[fic] Occult Couture; or An American in America | 4
Waking up while it was dark to light the ship’s stove and then scrub the decks and pull ropes was hardly Kon’s preferred start to his day, but winter mornings on the Kent farm had given him some experience at least in getting his body up and moving while his mind was still waking up. In fact, the biggest difference was not the nature of the work, or the effort involved, but the-
“Smell. I’m asking you, Cass. You’ve voyaged before. What’s the superstition about bathing?”
Cass gave him a look that he was learning to interpret not as imminent death but something nearer to annoyance. “Water. Drinking.”
“Conserving supplies? I’m all about that. But not at the expense of losing a sense to it. I tell you, when mucking out the dairy barn is a more attractive option than serving thirty unwashed sailors their morning victuals, something is wrong.”
Cass shrugged with the casual heartlessness of her sex, indifferent to Kon’s suffering as always. She was sitting cross-legged in an attitude of calm, no longer feeling the need to watch every move Kon made as he used the small galley kitchen. As long as he didn’t make the mistake of reaching for a knife without receiving permission, things were relatively calm. In fact, the nightmare had not repeated itself.
Perhaps the sea-life was good for him? Or was being confronted by the prospect of his own immediate demise if he forgot himself and reached for the chopping board was so much more immediately terrifying that nightmares couldn’t compete?
Either way, they’d come to an understanding. Kon talked and cooked. Cass watched and remembered. For all that she seemed to be ignoring him, she’d pulled off a very credible stew when Kon had been called to the deck to help change sails. Now, as they began the dishes of the morning meal, Kon fancied she seemed even tolerant.
“And just between the two of us? I think the cattle have the better table manners. Sure, they chew the cud for hours but at least they chew - Dubbilex, sir! I wasn’t including you in my observations-“
“Of course not, Kid.” From the sound of the first mate’s tone, he had been forced out of bed far earlier than he wanted to be either. “Tell me, is there ever a time when you are not, as you put it, airing your ‘observations’?”
“Someone’s got to make up for the Cook’s lack of verbosity, and since I am his official assistant…”
“Charming. But I’d advise you to give your mouth a rest. You’re wanted up on deck.” Dubbilex turned from Kon to give the Cook a meaningful look. “Both of you. Captain’s orders.”
“Come to think of it - I haven’t seen you up on the deck before. Or even as far as the Mess,” Kon noted as they climbed the narrow ladder to the main deck. “The shy type?”
“Talk,” Cass said curtly from behind him.
“Always happy to oblige-“
“Too much.”
“Oh.”
As it happened, it was not them that the Captain wanted but everyone. The crew had been duly rounded up onto the deck, the officers - all men who had served Wilson before and had the battle scars to prove it, loomed obviously from the poop deck - the perfect position to fire down on the crew should the crew resist, Kon realised with trepidation. Either association with Drake had made him unduly suspicious or Wilson planned to announce the true purpose of the voyage.
He was nearly right.
“More famous even than the Flying Dutchman, or the demon dog of the sea that eternally haunts the stricken vessel Krypto, the Aquaman is the scourge of the seven seas,” Wilson roared. “To rid the waters of this unholy menace is the purpose of this voyage, and all men who throw their harpoon in with me, will not only be paid well, but be made legends, entering the nautical lore as proud heroes, victorious in their quest.”
The men roared back. Wilson had been right. His reputation had preceded him and the sailors considered the eventual glory fair payment for the hazards ahead. But there was one thing they weren’t prepared for.
“You know my reputation of course. My deeds have been reported in newspapers, in taverns, in hushed voices after dark. Every word of it true - I assure you.” Wilson’s smile was supremely confident and cruel and even without the memory of Castle Cadmus behind him, Kon would have felt misgivings. “But even I do not hunt the Aquaman alone. Gentlemen, I would like you to meet the final member of my crew. The hunter of the Cambridge Changeling, the slayer of the Norwich vampire, the devastator of the Alzenau Creature, my right-hand man.” Wilson motioned and the slim figure standing silently beside him stepped forward, slipping the hood that marked his face off. “My daughter, Rose.”
“A woman!”
“A woman?” Kon’s elation did not appear to be shared by the rest of the crew. His interjection went unheeded amongst the murmur of unease and one or two outright protests.
“It’s bad luck to ‘ave a woman aboard. They bring ill fortune-“
“Sure sign of the devil, women.”
“’Ad a feeling about this voyage in my bones, I did. No good will come o’this-“
“Here here,” said the man to Cass’s left and crossed himself fervently.
The cook’s expression was as impassive as ever. Kon thought about saying something, but didn’t.
The sharp report of Wilson’s gun fired overheard brought attention back to him with an uneasy jolt. “Let’s get two things clear,” he said. “I’m a man of deeds, not idle chit-chat. Facts interest me, not superstitions. We’re in the 19th century, men. The age of reason, science-“
“Whalebone brassieres, lace undergarments-“
“-no longer the Dark Ages where man was ruled by fear of what he did not know. Past captains were clearly unwilling to have women on board and thus encourage an air of licentious and jealousies. The old superstition has no other explanation than sheer practicality. You need not fear on that account, men.” Wilson paused and his manner became only more fearsome. “Likewise, we shall have no reason to be concerned for the morale of the vessel. Any man foolish enough to approach my daughter is warned he takes his life in his hands when he does so.” Wilson clapped his daughter companionably around the shoulders, in a way that Kon was sure that many a lesser man would not have withstood. “In Ghana, she killed a man with her bare hands.”
