Clock Work

by Blythe, Jameson Scott

  His answers were direct, mostly. He'd spent several years abroad, studying martial arts. Last year, he'd inherited some valuable heirlooms that he'd sold for a small fortune, and he'd used that money to launch a career as a tech industry investor.

  She laughed at this.

  "What's funny about that?"

  "I had thought you were in that industry when you first came into the store, you kind of had that look about you. That, or a professional football player—you had that look too. What I mean is, you weren't the typical customer."

  He laughed at this.

  "And what about your other work?" she asked. "Rescuing girls from monsters?"

  "That's more of a hobby."

  It's a shame we're meeting under these circumstances, she thought. He was attractive, and not just physically. He had a sense of humor, he was charming, smart, and easy to talk to.

  More than once, she told herself that she was feeling this way because he'd just saved her life. There was a word for that. She couldn't think of what is was. Or maybe there wasn't a specific word for it, but there should be.

  At some point, they began holding hands, and she began to wonder if they would kiss. It seemed like more and more of a possibility. She learned something else about him—he was a bit shy. A few hours ago, she wouldn't have guessed this coyness could coexist with his confidence and physical prowess. But it did, and it was even kind of sexy.

  Finally, Parker got tired of waiting.

  As they walked away from the cafe, she asked, "Have you thought about kissing me?"

  She could tell the forwardness of the question threw him off a bit, but he remained composed.

  "Yes."

  He didn't say anything else. A long, awkward moment stretched out between them. Parker tried to think of something to say, but any of the possibilities she composed in her mind weren't worth saying, would have only made this moment more awkward.

  He stepped in front of her and stopped. If she had anticipated it, she could have done something more seductive, less clumsy. She could have gripped him by the belt. Or pressed her breasts against his chest.

  But as it was, she just kind of bumped into him.

  It didn't matter. His lips were against hers, and despite how aloof he was about getting them there, the kiss felt like the most natural thing in the world. Not too eager, not shy. She parted her lips and let her tongue slip into his mouth. His hand moved around her hips and then onto her back. Hers moved under his jacket. The material of his shirt felt thin, the muscles underneath it like stone.

  They stood there and kissed for a long time.

  It stopped with a series of short, sweet kisses. The night seemed a shade darker than it had been before, or maybe it was her eyes readjusting after having been closed. Or something else. Her body coming back into sync with itself. A kind of jet lag after the trauma of the night before. She suddenly felt exhausted.

  "I'm going to be really direct with you: come home with me. Not like that. We're not going to bed together. I'm not like that, and you seem like enough of a gentleman not to expect anything. But I like you, I want to kiss you more, and I am absolutely terrified of being by myself after what happened last night. I'd feel a lot safer with you around."

  He smiled and kissed her again.

  ***

  For Parker, the most familiar street in the city was the one leading to her apartment. And tonight, there was something comforting in that familiarity. There'd been moments during the day when she'd felt like she was living on borrowed time, like her death had only been delayed by a few hours and she'd have to answer for it later. Like putting off an unpleasant conversation, or leaving a piece of mail containing bad news unopened.

  But walking down the sidewalk, stepping past the small flowerbeds in her neighbors' front yards with Aran by her side, that feeling was fading.

  She felt a little silly, both for having asked him to come home with her and for needing a bodyguard. She hoped she wasn't leading him on too much. She'd more or less made up her mind to leave the city within a few days. She doubted she would ever return. She would pack her things tomorrow and figure out some version of what had happened to tell her bosses. Enough to let them know they could be in danger. She'd leave out the fact that the men who'd attacked her were goblins.

  But there would be time for that later. She'd almost died last night, and if there was ever a time to live in the moment, it was now.

  She squeezed Aran's hand and she felt safe for the first time that day.

  Which made what happened next all the more shocking.

