brother dear.”

  * * *

  “I’d rather marry a dozen princes than go to this absurd event,” Veronica said to Matilda as Hale handed her up into the carriage. Dressed in a flowing black gown edged in white that may have been considered morbid by some, she had finished off the costume with a silver metal corset, tied together with white ribbon. Worn, of course, over the dress. A butterfly bracelet snaked up each arm, matching the chain she always wore at her throat. Matilda had piled her hair on top of her head in carefully arranged curls, securing them with a single, wide, decorative silver band, with Alec directing the entire affair.

  “Nonetheless, you look magnificent, my lady.” Hale bowed before shutting the carriage door.

  Already in the carriage, Matilda added, “Of course she does. Really, Hale, no need to go on stating the obvious.”

  The gearman eyed her and said, “Then I guess I won’t say anything about your costume, miss. Or how much it reveals about you.” He winked at her and hopped up front.

  Matilda folded her arms across her chest, covering a modest white gown that looked more suitable for a debutante at Almacks. “I should not need to remind him, my lady, how improper it is for a gearman to share his opinions with his betters. I’ll have a chat with Critchton.”

  Veronica laughed. “Matilda, our old butler stopped trying to change Hale long ago.”

  The door to the carriage swung open again and Alec alighted in what looked like an outfit of Hale’s—a leather jacket with several flapped pockets, tight leather breeches, a flowing white shirt, and a cap and goggles. Though Alec usually appeared elegantly slim in his tailored clothing, the leather he now wore clung to a more muscled physique than Veronica had guessed. Well he certainly plans on having a smashing time.

  Alec glanced at Matilda’s gaping expression and unbuttoned the top buttons on his shirt. “There, is that better?”

  Veronica’s companion sputtered for a moment.

  “Oh honestly, Alec, stop torturing poor Matilda. That whole costume really is quite shocking.”

  He waived aside her comment. “I forget you’ve never been to one of these before. Though you look,” he held up both her hands and glanced at her corset, “nothing like you usually do. I’ve done excellent work here.”

  A sound escaped Matilda. It sounded halfway between a laugh and a snort. At least she’d managed to stop gawking.

  Veronica tugged her hands away, swatting at Alec. “You promised to behave.”

  He leaned back and grinned. “Why, that was never part of the agreement, dear sister.”

  * * *

  Dozens of crystal chandeliers glittered in the dim light of the gas lamps. Metal flashed, studded with diamonds, sparks of light and color in the near darkness, as couples waltzed across the floor, scandalously close together. Not one person disdained a mask, with the exception of those that had already left the gathering with a partner they may or may not have recognized.

  Veronica tried to inch further away from the heavyset man in an unoriginal black cape and matching suit who was currently leading her in nothing resembling a waltz. His fingers pressed into her back, unyielding. She glanced at another couple nearby, the man and woman seamless and perfect in their movement. He pressed the side of a long, lean torso to her soft one and she seemed to melt into him with each step.

  Heavens, why didn’t they just leave the party?

 
; All the smoke and mystery, the seductive music, the license to be free—it all seemed to her as though these people couldn’t handle even the minimal responsibilities of a privileged life. So they organized an evening when those obligations, those burdens vanished into liaisons with people they might cut tomorrow evening at Almacks, perhaps not knowing or remembering who they’d danced with. Or maybe they did know, maybe they did seek out a person in particular—a second son with no prospects but a pretty face, a bored, younger woman married to a wealthy, older man, a rough member of the serving class even—to slake their appetite for an evening.

  She reached up to adjust her mask, the movement one of habit, and she nearly stopped moving altogether. She’d found away to deal with her burdens through a disguise. Not just a few times a year, but several times a month. Instead of liaisons, she heated her blood in a different way—wielding her Tesla-ray and her rapier. For the first time, she’d found something she had in common with members of the Ton. Albeit the morally questionable.

  Veronica resumed the bumbling dance with her partner, her mind spinning along with the music. She was, of course, different from these pleasure seekers. She saved innocent children, for heaven’s sake. Suzie. Agnes.

  Thinking of her orphaned charges lightened her heart for a moment and helped pass the remaining steps of the dance. As soon as the song ended, she didn’t bother curtsying to her partner. She stepped back and turned, searching for the quickest route to the exit.

  But a man stood in her way. She stopped only because she recognized him as the same one she’d been watching, the one who’d been waltzing in a shocking manner with the woman in white. Up close, he was even taller, larger. His clothes fit a bit too snugly, showing off a figure best suited to a soldier. It looked as though his tailor had measured his costume a few inches too small though instead of revealing any flaws, it simply made him look a bit indecent. Rather like Alec this evening. Though her thoughts led her far from brotherly feelings.

  After the long moment she spent gawking, instead of asking her properly for a dance, the man swept her up in his arms and into the next waltz. She nearly froze, stiffening in obvious rejection.