Page 5 of Mistletoe (Monsters of the Nexus #3)

Chapter Four

Hal

West Lands

The steady sound of hooves on the ground broke the quiet, giving him enough warning to hide behind a snow-covered bush.

The woman from the barn drove past on a wagon led by a horse. An older man rode alongside her. Their noses shared the same profile, leading him to believe they were family.

Emma. She said her name was Emma.

The sight of her…he couldn’t explain.

She was bundled against the cold. A scarlet scarf obscured much of her lower face. A woolen hat covered her blonde hair. The skin that was exposed was pink from the cold. She wore a shapeless gray wool coat. It looked faded and worn and fit poorly, like it had been made for another. Hal certainly understood the necessity of secondhand clothes and wearing a garment until it fell apart.

What he couldn’t understand was the horse and wagon. Odd choice for such a cold day.

Actually, he hadn’t seen or heard any vehicles. The creaking of a wagon and horse hooves hardly seemed to count as a vehicle. The silence was unnerving, almost as unnerving as all the empty sky. On Earth, vehicles crowded the street and sky to nearly the same extent. There was always the constant noise of traffic, especially when you lived in a street-level apartment. Hal eventually learned to tune the noise out, ignoring it like he ignored the neighbor’s too-loud television.

He also could not explain the compulsion he felt to follow, like an invisible hook in his chest dragging him along.

He followed at a safe distance. When Emma twisted in the wagon’s bench to look behind, he flattened himself against the snowy ground. Hiding seemed prudent. He had escaped from a dungeon, after all. The smoke rising from the mountain indicated that Draven’s priorities might lay elsewhere for the moment, but soon enough, he’d move to capture Hal again.

He had no worries about following Emma’s trail. Even if the wagon had not left a very clear trail, he’d follow her scent. Soap, clean and herbal, like rosemary and other green things. Awareness of her burned in him, guiding him.

Hal smelled the smoke and horseshit before the first building appeared, hinting that they neared a town. Careful not to be seen, he slinked around the buildings, picking his way through shadows and over puddles of questionable liquid. He hid himself behind an abandoned hut and observed.

The town was not what he expected.

He had seen the civil engineer’s plans. He saw the schematics, the actual blueprints, and not just the glossy pamphlet given to the colonists. The ship itself would be disassembled and converted into power and housing for the initial stage. Printers would convert raw matter into building material. Housing was designed to be modular, the pieces quick to produce, easy to assemble, and expand as needed. It was a highly efficient system, if aesthetically dull. Considering that the colony needed to provide adequate housing to thousands of colonists nearly overnight, fast and boring was the way to go.

This was not boring.

This was chaos.

The buildings were wooden, cobbled together without regard to standardization or regulation. Wood. Might as well make the town out of matchsticks since no one cared about fire safety.

The streets were… not there. More mud. More horses and carts. People shouted. Animals made noises. Wagons creaked. Wood banged against wood as someone flung open a door. The noise, combined with the stench of smoke and stagnant water, overpowered his senses.

Some regression of technology could be expected, but the colony ship had the equipment to build the necessary tools for a modern society. Had the colony’s governors abandoned clean energy? Did every building burn wood or coal for fuel? Conditions were alarmingly primitive and absolutely filthy.

Draven had said that technology failed but Hal never considered what that meant.

He fashioned the blanket into a hooded cloak and continued following Emma, who had become his touchstone in this strange environment. As she made her way through the town, he crept behind. The red scarf she wore guided him through the washed-out, drab environment as he slunk along the back of buildings and hid in the shadows. If anyone got a good look at him—well, he imagined it wouldn’t end well.

A whistle rose above the noise of the town. Hal slammed his hands over his ears, desperate to turn the volume down on existence.

A relic rolled in on iron tracks. A hulking gray steam engine thundered down the tracks, blocking Hal’s view of the town. It slowed and rolled into a train station.

A train.

They had trains on Earth, obviously. But the trains he was familiar with ran on maglev tracks and glided along, near silent. That steam-powered monstrosity was a fossil.

Now that he had seen it, other pieces fell into place. The horse-drawn carts. The flickering gas lamps instead of electric lights. The primitive conditions. Technology had not failed. It vanished.

What was this place?

Emma

Sweetwater Point

In the morning, once the sun had a chance to warm the air to a temperature greater than soul-crushingly frozen, they made the journey to Sweetwater Point. Traveling took longer than usual, thanks to muddy roads. Winter travel was never easy.

But they’d do it again tomorrow and every day thereafter until they knew Felix was safe.

