Call of Fire Page 2

“Will these repairs completely prevent the ship from flight?” Ingrid couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck, of being as vulnerable as a kappa without water in its crown. “Blum’s going to come after me. You know she will.”

  The combined power of Japan and America was governed by twelve ambassadors. Most of them remained unknown to the public, while others, like Theodore Roosevelt, were darlings of the daily newspapers. Ambassador Blum was not a public figure—nor was she human. In the brief time that Blum had held Ingrid captive in San Francisco, the ambassador had taken care to demonstrate that she was a kitsune, a Japanese fox spirit. A very powerful one, judging by the way she emanated magic. With each century of life, a kitsune gained new tails and new human forms that she could don at will. Ingrid had encountered Blum in the form of an elderly Japanese woman, while Cy had once known her as a beautiful, young redhead.

  “I’ll do what I can to keep the Bug operational in case we need to vamoose. I don’t relish the idea of being a sitting duck either, you know. Blum’s a big reason why I made the Bug in the first place. She’d like to get her hands—paws—on Cy again, too.”

  With reason. Cy was a brilliant inventor. As a teenager, he had designed the Durendal tank, one of the Unified Pacific’s greatest assets in the wars against the Spanish Empire and now China. He had deserted the Army & Airship Corps, become an avowed pacifist, and had spent almost half his life on the run so that his skills could never again be used to create weapons of mass murder. Not to mention Blum had apparently delighted in flirting with Cy in the brief time they had known each other.

  Cy cleared his throat. “Enough about Blum. We’ll stay on the move.”

  Ingrid welcomed the subject change. She was repulsed by the very idea of Cy and Blum acting friendly, even though she knew that he had believed Blum to be a normal human at the time.

  “You’re not alone, Ingrid. We’re right here with you,” Cy said, misreading the dismay on her face. “We’ll outfox that old fox.” The fierceness in his eyes made her forget the faint brush of jealousy and want to crush her lips against his instead.

  “That’s right. Why hang alone when you can hang as a group?” Fenris mimicked pulling a noose at his neck.

  Ingrid couldn’t help laughing, as horrible as the joke was. The truth was, she’d never be lucky enough to die in Blum’s possession. No, she’d be treated like Papa was while in Unified Pacific custody: brought to the brink of death time and again in order to agitate Hidden Ones and level whole cities.

  As she worked her way down the hallway to prepare Miss Rossi’s body, Ingrid promised herself that she’d never be abused as Papa was. She’d make certain that she died first.

  Chapter 2

  Friday, April 20, 1906

  Rooftops across Portland gleamed in the morning light. The heart of the city clung to the bends of the Willamette River, with buildings and roads stretching into the green hills at all sides and spreading north to the wide cut of the Columbia. Farther north still, Mount St. Helens squatted, a snowcapped dome. To the east, Mount Hood stood dominant.

  But Ingrid’s gaze was focused downtown, where black plumes rose high into the sky.

  “Is it like San Francisco all over again?” she hoarsely whispered.

  “I don’t think so, Ing. I traveled here with Mr. Sakaguchi once a few years ago. That smoke looks like it’s from their Chinatown.” Lee spoke up from the other bench seat. “It doesn’t seem like the fire spread very far.”

  “Yes.” Cy was at the rudder wheel, as he had been much of the night. Fenris’s steady diet of coffee couldn’t fully eradicate the need for sleep, despite his efforts. “That looks about right. We lived in Seattle for a while and came down here more than once. Portland used to treat their Chinese better than most cities. They didn’t even confine them to a set area back then. As the war’s gone on, well . . .” Cy’s voice trailed off.

  The Japanese alliance with America had existed since the brief War Between the States in the 1860s, when Japanese airship technology enabled the Union to crush the fledging Confederacy; the Unified Pacific gained true cohesion in the 1890s as America joined with the Japanese to dominate China. American hatred of the Chinese had evolved with the rising death tolls of subsequent generations of young men.

  “Mr. Sakaguchi might be down there, caught in the cross fire,” she murmured.

  Lee shot her a glance. “Uncle Moon will take care of him.”

