She saw the others up ahead and swam to meet them. They were drifting against the submerged back wall of the shop, which looked as though it had been blasted apart. It now opened directly into the river. Some trick of the sunlight streaming down from above made the shadows flicker all around them like enormous butterflies. But as Lucy swam further in she saw that they weren’t shadows at all. They were living creatures. Squid, to be exact. Just as Nettie had described. Just as Lucy had seen pictured in that awful book.
She gazed at them, transfixed. Each was about the size of a cat, with tentacles extending out about two or three feet. A single fathomless black eye peered from each soft bulbous head and a rainbow of unfamiliar colors flickered across each sleek body. When the creatures moved they seemed to take hold of the water, clasping it like a many-fingered hand and using the pressure to propel themselves forward. The languid tentacles writhed and rippled with balletic grace. It was hypnotic.
“My waterflowers.”
It took Lucy a moment to realize that she had heard Madame speak plainly through the water. Nettie’s voice came next.
“So beautiful!”
She glanced to her left to see Nettie reaching out to one of the creatures. It floated about her, slipping through her billowing hair and caressing her face with its slender legs, stroking her like a lover. But surely it was only her imagination that made Nettie’s corset seem to fluctuate in tandem with the creature’s movements.
Vesta was beside her, gazing in wonderment as several of the squid swam up to her, darting close and then swimming away, teasing and inviting her to play. Lucy’s eyes traveled down the length of her friend’s floating body and sure enough, she witnessed the same impossible movement. It looked as though a pair of unseen hands stroked and molded Vesta’s flesh beneath the corset.
If Lucy gasped in fright, the sudden intake of water did her no harm. She had been submerged long enough to drown, yet she was undeniably alive. More alive than she had ever felt. Euphoria flowed through her and her vision grew blurry with ecstatic tears. She had never seen anything as lovely as the creatures that surrounded her, tickling her with their many delicate legs as though dancing with her. And yet, she had the eerie sense that she was not seeing them as they actually were, that they were somehow concealing their true selves.
She recalled the pain when she had tried to remove her corset, the electric jolt that had spiked through her ribs. As if in answer to her confusion, the corset began to ripple against her body. Beneath her skin her ribs waved like fingers and all at once Lucy understood the secret. For had she not sensed the seductive burrowing already? The alien harmony of movement as the tentacles within the corset fused with her bones? The exquisite symbiosis as hundreds of tiny sucker mouths caressed her organs, sipping her blood and humours like nectar?
She opened her mouth to scream, but what emerged instead was a sigh of pleasure. Her limbs moved independently of her will, her arms and legs as boneless as the legs of the creatures which, even now, were narrowing their cyclopean eyes at her. The seduction was over; she was theirs.
The girls swam helplessly among the creatures like living cogs in a fantastic machine whose function they could not begin to guess. Their eyes met Madame Hadal’s across the underwater garden of nauseating color and they shared a hideous smile as the earth began to tremble and crack beneath them.
TENTACULAR SPECTACULAR!
A Dazzling Liquid Electric Extravaganza!
One Night Only!
The new fork of the Piccadilly River flowed straight through the center of Leicester Square. It had swallowed the famous Alhambra, along with two other music halls. The former Arabesque Theatre now lay half submerged and whilst passing gentlemen muttered that it would never recover, their wives and daughters exchanged knowing glances.
Many fine houses and buildings had either been demolished or sunk. The spires of the Houses of Parliament rose like stone trees from what was now Westminster Lake. Big Ben still chimed from its depths, giving rise to rumors that it was haunted. As the land had warped and buckled, the great western railway terminus had risen and it now sat perched atop the newly formed Paddington Hill. At its feet lay the broken railway tracks, scattered like so many matchsticks.
The streets were strewn with rubble but nothing would prevent the grand opening of the Aquadrome. The lavish red ‘A’ was all that remained of the original Arabesque marquee and the theatre was an unusual sight, resting as it was now half in and half out of the river.
