Hard Magic: Book I of the Grimnoir Chronicles

It was during my wandering time that I first met an American. The black ships of Commodore Perry had recently arrived in Nippon. These foreign barbarians did not ask the shogun for permission to open trade; they demanded it from the decks of their warships while ringed in cannons under a cloud of coal smoke that blotted out the sky. There was an assumption of this absolute right. The strongest does not ask, cajole, or beg. It is the duty of the strongest to command and the weakest to obey. I had long made my way by selling my sword, and whatever lord I served inevitably became the strongest, so I was well acquainted with this concept at the individual level. Yet, it was the Americans that opened my eyes to the greater possibilities. As the strong lord must rule over the weak peasant, so must the strong nation rule the entire world. I owe them a great deal as I have tried to apply this lesson ever since.

—Baron Okubo Tokugawa,

Chairman of the Imperial Council, My Story, 1922

280 miles west of San Francisco

Madi sat cross-legged on the floor of his cabin, attempting to meditate. He could feel the ship rocking. It had taken him forever to figure out how to sit like the other Iron Guards. He wasn’t exactly a limber man, but he’d decided a long time ago that anything they could do, he’d do better, and now he could sit as still as a statue for hours. At the Academy, old master Shiroyuki would come by and crack him on the spine with a bokken anytime he started to slouch. The old bastard had been big on posture.

Thinking of the old master made him smile. That was his problem with meditation, thoughts just kept coming, and now he was remembering Shiroyuki and his big ridiculous samurai mustache. He’d hated Madi. Not only for being the first white man accepted into the brutal Iron Guard training, but also because he had come to Japan as a prisoner of war.

He’d been part of AEF Siberia, the Polar Bears they’d been called in the news. It had been a shitty mission to a cold unforgiving place, mostly to protect American business interests while the Bolsheviks were getting their asses handed to them by the Japs. He’d gotten separated from his unit when his chicken-shit commanding officer panicked and ran. It was an empty feeling, waiting at your post for relief that never came. It had taken three weeks on foot through the coldest damn forest in the world, but the Imperium troops had finally captured him, though he’d killed a whole mess of them in the process.

They’d dragged him behind their horses for miles but he’d refused to die. Then they tossed him into a deep dark hole and quit feeding him, but he’d lived off of rats that he’d crushed with his Power. One day a new commander showed up and had marveled at the one-eyed Heavy chained in the hole. Apparently the weeks he’d spent evading and murdering them had earned him a reputation as some sort of great-white freak show. He was the biggest man any of the Japs had ever seen and he was the only American in the camp, so the new commander had logically decided it would be fun to watch him fight a bunch of the captured Russians for his amusement.

That part had been fun. He’d never had any qualms about killing. It was really the only thing he was good at. The regular Russians were easy to beat. He could snap most of them in half. The Siberians were different. Those boys were tough, and he picked up a bunch of scars giving the Japs their show. Afterward, they’d put him back in the hole, only this time the commander had sent down food, honest-to-god real food. It was mostly rice, but after eating raw rats, rice was good.

That had gone on for another month, until Madi had damn near depopulated the entire camp of other prisoners. When they’d run out of Russians, they’d tossed in some Chinese, five at a time, and when they ran out of those, they’d thrown him in the arena with an angry bear. The bear had been easy. A ten-second surge of Power had turned it into mush.

He’d tried to escape, a couple of times in fact. The first time they’d beaten him senseless with rifle butts, but the commander had told them to let him live. He was intrigued by the Heavy at this point. The second attempt resulted in the death of nearly a dozen of the camp guards and he’d gone down fully expecting to get his head chopped off, but instead he’d woken up chained back in the hole, the commander sitting on a stool across from him.

Madi could remember it like it was yesterday.

The man studied him for a long time before speaking. The commander spoke English, even if he was damn near impossible to understand the way he tried to shout half the words. “Why you still alive, Heavy? Why you not dead while everybody else dead?”

Madi didn’t need to think about that for very long. “Because I was stronger.”

The commander had nodded real slow, like that was the wisest thing he’d ever heard, then he had passed Madi a dirty envelope. “My men capture this.” Inside was a typed letter on AEF stationery and he even recognized his old captain’s signature. The letter was real matter-of-fact, about how Sergeant Matthew D. Sullivan was AWOL and a no good deserter and a coward. That had really left him steamed, since the only reason he was in this Jap prison was because his old captain had been yellow and run at the first sign of an advance. He’d been the one who’d left Madi at his post to be overrun. Madi had survived the Second fucking Somme. What did Captain Cocksucker know about cowardice?

