Tim Akers - Heart of Veridon

“What men? How were they dressed?”

“Nondescriptly. Perfectly… unremarkable. It scared the hell out of me. They were asking about you, what my business was with you.”

“What’d you say?”

“That I didn’t know you. Never heard of you, or anyone fitting your description. They didn’t pretend to believe me.”

“Did they ask about the Cog?”

She turned back to the clothes. I could see that she had hidden the shotgun among them, and was now refolding the clothes and checking for grease. She set the shotgun aside. “They asked about any strange devices. If you’d tried to sell me anything, or seemed anxious to move any strange property.”

“How the fuck did they know?”

She shrugged and hefted the shotgun, then turned back to me. “Point is, they knew.”

“Who were they?”

“I told you, there was nothing remarkable about them.”

“Who do you think they were?” I asked. I realized I was leaning forward, gripping the bed. My chest wasn’t hurting anymore.

“They were Council. Had to be. One of them was really creepy.”

“Sloane.”

“You know the guy?” she asked.

“We’ve met. And I’ve seen his name around.” I flopped back onto the bed. I wanted to have a little talk with Mr. Sloane, one of these days.

“So where’s the Cog?” I asked.

“I hid it. As soon as they left I took it and went out the dumb waiter. It’s safe.”

“There’s another way out of that place? You could have told me, Em. I had to do some damage to your property getting out.”

She smiled. “Girl’s got to have some secrets, Jacob Burn.”

“Your secret almost got me killed.”

Again, she shrugged. She put the shotgun into a travel bag, along with some food and a knife she produced from her skirts.

“You got out, and then I came and rescued you, and took you to my very competent and expensive friend. So we’re even.”

“I’m going to leave that ledger open, Emily.”

“So what about you? Did the meeting with Prescott go okay?”

“Did it go… my god. No, Emily, it did not.” I was standing and didn’t remember doing it. “Everything about it went exactly not okay. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Did you make the deal?”

“Yes.”

“So that went okay.”

“Except Prescott insisted that the meeting place was a requirement on our side. That Valentine or Cacher or you had required we meet at the party. Was that your requirement, Emily?”

“No, of course not. I just handed you the job.” She finished with the bag and folded it closed. “The details came from Valentine.”

“From Valentine, or from Cacher?”

“Well… Cacher. But he said-”

“Nevermind. Someone set up that meeting, and not for the cassiopia. Strange things happened, Em. Where’s my coat?” I stumbled across the room, the bedclothes clutched around my chest. Emily raised a hand and put it against my arm.

“Oh, no. You’re recovering fast, but you’re not going anywhere.”

“Not yet at least, but I don’t like staying still. Now where’s… here.” The coat was thrown across one of the tables, blood still spotting the chest and arms. I started to rummage through it. The revolver was still in the pocket. I took it out and turned.

Emily had that shotgun of hers out, braced against her hip, the dark little barrel staring at my belly. I held up my hands and let the pistol dangle from a finger.

“Jumpy?” I asked.

“You’re acting strange and pulling guns. I have every reason to be jumpy.”

“Just look at the pistol, Em.”

She grimaced and lowered the gun. “Sorry, Jacob. Strange days.”

“Strangest.” I reversed the grip and handed it to her.

“It’s seen some use, but it’s pretty clean,” she said as she turned it over in her hands. “What am I looking at?”

“Provenance.”

She peered at the inscription along the barrel. “ Glory of Day? Did Marcus give you this, too?”

I shook my head. “Nope. But someone did, up on the Heights. And if that were the strangest thing that happened, I’d thank the hidden cogs and become a holy Wright.”

She snorted and handed me the pistol. “The monk’s life doesn’t suit you, Jacob. It’d be such a waste.”

I realized I’d lost hold of the blanket, and that most of my chest and leg was exposed. I flushed, and Wilson barreled into the room.

“You’re up,” he said. He turned to Emily. “What’s he doing up?”

“Making a point,” I said, taking the pistol from Emily’s hand and covering myself with the sheet. “Where have you been?”

“Been? I’ve been down the street, trying to find a way in without getting caught. The whole iron-damned Badge is outside. Some kind of big metal carriage trundling around.” He rushed to his table and began throwing things into a belted pouch. “You should get your things together.”

“The Badge?” Emily asked. “I saw that patrols were up, but that’s no reason to go rushing out. Jacob’s still recovering and-”

“Jacob looks plenty recovered to me. Though really, Miss Emily, you should leave the medical examinations to the professionals.” Wilson smirked, then looped the satchel over his chest. Emily tinged crimson then stalked to her bag by the bed. The wiry anansi looked at me and smiled. “Get your things together, son. Badge man is coming.”

“You said a carriage? Iron?”

“Yeah,” Wilson said. “We can chat about it later.”

“How close did you get? Was it cold?”

Wilson paused and turned to me. “Could be. Thinking about it, yeah. There was frost on the iron, and the closest Badgemen wore heavy gloves. What about it?”

“I saw the same carriage, outside your apartment, Em.” I turned to her. “I think that’s how they’re finding us.”

“Some new trick?” she asked. I shrugged. Wilson stared thoughtfully up into the rafters.

“Well, it could be-”

“Figure it out later,” Emily snapped. She tossed me my new clothes and pushed Wilson back to his work bench. “Mystery later, kids.”

I caught the clothes and, doing my best to forget the lovely lady in the room, pulled them on. I shrugged into my jacket, slipped the revolver into the inside holster strap and turned. The others were waiting.

“Out the front?” I asked. “Or is there a back door?”

“There are many doors, but by now all of them will be watched. I barely got in.” Wilson looked uncomfortable, then shrugged in complicated ways. “Forgive me, but there’s only one way to do this.”

He stepped forward, his back lurching as he moved. He seemed to writhe in place, his shirt bunching and crawling around his shoulders. Eventually the shirt tore free and the rest of him, the spider part of him, came out. Rising like wings gutted of their feathers, eight thin legs fanned out from Wilson’s back. The legs were hard carapace, the color of bone, and about as thick as a naked arm bone as well. They clicked as he spread them, the hard talons at their tip scraping against the tile wall. Wilson sighed contentedly, stretching and flexing the legs.

“Hate tying them up,” he whispered. “Hate binding them down. But what’s to do, in people town, hm? What’s to do?”

“Well, enough reminiscing,” I said. “We getting out of here or what?”

Wilson looked at me sharply, his placid face suddenly hard and wild. I was reminded that the anansi were not all tame and kind. Wildness still surged in their blood. He grinned with his rows of pointed teeth. “Of course, of course. My apologies.” He made it sound like a curse, then sprang up onto the wall and scuttled out of sight, into the darkness high above.

“Well,” Emily said, craning her neck to look up. “That’s good for him. What are we supposed to do?”