Zoe Archer - Stranger

The steamship Antonia, two days from Liverpool, 1875.

Three guns pointed at Gemma Murphy.

She pointed her own derringer right back. Two shots only. Maybe she could get her hands on one of the revolvers aimed at her. Hopefully, it wouldnt come to that.

A sane person would have fled the cabin. But Gemma wasnt sane. She was a journalist.

So, instead of running, she confronted three faces ranging in expression from curious to outright hostile. And their guns.

The culmination of weeks of hard travel. On the trail of a story, she had journeyed all the way from a small trading post in the Canadian Rockies, across the United States, to New York, where she boarded the Antonia. Horseback, stagecoach, train. Clapboard boardinghouses with thin mattresses and thinner walls. Food boiled to inedibility. Groping hands, speculative leers. Rats and dogs.

Shed faced them all, pressing onward, always a day behind her quarrybut that was deliberate. She couldnt let them see her. To be seen was to risk being recognized. Maybe she flattered herself to think that any of the people she followed would remember her. After all, she had only seen them twice, and spoken with one member of their party once. Weeks, thousands of miles, had passed since then.

But there was a strong disadvantage to being a redhead. People with bright copper hair and freckles had a tendency to be rememberedlike a flares afterimage burned into the eye. Sometimes Gemma used her appearance and gender to her advantage. It always helped a reporter to have an advantage. Other times, her looks and sex were a damned pain in the behind.

As soon as she learned that her quarry had booked passage on the Antonia, bound for Liverpool, Gemma also reserved a cabin on that same ship. To follow at sea, even a day behind, meant the possibility of losing them. So, for the past week onboard the ship, shed led a nocturnal existence. Staying in her cabin during the day, to avoid being spotted. In those close confines, she wrote articles until her hands cramped. She had little to go on but speculation. That did not stop her from piecing together events with her own prodigious imagination. Night saw her skulking about the ship, getting some much-needed fresh air. And, once the other passengers had retired for the evening, listening at doors.

Her quarry met in one anothers cabins. Often, their conversations held no information. But tonight had been different.

When did the Heirs activate the Primal Source? The womans voice. Her English accent was refined, but her words were tough and strong.

Gemma pulled from her pocket her notebook and began scribbling furiously in it.

Some two and a half months ago. Another English voice. One of the two men. His voice, so impeccably British in its accents, was deep and sonorous. Even now, with a door between them, his voice played havoc with her normally reliable sensibilities. She remembered the impact his voice had on her at the trading post, and ruefully reflected that none of that impact had been lost in the intervening time and distance. But they havent the faintest idea what to do with it.

Thats why they came for me in Canada, said the woman.

If the Heirs cant use the Primal Source, the second man noted, then there shouldnt be any danger. The accents of western Canada marked this mans voice, yet he held a natural authority in his tone.

It does not work that way, the woman answered. The Primal Source has the power to grant and embody the possessors most profound hopes and dreams.

Even if said possessor does not actively attempt this? asked the Canadian.

The woman replied, All the Primal Source needs is to be in close proximity to the one who possesses it, and it can act on even the most buried desires.

Good gravy! What could this Primal Source be?

Just then, a sailor on watch walked through the passageway. He looked at Gemma, standing alone outside a cabin door, with a curious frown.

Can I help you, miss? he asked.

Just looking for my key, she murmured, careful to keep her voice down. Her notebook was concealed in the folds of her skirt. Im such a ninnyI can never remember where I put it.

The purser can get you another one.

Oh, no, Gemma said. She made some wave of her hand, the universal sign of a woman who doesnt want to be a bother. Ill find it. Please, carry on with whatever you were doing.