  “He might heal Mr. Sakaguchi if he’s injured, yes, but forgive me for not placing too much trust in your uncle,” she snapped, her worry for Mr. Sakaguchi making her voice sharper than she intended. Lee said nothing more.

  After Mr. Sakaguchi survived the auxiliary explosion in San Francisco, a sniper had attacked him in his home. Desperate to save her ojisan, Ingrid had begged Lee to take Mr. Sakaguchi into Chinatown to a powerful lingqi doctor. She knew it was risky for a Japanese man to be in the grotto, much less an esteemed geomancer, but at the time she had no idea Uncle Moon actually led one of the tongs that had filled the power vacuum left by the fall of the Chinese government. When the tongs fled the city before the earthquake, they had taken Mr. Sakaguchi along as a hostage.

  Wui Seng Tong would demand that Mr. Sakaguchi use geomancy to transfer earth energy to kermanite to power Chinese machines and airships. He wouldn’t. He had long refused to fill any kermanite that directly powered the war effort for either side.

  Ingrid wondered how long the tongs would tolerate an uncooperative Japanese man in their midst. The Chinese were fleeing for their lives, after all. Mr. Sakaguchi would be a burden.

  The airship swooped lower to follow the Willamette River northward. Ships flecked the water. Along the river stood an airship dock with rows of tall mooring masts like lighthouses of exposed steel. Dozens of towers were spaced out on what seemed to be an island that connected to the river’s eastern bank by a small land bridge.

  Cy adjusted two levers in the dashboard. The engine noise shifted to become more guttural.

  “We’re mooring.” Fenris leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. He had a small, straight figure, his brown skin pale enough to make him socially acceptable. His wardrobe consisted of oil-stained cotton shirts and brown dungarees.

  “Yep.” Cy didn’t turn. His focus was on an empty tower just below. Two boys raced up the metal staircase to the top and beckoned the Bug forward.

  The Palmetto Bug hovered closer, closer, the engine noise dropping to a mere purr. The red ball atop the mooring tower loomed close, as if Ingrid could open up a window and tap it. A small lurch shook the craft and the engine noise wound down to nothing.

  “There. Welcome to Portland.” Cy planted his hands on his lap and looked back at Ingrid, as if seeking approval. She gave him a small smile; his eyes brightened in response. Cy beckoned to Fenris. “There’s already hot coffee in the pot. Maybe you can be somewhat pleasant in discourse with other folks here.”

  Fenris muttered something indecipherable as he turned away.

  Cy stood and stretched as much as he could in the confined space. “I’ll get us set up here and find out the scuttlebutt. That shouldn’t take too long. You both need to stay aboard.” His gaze flicked between Ingrid and Lee.

  “For now,” Ingrid said. Cy shot her a look as he continued down the hallway, pausing only to tug on his shoes.

  She understood his caution about letting her wander the city, even if the need for it rankled her. Her deep brown skin, inherited from Papa, caused folks to label her everything from Cherokee to Mexican. San Francisco was probably more tolerant of her than many places because the population abounded with new immigrants from all over the world. She knew that wasn’t the case in Cascadia, where the demographics favored Japanese and Anglo-Saxons.

  Cy yanked open the hatch. Heavy metal clanged and the stairs jangled free. “Hey there! G’morning!” he called. “Fine sunny day up here . . .” His voice faded with his footsteps. Cy had a graceful way with people; he was slick as butter on a hot cast-iron skillet.
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  Lee remained in place and stared out the glass with a frown.

  “Hey,” Ingrid said softly, nudging him. “You seem to still be up in the clouds.”

  “I’m trying to figure out how to handle this. I haven’t been outside of San Francisco on my own, you know. With reason.”

  She studied him. He wore a white button-up shirt, the paper collar fresh, and dungarees like he would wear most every day. Lee had the foresight to bring clothes aboard for both himself and Ingrid. This had been a very good thing since the gorgeous dress she last wore in San Francisco had been coated with manure, blood, and unidentified filth. They had stuffed it into a furnace before they departed California.

  “Other than Wui Seng Tong, do you think you might know anyone else around here?” she asked.

  “Maybe. Depends on how many other Chinese came this way from California. I don’t think I know anyone who lives here.”