Rose Wilson had the white hair of her father and the same eye-patch masking her lost eye. “Please, Father,” she said with a smile as cold and cruel as a knife to the stomach. “That was Beirut.”
Kon considered Miss Wilson’s slender figure, displayed to advantage in the masculine garb she wore. Curves that were only accentuated by her rough shirt and vest continued down to a slim waistline, a twin pair of pistols holstered on her hip. Kon regretfully decided that this was no mere intimidation tactic on Wilson’s part. “Well, it was a good one and a half minutes while it lasted-“
He became cognizant of the look that the Cook was giving him. “While it lasted. I have no wish to end this voyage in a coffin.”
“Coffins are reserved for officers, Kent.” Dubbilex had also overheard. “If you seriously do not have a death wish, I suggest that you return to work.”
“All work and no play.” And to think he could have been riding one of the fastest cruisers in the world, partaking of all manner of on board delights … There were two ballrooms on the Lucania alone. “Not coming, chief?”
Cass responded with a slight shake of her head. She was watching the small group of officers clustered around Wilson and his daughter on the poop deck. “After.”
“Don’t get carried away enjoying the view,” Kon said, patting her shoulder as he headed towards the galley ladder. “Before you know it, all that sea air will rush to your head, and you might - heaven forbid - smile at something.”
Dubbilex spoke just as he reached the ladder. “Remember, Kent. I’m watching you.”
“As if I could forget,” Kon muttered, climbing down the stairs. “What with you tucking me into bed every night and everything.” He was the only member of the crew locked into his room at night, a fact which continued to rankle. Logically, Kon appreciated that Wilson wasn’t about to trust him but the hold had a decided odor and Kon had never felt easy sleeping there after he’d noticed the oil stores.
Not that the galley felt much better. The small room seemed d--nably close after the deck, and Kon couldn’t help but find himself restless and on edge. It wasn’t until he was finished the porridge dishes and onto the hash that would be the crew’s lunch that he realized.
It was the first time he’d been entirely alone since the voyage started. The hold didn’t count, not when he was too exhausted to do anything but sleep. But this-
This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.
The night of Cobblepot’s ball, something had happened. A lot of somethings, actually, and between the run-in with the Vampyre, Drake’s collapse and Mia’s confession--
“Mia.”
It had only been a few weeks before the voyage that Kon had stopped wearing mourning. It seemed years ago - and then sometimes it caught him suddenly, unexpectedly close. Less frequently now, thanks to Drake who had a way of reading silences and manufacturing the appropriate distraction, and to Bart who might be too heavy-handed with his sympathy but was always willing to talk about her or listen to Kon talk. But then grief was another thing they’d had in common.
Kon hadn’t realized how much he’d relied on that - letting out a shaky breath he reminded himself that Drake and Bart could not help him with what lay in front of him. He had to do that himself - starting now.
A large jar of dill pickles was set down on the table in front of him and Kon sat down, wiping his palms on his trousers and trying to will himself confident.
That night in the cellars below Cobblepot’s mansion something had happened. The shock of seeing Anita attacked by Bart. He’d been desperate to help and the impulse had seemingly leapt out of him, knocking Bart back hard enough to throw him down the passageway. At the time he’d put it down to residual energy left by the Voduin, but then it had happened again in Drake’s own townhouse, and if there was anywhere less likely to be a storehouse of potent Voduin magiks just waiting to be triggered, it was that supremely proper building.
So if it wasn’t magic-
“Only common ground in both cases - me.” Focusing his attention on the jar, Kon tried to reach out mentally. He imagined the motion necessary to undo the lid, projecting that on to the jar with all the concentration that he could muster.
The pickle jar was having none of it.
“Rather glad I didn’t air that theory before Drake and Bart. They’d never have let me hear the end of it.” Inwardly, Kon was relieved. It meant something to have that small proof of his own normality - even if it left a lot of questions unanswered still. “Dreams and that odd business at Hamilton’s getting to me. That’s all.” Kon sighed as he abandoned his attempt, placing his hand down on the galley table to steady himself as he stood. “Nothing more than imagination-“
The rush of pent up energy was immediate and extreme. The air fairly crackled with it. Kon felt it leave him in a dizzying rush and knew without looking that the metallic clutter was the lid of the pickle jar flying free with such force it had been flung across the galley.
Shakily, Kon looked from the pickle jar to his hand. Contact - was that it? But how - what … ? Extending a tendril of awareness through the table, Kon reached out and the jar lurched towards him.
He snatched his hand away from the table as if he’d been burnt, but the damage had been done. He knew. “Magic doesn’t travel over water.” With a groan, Kon slid down the galley wall to sit on the floor. “I was really hoping it was residual Voduin-“
The footstep was followed immediately by the metallic sound of jar and lid becoming reattached. As Kon looked up, shocked and startled, the jar was set in front of him, Cass coolly staring him down.
Kon’s shaky exhalation would not have convinced anyone of anything but his own guilt. “I - this. Don’t jump to any conclusions-“
“Again.”
“What - again?”
Cass folded her arms and waited. She was perched so close that she was very nearly on top of him, a fact that was having no good effect on Kon’s peace of mind.
He tried the restorative properties of a deep breath. “You - really have a way about you. A gentleman nobly offers his assistance in your work, incidentally saving you from the brig in the meantime, not so much as a ‘how do you do,’ but you observe a gentleman doing scientifically impossible things with a pickle jar and now he’s interesting-“
“Kent.” Cass’s tone was impassive as ever. “Talk-“
“I know, I know. Talk too much.”