“You read this?” Madi asked, disgusted. The Jap nodded. “Liars. I’ve never run from nothing in my life.”

“Your people dishonor you.”

“Ain’t the first time. Got my brother killed in France. Tore half my face off and they didn’t even bother to fix it all the way . . .” The women told him he was good-looking before the war, but now, it didn’t matter what they said to his torn-up face. He saw their disgust with his good eye. “What did I get? Nothing,” he’d spat. Jake had been the one who’d gotten all the fancy medals and the recognition and the praise after the war but his little brother had never cared about that kind of thing. He sure had, but all he’d ever wanted was some respect, but they hadn’t given him shit. “Then when I get captured ’‘cause of some yellow officer they blame it on me.” He threw the letter on the ground, planning on using it to wipe his ass later.

“You are great warrior,” the commander stated. “My men told stories of how hard to catch you it was in the forest. How you killed many men. You put fear in their hearts. It is hard to make Imperium man fear. You strong. Strongest should be most respect.”

“Hell with ’em,” Madi agreed, really studying the commander for the first time. He was tall for a Jap, otherwise nothing special to look at, but he emanated a quiet confidence. Madi could tell he was some sort of Active by the way he carried himself.

“Yes. You think you strongest? Prove it. Make pact. We fight. You beat me, you free go.”

He’d had a good laugh. “No shit?”

“Shit not. I am Rokusaburo of Iron Guard. You beat me, you free. I beat you, you serve me.”

He figured that the Jap would last even less time than the bear in the blood-soaked little field they’d made him fight all those Russians in, and the next morning they’d led him out there. The whole Jap battalion had shown up and was standing in a big circle, watching, excited. They had bayonets mounted and he was no sucker. When he won over the crazy little man, they were sure as hell gonna stick those long bayonets in him, no matter what, but maybe he’d get to squish a Nip officer in the process. Rokusaburo had been waiting in the middle, shirtless, his body covered with strange intricate scars. He bowed.

The little man destroyed him.

Afterward, when he’d regained consciousness, Rokusaburo had come to him again. “What were all those burns on you?”

“Kanji, to grant me more Power. Iron Guard unbeatable. Iron Guard strongest of all.”

“Then I want to be an Iron Guard,” Madi told him.

To his credit, Rokusaburo didn’t laugh. He’d only given him that same slow nod, and Madi’s education had begun.

Back in the present, Madi’s nose itched, but he decided not to scratch it. It was probably from that damn incense that was stinking up the ship’s cabin. He might be lousy at meditation because he couldn’t stop thinking, but he could control his body. What had gotten him thinking? Oh, yeah, that asshole, old master Shiroyuki.

Rokusaburo had gotten him into the Academy. Madi had forsaken his country, his old ways, and sworn allegiance to the Imperium, but he’d felt no loss. He felt no loyalty. All his homeland had ever given him was pain and betrayal. They’d used him, hurt him, killed the only decent folks he knew, then called him yellow and left him to rot. The Imperium at least appreciated strength.

Shiroyuki had been hard on him. The old bastard had taught him and tried to have the other students kill him. He was always extra hard on the big white one. While the Chairman preached that he didn’t care where an Active was born, Shiroyuki was old school, real proud that he came from the same ancient samurai family as the Chairman himself, and hated the round eyes. He’d tried to break Madi every step of the way.

The fact that Madi never quit and was strong enough to just keep accepting kanji infuriated Shiroyuki. To bind with a new mark you had to go right up to death’s door, and each one you got, the harder it was to come back. The other students began to respect him at five, and then fear him at eight. The Chairman took a personal interest in Madi’s education, realizing how valuable it would be to have an operative able to move seamlessly in America. Plus, he was a sort of vindication of the Chairman’s beliefs, of his vision for a perfect world, ruled by the strong and the wise. The Chairman had taken him under his wing, showing him the dark secrets, the truth of the Power. Madi did not just follow. He believed.

