Chapter Six The Nova
Chapter Six
The Nova
My mother and I talked ourselves past dusk. The streetlamps began to glow with a blue fluorescence. Her street had new biolamps. There were so many little water bugs in the lamps that you could see them swell and move in little clouds.
The night was cool, the sun no longer present to abuse the skin and eyes under its torch. The cobblestones were washed in acid rain, not a trace of pedestrians left behind. The droplets pattered on my umbrella like hail, heavy and clumsy.
My home was only five blocks away, and I was not afraid.
I was not alone. Peculiars were everywhere, albeit impossible to spot in the night.
But I knew they were there, a newfound curiosity garnering their attention.
The change was unsettling. It was one thing to exist alongside one another; it was another to be acutely aware.
My legs moved faster, gaiter boots rubbing the skin of my heel, my own steps feeling just too loud, like something would hear.
I stared down at the tattered journal my father had given me. I wasn’t entirely sure I should have taken it at all. He was just so insistent.
The edges were deckled, the distinct smell of aged leather and possibly some mildew. Small yellow spots of mold appeared on the side. I would have to paint the edges to preserve it longer.
The craftsmanship aside, the tickle of curiosity rummaged in my mind. I pulled the leather strings to undo the knot, then tucked my finger under the cover to open it.
A wisp by my ear interrupted my curious indulgence.
“Lucia!”
I flinched and cupped my hand over the side of my head.
Then a pinch at my arm, my hair.
My heart was suddenly running like a steam engine, face red from my pace. I neared the boulevard, the lights clustering together in hopes of painting the street a chilling blue hue.
I didn’t see anything; that’s why I crossed.
But as soon as my foot hit the pavement—a screech, the swinging lantern of a carriage. A horse reared, its glistening black hide slick with sweat, making it blend into the night, as well as with the carriage.
The lantern swinging near the footman blinded me, blotches in my vision as I fell out of the way, my hand roughened by the street when I forced myself back up.
There was a deafening bang, and a detached piece of metal hit the side of my head.
A second carriage, then a third.
I tumbled back farther, a couple of strangers catching me by the arms.
A pile-on began, the crashing of metal and snapping of wood, horses cut loose and wheels escaping their axles.
Shouts from every side. The strangers let me go as a crowd grew and gawked. People leaned out their windows to see the commotion, the horror. Some piled onto the capsized wagons to open them for those inside.
As I looked around, I thought I’d begun to go mad.
The streets were full, not quiet at all! An active tavern, a busy street . . . so many passersby you’d think a new theater show was debuting.
The sting on the side of my face pulsed hot as my mind turned right to the reality of my environment.
The streets had been empty. I’d seen it with my own eyes! I’d swear it, not that I would be believed.
When I thought on it with a clear mind . . . no street was ever empty here. Nobody ever slept. It was just a constant rotation of people, the foot traffic as consistent as termites.
So why had I not seen anyone?
Where did everyone go for those few minutes I walked the street?
There was no point investigating, not now.
I was already a block away, my legs carrying me on adrenaline and the burning anger I would use to set my luck straight.
I didn’t bother to take off my shoes, my day clothes—all that mattered was the grimoire in my hand, as if it would magically have all the answers for me.
I stepped over the ragged, torn carpet that still concealed the ominous message from not long ago. I pushed the film and jars to the edge of the table to dump my bag. A crisp slap when the grimoire and journal hit the wood, a couple of spare pens and change scattering on their way out.
All items except the grimoire were shoved aside to the edges of the bench.
There was a very real chance that this book would produce no answers, or no easy ones. If I had to work harder, fine. But the possibility of my luck running out completely before that happened turned my blood to ice. It had to work. There was no other way.
Yet there I was, convinced I had more time before I’d start to see trouble.
When trouble was already here.
The emblem shimmered in the glow of the water lamp, the bugs burning brighter as I brought the glass close. With a careful touch, I set it down on the table corner. I didn’t need it to burst like last time.
The indigo cloth was rich, as if freshly dyed. You would never have guessed it was several hundred years old.
I placed my palm on the emblem, a cool tingle under my fingertips. Then the sensation spread. My markings began to glow a dim white. It was a cold kind of burn, slowly creeping up my arm like a chill.
My heart pounded, drumming in my ear in either a chant of victory or warning. The fluid chill rushed through my veins, stinging the back of my head, behind my eyes, between my limbs where the bones connected. It was like I could, at any moment, fall into hundreds of pieces.
My hand was suddenly flung away from it like two positive magnets, so fiercely it nearly dislocated my shoulder.
The book snapped open. Not in an elegant, magical way. It snapped open with such certainty that not a single page wavered. It opened, insisting upon its deliberate presentation.
After that, all was still, even the glow of the lamp.
I approached with caution, as if I might offend it.
With the things I’d seen, it could be quite possible I already had.
The splayed book was nearly flat, an invisible weight pressing down evenly across the pages.
Blank pages.
I thumbed through the book. Blank again.