  “Well, here’s my suggestion: don’t wear your brassard.” Her words scared her a bit, but at the same time the suggestion felt right. In public, all Chinese were required to wear yellow cloth on an upper arm that bore the kanji for Shina, as well as carry an identification booklet. To do otherwise was sedition.

  “When you speak in Japanese on the phone, people think you are Japanese,” she continued. “You’re as fluent as I am.”

  “Ah yes, I’m very good at saying ‘moshi moshi.’”

  That made Ingrid laugh. Those words were the standard Japanese greeting via telephone, akin to saying hello. According to mythology, kitsune couldn’t pronounce the syllables in “moshi moshi.” Hence its use as a phone greeting; if the person on the other end couldn’t reply in turn, they might not be human.

  “I should say that to Blum sometime, see if she can reply.” She smiled at Lee. “Think about this. You know how to act Japanese.”

  “That’s true.” He looked thoughtful. “You know what? It could work. I knew too many people in San Francisco to ever get away with such a masquerade there, but here, maybe.”

  “These clothes are clean and look like something a working-class Japanese boy might wear into town, too. You just have to carry yourself in a different way.” If anyone noticed his bruised face, the slight discoloration could be readily excused as a martial arts injury.

  They stopped talking as Fenris grumbled into the hallway and clomped down the stairs. Outside, a large staircase wheeled closer. Ingrid recalled seeing a similar structure in Fenris and Cy’s workshop.

  “A proper Japanese boy shouldn’t be wandering downtown alone on a school day either,” Lee said.

  “Of course. You need a nanny. It’s a different sort of playacting than being a secretary, but I think I can manage.” She and Lee grinned at each other. Their subterfuge might be unlawful, but it certainly was titillating.

  Not only could they search for Mr. Sakaguchi here, but maybe Ingrid could find out more about Papa as well. Judging by his correspondence, he had lived in Portland for years. Maybe someone here would have the answers they were desperately seeking.

  Ingrid might be on the run from Ambassador Blum, but this was a strategic retreat. Information was ammunition, and she was determined to be well armed when the battle resumed.

  “Ingrid? Lee?” Cy’s voice carried up the stairs as he boarded. “Pardon the interruption. I want to talk with you both, but I need to disconnect some things right quick. Do you mind following me?”

  They walked to the engine compartment at the very back of the ship. Ingrid glanced around. This portion of the airship was less than ten feet across, maybe five feet long, and was crammed with tangled pipes, wires, and gadgetry. A few of the larger tanks looked big enough to hold a person.

  The only part of the machinery that she could name with certainty was the kermanite crystal that acted as the primary power source for the Bug. She had filled that rock herself just a few days before. It awed her to think that Fenris had assembled much of the engine, including a portion of the hull, over the course of a single night. She could stare at this mechanical jumble for a lifetime and she’d never understand how it functioned.

  Cy turned a valve. By his somber expression, he did not have good news. “The smoke is indeed from Chinatown. A block of buildings burned to the ground last night. The Chinese here’ve been jailed for their own safety.”

  Lee inhaled with a hiss. “Their own safety? Like hell.”

  “Therefore,” Cy continued, “it’s best for you to stay aboard, Lee. I can ask around to see if Mr. Sakaguchi has been locked away with the Chinese, since he could be unconscious from that gunshot wound, or he might have been coerced to stay quiet—”

  “No. No.” Lee shook his head violently, tousling his black hair. “The Chinese won’t talk to you. The police? If you slip them enough money, they’ll claim a giant octopus can sing opera. I need to do this. The two of us have a plan, see? I’m going to be Japanese today. Boku wa kawaii nihonjin desu ne?”

  Concern created wrinkles in Cy’s forehead. “I don’t like it. You’re too important, Lee. For you to wander around town—”

  “Anything we do has risks,” interrupted Ingrid. “Even meeting with Mr. Roosevelt. We know he was Mr. Sakaguchi’s friend, but we have no idea if we can trust him beyond that.”

