14.
Between the witching hour and dawn, Sheyla awoke to arms drawing her close. The room had grown chilly and she pulled up the covers around them. After showering, they’d tumbled to bed in an exhaustion so profound that couldn’t be mended in one night. The last time she was this tired, she had been on duty at St. Casimir for three days straight.
At some point Alastor had shifted to his side, facing her, and the moonlight streaming through the window illuminated his features. Hardly daring to breathe for fear of waking him, she traced a fingertip down the slope of his nose. As she studied him, his lashes flickered and then his eyes drifted open.
“You’re still here,” he whispered, kissing her chin.
“Where would I go?”
“I’ve no idea. Wherever lovely spirits sleep.”
“You persist in the charming idea that I’m a figment of your imagination. Does that mean you would’ve invented someone like me if I didn’t exist?”
He paused a moment to consider before replying, “It seems so.”
For that bit of improbable sweetness, she framed his face in her hands and kissed him. Her eyes closed of their own accord and his skin just naturally invited her palms to skim onward, down his throat to his shoulders, arms that tightened on her with every touch, until her cheek was against his chest. Unlike the Animari, he had no body hair, sleek and hot beneath her hands. For once, her first thought was that he felt good, not that he might have a fever.
“Tell me about Golgerra,” she invited.
“We have an hour before we need to get out of this warm bed. Is that truly how you prefer to spend those moments?”
Sheyla tapped his shoulder in mock reproof. “An hour wouldn’t be long enough.”
“True. Then… where shall I start?”
“Anywhere.” She slid an arm across his hip, content to listen.
“I’ll assume you know next to nothing about our capital. Is that fair?”
She nodded. “What little we learn about the Golgoth in school, well…”
“I expect it’s that little children ought to be wary. Moving on. Golgerra is built into a mountain, I don’t suppose you knew that, either?”
“No, definitely not.”
“Ages ago, it was established as a stronghold and became known as virtually unassailable, though the Eldritch and Animari both tried on separate occasions.”
“The entire city is underground, then?” That sounded strange, and try as she might, Sheyla couldn’t quite picture it.
“There’s no sky overhead, but I don’t feel… entombed. Over the last five hundred years, expert engineers and artisans have expanded natural caverns, carving and refining the stone. You can find some true wonders in our Hall of Heroes, our important figures etched in precious minerals and gemstones.”
“That sounds beautiful.”
His voice softened on a wistful note; he must be wondering if he’d ever see Golgerra again, whether this war would end in death or exile. “It is. High in the vaults, there are crystals embedded to reflect light, so we have a day and night cycle. The hydroponic gardens are gorgeous too, and the smell of drying herbs at harvest time…”
“You make me want to see it with my own eyes,” Sheyla admitted. “And that’s not something I ever imagined I would say.”
“I haven’t even mentioned the market at the center of town. It’s open all hours, day and night, and since floor space is limited, the stalls rotate by shifts.”
“Which means you need to know what time to find your favorite vendor. The way you talked before, it seems like there’s an actual palace…?”
“I suppose you could say so. Golgerrans know it as Vega Rising and I… I called it home. It’s a massive complex built above the city on a stone piazza with balconies and terraces, hallways that honeycomb outward and lead down into the city. You might think everything is brown or gray, but the stone is exquisite, variegated like your eyes, and when the light reflects off the mezzanine it shines like a star.”
“Wow.”
He went on, encouraged by her soft exclamation. “It’s not all beauty, of course. The poor are consigned to the barrens or forced to stand watch outside in exchange for subsistence rations. And I haven’t even touched on the undercity reserved for traitors, dissidents, prisoners. There are families who have been imprisoned for generations, all because they offended some royal a hundred years ago.”
“That is—”
“Barbaric.” He spoke the word quietly, before she could, and she had the sense that it hurt him to do so. “Golgerra is a city of wonder… and horror. I have both in my soul, shalai.”
“As do we all.”
“That is a kinder response than most would offer,” he said.
“Let’s agree that each of our people have moments that we lament.” With a kiss that landed solely on his lower lip, she pulled away. “Little as I like it, we have too much to do and too little time.”
“I wish you weren’t so wretchedly right all the time,” he muttered.
Alastor didn’t protest when she got up, though, and soon, they were sharing bathroom space while she cleaned her teeth and he tidied up his braids.
“No shaving,” she realized aloud. “I wonder if your people created the ranking braids to—” she cut herself off. “Sorry, was that rude?”
“In anyone else, I’d consider taking offense. To you, I offer latitude because I rather enjoy being the subject of your intellectual speculation.”
“I’m not sure quite how to take that.”
“As you please.”
“Then I’m logging it as a compliment.”
