Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (45 page)

Jonesburry quietly rejoiced as the train pulled into its final stop with a triumphant
humph
of steam. Pulling the small curtain aside, he watched with tired eyes as his fellow passengers disembarked. The last day of his journey had been far from restful, despite the fact he had resorted to compelling Reinleigh to sleep for the entirety of the remaining leg.

In hindsight, he probably would have been better off allowing the young noble to remain awake. At least then he wouldn’t have been privy to the sensations of him dreaming. Whilst he didn’t dare to probe the knot for specifics of his slumbering thoughts, it was easy enough to judge their content from the potent wash of emotions echoing through his skull.

Three times in the last day, while he left his charge asleep in their cabin, he had found himself sneaking back to the common carriages. Without his knowledge or conscious awareness, he would find himself at the other end of the train, seeking out stolen glimpses of the dark-haired woman.

Each time it happened, he felt his appetite for her growing, and his gaze lingered just a little bit longer. He would caress the handle of Reinleigh’s knife as he did so and picture that perfect rosebud mouth as it curled.

But each time it happened, he eventually managed to realise that his thoughts were no longer his own.
Damn you Horace,
he would silently curse as he stalked back to the cabin.
You’re taking this cursed thing out of me after this. I’m done with this whole business.

Even now, as the crowd of disembarking travellers filled the station platform, he knew that some part of him was searching for the woman. Tearing himself away from the window, he cast his gaze back to the sleeping Reinleigh. He was dreaming even now, and from the sensations oozing through the knot, Jonesburry could tell that he seemed to be enjoying whatever it was he may have been doing. Revulsion rose in Jonesburry’s throat, and, before he knew it, his spring loaded revolver was in his palm, cocked and pointed straight at his charge’s forehead.

It would be so easy, just a simple squeeze of the trigger and he would be done with the man once and for all. The binding would unravel, and his disgusting little knot would disappear forever. It’s not as though the client had much differently planned for the man anyway. One small bullet and the world would be rid of Sir Oliver Reinleigh, Marquis of Montherma, and the Blackdown Ripper.

Surely there would be few to mourn his loss.

An unexpected knock at the cabin door stopped Jonesburry’s finger a mere fraction away from releasing a live round. Flicking his wrist, the revolver disappeared just before the door slid open.

“I’m sorry sir,” the uniformed steward said from the doorway. “This is the last stop.”

“Indeed it is,” Jonesburry muttered. “I will wake my companion here and be on our way.”

The station’s only platform was all but deserted by the time Jonesburry had managed to wake his charge and collect their meagre belongings. Strangely, Sir Reinleigh didn’t seem even slightly concerned about the eminent conclusion to their journey, and moreover, what that would mean for his own personal safety.

Rather, he stretched in a decidedly feline manner as he said, “It was a shame you woke me—I was having such a pleasant dream.”

“I’m not interested,” Jonesburry retorted.

Reinleigh merely smiled before continuing, “You were in it, and you were most certainly not having an agreeable time.”

“I told you . . .” Jonesburry had begun before being caught short by the unexpected sight of the raven-haired woman. She was seated alone, her stockinged feet surrounded by a pile of weathered and mismatched luggage on one of the station benches. She was such a pretty young thing, and his pulse quickened at the thought of her porcelain skin.

At first, Jonesburry thought his reaction was merely an extension of Reinleigh’s own, but further probing revealed the Marquis’s knot radiated nothing but a decidedly amused sense of curiosity.

“You have impeccable taste, Mr. Jonesburry,” Sir Reinleigh said appreciatively. “I never would have thought you were one who had an eye for the finer things in life.”

Jonesburry tore his eyes away and began making for the station exit. “It’s time to go,” he said brusquely.

Reinleigh chuckled and stood his ground. “Do you know what separates the truly powerful from the weak and feeble? They are the ones which have the courage to take what they desire. They are the ones that have the courage to recognise and fulfill their purpose, rather than scamper away from it with their tails between their legs.”

“Be quiet and follow me.”

“Do you think that mechanised contraption you’ve buried in my skull makes you powerful, Mr. Jonesburry? It does not; it’s little more than a trumped up tinker’s toy, a pitiful leash for the weak-minded.”

“It’s proved a suitable enough leash for yourself.”

“Do you think you’ve ever truly forced me to do anything I desperately wanted to avoid? Don’t delude yourself—you don’t possess the strength of will to overpower my own.”

“I’ve had enough. Be quiet!” Jonesburry commanded, pushing the waves of compulsion crashing across the surface of the knot.

The knot hardened, resisting his compulsion with frightening ease. His command may have well been a child’s slingshot fired at an ancient stone wall for all the effect it had.

Reinleigh laughed again, before grabbing hold of Jonesburry’s lapel and leaning in to whisper in his ear. “If you want her,” he said, “take her.”

This time, his words were not a suggestion, they were a command backed by the full weight of compulsion. Jonesburry could feel the waves spreading forth from Reinleigh’s knot, binding his mind with alien thoughts which kept echoing throughout his skull.

‘Take her,
’ the thoughts commanded.

III Crescendo

The manor house which dominated Sir Reinleigh’s estate was sorely neglected. Once it would have been a proud residence, an impressive home which presided over beautifully maintained grounds, the envy of every common and high-born man alike for miles to come.

