Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (44 page)

Jonesburry nodded, wondering why he felt just like he did that evening in Shanghai.

II - Cabaletta

Jonesburry excused himself from the Opera House just before the production’s finale. In the darkened streets behind the grand building, it was easy to melt into the shadows. The small pools of light from the street’s gas lanterns did little to push back the cruel gloom of the city’s fog-bound night. There was always fog in this cursed place—and when there wasn’t fog, there was the rain—cold and oppressive.

This may be his home, and Jonesburry knew better than most that this really was the most civilised place on Earth, but quite frankly he could do with a little less civilisation and a little more warmth.

Just as he thought his hands would freeze, the door to the Opera House opened, disgorging its immaculately tailored patrons onto the street. The few that actually noticed his presence in the shadows did well to pretend they didn’t.

This is one benefit to civilisation
, Jonesburry thought
.
The tendency to pretend uncomfortable things simply did not exist often made his working life much simpler.

Watching the crowd dwindle to a small trickle still trying to flag down a passing hansom cab, Jonesburry thought he may have missed his intended target amongst the initial press of bodies. He was relieved when the figure of Sir Reinleigh finally emerged onto the street with his long, dark coat and hat.

The young noble scanned the street before heading straight toward Jonesburry. Or rather, toward the whores and taverns the client suggested he often liked to frequent following his nights at the theatre.

The marquis was barely two feet away from Jonesburry when the young nobleman first realized his presence. Jonesburry had his pistol thrust under Reinleigh’s chin without missing a beat. Roused by the sudden scuffle of movement, an elderly couple across the street looked in their direction before quickly averting their gaze.
Civilisation indeed, probably thinking that the man is being robbed
.

As he forced the marquis back into the nearby shadows, Jonesburry was surprised to see an amused smirk painted across the young man’s face. “Money you want, is it?” he asked, reaching into his coat. Jonesburry didn’t answer, and knocked the man’s hat loose as he attached the Spider to the back of his skull. He pressed the release catch, triggering the crunching sound of the contraption’s tendrils as they drove their way through skin and bone.

The nobleman’s muscles locked as micro-filaments pierced their way deep into his cerebrum, and a familiar knot blossomed in the back of Jonesburry’s mind. Looking down at Reinleigh’s frozen hand, he was shocked to discover the younger man was clutching a knife merely a fraction of an inch from his chest.

He was going for a weapon, not his wallet . . . just like Shanghai.

He was back near the Opera House again. He didn’t know how, or why, but he knew where.

And he knew he had purpose—a bubbling sense of anticipation driving him into the darker parts of the city. The places where the ghouls dwelt, painting the night with their luscious temptations.

There was something wrong with his stride—it was longer, faster than usual. It was almost as though he were wearing another pair of legs all together.

But his legs didn’t concern him, nor did the fact that his hands did not seem to be his own. No, he was far too excited to concern himself with such trivial matters.

He had more important things to think about, his months of half-dreamt plans and idle thoughts had finally spurred him into action. Tonight, he would finally fulfil his purpose.

From the shadows, thieves and miscreants watched his passing with hungry eyes. They noted his fine clothing, his luxurious coat, and thought him an easy mark, a soft target. But a second glance quickly returned them to their filthy nests; something was holding them back.

He had heard tell of predators being able to sense more dangerous foes; that through some manner of scent, or some other unknown sense entirely, the killers of the jungle could tell when they were hopelessly outmatched and dangerously outclassed.

Perhaps they could smell his own sense of purpose about him. Perhaps his intentions were clinging to him like a heady cloud, an odour which prompted the lesser creatures to slink back into the shadows to wait for easier prey.

This thought brought a smile to his lips and made his pulse beat even faster. The growing anticipation was delicious.

“Hello, lovely,” an aging strumpet called suggestively from a nearby doorway. “Looking for a tumble?”

He eyed the woman without slowing his pace. Her garish makeup was smeared across her face, and she lifted the edges of her stained dress just enough to allow her stockinged leg to show from beneath torn petticoats. No doubt she had already managed to entertain a series of intoxicated dock workers and sailors throughout the evening. And, no doubt, the large man standing in the doorway a few yards away relieved them of their week’s earnings shortly after she was done.

Any other night, he would have given serious thought to this sport, but he had other plans afoot. He had a purpose, and it kept driving him forward, deeper into the night.

“Another time, my dear,” he said without pause. The grocer’s daughter would be closing shortly, and his window of opportunity was also drawing slowly to a close.

She was such a pretty thing, young Emily. He had first spied her weeks ago, with her raven dark hair and alabaster skin.

She had reminded him of his sister; she had been pretty, too . . . once.

He came to a halt beneath a lone street lamp, across the way from the corner storefront from which Emily’s father traded his goods. He would be gone already, spending the night gambling his weekly earnings away in one of the nearby taverns. It would be left to Emily to secure the store’s locks and shutters, protecting her family’s livelihood from the opportunistic scavengers which infested this corner of the city.

He could see her outline through the storefront windows, lithe and graceful. His heart raced now at the thought of what was to come; he envisioned her perfect rosebud mouth curled as it moaned with exquisite agony.