This teasing felt strangely natural, something she couldn’t have imagined before. As she prepared a quick breakfast, she asked, “What’s on your agenda today?”
“Factory, I think. If permissions are handed down from the ministry, I need to have a facility ready to convert to munitions, which means spreading some charm first.”
“And here I thought you were too pretty to be this clever.”
“I’d rather if you reckoned me both,” Alastor said, stealing the toast from her fingers and biting it nearly in half.
With a feigned grumble, she buttered another slice and slathered it with berry compote, then fed it to him with her own fingers. “I will admit that at first, I thought you were an empty vase, but I have come, truly, to admire you. For your quick mind and kind heart.”
After she said it, she winced because such things didn’t sound right coming from her mouth; colleagues at both Ash Valley and St. Casimir in Hallowell would laugh until they fell over. Something about her prince made it easy to be gentle, though, and she no longer had any desire to quell the impulse.
Together, they finished breakfast, he took his medicine, then they headed out. Dedrick was waiting at the top of the stairs, and his rough features lit with relief when he spotted Alastor.
“I’ve managed to find a factory owner on the east side of the city who is willing to meet with us.” By his exhausted countenance, Sheyla guessed it hadn’t been easy.
“Then let’s figure out how these trolleys work, shall we?” Alastor led the way, though not without casting several adorably forlorn looks over one shoulder.
While she couldn’t encourage him to shirk his duty, nobody had ever pined for her before. It wasn’t a disagreeable sensation to walk off knowing he would likely count the hours until he saw her face again. Sheyla had always been mildly baffled by the urge to shackle yourself to the same person for a lifetime, and while she wouldn’t go so far as to say she got the concept now, it was looking less like voluntary incarceration all the time.
The day was bright for winter as she strode along the pedestrian walk toward St, Casimir. Impossible not to breathe in the familiar smell of spiced milk tea sold on the corner, poured from steaming kettles. She’d gotten used to a certain homogeny in Ash Valley, but here the air spoke of all types of Animari—wolves, cats, bears, even the reclusive bird clan whispered in the wind. Added to the Eldritch and Golgoth, it was a veritable potpourri for enhanced senses.
When she entered the hospital, she went straight to Dr. Seagram’s office. He was just stepping out when she arrived, earning her a curious look.
“Something I can help you with, Dr. Halek?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you’ll take on a VIP patient, so I can revert to clinical research on medication to treat his illness.”
Trolleys were… fun.
Delightful, even, bright blue with silver letters that named each one. The Maribel went west while the Talleyrand traveled east. Alastor didn’t expect any of that, but he loved the sparks flickering from the wires above and the wind whipping through windows that children kept opening, despite the persistent scolding of old women failing to keep them in check. At first, Dedrick tried to operate as a bulwark between him and the ‘commoners’ but he shook his head.
“Don’t call attention to us. Here, I’m nobody of importance.”
By his glum reaction, Ded understood the futility of arguing, but he still hated to see Alastor being jostled by people who should be removing their hats in his presence. For his own sake, he wished he had one to keep his ears from icing over. Plus, anonymity felt like a healing balm. It didn’t matter if he clung to the handle and wallowed off-balance when the trolley slalomed down the hillside, so that the buildings seemed to rush at them.
His obvious enjoyment attracted a few indulgent smiles and one middle-aged woman even offered a teasing remark. “Your first time in the city, is it?”
“Yes. Is it obvious?”
“Quite. But I like your enthusiasm, it’s rare these days.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Have you lived here long?” He chatted a bit more, aware that she’d probably scream if she knew she was engaging with a Golgoth brute.
Before they reached the east side of Hallowell, which involved a transfer at the hub station, he had comforted a toddler, amused a baby, and yielded his seat to an old man with a prosthetic leg. His mother had seldom permitted him to go out into the bustle of Golgerra, fearing he’d suffer an attack one way or another, either related to his health or an assassination attempt, courtesy of Tycho, so this outing, though it was necessary, also felt like freedom. He was delighted by Hallowell’s openness, albeit when he considered how difficult it would be to defend, its charm faded slightly.
Eventually, they got off the trolley and walked the rest of the way to the sprawling factory that currently produced—
Alastor realized he had no idea. “What do they make here again? I should’ve reviewed the file on the way over.”
“Mechanical parts for the city’s automated systems,” Ded answered with infinite patience. Really, he should be doing this since he’d spent all night preparing.
“Right.” Silently he rehearsed his pitch as they reached what seemed to be a checkpoint.
“State your business,” the guard demanded.
“I’m here to see Finneas Furbander. He should be expecting us.” He added the last words with a look at Ded, who inclined his head slightly.