“Water ballet?” scoffed a gentleman as he snatched the flyer from his daughter’s hands. “Utter nonsense! Why, they’d all drown!”
Such was the scene across what remained of the city.
“Charles dear, it’s only for one night!”
“Come on, Peter. I hear the dancing girls are the most beautiful ever seen on stage!”
“Oh, Father, don’t be silly. Of course, if you’d rather I went alone, chaperoned…”
Many of the wealthiest families had fled following the most recent quake but plenty of ladies were able to persuade their husbands not to desert the city. The men harrumphed and grumbled and dusted down their frock coats as they reluctantly agreed to stay.
But it was the upcoming show that was the real talk of the town, screaming from the headlines of the Times and from posters all across the transformed city.
By the time the doors finally opened the riverbank was lined with people clamoring to get in. There wasn’t room to seat them all but no one complained about having to stand. The auditorium was packed to capacity in no time and when the tickets ran out Albert told the doorman to keep letting them in anyway. After all, there couldn’t possibly be a fire. Not with the place soaked through.
The wet floorboards shuddered like the threat of another quake as hundreds of pairs of feet stampeded across them. The crowd pushed and shoved as each person tried to get close as possible to the stage, where the damp red velvet curtains hid whatever preparations were going on behind it.
“It don’t ’alf smell!” someone cried.
But no one cared. The awful stench was a small price to pay for what they were sure would be an unforgettable performance.
At last the moment came and Albert marched out in front of the footlights. A reverential hush fell over the audience and he heightened the suspense with a dramatic pause before finally announcing the show.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you – Tentacular Spectacular!”
A deafening cheer went up from the crowd and the curtains hissed apart to reveal an enormous glass partition. Behind it was simply the stage. Empty, undressed, bare. Until the watchers realized that the stage was entirely under water. As one they uttered a collective gasp.
There was no music. There was nothing but the vast aquarium and the palpable anticipation as everyone waited to see what would happen.
At last a girl appeared. She swam like a mermaid up to the glass where she hovered, her long legs kicking, her hair flowing like seaweed, her body bare except for a glittering green corset that shone like emeralds in the light and pinched her waist to almost nothing. She performed a few graceful maneuvers before being joined by a girl in yellow, then another in red. Soon there were six girls, each one corseted in a different vibrant color, each one a vision of ethereal beauty.
By the time the first person realized that none of them had come up for air yet the dancers had linked arms to form a circle, facing outwards. They spun round and round in the water, drawing closer as they did until they were shoulder to shoulder. They hung still for a moment and began to sink. Then, just before they reached the floor of the stage, they kicked in unison, drawing their feet up, out and then down through the water. Six pairs of long shapely legs undulated like tentacles, propelling the girls upward. Their choreography was so precise they might have been a single creature, with a single mind. The astonishing colors flickered across their bodies as they turned and swam through the tank like a luminous and colorful invertebrate.
“M
ama, what’s that?” came a child’s voice.
Someone cried out as several smaller objects appeared onstage, swimming fluidly alongside the dancers. The waterflowers, as the girls had come to know them, swooped and dived in and among their human partners, their fantastic tentacles waving hypnotically as they released bold flashes of lightning that arced through the water, illuminating the dancers but miraculously not harming them.
For a moment it looked as though the girls really were a single entity, that their bright colors were beginning to blend, that their bodies were starting to merge into one. It was as though the jagged threads of lightning were stitching them together, transforming them. But surely that was just part of the act.
When the girls still did not break apart a few people began whispering uneasily. Skirts rustled and feet shifted and a worried murmur began to make its way through the crowd. The creatures flashed through the water faster and faster, circling the dancers. Then they swam away in a flurry to the darkened rear of the stage. They remained out of sight for only a moment before rushing straight towards the partition.
There wasn’t time to react before the army of squid struck the glass, shattering it. The entire crushing weight of the river surged over the audience, devouring it and plunging everything into darkness.