Then old man Shiroyuki had dared to publicly disagree with the Chairman, saying that only the superior Nipponese should be Iron Guard. The Chairman had replied with his usual wisdom that the Power lived inside their bodies where all blood and bone was the same color. Shiroyuki had been chastened, dishonored, and when he was no longer in favor, Madi struck. He’d waited until he had received his tenth kanji before challenging the old master to a trial by combat. He had been honor bound to accept.

He’d ripped Shiroyuki apart like he’d been one of the Russian prisoners in Rokusaburo’s camp. The memory of the old man’s arms coming off in twin fountains of blood and the samurai screaming through that ridiculous mustache made him grin. He opened his eyes. “Hell with it.” The Chairman was a big fan of meditation, but reaching inner peace wasn’t exactly his thing. The Chairman taught that with proper clarity you could actually converse with the Power. Madi didn’t know about that, but if the Chairman said that’s how it was, then that’s how it was. Unlike the people he’d sworn allegiance to before, the Chairman never lied.

There was movement in his bunk. Toshiko was awake, watching him. She’d pulled the sheet up to cover herself, feigning modesty. The Shadow Guard was such a tease, but damn if her academy hadn’t taught her in all the arts of espionage. He could barely feel anything anymore, but he had felt that. He realized she’d been counting his scars. “How many kanji have you taken?”

“Thirteen.” He rose, retrieved his shirt and threw it on. He still ached from all the wounds the Grimmys had inflicted on him, but that Healer bitch had done as she’d been told and fixed him up, and he’d only had to smack her in the face a few times to get his point across. “More than any other man in the world.”

She either really was impressed or she faked it good, he never could tell with a Shadow Guard. They were such trained chameleons that you never could tell where the real person began and the act ended. They were spies and assassins that could be whatever you wanted them to be. “Even more than the Chairman?”

He snorted and buttoned up his shirt. “The Chairman don’t need no marks on him. He just goes right up to the Power and takes whatever he wants. Us mortals need the kanji just to keep up.” He knew it was true. The Chairman was the greatest of all. He wasn’t just strong, he was smart too. He even painted, and wrote poetry that Madi didn’t really get, but all the other Iron Guard always kissed the Chairman’s ass and told him how great it was. If the Chairman wrote a haiku, you could damn well better believe it was the best haiku ever.

Toshiko dropped the sheet. “I bear five.” Her kanji were much smaller, more discreet, almost graceful. The Shinobi Academy magi were artists compared to the Unit 731 butchers with their glowing red-hot branding irons. She fingered each one reverently. “Hearing. Stealth. Strength. Sight. Vitality.”

“Yep. I see ’em,” not that he was looking at her scars as he shrugged into his shoulder holster. “Get dressed. Our ride will be here soon. I’ll grab the prisoner.”

“You really believe that soft thing will be of use?”

Madi shrugged. “We’ll take her to Nippon, break her and rebuild her. If she sees the light, then sure . . .” An old Iron Guard had been patient and shown him the true way once and he owed Rokusaburo his life for it. Too bad his blood brother had killed his spirit brother, but he’d already balanced those scales. “I figure I’m doing her a favor.”

Toshiko sneered. “And if she does not see it that way?”

There were schools all over the Empire for training Actives, and not just for volunteers either. The Chairman’s instructors had ways of making people catch the vision. Those deemed unfit were used in the experiments. “Then she goes to Unit 731.”

“Throw her overboard and let the sharks take her,” she suggested. “It would be more merciful.”

Madi slid down the ladder into the hold of the ship. His boots hit the steel grate and he started down the corridor. He had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the pipes. The crew averted their eyes and got out of his way. They were loyal Imperium subjects, and they knew not to keep an Iron Guard from his business.

They’d boarded the cargo ship and made it out of the harbor before the authorities had locked down the coast. Officially they flew the flag of the Free City of Shanghai, but this was the same vessel that had brought in his reinforcements. Shanghai was only free as long as it was convenient for the Chairman for it to stay that way.

The emergency radio broadcasts that morning had been priceless. His ruse had worked. Word had already leaked to the press about the anarchist propaganda scattered at the Peace Ray. All the known commie-backed agitators were getting rousted as the real culprits sailed away. They were going to be picked up by an Imperial airship and rushed home, and by the time he’d be soaking his feet in Edo, the American Actives would be feeling the heat. If he was really lucky, there would be a crackdown. Anything that caused dissension in the enemy’s ranks would only swell the Imperium’s own.