They said some texts were protected, sacred. A charm could hide entire paragraphs to keep secrets safe from those not meant to see them. They presented themselves accordingly, different people being able to read different sections.
I pinched the edge of the book, flipping through the rest.
Blank. Blank. Blank.
Perhaps the talk of charmed invisible text was a gimmick.
Then, something caught my eye.
A page completely filled black.
“Odd.” I slapped the book shut.
A squirm under my hand.
When I removed my palm from the front cover, a vertical line appeared down the cover.
The mark was raised, agitated. There were no pens on the table, so it wasn’t from anything on my workbench. I didn’t even use ink.
It seemed to move.
“I swear, if this is book larvae—”
The line parted open into a marquis shape, a white, glassy material underneath.
Was it rude to stare if the inanimate object was somehow sentient? No, don’t be silly.
It didn’t do anything. I thought maybe . . . a gem of some sort?
Then, it blinked.
I screamed, slapping it off the table and stumbling back, landing on the ruined carpet. The splinters stuck straight into my palm.
When I saw the book again, it was back to its plain self.
No glow, no eye, no movement.
The ink burned into the back of my eyes. When I closed them, I could see it practically glow within the dark.
I splashed my face with cold water, blinking away the droplets. The slashes on my temple tingled, dirt carried away by the water before it joined the small washbasin.
With a tender touch, I rubbed the scabbing away to clean the area before it got any worse. After, I slipped into a clean nightgown, the silk soothing as it swept over my skin. I pushed my hair back into a twist, even if some coils escaped the hold no matter how tight I pulled it.
I stuck two fingers in my mouth, and a loud whistle shrieked through the house. Some scattering noises on the floor above, then far off, down the stairs, and my Peculiars returned to me eagerly.
“Hungry, aren’t you?” I sighed. It was easy to tell when they sensed my exhaustion, hungering for the therapeutic outpour, yet they kept away.
Absinthe jittered around my leg, while Tonic tucked itself under my skirt. I joked that they were not dissimilar to cats; the things even purred. Like the thrumming of voltage.
After the day I’d had, it was time to decompress.
In the hallway, the telephone looked lonely on its table, the calling card box open and ready.
I wanted to call Dorian. To cry, to have him tell me my luck would turn around.
To listen to him mumble possible troubleshoots under his breath, despite none of them being viable since he did not know of my particular talents for harvesting.
He was a man of fixing—there wasn’t a single broken thing he couldn’t make new.
He entertained each of my outlandish inventions and ideas with as much enthusiasm as the last. He always found a way.
Which was why I wasn’t worried about the current road bump. Even without extra luck, he was smart.
Then why hasn’t he called with news?
The question gave me pause, a simmering start soon onto a rolling boil.
The doorbell rang its chorus, a harmony of hollow-tone bars clanging together.
My Peculiars scattered, and I pressed against the bedroom window.
Below were two policemen, standing stiff at my door. One reached forward again, ringing the bell a second time.
Had they followed me? Had someone reported me? How in all that chaos could anyone have noticed where I’d gone?
“Mrs. Fairfax!” They opted for the large brass knocker this time.
I swept past my room, reaching in to snatch a long robe from the decorative chair before making my way down the hall.
I could leave through the back, climb over the garden wall, pretend I wasn’t home.
No, I would look guilty. My fortune was tied up in my accounts. I couldn’t do that to Dorian.
With an unsteady heart, I went down the stairs. The drooping sleeves of the robe billowed as I descended, so I finished the tie with a knot to remain decent. They were the ones knocking at my door, after all.
I took an extra minute to sweep some loose hair over my head wound from the accident, then checked in the reflection of the grandfather clock glass before bracing myself to answer.
The chain lock snapped taut as I opened the door, just a crack.
“May I help you, gentlemen?” I swallowed before smiling.
Don’t look nervous. Don’t look guilty.
You’re fine, you don’t know if they saw you.
“It’s a bit late for casual query.” I cleared my throat.
“Mrs. Fairfax, we need you to accompany us down to the station.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you state your business,” I said. “What are your names? What unit number are you? When my husband—”
“Ma’am,” he interrupted.
I stopped. He let me catch my breath, but my lungs wouldn’t cooperate. It was like they were collapsing.
“Why are you here?” I said firmly. “I will not ask again.”
They looked at each other.
“There was a pile-up on North Boulevard,” the other said, less concerned about a gentle explanation.
“What does that have to do with me?” I scoffed. “I’ve been here all night. It is indecent to show up at this hour to interrogate—”
They removed their caps, holding them respectfully over their chests.
What?
“We need your assistance identifying a body,” the second officer said.
Stunned silence.
More stunned with myself that I had no more words, like I had forgotten them all and I had to learn again. Whatever I was going to say, to argue on the defensive, it was all gone. The men didn’t interrupt, as if my expressions alone were a conversation, and they seemed to understand.
The crickets chattered in the alley among the garbage, distant clops of hooves, and a trill of street music in a far-off venue. The light from afar, bleeding into the sky like an eternal sunrise, and this was officially the quietest, loneliest corner of the city.