Caitlin Kittredge - The Nightmare Garden

She opened the hatch and waited until I was inside, when she promptly shut and locked it again.

It was a better class of cell, but I was still a prisoner, and I had no idea what was happening to Dean, Conrad and the others. I slung my bag down and took in my new surroundings, sitting on the carpet and wrapping my arms around my legs. I was alone—I felt I was entitled to have a few seconds of pure panic and shaking before I got myself together and tried to find a way out.

Shard hadn’t outright condemned me, but it was clear Conrad and I weren’t welcome. The sooner we were away from these hostile Erlkin, the better.

I breathed in, breathed out and willed my heartbeat to slow down. After a moment, I stood up and examined the room. I would cope. I’d use my brain and get us out of here. It was what I did. Iron or not, I had to keep myself together for just a little longer.

The room was cramped, the ceiling following the curve of Windhaven’s hull, the base of the floating city that held up the spires above, and the bunk barely looked long enough for me to fit into. There was one empty closet and a desk barely larger than a single sheet of paper. A thin door opened onto a water closet with a steam hob and copper covering the walls in one corner, sloping down to a drain so that I could wash standing up.

Otherwise, it was only me and my things.

First things first—I took out my notebook and pried the cover off the air-shaft vent above the door, standing on the desk to reach it. I slipped the notebook inside and slid the vent cover back in place. Knowing that no one would happen upon my writing if they searched the room while I was gone made the tightness in my gut relax a little. I’d gotten very good at hiding things, living under the Proctors—searches for contraband had been practically weekly at the Academy, and with a brother who was a wanted heretic, who sent me letters that I couldn’t bear to throw away, a foolproof hiding place in my dorm room had been essential.

Next thing—I had to find a way out of here under my own power. I wouldn’t be at the mercy of the Erlkin when they so clearly mistrusted me. Besides, I couldn’t waste time at Windhaven—I had to keep my plan in motion. Evade my pursuers, go back to Lovecraft and get my mother.

Once she was safe, I could come up with a cunning plan, like the heroine of some adventure play, to set right what had happened in Lovecraft. I could find a way to outsmart the Fae and reverse the shattering of the Iron Land’s Gate, the only protection ordinary humans had. I might even find a way to stave off iron madness a little longer.

I wished Dean were in the room with me. He was good for telling my ideas to, no matter how far-fetched they were. Dean was a believer in doing the impossible, which he was usually convinced needed only a little push from my brain and his charm to become possible. He had more confidence in me than I did, most days. I could have used his hand in mine, his wiry arms around me, the shine of his silver eyes. I could have used a moment pressed against his chest, smelling leather and tobacco.

I had begun to need Dean. But he wasn’t here. So I was going to have to do this one on my own.

Portholes were an obvious choice. I checked the one above the bed. It was latched but not locked, yet when I looked I saw only the slick riveted side of the hull above and below and small pieces of iron to the side, on flexible springs. Designed, I thought, to increase or decrease drag and enable Windhaven to turn. It really was a miraculous thing, this flying city. Not my city, though. Not where I needed to be.

At any rate, the small rudders were too far away to be of any use. The wind would peel me off the side of the craft and toss me to the swampy ground of this place before I could even think of grabbing for one.

That left the door. The idea made sense on paper, but in reality, the place was lousy with Erlkin on the other side. Plus, I had no idea about the layout of the underside of Windhaven, the myriad tunnels and hatches that comprised the bulk of the flying fortress, so if I did manage to get out, I’d be running blind.

Still, I went to the door and eased my forehead against it. My Weird responded to the locks and the mechanisms in the wall, to the gears that vibrated throughout Windhaven.

It would be easy to slip the lock, and I splayed my fingers against the metal. Pressure built in my skull, my mind aligning itself with the thing that lived in my blood, which could talk to machines and make them its disciples.

When the hatch wheel unlocked and started to turn, I let out a small sound and jumped back onto the bed just as the door swung open.

An Erlkin about my size came in, holding a uniform over her arm. “You Aoife?”

I nodded. “Who are you?”

She curled her lip at me. “Captain Shard told me to bring you clean clothes.” She tossed them onto the bed next to me.

“Thank you,” I said, with a game smile. I really wanted to return her glare, but I was the prisoner, and I wanted the Erlkin to think I was harmless. Well, less harmful than Conrad, anyway. At least until I figured out how much trouble we were actually in.

“Half-breed,” the Erlkin spat at me, and then left, the hatch slamming shut behind her retreating back.

I slumped on my bed next to the clothes, shoving them aside to give myself space. The hull vibrated gently, and I leaned into it. I was exhausted, and being in a place that wasn’t an abandoned farmhouse or the crook of a tree was lulling me to sleep.

I tried to stay awake and think of more plans to get Conrad out of trouble, but sleep stole my senses, and soon I was deep under the waves of dreaming.

IN MY DREAM, I was still alone. But this time, the skyline of Lovecraft had faded into the distance, and I saw it like a mirage on the horizon, shimmering. I stood in a room, the floor inlaid with silver, a star map of constellations I had never before laid eyes on. Alien stars, from an alien sky.

Before me stood a figure twice as tall as I, only a shadow, smooth and without feature. I stayed still, unsure of my footing in the dream. I always felt only vaguely attached to my dream-body, as if my mind were floating free in the void of outer space and my body were waiting back on Earth.

Behind the figure, a great gear rose, half of it above the platform on which we stood. Above us, a hundred skies turned by, sunrises and sunsets, skylines and the blackness of space. And in those skies things twisted and writhed, great tentacles of darkness coming down to merge and mingle with the shadow figure before me.

I found I could speak, which wasn’t always the case in these madness dreams—for that was surely what this was, brought on by the iron of Windhaven. “Where am I?”

The figure stared back impassively. I knew he was staring, despite his lack of eyes or any features at all. I could feel his gaze, hot and penetrating. Beyond him, beyond the gear and the platform, the skies spun faster. They were more than skies now—it was as if we were inside a giant dome and lanternreels in the thousands and millions were projected onto the glass sides.

“Where am I?” I asked again.

The figure reached out a hand. It was fathomless, black smoke in the shape of a human thing, and I felt cold emanate from the shadow as it drew closer to me. The tentacles writhed faster, lashing, and from all around us came a great moaning, which vibrated the dome to its core and came up through my feet into my bones.

Who are you? the figure hissed. Why did you come here?

“You tell me,” I whispered, my lips barely able to move from the frozen air of the dream and my own fear. This felt too strong, too real, to be purely a result of the iron around me. The madness was getting worse. I was starting to believe my own dreams. I dug my fingers into my palms, but in this dream place, I felt no pain. That didn’t soothe my worries any.