The corridor stunk of diesel and body odor. The paint was peeling and the tub rusting, which normally would be unacceptable in an Imperium vessel, but this one had to keep up appearances as being a low-class merchanter. Madi found the door and spun the wheel. It creaked violently as he pulled it open

The Healer was on the floor. She closed her eyes as blinding light spilled into the tiny cell. She was pathetic. Filthy, her clothes ripped, her wrists bound behind her back with cord. I wonder if this was how Rokusaburo saw me? Probably not, because he had at least been tough. This Grimnoir girl was soft, and the only reason he’d thought to bring her along was the sheer rarity of Healers.

“Get up,” he ordered. She whimpered, so he kicked her in the leg. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to let her know he was serious. “Get your ass up or you’ll really feel the boot.” He reached down, grabbed her by the arm, and jerked her off the floor. “We got a flight to catch.”

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, grimacing against the pain.

He thought about backhanding her, but it was a fair question. “Nippon. From there, you’ll go wherever the Chairman thinks is best.” She limped along as he pulled her into the corridor. “If you’re lucky, you’ll stay at an Edo school to serve. If you piss us off, you’re going to Manchukuo. Trust me, sister, you don’t want that. You’re too pretty and those mutants are awful lonely.” There still was defiance in her eyes. He could see her thinking about how she would never serve the Imperium, but she was smart enough not to say it out loud. “Fine, we’ll see how tough you are when the branding iron comes out,” he said as he dragged her along.

Toshiko, Hiroyasu, and the others were waiting for them on the deck. The sea air felt cool on his skin. In the distance to the east, a black shape was growing. It was the Chairman’s new flagship, fresh off the UBF assembly line, heading home for the first time, the most-advanced hybriddirigible ever developed, and the Chairman had it diverted to pick up his star Iron Guard so that he could return home in honor.

“It’s beautiful,” Toshiko muttered.

It really was. Madi was no expert on airships, but he’d ridden on one of the new Kagas, which were more like battleships suspended under three armored hulls, all business. This was nowhere near as big, but it was much sleeker. The flagship was like something off the cover of those science fiction pulps. It also had three separate hulls, like long grey cigars, but the outer two were angled inward at the front, and the whole thing was covered in a housing of rooms, balconies, and glass enclosures, giving it an overall triangular shape. It was driven by twenty roaring engines, both lifted and fueled by hydrogen, and it would be crewed entirely by Actives.

The Imperium had not developed its airship technology as rapidly as the Americans, and when Madi had heard that their new flagship would be built by UBF, he’d been offended, but those thoughts were forgotten as he saw the gleaming beast coming toward them. Their Cogs would catch up. They’d even improved on UBF’s original Kaga design by adding hydrogen-powered Peace Rays. It was only a matter of time until the Imperium was able to produce marvels like this at home but, in the meantime, the Chairman would ride in style.

“Da-nippon teikoku kaigun Tokugawa. It is called the Tokugawa, in honor of the Chairman’s family name,” Hiroyasu said reverently.

“I thought you didn’t name a ship after somebody until after they died?” the Grimnoir Healer said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky?” Toshiko slapped her to the deck for her insolence.

“He’s immortal,” Madi said. “We didn’t feel like waiting around.”

The four-engine amphibious PBY Silverado biplane had flown west until the Presidio, then San Francisco, then finally the blackened coast had been lost. Sullivan watched out the rear window of the cargo plane until the final line of land disappeared, then moved forward to take his seat amongst the cargo headed for Pearl Harbor.

The Silverado would normally have an eight man crew, but none of the guns were mounted, so there were only four—the pilot, co-pilot, navigator, and engineer—and all of them had been specifically instructed by Major Arnold not to talk to the large man in civilian clothes. There were a few other passengers, soldiers being transferred to Hawaii, and they hadn’t gotten the message.

“Where you headed?” the private sitting across from him asked, having to shout over the thunder of the props.

There were two soldiers. They had to be fresh out of training. Had he been that young once? He had lied about his age and volunteered for the First when he was seventeen years old, so it was sad to say that he probably had. “Nowhere you need to know about,” Sullivan answered in a tone that suggested he just wanted to be left alone. He went back to looking out the port window and the soldiers returned to their conversation.