The Aquadrome was a black vortex of chaos and terror. People splashed desperately and shouted for help as they searched in vain for a way out. Below them in the cold inky water they could see flashes of electricity as the mass of writhing creatures paralyzed one victim after another. Corpses surfaced in droves, floating and bumping into their still-living counterparts. A smell like that of a flooded graveyard permeated the theatre and from somewhere beneath the human screams came a hideous hydrophonic chorus, like the victory cry of a loathsome and terrible race. A race older than the ground which was now opening beneath the Aquadrome, splitting the earth apart and releasing thousands more of the accursed creatures in a liquid swarm.
The walls of the theatre crumbled as the monsters boiled up from the deep. The newcomers were considerably larger and far more ancient. And hungry. As the feeding frenzy began, the ocean of rippling alien colors was awful to behold. Minds broke like twigs as thousands of baleful glaring eyes fixed on their prey. Lightning leapt from swaying tentacles as the creatures slid slowly and deliberately through the sea of thrashing bodies, killing some, preserving others.
Those women who were under the spell of the creatures that had enslaved them fared rather better than their husbands. They remained oblivious to the horror right up until the moment when their corsets sprang open, bursting their chests apart and releasing the parasitic occupants.
The great pillars of the theatre were reduced to rubble as the water rose ever higher, pushing unstoppably through the city streets, leveling everything in its path.
From the center of the maelstrom far below a new creature watched, waiting. Its bloated form pulsated with a sickly greenish glow as it drifted up through the untold depths. Vast arms uncoiled from its grotesque body, innumerable sucker mouths tasting the death and fear in the water as it made its horrible ascent. The bulging black eye fastened at last on what it sought and the putrescent creature reached out to claim its prize.
The girls experienced a final moment of awareness before the writhing tentacles closed around their mingled and mutated form. Their faces had melded together, cheek to cheek and each mouth had been stretched wide to form a single contiguous grimace. They could only shudder in horror as the hideous tentacles opened to reveal the gaping liquescent orifice towards which they were being pulled.
Fall of an Empire
By Glynn Owen Barrass and Brian M. Sammons
Prologue
Numerous peacocks lounged upon the spacious lawn, but apart from that, the grounds stood empty. Good news so far, but she remained wary as she approached the manor house. The night was a clear one, cloudless and speckled with stars. Between the constellations, a waning moon shone brightly. Light enough to see by, light enough to steal by, but also light enough to get caught by. Hustler Manor, current owner Lord Havendish, a wealthy member of the landed gentry. The man had something she needed, something she’d been hired to rob.
Slate roofed, two red brick stories with an attic, tall arched windows lined the lower floors. The ground floor windows proved not only locked, they had thick iron bars fitted behind the glass. The double doors at the front held two five lever locks, and, as poking a stick between revealed, they were also heavily bolted. The back door revealed similar hardships. Hence, the ground floor was inaccessible. But the first?
She discounted the slim clay drainpipes: each looked ready to crumble. Not a problem, she thought, and unclipped the grapple gun from her belt. Aiming it towards the roof, a pop of compressed air followed, then the hiss of black silk rope unfurling from the reel fronting the trigger guard. A crack issued above her head, the sound of the hook smashing through roof tile. After a few tugs to ensure stability, she removed the remainder of the rope from the reel, returned the gun to her belt, and mounted the wall. Her knee high Japanese Tabi boots found easy purchase on the stone. Black, like her silk body stocking, they absorbed all light, made her part of the shadows. Her gloves were fingerless however: she hated working through fabric whether climbing a rope or picking a lock. Also bare, her upper face formed a pale oblong within her hood. Ten vertical steps later she reached the first floor, the nearest window just a few feet to her left.
Dark inside, according to the floor plans her client had provided, this window led to a boudoir. After inching towards it, she pressed her face to the glass and saw no bars beyond. No further climb to the attic, no having to break tiles and squeeze in through the roof. She smiled. The smile grew when she discovered the window unlocked. It rose quite easily from a one-handed lift. She left the rope dangling, and climbed into the darkened room.
