Ember (Darkest London 0.5)

Frowning, Miranda opened the screeching gate of her home, the sound amplified and sharp in the fog. Slowly, she climbed the crumbling front stairs. Lights burned behind the grimy parlor windows. Martin must be calling. Father didn’t waste that much lamp oil for her, and Martin was the only visitor they had anymore.

An unexpected gust of warmth hit her cheeks as she walked inside. On its heels was the heady scent of rich, roasting meat. Her stomach grumbled in response. Her frown grew as she took off her limp bonnet and damp gloves. Since when did they splurge on roast? And who was cooking it?

“Daughter? Is that you?”

The sound of her father’s hopeful voice made her mouth pinch. Who else would it be? Who else but the daughter he pushed out on the streets to steal for him?

“Yes,” she said instead. She set her gloves and hat on the little hall table, then smoothed her skirts to stop her hands from shaking. A deep breath and then she was prepared to face her father.

He and another man were sitting in the two chintz armchairs that flanked the hearth. A good helping of coal burned steadily there, warming the room. A pretty picture were it not for the dark spot on the faded silk wall above the mantle that marked the absence of a portrait. Her mother, expertly rendered in oils, had once smiled down. But she’d been sold off years ago. Miranda had sobbed when they took her away, only to be told by her father that if she had controlled her strange power, he would not have had to stoop to such measures.

Miranda looked away from the spot, hating the way her stomach twisted. She hated this room, much preferring to hide away in her own room.

The men rose when she entered. It was then she recognized their visitor.

“Old Dover!” With a wide smile, she went to greet him.

The sea captain grinned, his browned face weathered like driftwood. “So ye haven’t forgotten me then, lassie.”

His rough paws encased her hands.

“Never,” she said. Dover Rye had been her father’s right-hand man, captaining many of his ships as well as managing the sailors and workmen that they hired out for various journeys. His services hadn’t been of much use since her father’s ship, The Rose, had wrecked during a storm off the coast of North Carolina a little over a year ago.

It had been the final nail in their financial coffin. And with it, the end of Dover’s association with her father.

“How nice of you to pay us a visit.”

He looked a bit abashed. “Ah, well, I shoulda done so before now. If only ta see how ye were gettin’ along.”

Perhaps, she thought with a twinge. For it had hurt when almost everyone in her life had simply left upon her father’s final downfall. The silence of it had been deafening. But Dover was here now. That had to count for something.

“Daughter.” Father’s expression, though not as open, seemed just as pleased.

“You two look to have some news,” she said as Dover led her to the chair he’d occupied. She did not allow her body to sink into its softness, not yet.

Father clapped his hands together and rubbed them in excitement. “So happens, I do.” His eyes twinkled as he looked to Dover, then back to her. Seeing his expression now had her heart turning over in her breast with the memory of who he had once been. She had admired her father once, above all other men. But that man had been gone for too long.

“I’ve had a run of luck as of late,” he said. “Come into some funds that just might turn the tide.”

Her stomach sank. “Funds. How? Where?” Large sums of cash did not simply pop into one’s hands.

His eyes narrowed. “Never you mind.” The happy smile returned. “The point being that I am now in a position to hire a ship. I’ve got myself a backer who is interested in purchasing indigo and cotton on the cheap out of Charleston, South Carolina, and a merchant in Georgia with an appetite for English gin. We’ll set a westerly route to America and do a neat trade there.”

Glancing at Dover, he slapped a hand to the man’s shoulder. “Dover here has agreed to help me get a crew together.”

Dover cut her father a look that she could not decipher before answering. “I’m an old sea dog now, not cut out for such a voyage, but I’ll find your father a good crew.”

“The best money can buy,” her father said. “Within reason, of course.” No one joined him in his chuckle.

“You’ve found a backer, then?” Miranda forced herself to ask. She wouldn’t hope. Not yet. Hope lifted a spirit up too high, and the fall from it hurt too much.

Again Father scowled. “Of course. Look here, Daughter, let me mind my business. You concentrate on looking lovely and staying out of trouble.”