  Three shapes slinked out of the shadows, their movements broadcasting aggression. The change in Aran was as sudden as a light switch, from cuddlesome to killer. He stepped forward to meet the aggressors. A flicker of light from a nearby window showed scaled faces, yellow eyes, sharp grins.

  One raised a baton and swung at Aran. The weapon clanged against the sidewalk as it fell, the attacker following after it. Aran was already moving on to the other two, driving a brutal kick into one's guts and hammering the other in the jaw with a fist, sending them both to the ground.

  Parker picked up the fallen baton. It hummed in her hand, charged with electricity. It was some kind of cattle prod or taser. The first goblin Aran had struck was picking himself up off the pavement. Parker jammed the metal end of the weapon into its back and watched it full-body spasm, and then collapse again. He stayed down.

  Aran finished off the other two, never giving them the chance to pick themselves up.

  He turned toward her and froze, looking past her shoulder.

  Parker turned to find three more of the snake-faced men standing behind her. They fanned out, encircling her and Aran. They held submachine guns.

  Another figure emerged from the shadows. Tall, half a foot taller than Aran. And extremely thin. Human. Or maybe not. This was the one in charge.

  Parker and Aran were ushered into an alley. It was their only option. With three guns aimed at them, continuing to fight would be suicide.

  The tall man cleared his throat and spoke. "Good evening." His voice was deep, and the accent had an ancient quality. Not local, from somewhere else in Europe. He walked forward until he was only a foot away from her. Up close, his face was wound in tight, colorless skin. She gripped Aran's hand. Aran gripped hers.

  The tall man's tone was exaggerated, playful. "Now where do I think I recognize you from?" He was used to talking to people who were afraid of him.

  "Ah, I think I know. Do you, perchance, work at an antique clock shop?"

  He smiled. A mouthful of healthy, crooked teeth.

  Parker didn't answer.

  "Relax," he said. "You're not in any danger. Someone who can repair clockwork may prove very useful this evening. Who knows, if the parties involved are pleased with the outcome, you may find yourself on your merry way with not only your life, but a little extra weight in your purse. Do you have a name, clockwork girl?"

  She mumbled.

  "One more time?"

  "Parker."

  "Parker," he repeated, rolling her name around inside his mouth as if he were tasting a wine. "Unusual name, very American. I like it."

  He moved on to Aran.

  "Ah, and you. Might I have a name to call you by?"

  "Aran."

  "A-r-r-o-n?" He spelled out.

  "A-r-a-n."

  "Like the sweaters! A much better choice of letters. I take it you were the one who made a bloody mess of the antique shop last night?"

  Aran said nothing. The tall man held a half-grin. "Perhaps what I am most curious about in this whole kerfluffle, Aran, is how is it our paths have not crossed before. But you seem more the type to take pride in your obscurity rather than your reputation."

  After a thoughtful moment, he added. "A shame. There are many jobs that come my way that could benefit from someone with your skill set."

  "I think we play for opposing clubs, mate."

  "Oh and what clubs would those be? Good a
nd evil? Some nonsense like that? I'd work for the Pope if he was offering a job and the pay was good. Who knows, I might have already, indirectly."

  The tall man sighed. "Anyway, you're in for a rougher night than your companion. I will, at some point, be handing you over to them."

  He motioned to the armed goblins. Several of the snake-like faces snarled. Parker wondered if the three Aran had killed the night before had been their friends, perhaps brothers or cousins.

  The tall man continued. "Depending on whether or not you cooperate, I may make sure it's a fair fight and not an execution."

  The tall man stepped back and clasped his hands in front of his chest. "Do either of you have any questions so far?"

  "I have one," Aran said.

  The tall man held a hand out, palm up, inviting the question.

  "What should we call you?"

  The tall man smiled. "Please, call me Reed."

  7.

  Their hands were zip-tied behind their backs and they were guided into the back of a van. Three goblins guarded them, while another drove. The rest followed in a car along with Reed.

