Revolutionary Magic (with Bonus Content) (13 page)

The identity of the motionless feet on the other side of the couch became abundantly clear. A sharp and terrible sadness wanted to claim me, but I pushed it down.

I turned to Ben right as he collapsed, catching him before he hit the floor. He was heavy.

"You're feverish," I said. "What should we do?"

"Get me back to the estate. A healthy dose of the powder may help counteract the poison," he said.

I considered the destruction of the room: the dead bodies of Smith and the servants, the Binghams without their memories, and the alien creature I'd shot. Everything in the room could wait until I'd returned. Ben Franklin was the only thing that mattered.

Letting Ben lean on my shoulder, we exited the room. I gave Smith one last glance before leaving, and guilt welled up in my veins, only because the first thing I'd thought of upon seeing his corpse was not his unfortunate death, but that he would never be able to send a letter professing my innocence to the rest of the Society.

I stumbled into the darkness with Ben at my side, hating myself for such selfish thoughts.

Chapter Thirteen

When we reached the carriage house, Franklin was delirious. Bubbles of spit formed on his lips. I wasn't sure I'd be able to get him into the steam carriage alone, but thankfully, Trisella had awoken.

"Help me with Franklin," I said.

Wild-eyed, Trisella slammed her back against the black carriage. Her head snapped back and forth, eyes darting.

"The creature is dead," I said. "I shot it."

Tears welled up in Trisella's eyes while I groaned beneath Ben's growing weight.

"I need to get him back to the estate," I said through my teeth. "Help me get him in the carriage."

Together we were able to maneuver him into the carriage. I slid into the front seat, yelling at Trisella to get in before pushing the lever into gear.

Steam had collected in the covered area and billowed out as we rumbled into the alleyway.

"Are the Binghams—?" asked Trisella.

Her face was wracked with concern. I turned the vehicle onto the street. Thankfully, the two estates weren't too far from each other by steam carriage.

"They're alive, but that thing attacked us. And it stole their memories, so they won't know what happened," I explained, as the carriage rattled down the cobblestone street. I just hoped that they didn't wander away.

"I don't understand," said Trisella. "Such a thing can be possible?"

I bit my lower lip, hard. I shouldn't have said anything, but the girl seemed desperate for an answer.

"Is he well?" I asked.

A cry of alarm escaped from her lips, and she scrambled over the seat into the back. A quick glance told me Ben had slumped over.

When we made it to the estate, I flew out the carriage door.

"Wait with him, I'll be right back!"

I went in the back way. I knew he had some powder in his traveling gear. I found the pouch filled with stoppered vials right away, grabbed one, and sprinted back to the vehicle. On my way, I passed the workroom, briefly noting that the shimmering shield had grown from a head-sized bubble to the size of a wagon.

Reaching the carriage, I climbed in back. Trisella held him up. Ben seemed to be fighting through the poison, red-faced and grim.

I pulled the cork stopper out with my teeth and dumped a mound of powder on my palm. After shoving it against his nose, I yelled in his ear. "Sniff!"

On the third try, Ben inhaled through his nose.

"Again," I told him.

He pulled again, this time stronger. He came out of his fog briefly, and before the fever could claim him, he snorted the rest of the powder. His eyes widened, shining like bright steel, then they closed and his head slumped back against the cushion.

Trisella placed her hand on Ben's forehead. "His fever seems to have broken. What did you give him?"

"Hopefully a longer life," I said. "Help me get him inside."

The two of us could barely lift him, but we were able to drag him into the house on a blanket I retrieved from the guest room. After we maneuvered him onto the divan in the parlor, I sent Trisella for rags and water, giving her directions, while I examined the wound on his arm.

Trisella returned a little while later with the requested supplies. I realized it was a mistake to have sent her alone through the house when I saw the thoughts hanging on her brow like thunderheads.

"You'll say nothing of what you saw here today," I said, while dabbing Ben's shoulder wound with a wet rag. "Not even to the Binghams."

The girl pushed a piece of errant dirty blond hair out of her face and nodded solemnly. Trisella seemed to think a bit, questions almost making it out of her lips.

"I'll explain in good time. For now, help me with Mr. Franklin's recovery."

I washed his wound as best as I could. The creature's teeth had really mauled his flesh. Content that I could do no more, I began wrapping it with a bandage.

"What about Mister and Missus Bingham?" she asked, eyes glassy.

Part of me wanted to scold her for feeling loyalty to the Binghams. She reminded me of a dog that went faithfully back to its master after being beaten. But I knew that not everyone had the advantages I'd had and sometimes people did the best with what they could.

"They'll be fine. Once I think he's well enough, I'll take you back to the Binghams," I said.

I didn't say it, but I also wanted to go back to retrieve the gauntlet. I didn't think I'd be able to do anything about the bodies, but maybe with Ben's help we could minimize who knew about the creature.

Ben stirred on the divan, eyes fluttering open.

"Are you recovered?" I asked.

He groaned.

"I feel like I've spent the last week under the barrel fever and now the rooster has come home to crow," he said, holding a hand to his temple.

"How did you know the powder would counteract the poison?" I asked.

"A guess," he said, then turned to Trisella. "Could you fetch me a drink of water? And a piece of bread if you can find it."

As soon as the girl left, Ben looked to me with a question in his gaze.

"Turn around," he said.

The tone of his voice had me worried. "What?"

"Turn around. Do it before the girl comes back," he said.

I did as he asked.

"Now lift your hair," he said.