“Does that mean I may cease with my daily activities?” she asked evenly. Her day’s take lay heavily in her pockets.

Should she move too quickly, she’d clang like the bells of St. Paul’s.

Father snarled out an oath as he threw up a hand and turned away from her to pace. Which, among other things, meant he fully expected her to continue stealing. So even he did not fully believe in his current luck. Perhaps he was learning.

She ought not have baited him. It was her fault they were poor. And she owed him much that he hadn’t tossed her out on her ear years ago. It would be easier to refrain from doing so if Father would simply tell her where he’d gotten the money. But she would not ruin this new happiness. What did it hurt to placate him? Soon she would be with Martin.

She would be a wife. A partner.

She stood and forced a smile. “Well done, Father. I wish you great success.” And she did. More than he would ever know.

He gave her a tight nod before rubbing the back of his neck. “This is our chance, Miranda.” The gleam was back in his eyes, familiar and fevered. She tried to tell herself it would not lead to trouble as it had done before.

“When will you have the ship ready?”

“The end of May,” said Father. “I’d like it to go sooner but there is too much to do. Any later and the crew will face dangerous seas.” In truth, they faced dangerous seas by going in May, for the ship would be skirting the hurricane season when it came upon the southern coast of America.

Miranda took another deep breath and stood. “Well then,” her mouth couldn’t quite form a smile, “if you will excuse me, I would like to freshen up before dinner.” She paused. “Who is cooking it, by the way?”

Her father smiled. “I hired a girl to do the cooking and cleaning.” He moved to touch Miranda’s cheek but stopped as though thinking better of it. “So that you may focus on other things.”

Other things. Those other things currently marred the line of her skirts. A bemused smile finally pulled at her lips. “I see.”

“This venture will be the making of me,” her father said with sudden earnestness.

Unfortunately, he had said it all before.

Chapter 4

Somewhere in Central Mexico, March 16, 1881

Drums beat incessantly, and the chanting—a song Archer could not grasp—pulsed over him, making him sway.

The shaman, a small man with weathered skin the color of amber, danced at a strange pace, while shaking the bow in his hand.

Suddenly, Archer felt foolish. Foolish and alone. How could the small button-shaped disks of this substance they called peyote possibly cure him? The plant was beyond bitter in taste. He had been given a substantial amount, much more than any of the others. Now his gut convulsed, the urge to vomit high on his list of complaints. His entire body shuddered just then.

But this was not a cure, was it? The shaman had finally explained the process. Archer would not be cured. The drug would take him to another reality, according to Smith’s translation. Once there, Archer simply had to ask for the answers. Ask for what he wanted.

He suppressed a sigh and looked up at the black velvet cloak of the night sky. So many stars here, like crystalline beading on a gentlewoman’s gown. The stars winked and glittered, silvery white and undulating. He sucked in a breath, his body going still. Were the stars moving? The thought had barely settled when a great blaze of slivery white light slashed down the center of the heaving sky and split it open. Ink-black sections of velvet peeled back as the fiery light grew.

Archer lurched to his feet, heedless of his companions. His insides trembled at the sight before him. Stars fell like rain. Magnificent diamonds that bounced upon the earth. He stumbled forth, wanting to catch them.

Power surged through him, and with it the oddest feeling of dissolving, as if his body were made of spun sugar suddenly submerged into warm water. No sooner had the thought processed then he felt different, as if he were now expanding. Each breath he took seemed to pull at the world before him. The stars and sky breathed with him. The blinding white rip in the middle of his world ebbed and flowed with him. Archer walked toward that rent, his footsteps hammering in his skull.

What was this madness?

What do you want?

The very air whispered the question.

Peace. Sanctuary. Wholeness. A cure.

The light was so brilliant now that he ought to be squinting, but there was no pain, only a shivering power that had him wanting to laugh and run. He stepped into that brilliance and felt it paint his flesh in a rainbow of colors.

The gap closed around him, saturating his bones.