Pershing’s memory had directed him to a man at the Presidio. The base had been on alert, and soldiers had been scrambling. The men at the gate had regarded Sullivan—dirty, coated in dried blood, clothing in shreds—with suspicion, glaring at him over the muzzle of a Colt Potato-Digger machine gun that had been thrown down behind a bunch of sandbags. He was glad that he’d detached the barrel from the ’29 BAR and stashed it in his bag or they probably would have shot him. When he said that he had a message for a Major Arnold, they had sent a runner.

The major had taken him aside as soon as he said that Black Jack Pershing had sent him. Sullivan had repeated exactly the code words that had been left in his head. “It’s time to see the Pirate.”

“How’s the weather?” the major had asked in return.

“Getting hotter,” Sullivan had responded as instructed. “That’s why we need the Weatherman.” The major’s expression had turned grim but he had immediately given him a place to clean up and had sent someone to fetch him some food and a change of clothing. Thirty minutes later he’d showered, sucked down some bacon and eggs, along with a pot of coffee, and reported back to Arnold, who was busy coordinating men and supplies to the damaged area around Mar Pacifica.

When they were alone, the major had locked the door of his office and bid Sullivan to take a seat. “I don’t know what this is about, but I promised an old friend that if this day came, I’d help. I’ve got a Silverado leaving for Hawaii in twenty minutes. You’ll be on it.” He reached into his desk and pulled out an envelope that had been sealed with wax. “I’ll instruct the Silverado to follow these orders, but they will not help you in any way other than to take you to your destination as part of a training mission. They will not cross into Imperial territory. They’re a good crew, and they’ll keep their mouths shut. I assume you know what to do next.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, taking the envelope.

“Good, because I don’t. The General could be a cryptic man at times. I’m assuming this has something to do with the Peace Ray.”

“Yes, sir.” Sullivan had picked up a morning paper on the way here and read the lies. “Only it wasn’t no anarchists like they’re saying. It was the Imperium.”

“That’s not my area, mister . . . I don’t decide who to bomb, they just tell me where to drop them. But off the record, I’d say you’re probably right. The anarchists they’re laying this on couldn’t find their own ass in the dark. I’ve been pressing to deal with those Imperials for a long time. But there’re too many politicians, making too much money off them for that to happen.”

Sullivan nodded. That’s why Pershing had given this man a piece of the puzzle. “What’s gonna happen?”

“Nobody wants another war,” the major said. “I’m afraid people will believe whatever they want. I think they’re fools. War’s coming, no matter what we say. All I can do is make sure my little corner of this machine is ready to fight.” There was a knock on the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mister man whose name I probably don’t want to know . . . duty calls.”

Sullivan had returned his salute smartly. Duty calls.

The view out the window of the Silverado was breathtaking but his thoughts were elsewhere. Huge fuel tanks hung pendulous between the wings, pontoons even larger were below that. The ocean was dark blue as far as the eye could see. A dark shape came into slow focus as they drew near. It was an airship, and one of the biggest he’d ever seen. It was so far away that it was hard to make out details.

“What is that thing?” one of the soldiers asked.

“That? I read about that in the paper yesterday. That’s the Imperium’s new super airship. That Stuyvesant made a pretty penny off that pig I’d bet,” the other answered smartly. “It’s heading from Michigan out to Japan. I read the whole article.”

Sullivan watched the huge craft in the distance. His scalp prickled at the sight of the rising sun painted large on the outer hulls. These were the bastards who’d robbed him of Delilah—not the same bastards, but they worked for the same madman. Not that being angry did him a lick of good. The Silverado was unarmed, and that monster sure as hell wouldn’t be. Major Arnold’s men weren’t about to start an international incident just because he was in a foul mood.

The biplane was parallel to the distant dirigible, but they were easily passing it and he realized that it was stationary. There was a glint of light reflecting off something metallic below it, and it took him a moment to realize that they were hovering over a ship. The Chairman’s airship dwarfed the tiny vessel.

Why were they tethered to a cargo ship? Airships had to gas up, same as anything else, but why do it at sea when they’d just passed over land? “Soldier . . . that article say if it ran off diesel?”

“No, siree, that thing’s engines run off the hydrogen in its bags. UBF says it could fly nonstop all the way around the whole world if the wind was right. The crew has like a dozen Torches to watch for fire and its own Weatherman and—”

What else could they be picking up from a ship off the coast of San Francisco? That was brazen, even for his brother. There might not be anything he could do about it, but maybe somebody else could. Sullivan stood and lurched into the aisle. He caught the engineer midway up the cabin and grabbed the airman on the shoulder. “I need to use your radio.”