The entire journey, Emma felt eyes watching her. She twisted in her seat but did not see any fellow traveler or a rogue ratite. The flightless birds tended to avoid humans, but they were territorial. If a person encroached too closely, they attacked. While they looked silly with their long necks, fluffy feathers, and useless wings, the razor-sharp talons on their feet could split a stomach open in a heartbeat.

Yes, the wisest course of action was to simply avoid the creatures.

Still, the feelings of being watched did not fade. A sensation of constant monitoring was always present, thanks to vampire Lord Draven high above in his mountain fortress, but that was removed. Distant. It was a phenomenon that she learned to ignore. This felt immediate and raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

It was most disagreeable.

“The contract terms are so ungenerous I intend to reply that I might as well publish the book myself,” her father said, interrupting her thoughts.

“What? No,” she said.

“Emma, yes,” Oscar replied. “What is publishing? Throwing ink on paper. Binding pages together. I’ve already written the book. That’s the difficult bit.”

She didn’t know where to begin. “Bookbinding is a craft. You’ll need leather, tools, and a means of printing. There is also the difficulty of setting the type when you cannot see.”

He made a dismissive noise and said, “We have a printing press.”

“We most certainly do not.” A variety of junk had accumulated in the workshop over the years, but no printing press. While she had tinkered in the workshop lately, she’d have noticed the apparatus.

“From my old broadsheet days,” he explained, which made it worse.

“Which was destroyed,” Emma said, struggling to keep her voice neutral and failing. That blasted broadsheet was the reason her family had to flee to the West Lands. She had been far too young to understand that her father had radical politics and associated with other like-minded radicals, publishing a broadsheet they considered progressive, but the government considered seditious. She had not been too young, however, to understand that fleeing the city in the middle of the night like fugitives was atypical.

“The plates were destroyed. The press itself survives.” He nodded, resolved. “I shall write to an associate in Founding and have them ship the press.”

“And where will you store it?”

“In the workshop,” he replied breezily.

The poor, cluttered workshop, filled with her mother’s long-unused painting supplies and the detritus of Emma tearing apart and rebuilding machinery. They were most certainly not fitting a printing press into the building, not without somehow enabling the structure to defy physics and be larger on the inside.

“You’re not able to set the type by yourself, and it’s unfair to expect Ma to do the work for you.”

“I have an industrious daughter.”

“Oh no. I absolutely will not,” Emma said primly. “You’ll have to rent premises for your press and hire a shop assistant.”

Oscar grumbled about expenses.

“You were lucky to not be arrested,” she added, since the practical aspects of printing his own books apparently failed to make an impression.

“For poetry?”

“For sedition and conspiracy,” she said tartly. On the night in question, the government raided a meeting, resulting in the discovery of a detailed plan involving bombs. Everyone captured that night was arrested and still in prison. “You only avoided capture because you were late to the meeting.”

“Yes, well, I was unaware of all their activities,” he verbally fumbled, having the good grace to flush as if embarrassed. “I wrote poems about nature then, and the press will only be employed for poetry now.”

She wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

It was an old argument, sore like an aching tooth, and she decided to show great character and not poke at it.

Only… doubts niggled at her.

Blast it all. She had to know.

“Have you shared your decision with your publishers about going it alone, or is this a passing fancy?” she asked.

Oscar patted the front breast pocket of his greatcoat. “Agatha wrote my reply. I shall post it when we arrive in town.”

“Please consider negotiating for better royalties before you attempt to build a publishing empire in our barn,” Emma said.

“Do not be alarmed, my prairie flower,” he said in an indulgent tone, “it is all part of the process.”

His words were far from reassuring. No matter what her father thought, printing presses were difficult to transport and took a considerable amount of space. If he thought the blooming contraption to be just another task his family would do for him, he was in for disappointment.

They crested a lay hill, beyond which the town sprawled out in a disorganized mess. The fort was to the north with the wooden stockade; it had been built first and the town came next, huddled in the shadow of the stockade. Technically, the railroad came first. The original colonists laid the track, cutting a straight line across the prairie to the base being constructed in the mountains.

Only the colonists’ technology failed. People mutated into monsters for reasons poorly understood. Humanity barely had a toehold on the planet, and they nearly vanished. The military base was seized by a leader of the monsters. Needless to say, the railroad was never finished.

The surviving military force situated itself at the railroad terminus. The town came later, an afterthought sprouting up to service the soldiers and settlers moving into the west. It was a chaotic, disorganized mess and always filled with fresh faces.