  The reptilian eyes ignored her, but never left Aran, staring with a mix of caution and animosity. No one spoke. They drove for a few minutes. When the van stopped and the door was opened, Parker saw they were at Aran's apartment, where she'd woken that morning. Reed appeared.

  "You, come," he said, pointing to Aran. Parker was left alone as Aran was dragged out of the vehicle and inside. It made her nervous, to be left alone with the creatures. Her arm ached where she'd been bitten the night before. She should have left the city tonight. She wouldn't escape twice.

  But they ignored her. And it wasn't long before Aran was returned. Parker guessed he'd handed over the object Reed wanted—the clock she'd repaired. Why did Reed want this? The question gnawed at her.

  The van door was slammed shut and again they drove. This trip was longer, or felt longer.

  An old part of the city. Weak light glowed from gas lamps. Parker stumbled across the cobblestone street, one of the thugs pulling her by the elbow, his inhuman face hidden under a hood. She looked at Aran. He appeared calm, as if things were going exactly as he expected. She wished she could steal a moment with him and hear what he was thinking.

  They were herded toward an alley sealed with a set of rusted metal doors. Reed unlocked them with a key. The darkness on the other side was so dense and complete that it felt like stepping into space. Or a void between two dimensions. Don't let your imagination make this any weirder than it already is, Parker warned herself.

  Several flashlights clicked on. The light was barely enough to guide them forward.

  Up ahead, a door groaned as it was opened. There was light on the other side, actual light. Parker was ushered into humidity and the smell of mold. The room was round, with no corners. Benches padded with rat-chewed cushions lined the walls, which were black underneath the tatters of ancient wallpaper. Some palace of decadence, left to rot.

  The light inside this corpse of a room came from a series of lamps that varied in size but all followed the same basic design: metal legs supporting a kind of cradle that held several luminescent stones. Like coals, only much brighter.

  Reed walked to the room's center, where a circular staircase led to the floor below. Parker felt a tug on her arm, and one of the goblins led her down the steps.

  The air grew thicker and hotter as they descended. When they reached the bottom, they stood and waited for the others. More of the strange lamps with glowing stones provided light. They were in some kind of Roman bath, a room of columns and pools and elaborate tiling. And steam. So much steam. Decades of heat and moisture had been trapped down here. Everything looked fuzzy, vague, like looking through a veil.

  They walked forward, Reed leading the way.

  Parker's hair stuck to her face and neck and she wanted very badly to brush it away, but her hands were still zip-tied. Somehow, not being able to do this was the worst part of the whole ordeal.

  She wasn't the only uncomfortable one. The goblins fidgeted with their clothes, pulling away cloth as it clung to their skin. One stopped to use an asthma inhaler.

  Only two people seemed unbothered by the oppressive humidity—Reed and Aran.

  Clouds of steam gave way to another room.

  Parker nearly screamed when she saw the thing that waited inside. A body of a man—skinned and butchered—was seated on a tiled throne that grew out of the floor at the room's center.

  When the thing leaned forward and spoke, Parker did scream. She turned to run, but was held in place by two of the goblins.

  Everyone looked at her, including the butchered man, whose eyes stared from two lidless sockets amid the raw, red face.

  The thing stood from its throne and moved to a countertop against a nearby wall. Its spine was curved, its back hunched. When it turned around again to face them, it was wearing a mask.

  It shuffled forward, its chewed-up feet slurping against the sweating tiles.

  It stopped mere inches from Parker. She struggled. Strong arms held her in place. Up close, she could see the bones that held the thing's shape, the wet gristle that gave its body weight, the bandages that served as connective tissue. The mask was the kind worn to a masquerade. Each cheek was decorated with an ornate gold illustration depicting an orgy, a tangle of limbs and sex.

  "Better?" the thing asked her, its voice muffled.

  Parker nodded, terrified.

  The thing retreated to its throne.

