passed rooms where hundreds of women in shapeless brown dresses worked at long low tables, assembling brightly colored patent magic charms. Fingers flying, heads down, they were monitored by strolling, sour-faced supervisors. The air hummed with tedium and exhaustion.
“The late shift,” Artaud said when he saw Emily looking. “Lazy sluts, all of them. Paid by the piece, and they still won’t apply themselves.” His fingers flexed. “Perhaps I just haven’t found the right means of motivating them.”
“I suspect you’re doing quite well for yourself regardless,” Emily growled.
“Oh, yes, quite well,” Artaud said. “The mail-order operation is simply a front, you understand. But one must never pass up an opportunity to make a profit, n’est-ce pas?”
They paused before a large iron door. A sign on the door showed an engraving of a rampant eagle, sheaves of spears clutched in its claws; black block letters read: Restricted. No Trespassing for Any Reason Whatsoever. By Order of the United States Army, President Ulysses S. Grant, Commander in Chief.
As Artaud fiddled with a ring of keys, Emily had a sudden urge to make a break for it. As if intuiting this, Artaud took an even firmer grasp on her neck.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “You’re about to see something amazing.”
The doors opened on a cavernous factory space. From wall to far-distant wall were hundreds of giant silver and black machines, thumping and clattering. Pistons pounded, flywheels whizzed, canvas drive-belts stuttered. Emily stared, the thunderous din of it all pounding in her ears.
“This is the Extraction Room.” Even though the words were spoken close to her head, Artaud had to yell to be heard.
“What is this?” she murmured, assuming that he could not hear her. But he answered nonetheless, as he shoved her toward a set of stairs; she had to catch herself on the railing to keep from falling down them.
“These machines extract pure raw power from the Mantic Anastomosis,” Artaud cried, spreading his gauntleted hands. “Chrysohaeme, the ancients called it. The golden blood of the earth. You are standing inside the first successful terramantic extraction plant ever built on such a large scale.”
Emily said nothing, her eyes darting from side to side. There had to be some avenue of escape. Artaud had the gauntlets, but if she was quick enough …
Artaud’s face fell in a frown. He’d obviously been expecting some expression of awe. With a small hiss of annoyance, he grabbed her upper arm and held it tight. Fiery pain seized her, drove her almost to her knees.
“What do you think, Miss Edwards?” he hissed, bringing his face close to hers again. “Is it not phenomenal?”
She nodded quickly, flinching away from him.
Artaud grunted satisfaction as he pushed her forward again, down a broad walkway between two lines of machines. The floor was constructed of heavy metal grating, underneath which a viscous black fluid swirled and bubbled. Emily recognized the foul smell of rot and decay. Black Exunge.
“Those machines over there are called needle borers.” Artaud gestured to a bank of tall machines with large pistonlike attachments that drove slender silver poles up and down in metal-ringed holes in the floor. “The pistons you see aboveground aren’t the actual drills; the drills themselves are sunk deep underground.”
“Fascinating,” Emily said quickly, hoping to avoid another painful rebuke. But even as she spoke, she was remembering something even more painful … the feeling of needles plunging into her, sucking at her … The memory that had been Ososolyeh’s.
This was what Ososolyeh had shown her.
“The needle borers extract the power in its raw form, which then goes through those machines for processing …” Artaud pointed to another bank of machines, squat and dome shaped, which rattled as they worked. “Then, it is processed further, distilled and refined until it reaches this state.” He pointed toward a large area built up high with heavy wood shelves. On the shelves rested row upon gleaming row of bottles, filled with a glowing golden fluid—the same glowing fluid that Artaud carried in the bottles on his back.
Chrysohaeme.
Earth’s blood.
“It is the pure extraction of magical power,” Artaud said, watching Emily as she stared at the bottles. There were thousands of them. “Of course, this isn’t one hundredth of what we’ve extracted over the past two decades. The rest is in military storage facilities in Virginia, I believe. Caul says they’re storing it up to defend against some kind of foreign threat.” Artaud’s voice was scornful. “If Caul wasn’t always so busy worrying about foreigners in woodpiles, he would see the incredible