San Francisco, California

Faye was swept up in the confusion as much as everyone else. Reporters had tried to take their picture when they got to the hospital, but Lance had swept her under his arm and gotten her inside with his wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his face. “Last thing we need is for people who think we’re dead to know we’re not,” he’d muttered. As Francis had gone by, the cameras had mysteriously broken and they’d retreated from the cursing reporters.

The hospital had been packed with injured. Several local churches had been pressed into service for the less serious burns and she heard that medical people were being brought in from all over the country. Heinrich told her that someone named Doctor Rosenstein was flying in from Chicago and that he’d personally see to Mr. Browning if they couldn’t find a Healer.

The regular doctors had taken Mr. Browning away as soon as they arrived. Mr. Garrett had been taken to surgery. Lance had yelled at them about something, until they agreed to not sedate him while they tried to tend to his injuries. He also refused to part with his six-gun. “If the police talk to you, you were a guest at Francis’s house. Don’t say nothing else.”

“I’ll see to her, Mr. Talon,” Isaiah assured him. “Please, go get yourself tended to. Please, Faye, have a seat with me. My back is killing me.” The two of them sat down on a bench in the hallway. Mr. Rawls took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his glasses. He looked tired, all covered in soot. Many of the other people in the hallway were also covered in ashes, so they fit right in.

Francis saw an older doctor pass them at a quick walk. “Excuse me, sir, do you have a Healer available?”

The doctor paused long enough to give an exasperated laugh. “Young man, don’t be absurd. You couldn’t afford a Healer.”

Francis’s face turned red. “I’ll have you know I’m Francis Cornelius Stuyvesant the Second! I could write a check and buy this hospital!”

The doctor took in Francis’s bedraggled condition, snorted, and spun on his heel. “That’s a new one, usually people around here insist they’re a Hearst,” he called over his shoulder as he hurried along to more pressing business.

Francis’s hands curled into fists and he went after the doctor, still demanding to be heard. “When I buy this place, the first thing I’ll do is fire you!” He disappeared into the mob.

Faye sighed. It had been a very tiring day. Mr. Rawls patted her gently on the knee. Harkeness had sulked away as soon as there was a crowd. “Your friend isn’t very nice,” Faye said.

“Kristopher is having a difficult time, I’m afraid. The loss of his granddaughter is weighing on him greatly. We have no idea which way they went and they have a long head start on us.”

She could understand. She couldn’t bear to think of what that bully Mr. Madi would do to poor delicate Jane. “Mr. Harkeness said he’s something like a Healer, but he couldn’t help Mr. Browning or Mr. Garrett. What good is he?”

“He has some minor Power where he can stop the spread of disease. He kept their wounds from becoming infected. There are degrees of Healers, and in that family, I’m afraid that his descendents inherited far more Power than he has,” he sighed.

“You sound really tired, Mr. Rawls.”

“I am, dear. The elders sent me to secure the Geo-Tel”—he gestured around the dazed and ashen crowd.—“and none of you know about it, so I’ve failed. Pershing took it to his grave, but I think he underestimated the Chairman. He will find it unless we can destroy it. You see this, Faye? Imagine this a thousand times worse. Why, a single firing of the Geo-Tel could destroy all of California. America would fall, Europe would fall, and the whole world would surrender to the Imperium’s horrible ways.”

“That’s terrible.” Her heart ached at the sight of the people suffering. A little boy was crying, tears cutting paths through the dirt on his cheeks, and it reminded her of how her brothers had looked, tears tracking mud through the dust that had caked onto their faces when the soil had gotten all dry and the wind had blown it all away. Only this time it wouldn’t be big clouds of dirt covering the sky, it would be ashes from all the beautiful cities burning. “I promised to kill the Chairman.”

He shook his head. “Poor child. You don’t realize, but we’ve tried, many times. He simply will not die. We’ve burned him, shot him, stabbed him, blown him up with bombs on many occasions. The Grimnoir have sent men to poison him, but he doesn’t need to eat or drink, we’ve tried to capture him in his sleep, but he doesn’t sleep. We once had a Torch scorch his flesh away in a pillar of fire, and he walked out, his clothes burned off, but he was fine. A Grimnoir knight once blew up a bridge while a train he was riding in was passing over it. The whole thing fell five hundred feet into a ravine and the Chairman walked out without so much as a scratch.”