Oscar moved stiffly as he dismounted from the wagon. Well into his sixth decade, his joints ached in the cold weather. Emma sympathized. Her body felt cold and stiff as well, despite her relative youth. He announced his intention to visit the broadsheet office in the hopes they had news. When that proved unsatisfactory, and it would because it was far too soon for news to have reached town, he would visit a tavern favored by soldiers. Nothing traveled faster than gossip.

“I will find you when I have finished my errands,” she said.

“Of course.”

“No politics.”

“I would never.”

Emma gave him a flat look. “No politics.”

He smiled and patted her head as one would to placate a petulant child. “Such tedious conversation you demand, but I will do as you advise, prairie flower.”

Emma knocked his hand away, grinning despite herself. She coughed discreetly, and the stern expression returned briefly as she struggled not to laugh.

Mirth won out. “Refrain from the spirits. You know how you get, and I won’t bail you out, you old reprobate,” she warned, wagging her finger with comedic exaggeration.

“Yes, my petal.”

Experience told her that she had little say in whether he chose to heed her words. Oscar De Lacey did as he pleased, was utterly charming while he did so, and seldom faced serious consequences.

As long as he didn’t start a brawl, she’d count that as a success.

Emma completed her tasks of purchasing sturdy cotton fabric trousers suitable for work, collected the goat cheese earnings, and placed an order for the items on her mother’s list. The packages would be ready and loaded into the wagon in an hour, leaving plenty of daylight to return to the farm.

With that completed, she stopped by the newspaper office. The space was alight with excitement, people rushing about, speaking at volume. In the back of the building, the metal printing press clanged and thumped. No one could tell her the results of the military’s activity in the mountains, only that the Aerie had fallen. For the first time in two hundred years, since the original colonists settled on Nexus, the vampire Draven lost control of his fortress.

Exciting news indeed, but it told her nothing of her brother’s fate.

Emma found her father exactly where he promised to be, doing exactly what he promised he would not.

The tavern was sparsely populated for the middle of the day. Most of the patrons were soldiers in uniform. A few wore civilian clothing but still had the precise military look about them.

“Natural spaces must be protected. This planet existed before humans arrived. It supported life, a fascinating ecology. Erasing the native flora and fauna with a poor imitation of Earth is an insult. The arrogance of humanity!” Oscar was flush in the face, leaning forward to speak with enthusiasm. An empty mug sat in front of him at the bar.

“Such an odd position, given that A Song for the Prairie is about man’s unconquerable spirit and taming the wilderness,” his companion replied, then quoted a line of Oscar’s poetry. He was a younger man, the age of her brother, dressed in a gray military uniform that looked as if it had never seen a day in the field. He held a mug of beer in one hand and gestured with enthusiasm as he spoke. “The unresponsive sky moves against me.”

“Ugh, that line. Such hubris. To assume all of nature would act against you or have the slightest consideration for your well-being.”

“But that indifference makes nature the antagonist to humanity.”

Emma listened long enough to determine the conversation to be amiable and ordered herself a coffee at the bar. Her father could argue poetry for hours. Argue anything, really. The man loved to debate.

A woman joined her at the bar. She wore a sky-blue greatcoat lined with a snowy white fur trim.

Emma tried not to compare their appearances, but it was difficult. She was a tall woman with a body shaped by farmwork. Her hands were rough. Her complexion was ruddy. She knew that her figure was called stout when people felt generous, and the many layers she wore for warmth did not help. Today, she wore, from the base layer up, wool tights and undershirt, thick socks that went to her knees, a petticoat, a thick wool dress the color of mud, and a once green greatcoat that was now a murky gray. And boots, caked in mud.

Everything was covered in mud or the color of mud.

Except Sheriff Nina Navarre. She sparkled like sunlight on fresh snow.

“Did you fall off your horse, De Lacey? You got a little… everywhere,” the sheriff said. She wiggled her fingers, gesturing at Emma’s general appearance.

Emma turned her attention to adding cream and sugar to her coffee. Nina’s words might have sounded friendly, even teasing, but they were not on friendly terms. They had not been friends since their school days. “Something I can help you with, Sheriff?”

“Just keeping an eye on known miscreants.”

Terms were extremely unfriendly.

“Miscreant? My father may buck the conventions of polite society and has strong opinions, but he is hardly a miscreant,” she said.

“Come to town for news of your brother?” Nina asked, neatly changing the topic.

Emma nodded. “Need to stock up for the winter. The military requisitions cleaned us out.”

“I’m not sure you’ll find much in town either. The requisitions hit everyone.”

Emma took a cautious sip of the coffee.

“I’m not surprised Felix joined up,” Nina said, leaning against the bar on one elbow. Her gaze swept over Emma from head to toe. “Farm life always seemed a bit dull for him.”

