“Doctor Beetle was a Spark! A strong one! And he was so afraid of the Baron, he got himself killed rather than let the Baron take him away. Your creator, Doctor Vapnoople—I met him! The students on Castle Wulfenbach call him “Doctor Dim!” What did the Baron do to him?
“And who am I? I’ve got no power, no protection. Nothing. If I had gone with Gil, maybe... maybe he would have been happy that I wasn’t dead, but what would happen after that? He would have taken me back to his father. The Baron killed Adam and Lilith! He gave orders that I was not just to be confined, I was to be kept sedated! And Gil...” Agatha took a deep breath and shook her head. “Even when he said he wanted to marry me, he made it into an order and tried to drag me off. And you saw how he acted with Pix...”
She hung her head. “...and even then, even then, it was still hard.” She absently scratched Krosp’s belly, and the cat stretched happily, closing his eyes and flexing his claws. “Even now, I feel kind of odd. He—they think I’m dead now. Even if I feel bad, I had to do it. It’s all right, I’ll get used to it. It’s just... hard to believe it’s over.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Zeetha snapped. She had appeared silently beside the wagon, as if she had dropped from the sky. Krosp leaped up in shock, eyes wide, fur bristling.
Then, to Agatha’s astonishment, Zeetha dropped to one knee and bowed her head. “Agatha Clay,” she said quietly. “I never got a chance to thank you for trying to save Olga. Nor have I yet apologized for my earlier outburst.”
This was certainly true. In the aftermath of the crab clank’s attack, Zeetha had taken charge of Olga’s body. She had changed the dead girl’s clothing, and stood by protectively while various members of the circus had applied their arts—giving Olga the finishing touches for her last role as the burned corpse of Agatha Clay. All the while, Zeetha had chanted a beautiful, haunting dirge in a flowing tongue Agatha knew must be Skifandrian. When Olga had finally been lowered into the ground, Zeetha had made a small cut on her arm, and allowed six drops of blood to fall upon the winding sheet before the grave was filled in. Then she had turned on her heel and walked into the woods, alone. Agatha had not seen her since, and had begun to think that the green-haired girl had left the Circus entirely.
Agatha shrugged uncomfortably. “Everyone was so busy. Besides, to have lost your friend—I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done more.”
Zeetha stood and nodded. “Olga was a good companion.” She waved toward the camp. “These others are kind, but they were never convinced I was telling the truth. Olga believed me. She helped me when I really needed it. I will miss her. But I have known since childhood that Death is always waiting to cut in on the dance.”
Then, to Agatha’s surprise, Zeetha sat down next to her. She was... different from when Agatha had first met her. Where she had been rough, full of suppressed anger, she now seemed serene. Her eyes were no longer empty. When she looked at Agatha, her gaze was alert, with a hint of friendship. Agatha realized that the girl was younger than she had first thought.
Zeetha took a deep, contented breath and leaned back, slumping comfortably against the wagon door. Agatha hardly knew the girl, but this seemed so out-of-character that she couldn’t help staring. Zeetha saw her surprise, and gave a rueful smile.
When she spoke next, her voice was soft. “Miss Clay, I have been wandering Europa for over three years now, searching for any news of my home. You are the first person who has ever even heard of Skifander.” She took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “Can you understand? It was like I was asking after a fever dream. I... I was beginning to think that I had made it all up while I was sick. No one in any of the cities had heard of it, not even at the Universities. I was reduced to searching the Wastelands, interrogating every traveler I met. I thought I had gone mad.”
She paused, and looked out at the encircling forest. “I was this close—” she held two fingers about a centimeter apart, “To picking a direction and just walking until I found either Skifander or death.” She looked at Agatha again and grinned. “And I wouldn’t have cared which I found first.” She dropped her hand.
They sat silently together and watched the shadows darken under the trees.
Finally Zeetha continued. “But you—you have let me know that my home, my family, everything that made me what I am really does exist, and for that, I wish to thank you.”
Agatha shrugged. “Oh, well, I—”
Zeetha leaned into her face and shouted: “By starting you on warrior training! Tomorrow morning!”
She leapt to her feet and glared down at Agatha, who sat, wide-eyed in shock. “It’s ‘over.’” She snorted. “You speak like a child. The Baron’s people will be back, or if not, there will be others like them. You must be ready!”
Agatha looked up at her angrily. “What makes you say that? It’s a perfect plan. They think I’m dead!”
Zeetha cocked an eyebrow. “There is a serious flaw in this ‘perfect plan’ of yours. One that could undo everything at any time!”
Agatha puzzled over this, quickly running through everything they had done. She couldn’t think of anything wrong...
When Agatha didn’t answer, Zeetha gave a sardonic smile. “Just this: you’re not really dead, now are you?”
Agatha and Krosp looked at each other.
Behind Zeetha, the cooking fires ignited with a dramatic roar, and, just for an instant, she stood before Agatha—a fearsome dark goddess rimmed by fire. She grinned again, revealing her sharp teeth. “Tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER 3
The ladies pale go riding, riding—
On their spiders striding, striding.
stealing girls asleep in bed—
drinking all their blood so red—
...
When pretty maidens die of fright,
Their ghosts go riding through the night.
The Baron stood in one of the vast hangar bays of Castle Wulfenbach, an all-too-familiar weariness settling upon his shoulders.
On the ground before him was an open field coffin. Within lay a charred corpse, clad in the remnants of a green tweed dress. He stared down at it silently. It had been a long time since he had so keenly felt the loss of his old friends—and his old life. The faces of the Heterodynes flashed through his mind, and for the thousandth time, he wondered what had happened to them. Where had they gone? Why was he alone left to keep the Sparks of Europa in line—when half the time it ended so damned badly?
A loud crunch made him look around. Bangladesh DuPree stood beside him, cheerfully munching on a pear.
“Ah. DuPree,” he said carefully, his eyes returning to the body before him, “When I say the words ‘alive and unharmed,’ do any neurons actually fire in that brain of yours?”
The crunching stopped dead. Despite himself, Klaus counted under his breath until DuPree finally answered. “No sir!”
He nodded. “I thought not.”
Encouraged, Captain DuPree continued. “But I can’t take credit for this one. Some old crab clank burned her down before we got to her. I saved you the sigil plate.” She handed over a large enameled metal oval—cracked and blackened by fire. Sparks were notorious for “signing” their work, often decorating creations with heraldic colors or family sigils. The Baron encouraged this—it made it so much easier to assign blame.