The Ripper Affair

“Do you like bowing and scraping to that magical whore? Does it please you to be held in contempt for your power and pride? I know what moves you, Prima, and I offer you alliance. And more.”

She remembered the nosegay left on another sorcerer’s narrow bed, a bloodstain upon the floor, and the same trick used to distort a voice in a filthy Whitchapel yard.

This was most likely the same Prime who had mysteriously moved to aid her during the Red affair, and she had thought it quite likely he was another in Victrix’s service.

Now, she wondered.

Did he know his sorceries weakened Britannia? What was his aim?

A new spirit rising.

“Do you think,” she began, choosing her words with care, “that a new spirit will be more amenable than the old?”

“Amenable?” The laugh was chilling, and another sound of breakage intruded. What was he doing? “Perhaps not. But certainly weak, for a long while. And grateful.”

It was one thing to privately compass such a thing, but quite another to hear her adversary speak of it so blithely. She relaxed, abruptly, all her considerable attention brought to bear. “You know little of royalty and rule, sir, if you expect gratitude from either to be of any duration.”

“And you know far too much to be allowed to become my enemy.”

Another shattering sound, Mikal’s exhale of effort. What on earth was occurring? She did not open her eyes, every inward sense twisting through a labyrinth, following shifting ripples as they doubled back upon each other, circling ever closer to the artfully camouflaged well of disturbance that would be her opponent.

“Think upon it, Emma. Would you rather serve, or be served?”

I would rather be left to my own devices, thank you very much. But she did not reply, for her attention snagged on a single flaw in the pattern, a break in the ripples, and she pounced without moving, plunging through the matrices of ringing æther. Snake-quick, but he was quicker, and sorcerous threads snapped as he cast his coat of camouflage aside. More shattering sounds, and she was driven to her knees by the expended force of her own blow, reflected back at her.

Oh, how very droll. A great ringing in her head, she shook to clear it, her skirts ground against something sharp and powdery.

“Prima?” Mikal, longing to give chase.

“No.” She could not find the breath for more. If he has laid his plans so thoroughly, he will have an ambush waiting, and I shall not lose you to such idiocy. She fumbled for her veil with fingers that felt swollen-clumsy. Blinking furiously, she found herself kneeling before a heap of… shattered tiles?

Yes, they were roof tiles, of the old red clay in use on the sloped top of the stable opposite, which was ringing with the sounds of clockhorse distress.

The equines did not like this Prime, or his works.

Mikal crouched easily at her side, his hands covered in vicious, shallow slices, bright beads of blood against thick pink dust coating his skin. “Good practice,” he said, tilting his head as he deciphered her expression behind the veil. “Simple locometry, I should think. And triggered from afar.” He pointed to another rooftop, with a half-shrug that told her it was his best guess. “Crude. But effective.”

Had she possessed another Shield, she might have also possessed a chance of catching the mad Prime while one stayed to protect her from the assault of flung tiles. But now was not the time for guilt or remonstrance. Her stays cut, her dress was covered with dust; her skirts were torn and stiff with blood. Mikal was a sight too, rolled in Scab and covered with various substances. His coat was shredded, and the glimpse of his muscled belly crisscrossed with angry red scarring–perhaps irritated by his exertions in the last few minutes–caused her a pang she did not care to examine more closely.

“Your hands,” she managed. Her throat was very dry. She coughed, delicately, and reacquired her customary tone. “And… oh, h—lfire blast it all. This rather changes things.”

“They are already healing.” He held up his palms, and the sight of his flesh closing, sealing itself under the not-quite-ætheric glow of a Shield’s peculiar healing sorcery, sent another bolt through her. “See?” Very gently, as if she were a still a student at the Schola, unfamiliar with a Shield.