"This is hardly the time for flirting," I said, grabbing the bulk of it and pulling it up into a horse's tail.

A sharp sting on my neck elicited a cry from my lips.

"What in blazes was that for?" I asked, spinning around.

Ben's features were etched with concern. He was feeling around on the back of his own neck. When he winced, understanding began to dawn on me.

"What's on our necks?" I asked.

"A tiny worm, though they're more like grubs, about as big as the end of the last digit," he said, holding up his pinky. "One for each of us. I tried to pull it off but it stayed tight. Not sure if we want them off, anyway."

Realization hit me like a slap to the face. "That's why it didn't kill me when I attacked it at Mr. Solomon's. Or you at the Bingham's place, while it killed the others."

I reached under my hair and felt the critter. The flesh was soft and spongy and it took all my self-control not to pluck it off.

"It needed to harvest our memories," said Ben.

"And once it did, we'd have been like the others," I said with a sigh. "It must have put them on us some time ago."

"Our first victim, Theodore Cooper, he had his for almost two years," he said.

"Augustus Tundlelittle around the same time," I said, completing his thought. "Two years ago this creature made the rounds, putting worms on us all, and then it came back to harvest. That must be how it steals the memories."

A cold wind, straight out of Siberia, swept down and through my soul as the implications sunk in.

"Maybe two years of my life are in that worm. It must have put one there right after I came to Philadelphia. It'll be like everything I did was for nothing," I said with my hand to my mouth.

"We're not lost yet," said Ben. "We have the advantage of knowing we're going to lose the worms."

A nod. "Right. We can't let them stay on and keep sucking up our lives."

"We can leave ourselves a good record of what's happened the last two years so that we're not completely ignorant of the coming dangers. Then we can try to find a way to return the memories. Maybe by knowing we can counteract it," said Ben, his jaw pulsing with purpose.

"It'll be like starting over," I said.

"Help me up," he said.

He looked a tad greenish.

"Are you sure you're well enough? I'm afraid once I get you standing you'll make a dive for the floor."

"It'll have to do," he said, sitting up. "We should get back to the Binghams."

Trisella returned with a piece of bread and a mug of water. Ben took them and started on the bread right away.

"You. Eat. I'll get started on those letters while you recover. When you're feeling better, we can go back," I said.

The argument rose in his chest but quickly dissolved as he examined his wounds. Ben gave a reluctant nod.

"I would be most pleased if you would stay and watch Temple," I said to Trisella.

She seemed relieved and turned her attentions to Ben, sitting next to him. He feigned a moment of delirium and put a hand on her knee.

Shaking my head, I left for the drawing room. Ben kept his papers neat on the desk. I pulled out two sheets, one for each of us, and started right away on my letter.

I didn't try to get everything, only the major points of what'd happened the last two years. This wasn't meant to be my memoirs, I would pen a longer letter later when I had time, but I didn't want something to happen and be found wandering the streets in my small clothes without my memories.

When I was finished, I read through it and almost tossed it into the wastebasket. I'd left out too many important details, and I didn't have time to fit them all in. But more importantly, reading my accomplishments, or lack thereof, left me underwhelmed. It seemed the only real salient point was that I'd assisted Ben in his investigations and had spied for the Emperor of Russia. The last point was full of regret.

It occurred to me that it was an opportunity for reinvention, but that kind of self-deceit was foreign, so I blotted the excess ink and folded the letter, dripping a bit of wax before placing it in my coat pocket. It wasn't much, but it was what had happened. I would have to make sure the coming years were something to be proud of.

Starting Ben's letter was rather imposing. I knew the points I wanted to make to myself, and the ones I wanted to leave out, but what did Ben want to know? This seemed more difficult than writing my own letter. I felt like I was placing suggestions in his brain.

Clearing my head with a forced breath, I began his letter:

Dear Ben,

I, Ekaterina Dashkova, write this letter in case misfortune falls us. The last two years we have spent our time investigating the arcane in Philadelphia. It appears forces wielding powerful magicks have made their way to our realm and seek some—hereby unbeknownst to us—succor. Among other things, they have sent a spy into our midst that can steal thoughts. The creature killed Adam Smith when we came upon it. If you are reading this, it probably means the worms have fallen off and we are without the last two years of our memories. As hard as this will seem to believe, please do grab a hold of this idea with all your intellect and prove the missing time, only then will it be clear the extent of the danger we're in. Hopefully we will have time to illuminate the experiences of the last two years in great detail, but if not, this letter will have to do. I suggest contacting the other members of the Society to fill in the details.

Your Friend,

Ekaterina Dashkova

Setting the quill back into the pot left me with an agitation. Even after blotting the ink and dripping wax on the folded paper, I felt like I had missed something important. It didn't take long for the words to float into my head.

I suggest contacting the other members of the Society to fill in the details.

I realized my agitation lay there. I knew exactly the conclusion they would come to should the worst befall us. They would claim I had done this to Ben on purpose, a task befitting a spy, and without Adam Smith to confirm my version of the truth, they would send me from the Society.

I refused to let that happen, but knew of no way to prevent it. Tapping on the desk, I came to a difficult conclusion and captured a second piece of parchment beneath my palm, dabbed ink on my quill, and began vigorously writing anew.

Dear Ben,

If you are reading this then misfortune has befallen us. A creature from another realm has stolen our memories. We killed it, but we had to take the worms off our bodies, thus losing our memories. This surely sounds strange, but believe me.