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A Taste of Gears of Brass: Treasure's Kiss, by Jordan Elizabeth
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For my mother, Cynthia, who introduced me to the Wild West, with all of its horses, heroes, bandits, big skirts, and ranches.
is mother’s voice carried through the cracks in the wooden wall to let him know it was safe. She sounded hoarse. Tired. The final syllables of each line hovered as if she waited for a response.
“The day the sun dies,
“Radiance lost to the reaches of space.
“Water boiling,
“Bubbles of blood….”
Clark eased the dressing room door open enough to slip through. Good thing he’d oiled the metal hinges. He kept his shoes slung over his shoulder to creep across the cold, plank floor, his bare feet silent.
She’d hung her client’s clothes on the pegs near the bathtub. In the attached bedroom, the client snored and Clark’s mother kept singing to let him know he had time to act.
“Midnight blood staining shredded white,
“No power to surpass,
“No power left to shine….”
A faded curtain of green brocade separated the two rooms. Morning sunlight filtered through the threadbare patches to provide the only light. He might be hidden from view, but he had to move fast and keep quiet.
Holding his breath, Clark eased his hand into the pocket of the client’s blue jacket. A copper penny, probably to tip Clark’s mother, and a leather pouch of silver coins for the actual payment at the desk. Clark counted ten coins, more than enough considering his mother, one of the Tarnished Silvers, only cost two. He removed one coin and dropped it into his own pocket. The client might miss more than that.
Clark fished through the man’s black boots and brown leather spats, but didn’t come across any hidden valuables. From the crossed pistols emblem on the cap, the client had to be a general from the army. The clothes were strong quality, made with sturdy fabric and machine stitching. He had to have something else of worth.
Clark checked the silk vest. The front pocket contained a brass watch on a chain attached to a brass button: too noticeable to steal. He slid his hand underneath and grinned when his fingers brushed a hidden opening with a bulge. He lifted out a glass vial and swished the thick, green liquid. It crawled up the sides and dripped off the cork.
Absinthe. Clark caught himself before he whistled. His mother wouldn’t allow him to touch the stuff in the bar downstairs, but he’d always wondered what it tasted like. When the customers knocked back the shots, they started laughing and hallucinating. People they knew, but who’d died, would visit them in their minds. One man had thought his dead father sat on the stool beside him.
If Clark drank it, he might see his dead relatives, too.
“Nasty stuff,” his mother would say, but she drank it over a sugar cube if a client bought it for her.
Clark yanked out the cork. It popped and the liquid fizzled. Bubbles crept to the surface before the substance stilled, and he sniffed the rim of the vial. Absinthe smelled like anise hyssop, a plant in the garden, but this had more of a metallic odor. Maybe it was fresher than the stuff shipped to the bar.
He tipped it to his lips for a sip. The liquid burned his tongue and scalded the roof of his mouth. Fire flared along his nostrils. Clark choked, but the drink had spilled down his throat before he could swallow, as if it were heavily weighted somehow.
His mother broke away from her song as the client snorted.
“Wuz zat?” a man grumbled.
Clark froze. Brass glass, he should’ve left the potion in the vest. The burning faded, but left a metallic aftertaste, like when his mouth filled with blood after a fistfight.
“Just the folks downstairs.” His mother’s mattress, stuffed with dried cornhusks, rustled. “It’s still early if you want to catch more shut eye time.”
Two thumps sounded on the floor. Feet? The man grunted. “Can’t be wastin’ all day with the likes of you.”
Clark stiffened. His mother wasn’t worthless. If she hadn’t had him fifteen years ago out of wedlock, she might’ve found a husband or a decent job besides being a Tarnished Silver, or doxy, her boss’s name for her profession when she didn’t bring back enough customers.
“You was real sweet.” The man’s voice softened. At least generals had manners. “I might come back to see ya real soon. Leave ya a big tip, ya hear?”
Clark tried to jam the cork back into the bottle, but it wouldn’t fit, as if it had expanded. By black steam, he couldn’t put the vial back if it was open. He couldn’t stay to force the cork, either. He ran on his tiptoes to the door and eased it open again.
“You was real sweet, too,” his mother said as Clark shut the door. He took the spare key from his pocket and relocked the door.
The second floor hallway of the Tangled Wire Saloon and Brothel lay empty. A few muffled voices drifted through the closed doors. He wandered toward the stairs, shoving on the cork. As he reached the first floor, it slid in with a pop.
Hmm, keep it or leave it? He could drop it under a table in the saloon so the client could think he’d lost it. If someone else took it, that would be their problem.
Clark glanced around the front room. The old man who owned the establishment stood behind the main desk, which stretched six feet long in the corner. Customers paid for drink and prostitutes there. No one sat at the tables, but Clark glimpsed one of the other Tarnished Silvers in the gambling room beyond. One of them might wonder what he was doing under a table.