The sheriff’s own order of coffee arrived. She doctored it with cream and sugar.

“Nor am I surprised they passed on you.” Nina took a sip. “Too old.”

“The same could be said of you, Sheriff. I believe we both qualify as spinsters.”

“Active law officers are exempt from conscription,” she replied.

Whatever Emma intended to say, it was forgotten as her father’s voice rose in volume, no longer amiable.

“That reading is a blatant misinterpretation. Besides, the editor changed it. The unresponsive sky moves without me.” Oscar jabbed a finger toward his companion. “The newest edition will be corrected.”

“That blatant misinterpretation is the opinion held by many readers. It inspires, not that fatalistic view you’re spouting.”

“I am the author, and I tell you it is wrong,” Oscar said, slapping a hand down on the bar.

“Death of the author says my interpretation is as valid as yours,” his companion replied.

“Don’t you death of the author me, lad. I’m sitting right here and telling you that your understanding of modern poetry is fundamentally wrong. Frankly, I have half a mind to write to the university in Founding and complain about standards.”

“Only half a mind?”

Her father stood abruptly, knocking over the chair.

“Miscreant,” Nina said softly.

This had gone on long enough.

Emma slid into the space between the two men. “Gentlemen, let’s not do something we’d regret.”

“I would never regret correcting wrong opinions,” her father said. Despite being at the far side of his sixth decade, he stood ready for a fight with a man who had the vitality of youth on his side.

Emma pressed her hand against her father’s chest. His breath had the sharp odor of whiskey. “Are you drunk?”

“I’ve had a tipple.”

Annoyed, she pushed on his chest. “Your children were marched into the beast’s lair and you’re having a tipple ? I cannot believe you.”

“We’re celebrating, my petal,” he said, tugging on the lapel of his coat as if to regain his composure.

“What could you possibly be celebrating?” Her gaze swung to the soldier, ordering him to explain.

“We took the Aerie today without a single casualty,” the soldier announced. A cheer went up through the bar.

“That can’t possibly be true,” Emma said, desperately wanting it to be true. “No messenger could have reached town so quickly.”

“We had an inside operative open the gates.”

“You mean a traitor.”

“A patriot,” the soldier said, sounding offended. “I would have loved to be there myself, but someone needs to keep order and ensure that the supply lines are working properly.”

Administration. Unglamorous but necessary. Someone had to ensure that the guns had enough bullets and that the soldiers were fed. Still, Emma wasn’t betting the safety of her brother on the say-so of a clerk with pristine, non-muddy boots.

“But you have no certainty over the claim of no casualties,” she said. “There would be resistance inside the Aerie. The vampire would not just surrender his fortress without a fight.”

“The only advantage Draven had was the gate. We have the numbers and the weaponry,” the soldier said.

The Aerie was famed for being impregnable. A traitor opening the gates was unprecedented and a clear victory, but there were too many factors. The weather, for one. It had been cold and snowy on the prairie. The winds had to be brutal on the mountain.

Emma shook her head in disagreement. “Even if the military could waltz right in without resistance, they still have to march up the mountain. Conditions have not been favorable.”

“I didn’t realize you were a military strategist, petal .”

Emma bristled at the mocking tone and the pet name. Only her family could use such monikers. “Sir, you should not presume such familiarity. You do not know me.”

“Don’t I? Everyone knows you, Miss De Lacey. Gentle as the morning, peaceful as silence ,” he quoted, then huffed. “Your pa got that one wrong. Doesn’t seem to be anything peaceful or silent about you.”

Ugh, that blasted poem. Her father’s ode to a prairie flower that flourished in the harsh environment struck a chord with a sentimental audience. Despite its popularity, no one seemed to understand it, and Emma was tired of explaining it.

Almost as tired as she was of the flower jokes.

“Let’s go, Pa,” she said.

The soldier grabbed her by the hand, preventing her from leaving. “Come on, petal,” he cajoled. “Loosen up. Have some fun.”

“Unhand me.” Emma jerked her arm back, but his grip tightened.

“Or perhaps take the stick out of your ass.”

Her father finally seemed to notice that his companion was an unsavory sort and demanded an apology from him.

Emma did not need her father to sort this problem out. Perhaps a more refined lady would have protested and cried in alarm, beseeching the aid of others. That certainly seemed to be the expected thing. However, Emma was perfectly capable of grabbing her mug of coffee and slamming it into the side of her assailant’s face.

The ceramic did not break, which was disappointing, but it made a satisfying noise. Hot liquid splashed over him, ruining that perfect uniform.

There. Sorted.