“But there has to be a way!” Faye insisted. “I could Travel right next to him.”

“Others have tried. Basically you can’t get close unless he lets you and that only happens while he’s killing you. He has a strange Power that lets him pull all the knowledge and life right out of someone, just by laying his hands on them. The elders discussed how to destroy him with our smartest Cogs. Perhaps a direct hit with a Tesla weapon could do it, but other than that . . .” Isaiah shrugged.

So if you can’t kill him, that’s why the Grimnoir put so much effort into messing up his plans . . . She had promised General Pershing not to share his memories with anyone else, but Mr. Rawls was right. The Chairman was too smart. He’d find the piece on his own, just like he’d somehow tracked down Grandpa. She’d barely known the General. Maybe his sickness had made it so he wasn’t making the best decisions . . . and she felt like she could trust Mr. Rawls. He wasn’t just Grimnoir, he was like a boss Grimnoir, and if she couldn’t trust them, then she’d never be a proper knight like her Grandpa had been.

Faye looked around to make sure no one was listening in. She leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “I know where it is.”

Mr. Rawls smiled.

Mar Pacifica, California

The Tempest made excellent time and he was in California before the smoke had even settled. Cornelius had commandeered one of the UBF Weathermen stationed at the Empire State Building and put him to work making sure that they’d had the wind at their back the entire way. It had left the Active exhausted, and it would probably cause erratic weather patterns across the entire nation in their wake, but it was a small price to pay.

They’d flown over the impact area and he couldn’t believe his eyes. His son had insisted on building an estate on the rocky finger of land that had jutted into the ocean because it was so green and beautiful. Now it was wiped bare, under ash as thick as Michigan snow. The mansion was simply gone, timber and brick burned or hurled into the sea.

His hopes had been dashed. Nobody could have lived through that. Not even a Stuyvesant, and they had a talent for surviving anything. His once favorite heir was surely dead.

Oh, the way they’d fought. The boy had always been a rascal. While Cornelius could barely stand most of his heirs, brownnosers and sycophants the lot of them, young Francis had not been afraid to say what was on his mind, and he’d loved him for it. He was as much a contrarian at heart as the eldest Stuyvesant, and it did Cornelius proud to see that Stuyvesant fire in another generation.

Francis’s father, Cornelius’s least disliked son, had been a congressman and then ambassador to Japan. It was during that time that he had met John Pershing, and young Francis had taken a liking to the soldier. His father was too busy womanizing and collecting bribes to have given the boy a proper upbringing, so of course Francis had gravitated toward the manly activities of horsemanship and shooting. Cornelius had approved at first.

It wasn’t until after they got back to Japan that he realized how much nonsense Pershing had put into his grandson’s head. Francis was preoccupied with frivolous things, like right and wrong. Apparently he’d seen some atrocity or another at an Imperium school and that had soured his outlook on profiting from the Chairman’s wild spending. His son had no such qualms, and had arranged many lucrative deals, but Francis would have none of it.

Then his son had died. It had been right after an argument with Francis, where the young man had stormed out, vowing to have nothing to do with his family. They said that it was a suicide, but Cornelius knew that was a filthy lie. No Stuyvesant would ever lower himself to such a fate. He knew that it had to be the work of that vile Pershing. No, it wasn’t enough to turn his favorite heir, the boy who was his spitting image of his own youthful vigor, against him. Pershing and his mysterious Society had surely killed his son as well.

So he’d sought out a Pale Horse. With Pershing’s foul influence gone then surely Francis would see reason and come back to the family, but as he looked out the windows at the wreckage, he knew in his heart that he’d been wrong, terribly wrong, and he could never take it back.

There was a polite cough behind him, and he turned to see a surgical mask. It took him a moment to remember why everyone was wearing masks. “What? Can’t you see I’m mourning, idiot?”

“Sir, we have received a message. There were some survivors. Someone claiming to be a Stuyvesant is at a hospital north of here.”

He looked back at the house. Impossible. But it was hard to keep a Stuyvesant down. Could it be? “What are you waiting for? Fire up the engines!” he shouted. “Full speed ahead!”