“Just a moment.” The comm unit crackled, and Alastor noticed that these were different than the phone he’d brought from Golgerra, more of an all-purpose device.
Fascinating. He had the one Ded had given him, but he’d been so interested in the people and the trolley itself that he hadn’t done more than switch it on. Presumably, his bodyguard had already sussed out Sheyla’s importance to him and added her code to his contacts.
I’ll check later.
“Just a moment, he’s sending someone to collect you.” The window slammed shut with no further small talk. Clearly, they didn’t employ this man for his people skills.
Five minutes passed with Alastor marching in circles to keep warm, and if he thought, I’m a prince, dammit, once or twice, while exhaling like a smoking chimney, he could probably be forgiven since he didn’t actually say it out loud. Dedrick was dangerously enraged by the time the apple-cheeked woman came to collect them. She was all breathless apologies and head bowing as she herded them into a small vehicle.
“I’m Mrs. Christie, the one who picks up after Mr. Furbander. Just call me Christie if you like. He told me you were at the west gate and clearly you’re not, so… very sorry about that.”
“No harm done,” Alastor said with good cheer, mostly to cover Ded’s grunt.
She seemed to notice his curiosity as he studied the instrumental panel, solar-powered like most Rovers, but it was comparatively small and light. What’s this thing made of?
“You’ve never seen a Sol before, I take it?” When he shook his head, she went on, “They’re not street legal but we’re allowed to use them here on private property.”
Christie talked a little more about the company, facts that he’d already learned from Ded, but Alastor made interested noises until she parked outside a massive building, green corrugated metal that was both ugly and industrial. Perfect for a factory, he supposed.
“This way. Mr. Furbander only agreed to meet you because he’s heard you’re a Golgoth prince. He’ll probably ask you to sit for a photo with him. He’s got a wall of unusual—oh. Well.” She trailed off, likely realizing that could be construed as offensive.
His smile tightened. Yes, I’d love to take a photo with a man who considers me an oddity worth collecting. Beside him, Dedrick’s hand was already curling into a fist.
Alastor touched his arm and whispered, “Breathe.”
Briefly, he wished Sheyla was here because she could brief him on what clans these people hailed from, any potential pitfalls. Ded hadn’t thought to include that data in his dossier, and he couldn’t be blamed for it since he was a warrior, not an aide de camp. The big guard probably wished he could settle this shit by kicking someone’s face in—and while challenges were perfectly acceptable at home, here, that would get them locked up.
Aloud he only said, “I’m grateful to your employer for making time to see me.”
“Of course,” she said, sounding somewhat uncertain.
At last, she led them through a locked door and onto one of the production floors. It was too loud to hear with the rumble of machines, so Alastor didn’t try to talk. It was blessedly hot, a respite from the bitter chill, and those working the machines stared at him as his small party went past, their faces dirty and glossed with sweat. He could only imagine how hot and exhausted they must be at the end of the day. Golgerra had facilities like this as well, but it was such hard work that prisoners and criminals were sent to do it, often in chains. Since nobody was fastened to their equipment here, he concluded that their employment must be voluntary.
Conveyor belts, gouts of steam, sorting metal bits with a rake, then letting them fall into a funnel—he couldn’t quite decipher what he saw. Christie was shouting something, and he couldn’t make it out, but he wheeled away in time to avoid a beeping vehicle laden with crates. All told, it felt like he’d crossed a combat zone when she started up some scaffolding-like metal stairs, all utility, no charm, this place.
Ideal for creating weapons of mass destruction.
The office upstairs overlooked the work floor with glass framing it all around. He couldn’t believe how quiet it was when the door shut behind them. He took stock of the office, metal everything, including shelves and desk, with a floor that clanked when he moved across it. As the assistant had mentioned, the back wall was plastered with photos, and he would’ve liked a better look at them to discover what/who Furbander found fascinating enough to commemorate.
Alastor extended a hand to Mr. Furbander, whose head came to Alastor’s shoulder. The factory owner had a shock of red hair laced with white at the temples, a ruddy complexion, and a perpetually skeptical expression. Which didn’t bode well for this meeting.
Still, he had to try.
He bowed, because that was a courtesy he would offer any important dignitary, and Furbander burst out laughing. “Princely manners, for sure, but they’re wasted on me. There are no royals among the Animari, so don’t expect any special treatment.”
So, he’s Animari. It was a helpful clue, and he tucked it away for later use.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir?” Christie cut in.
The man waved her away with an impatient look. “I don’t want tea or biscuits, so don’t bother me for at least half an hour.”
Once she’d gone, Alastor took the seat Furbander indicated, a well-worn leather chair with cracks from cold and improper care. “I’m not looking for royal privilege, sir. I only ask that you hear me out.”