  Parker felt eyes on her. Reed. He made a face, as if mocking the thing they had come here to see. He cleared his throat and spoke. "Well, I am sorry to intrude on you unannounced, but you were very clear about how urgent this is. I could have called or sent a text message, but... Well, you should really consider getting a cell phone when your fingers grow back."

  The thing ignored the jest. "You've brought the device with you?"

  "I have. This gentleman standing to the left and slightly behind me is named Aran. He had purchased the device from the shop where this young lady works. We haven't gotten around to why he was so interested in the device, but I figured that could wait until you were feeling a bit stronger."

  The mask nodded.

  Reed motioned to one of the goblins, who carried forward a black bag. Reed reached inside and removed the item Parker was expecting to see: the clock Aran had purchased from the shop a few days ago. The one she had modified for him.

  Reed carried the clock forward and placed it on the floor in front of the throne. Parker looked down at the strange clock face that laid on top of the device's body. The hands were still.

  Reed backed away, and the butchered man slithered forward. His ruined hands trembled as he touched the device, staining the wood with his weeping flesh. One of the hands slid into a pocket on the robe, and removed a flat, square object. It took Parker a moment to realize what it was—a piece of leathered skin stretched on a frame. It was tattooed with numbers and symbols.

  The butchered man examined the markings, then carefully set the dials surrounding the clock face. He checked and rechecked his work. "Wind it," the thing said.

  "Clockwork girl," Reed said. "Might we have some assistance?"

  Then, to one of the thugs, "You can free her hands."

  Someone stepped behind Parker and the zip tie snapped apart. She rubbed her wrists. Her hands tingled at the return of circulation.

  She took a step toward Reed, and the device. "Do you have the key?"

  Suppressed panic flickered on Reed's face, but then Aran said, "I have it."

  Reed looked at him.

  "Front pocket," Aran said. "On my left."

  Parker looked at him, then at Reed.

  "Well, get it," Reed said. "Don't be shy."

  Parker stepped in front of Aran. The goblin next to him took a step back and raised the barrel of his gun a few inches, so it aimed at their legs.

  Aran's clothes were damp from the steam and humidity. D
enim scraped her wrist as she reached into his pocket.

  She looked up for a second to meet his eyes. He seemed calm, confident. His lips curled into the impish grin she'd seen earlier.

  He has to be planning something, or he knows something they don't.

  Somewhere, she knew the thought was comforting, but it did nothing to slow her hammering pulse or steady her shaking knees.

  Her fingertips found a hard piece of metal at the bottom of his pocket, and her hand came out holding the key to wind the device.

  She took one last look into his eyes and turned. Ten steps brought her to the device. She knelt, inserted the key into the slot on the side, and began to wind. The clock's hands moved along the face. The thing on the throne made a noise, but she didn't look toward it.

  She made the final turns and removed the key.

  The clock's hands ticked forward, like she had modified them to do, at Aran's request.

  The butchered man screamed.

  "Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn it—"

  Words dissolved into gargling. The thing fell forward onto the floor, reaching toward the box. Parker scrambled back, her hands slipping on the slick tiles. The thing's arms dislocated from the body as it attempted to crawl. Under the filthy robe, the body seemed to shrink. Bones collapsed, as if made from rotted wood. The clock hands continued to turn. The flesh that was visible turned from red to brown, then to dust, as if all moisture were vacuumed out of it by some invisible force. A final gasp escaped the monster's papery lungs.

  "Parker, stay down!"

  She turned to see Aran. His hands were unbound and holding a submachine gun. A goblin lay at his feet, its neck twisted and broken.

  She pressed her body against the floor. Muzzle flashes cut through the steam like lightening bolts through a cloud. The room filled with the sound of gunfire. Above her, blood sprayed, tiles shattered. She covered her ears, closed her eyes. After several very long seconds it stopped.

  Parker turned her head left and right. Dead goblins surrounded her. She stood, moving out of the way of the expanding pools of blood.

  Aran tossed the gun aside. She threw her arms around him in a half hug, half tackle.