  The Mr. Roosevelt Ingrid had known since childhood was an affable man who delighted in regaling his companions with the same old stories time and again and guffawing in laughter all the while. She most often lurked nearby and read books while he and Mr. Sakaguchi socialized, fetching drinks and snacks as requested. If he engaged in any personal conversations with her, the subject matter involved the book she was reading at the time; Roosevelt was a voracious reader with an astonishing memory. But he had never once let on that he knew the truth of her geomantic heritage—meaning he was a man who could casually conceal secrets.

  She continued, “Even if we can trust Mr. Roosevelt, we don’t know about the people around him, but we must approach him nevertheless. We’ll be smart about it. We know the dangers involved.”

  Lee offered a small nod of agreement.

  “I need to help Fenris start work here and then get some shut-eye, if I can. Work on the airship has to be our highest priority. We can always find Roosevelt later, if need be.” Cy shook his head as he unfastened some bolts. “I’m not keen on the two of you wandering around town, but I’m not going to lock you up in the Bug either.”

  “Good. That would not be well received,” said Ingrid, her tone cool at the very idea that he would do such a thing. Worry clouded Cy’s eyes as Ingrid sidled past, and she softened. She knew he fervently disagreed with their errand, but he also had the sense to keep his counsel. “Cy, please don’t fuss over us.”

  “Assuredly, I will worry. You’re like a kitten set loose in a room with fresh paint.”

  Lee snorted. “I won’t argue with that.” Ingrid shot him a glare.

  “Well, then, Cy, if you need to find me, look for the trail of mayhem and paw prints, though we do plan to find our own way back.”

  Cy’s smile created warm crinkles around his eyes. “You do that, Ingrid. I’ll leave out a saucer of milk for you, just in case.”

  Lee made a soft gagging noise and pressed past them to return to the cockpit. Ingrid was suddenly aware of the strange quiet surrounding them after days of engine noise. The nearby bunks were empty, too. She and Cy had some semblance of privacy for once. Cy seemed to realize it as well. His gaze averted as he flexed his neck and shoulders.

  “Your neck’s bothering you?” she asked.

  “I’m not about to complain.”

  “No, you wouldn’t do something so ungentlemanly. Would you like me to give you a little massage?”

  Ingrid could see the refusal poised on his lips, so she stepped closer. Their bodies almost touched. “Please? Maybe it’ll help some. I promise I won’t besmirch your honor. Not today.”

  A smile lit his face again. “No promises about tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely none.”

/>   Cy sidestepped out of the engine compartment and faced a top rack. Ingrid had never given a massage in her life, but she supposed this was as good a time as any to learn. She positioned her hands and thumbs where his neck met his shoulders. Through the thin cloth, his muscles resembled hard knots. She worked in her thumbs. Cy grunted and braced himself against the copper rail.

  “Is this helping or hurting?” she asked, easing up some.

  “Both, in all truth.” He flinched. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to stop. I like your touch.”

  “And I like touching you.” She kept her tone light as she eased her fingers beneath his collar best as she could. The task would certainly be easier if he took his shirt off, but she knew he wouldn’t do such a thing, as much as she might want him to. “I think your left side is the tightest.” She pressed harder there, her right hand gripping his other shoulder.

  An exaggerated cough rang out from down the way. “I’m going to the top of the tower for a few minutes while you, er, finish up here.” Lee’s feet pattered down the stairs.

  Ingrid’s cheeks flamed. She loosened her hold on Cy. “I forgot he was still here.”

  “Well, he’s gone now.” Cy twisted around. Ingrid had time for a small gasp of surprise and then his lips met hers, his kiss strong and tender all at once. Their bodies melted together, his form solid against her. Ingrid didn’t know what it was about Cy, but she could happily kiss him forever and a day.

  Lee’s and Fenris’s voices carried up the hatch, muffled but close.

  Ingrid reluctantly pulled away from Cy, but his broad hands remained on her waist, his fingers sprawled downward against the generous curve of her hips. The firm pressure of his touch made her yearn to press against him again, to feel more of him.

  He cleared his throat. “I’d best get to work before Fenris comes after me. And you—”

  “I’ll be careful as I can be,” she finished.

  His eyes searched hers in a silent plea for her well-being, and he stepped away.