But it had been brought painfully low, spoiled by broken windows and flaking paintwork. The gardens which led into the main entrance were thickly choked with weeds, dour and twisted things which had to fight one another for space and their own continued existence. It was clear that the only living creatures to inhabit the building in recent years were the vermin infesting its walls.

However, the knot in Jonesburry’s mind radiated memories of another time—of a time when a pretty, young girl played amongst the perfectly manicured lawns.

Reinleigh’s father, lord of the manor, had been greatly displeased when he discovered what he had done back then. Shaking with fury at the sight of her broken body, he had been ready to choke the life from young Oliver. The young noble hadn’t planned on taking his father’s life with the very same knife he had used on his sister, but he was thrilled to see the life leave his eyes when it did.

He gained much that day, the title of Marquis of Montherma least amongst them.

“Your client must have a flair for the dramatic, Mr. Jonesburry,” Reinleigh said. “Deciding to have you bring me back here, of all places.”

Jonesburry didn’t answer; instead, he merely rapped the door’s knocker with a hand which was no longer his own. With the things he had just seen it do, he wished he could just cut the blasted thing from his own arm.

“Still sullen?” Reinleigh asked. “Come now, you’ve already done so well and learned so much. Now it’s time for you to complete your education.”

Jonesburry shot him a pained look. Were he capable of acting of his own accord, he would gladly plunge the knife’s blade into Reinleigh’s chest. Instead, he was commanded to have it prepared for whosoever would be the one fated to open the door.

“Took your blasted time,” came the gruff voice of the man who finally did. Jonesburry despaired at realisation that the voice belonged to Horace. “You would have been here days ago if you’d taken the airship.”

Jonesburry tried to fight the compulsion’s binding, but could only manage the words
I’m sorry
before he struck. He muffled the cries of his friend with one hand and struck with Reinleigh’s blade gripped in the other. Cradling his head, he lifted him gently down to the floor so as not to cause the men waiting further inside to notice. Jonesburry hoped his friend could recognise the truth of his actions, but his eyes showed nothing but surprise and betrayal.

“Next time,” Sir Reinleigh said, pulling the knife free, “be sure to target the heart. I have no problems leaving one to die slowly, Mr. Jonesburry, but the need for stealth often makes it an unaffordable luxury.”

Wiping the blade clean on the front of Horace’s shirt, Reinleigh greeted the sight of the weapon like one would an old friend. “I think I’ll take this back now,” he said as his secreted it away beneath his jacket. “I trust you still have that marvellous little contraption hidden up your sleeve?”

Jonesburry nodded, unable to tear his eyes from Horace whose breathing was becoming desperately shallow.

“Leave him,” Reinleigh commanded. “Your other friends will be waiting in the old drawing room, no doubt.”

As they moved further into the house, it was easy to make out the footsteps of the others amongst the dust that caked every surface. Jonesburry could see the same hallway, through Reinleigh’s mind, years earlier. The household had been flawlessly maintained back then, polished and waxed to a high sheen. Now there were years of accumulated grime coating every plane in a dull, uniform grey.

However, if the decline of the property affected Reinleigh in any way, it didn’t make its way through their shared bond. The bond only revealed a hunter’s ardent sense of expectancy.

As they stepped into the drawing room, the client greeted them both, “Welcome home, Sir Reinleigh. We have much to discuss.”

“Mr. Brownlea,” Reinleigh answered. “You seemed to have moved up in the world. You’ve come quite a way since your time as a grocer. Young Emily would have been proud that you finally managed to crawl your pitiful way out of the taverns and gambling dens.”

Jonesburry’s client, Mr. Brownlea, it would seem, answered by striking Reinleigh across the face. The blow was so hard that even Jonesburry could feel the sting of it heating his own cheek via their shared bond.

“You do not speak my daughter’s name,” Brownlea fumed. “Soon you will not be speaking any name.” Another blow almost took Reinleigh clean off balance, and one of Brownlea’s toughs had to steady the man on his feet.

Gesturing for his men to force Reinleigh into a nearby chair, Brownlea turned his attention to Jonesburry. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jonesburry,” he apologised. “I have quite a personal interest in Reinleigh here and my emotions got the better of me.”

“That’s quite all right.” It was Reinleigh who answered for him. “Mr. Jonesburry will be sure to take appropriate recompense. Jonesburry, why don’t you just go ahead and deal with your client’s two thugs? We have much to discuss a little more . . . privately.”

Neither Brownlea nor his two muscle-bound companions knew what was happening when the knot’s compulsion drove Jonesburry to trigger his wrist mechanism. Seconds later, Brownlea’s men were lying on the floor, and at the same moment Jonesburry’s shots fired, Reinleigh sprung with a predator’s grace and pressed the edge of his knife into Brownlea’s throat.

“Well done,” Reinleigh said. “Now why don’t you go and fetch our lovely young friend from the train. I think Mr. Brownlea would appreciate a first-hand re-enactment of exactly what happened to his beloved daughter.”

Jonesburry was torn, not knowing precisely where to look. An older part of him, the silent part which screamed and railed against Reinleigh’s binding, begged him to look away. To shut his eyes and block out the monstrosity the marquis had planned.

This silent voice, however, paled in comparison to the ravenous hunger that demanded he watch each coming moment in exquisite detail. Reinleigh hadn’t even truly begun yet, and the young woman’s pleading was already feeding his rising appetite.