Her feet touched thick carpet. Dropping into a crouch she remained still while her eyes adjusted to the dark. Despite the moonlight, the room retained its shadows. Two humps she assumed were couches before her, she passed between these and felt and navigated around a small octagonal table. Beyond this her reaching hands found a paneled door. Further searching discovered a doorknob, cold and metallic on her fingertips. It opened with a right turn, and the leather pouch filled with picks, one of many pouches attached to her belt, again remain unopened. She pulled the door an inch, and a streak of light fell into the room. At three o’clock in the morning, it seemed Havendish kept late hours.
Should I wait here, or enter the library in the hope he’s not there? No, she’d planned too long for this. Taking a deep breath, she edged around the door to peer through the gap. Beyond it, an oak-paneled corridor ran left and right. The wall she faced stood lined with portraits, gas lamps between providing the illumination. Somewhere to her left a clock ticked ominously, but apart from that, the house stood silent. With the target room less than a dozen feet to her right, she released her breath and opened the door.
The flowery carpet was dusty, the plaster-paneled ceiling above her thick with cobwebs. Behind her, the corridor ended in a balcony, before her, stairs. Between the portraits stood a door, then another, her target. She paused at a portrait, recognizing the face from the society pages. Black hair, heavily featured face, he had narrow eyes and thin, cruel lips. Lord Havendish. She passed the door and froze. A low whine, almost like…a baby? No, Havendish had no children, had been a widower for fifteen years. Must be a cat. Time to move on. Going into a crouch she turned the second door’s brass handle. It creaked inwards, a little too loudly for her tastes. She paused, but no returning sound reached her but the clock.
The light from the corridor revealed an oak paneled room. Hundreds of books lined shelves that touched a deeply recessed, plaster paneled ceiling. Two arched windows, facing the door, provided further illumination. The recesses between the bookcases held glass-lidded cases. Of other furniture, a reading desk piled with books stood at the room’s center.
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br /> Considering her target was a book, she hoped the client was correct that it could be found in a cabinet. After nudging the door closed she crept left towards the first cabinet. She spied a keyhole there, and acting accordingly, unbuttoned the lid on her pick pouch. Then, her jaw dropped. What lay beyond the glass was no book. A ghostly pale, dead infant, its legs were pulled up around its stomach, the twisted arms laid limp at its sides. Tiny face resembling a skull, its purple umbilical cord was still attached.
She couldn’t help but recall the sound she’d heard, but steeling herself, continued to the next cabinet. This one held a book. The right one however? It was too dark to see whether the octavo-sized volume bore the title she desired. Removing the sheet of picks from the pouch she proceeded to open another. This one held matches and a small black stub of candle. Lighting the stub dispersed the shadows with a globe of yellow light, and the title proved right on the money. The match and candle blown out, she returned them to the pouch. She didn’t need light to work by, and testing the lid to ensure it was locked, she unrolled the picks.
Three minutes later she was creeping back down the corridor, the leather bound book tucked under her arm. Everything went according to plan until she passed the other door. A child’s whine, unmistakable now. Low and pathetic, it sounded like distress.
I’m going to regret this. Opening the door, she did. This room matched the library: same décor, same bookcases, but statues of ugly, malformed monstrosities lined the shelves. The right hand wall bore a marble chimneypiece, the mantle above lined with flickering black candles. The table to her left held more candles, and worse, piles of glossy red viscera. Something else glowed there too, licking orange flames surrounding…the baby? As she rushed to help it, a voice cut her short.
“What the devil are you doing with my book?”
A sudden blow knocked her to her knees. Disoriented, her face throbbed where she’d been thumped. She shuffled round to find a familiar face staring down at her. The man looked older than his portrait, the black hair graying at the temples. Flabby chin coated in white stubble, his hollow eyes gleamed insanely. Dressed in nothing but a stained white nightgown, his fists clenched as he spoke.
Steampunk Cthulhu: Mythos Terror in the Age of Steam Page 23