Reaching into his coat, he gingerly fondled the bone handle of his blade, and he thought briefly of his sister. That night had been an awakening, an accidental foray into a much larger world.

That night had been fun, but this night promised so much more. This night promised to reveal his purpose . . .

Jonesburry’s head smacked in the bulkhead above his bunk as he wrenched himself free of his dream. Through the haze of his slumber, he could still taste the metallic tang of hot blood on the tip of his tongue. He had to force himself to look at his hands, just to ensure they were indeed his own, rather than the blood-stained monstrosities they seemed just moments ago.

“Sleep well?” Sir Reinleigh asked from the bunk directly opposite his own.

“Quiet,” Jonesburry snapped, as the rhythmic clatter of the train’s wheels brought him sharply back to the present. If his reckoning was correct, they were now less than two full days’ travel from the marquis’ estate. Two more days and he would be rid of Sir Oliver Reinleigh. Rid of the man whose vile deeds were known only to the world as the workings of the infamous Blackdown Ripper.

If only they’d taken an airship—he would have been rid of him already.

“Yes, pray tell,” Sir Reinleigh asked with a sickly smile. “Why didn’t we take the airship?”

“How did you—”

“Oh, that’s right. What was the phrasing again? ‘
Nothing but a giant, flammable death trap.’
Really, Mr. Jonesburry, when you force a door open into someone’s mind, you shouldn’t be surprised when it opens both ways.”

“I said, be quiet!” Jonesburry sent waves of compulsion crashing across the knot at the back of his mind. The knot wavered, pulsing almost as though it were resisting the directions being forced upon it, and Sir Reinleigh smiled again.

“Manners, Mr. Jonesburry. They are the cornerstone of polite society after all.”

Jonesburry tensed. He’d had problems forcing compliance before, but usually only when the binding was new and the command potentially life-threatening. A charge’s sense of self-preservation was usually far stronger than any newly formed bond. Reinleigh’s bond, however, was already days old, and the command was hardly any threat to his immediate safety.

Swallowing hard, Jonseburry repeated “I said to be quiet.” This time, when he sent the waves of compulsion forth, he tried to push past the resistance he knew the young marquis was offering. The knot pulsed again, but the binding held and Reinleigh shot him a caustic look as the command took hold.
Tired,
Jonesburry thought.
I’m probably just tired
.

At least he hoped that was the case.

“I’m heading to the lavatory. You are to remain here. You are not to move, nor to speak until my return.” There was no resistance within the knot this time, and thankfully the compulsion took an instant hold. As he slid the door to their private cabin closed, with Reinleigh left immobile inside, Jonesburry let out an explosive breath. He knew three days was too brief a time between charges and that he should never have agreed to this latest binding.

Surely that was it; he was just tired and needed a much longer break between contracts. When he severed this latest bond, he would tell Horace that he needed at least three months before he agreed to any new binding.

And if he didn’t jolly well like it, he could just stick one of his damn contraptions into his own head and do it himself.

Jonesburry had no real need to relieve himself—he just needed some distance from the young noble. Over the years, he had often found himself neck deep in the thoughts of some of the most deranged minds imaginable. However, Reinleigh was proving to be an entirely different creature than most.

It was hard to believe that someone so young was capable of such base depravities. It was harder still to imagine that he was so careful in his manner of execution that he had somehow managed to evade all manner of notice and capture.

Until now, that was.

Jonesburry wondered if the client even knew the full truth of the man he had contracted him to escort, or whether the young nobleman had somehow fallen afoul of the client’s notice for some far smaller trespass. Either way, as soon as Jonesburry was done with the man, he was sure he would be meeting a well-justified fate.

An unexpected jolt against his shoulder, followed by the heavy crash of luggage, quickly brought Jonesburry’s mind back to the present. Without noticing, he had nearly managed to traverse half the train’s length into one of the common carriages, and had unwittingly dislodged the precariously balanced luggage of a nearby traveller in the process.

“I’m sorry,” Jonesburry said, as he attempted to scoop the fallen bags back into their overhead storage.

The hands of a young woman came to his assistance. “It’s my fault,” she apologised. “I shouldn’t have left them half-hanging into the aisle.”

Jonesburry looked up to reply when his breath left him. The young woman’s dark, raven hair was a strong contrast to her flawless, alabaster skin. He could feel his hunger rising, and he suddenly yearned to see her rosebud mouth moaning in agony. His hand reached idly into his jacket, searching for the hilt of the knife he had liberated from Sir Reinleigh.

As his fingers gently traced the bone handle, the knot at the back of his mind began to stir. Realising he was unwittingly channeling Reinleigh’s thoughts, the blood suddenly drained from his face.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again as he hastily shoved the last of the fallen luggage back into the overhead shelf.
I’m just tired,
he kept saying to himself as he quickly retreated to the cabin, nearly knocking passing travellers over in his haste.

As cabin’s door slid closed, Sir Reinleigh met Jonesburry’s return with a wolf-like grin. “So tell me about this woman you just met,” he said. “She seems fascinating.”