Another breath and it burst wide open. He was no longer in the desert but in a long, dark corridor. Torches lined the walls, their flames flickering and hissing with the rush of air that traveled down the path. He knew this place.

Cavern Hall.

His heart began to pound, hard, insistent. The corridor widened ahead. Archer glided forward, amazed that he seemed to move without taking a step. He

glanced down at his useless feet, then up again, only to find himself not in Cavern Hal but moving into a well-appointed library. The distinct scent of books, wood, cheroots, and coal filled his nostrils. London. He was in London. The carpet beneath his feet was magnificent in its swirls of vermilion and cerulean. Each individual thread, thick and lush, beckoned him to touch it. Would his fingers sink down indefinitely?

“About time you showed your face.”

He lifted his head to find a group of men glaring at him. Leland, Merryweather, Cheltenham, and Sir Percival. Each name rang through his head like notes played on a harp. He snorted, the laugh childish and wonderful, then wondered why on earth he was laughing. He pulled himself together, but the members of West Moon Club did not seem to notice his gaffe.

Sir Percival stepped forward. “Well, don’t just stand there. What do you have to say for yourself?”

The old man’s words reached Archer ears just moments before his thin lips moved. Odd. Archer repressed the urge to touch Percival’s lips to check if they were real.

“Well ?” Percival snapped.

Archer shook off another snort and stood at attention. “Well what?”

Cheltenham stepped in front of Sir Percival’s quivering frame. “Archer, you hurt that man. Most seriously.”

Man? Man? His mind raced. There were so many. How was one to keep count?

“Bloody right he did,” Sir Percival cried. “Damn it, Marvel was to marry my Agnes! It was to be the alliance of the season!”

Archer swayed, his lips twitching uncontrollably. Ah, yes, Marvel. Little snot. “I was trying to put some sense into him.”

There. That sounded reasonable, did it not? Merryweather sighed as he poured out a measure of brandy. His hands were gnarled now, the knuckles big and clumsy looking. When had he gotten so old? “Archer, you reduced that man to a drooling shell.”

“He is out of control,” said Percival.

The other men avoided Archer’s gaze. Archer suddenly understood. He knew this tableau. He’d had this chat before. They’d banished him. He looked to Leland and waited for him to say the words Archer remembered so well.

Leland’s lean face, now mapped with valleys of wrinkles, was somber as he met Archer’s eyes. “Perhaps it would be best if you went abroad for a while.”

Until talk dies down. Archer didn’t have to hear Leland’s words to know them. Leland, one of his best mates.

Sending him away. Why had he come to this time and place? This wasn’t a cure. This was hell.

“I was trying to help him,” he heard himself say. Oh yes, he’d said this, too, once before. It was humiliating that he was saying it again. But the words poured out as if he were reading from a script. “He was in danger of succumbing.”

Percival snorted. “And who is to blame for that?”

Me.

“Who is to say that one of us won’t be next?”

Archer managed not to roll his eyes. “I could kill you all right now without effort.”

Percival jumped on that. “You see!” His thin hand quivered as he pointed at Archer. “He’ll be the death of us all.”

Melodramatic fool. Archer was a monster, but not a killer. Not yet. Though he was tempted just then.

He shifted on his feet. “I won’t be driven from my home.”

“You’ll go,” Percival said. “One way or another.” They glared at each other.

Leland sighed. “Archer isn’t the danger.” Leland’s blue eyes found Archer. “But evil does follow you.”

Yes. He had to admit that much.

“You were all begging to be in my shoes,” Archer said. “Begging to become what I am.” He held each of their gazes for a long moment. “And now you turn from me?”

Merryweather shook his head. “We were fools. And so were you.”

Archer swallowed hard. He would not let them see his pain. Not ever again.

“Go from London. If only for a while.” Leland at the very least look sorry for his words. The others were circling him now, driving him back. Their worn faces loomed and stretched. They were right. He’d caused it all. Archer wanted to scream. But nothing came out of his dry mouth. The walls closed in on him. He held out a hand to stop their progress and slipped on some slick substance.