“Goin’ to work?” a girl called from the stairs: Mable, only twelve, identical to her mother, who used the room next door to his mother’s. Mable wore her ginger ringlets pulled back in a ponytail with a wide, silk ribbon. Pearl earbobs hung from her earlobes and a silver chain with an owl charm dangled around her neck. Her pink dress draped too low in the front, exposing her prominent collarbone, and sagged around her waist.
“Sure thing. Can’t be late.” Clark tucked the bottle into his pants.
“Whatcha got?” She ran her painted fingernails over the railing as she descended.
“Nothin’.” He shrugged. “Just somethin’ for lunch.” He usually ran back to the kitchen for a hunk of bread and milk, or a customer’s leftovers, but she wouldn’t know that. The old man used her for serving food and drink during the days.
“You wanna play with me tonight?” Mable asked. “I was thinkin’ we could throw rocks at the stream. Maybe we can gig a couple frogs to cook up for supper.”
“Sure thing.” Clark leaned against the wall to tie on his shoes. Mable stood in front of him, rocking on her heels with her hands clasped behind her back. When he headed toward the door, she followed.
“Lots of soldiers in here yesterday,” she said. “Why ya think the army’s back?”
Clark pushed open the door and stepped onto the front porch. A calico cat curle
d on the top step, asleep in the sunshine. “Dunno. Maybe they wanna build the railroad this way.”
She skipped at his side as he walked. “That’d be real nice. They might open up more stores. Ma said the city she used to live in had a theater, a real theater with actors and stuff.”
He stopped himself from saying that all real theaters had actors.
Wind blew along Main Street, shoving dust into Clark’s face. The buildings consisted of wood slapped together, some sturdy, some seeming to sway. The saloon and brothel were the biggest, with three floors and walls that didn’t shake.
A mechanical horse clattered by on the dirt road and the soldier in its leather saddle lifted his cap to them by the short visor in greeting. Clark nodded and Mable curtsied. Most of the army ignored them, but a few took offense if a resident of Tangled Wire wasn’t polite. More soldiers strolled along in their crisp blue jackets with brass buttons and automatic rifles in hand. Mable ogled them, her lips parted.
Clark pulled out the vial and bit off the cork. She might think soldiers were fascinating, but he had absinthe. Clark held the bottle to his lips and knocked back a swallow. It still burned, but he fought the sputtering cough. Alcohol was supposed to burn at first.
Mable slapped his arm. “Yer Ma don’t let you have liquor.”
“Neither does yours.” Clark knocked back another gulp. Half remained in the vial.
“So, did you swipe it?” Her crooked, yellow teeth gave her a childish gleam when she grinned.
“All mine. I’m a man now.” The next swallow didn’t burn at all. It kept the metallic taste, though, and his mind buzzed. Could he be drunk already? They wouldn’t let him work if he was inebriated. He couldn’t have had that much already. Clark swigged the last bit and tossed the empty bottle to Mable. “All yours, sugar.”
“You finished it,” she yelped.
He waved two fingers overhead. “Getting to work now. I’ll be home tonight.”
The mine lay at the edge of Tangled Wire, nestled in the narrow valley amongst the jagged hills. Two soldiers guarded the gates at all hours, but today there were five. Other workers spoke to them before filing inside to retrieve their gear.
“Captain Greenwood should be here soon,” one guard said to another. “Thought he’d have arrived by now.”
“What do you think his big experiment is?” Another guard chuckled.
“Who knows, but he said he only had enough supplies for one. Whatever that one is. Maybe an explosion.” The guards laughed. It must have been grand to be that jolly at work.
“Clark Treasure,” he told the guard checking the workers.
The soldier lifted his thick brows and grunted. “Treasure, eh? No relation to Captain Treasure?”
“Course not.” Another soldier laughed. “You think he’d be related to that tycoon while working at a place like this?”
The first soldier scanned his list and checked it with a stylus. “Get inside, boy. You’ll be in chute five today.”
“Good morning right back.”
“Oaf.” The soldier swung at him, but Clark ducked past the arm and into the grounds.
He retrieved his helmet, gas mask, leather gloves, and pickaxe from the supply shack before heading into chute five. Once the machines ground away most of the rock, robots worked until it became too fine. Humans needed to see and gage where next to hit.
He fit the helmet over his oily yellow hair and slid the goggles down to cover his eyes. The air chilled and dampened as he headed into the mine, stepping over the uneven rocks strewn across the floor. He turned to the right at the first division, which led to chute five. Four other workers had begun for the day; their pickaxes rang against the rocks.
Within two hours, sweat beaded on Clark’s skin despite the draft in the tunnel. He paused to pull a red bandana from his pocket and wiped his neck. It came away black with dust. At least the gas mask kept the debris from his lungs. Before he’d been old enough to work, men had died from the fumes. Hertum, a white rock that crumbled into dust, was harvested for the government. If a person breathed the dust for too long, it would make their throat bleed.
Clark shuddered, stuffing the bandana back into his pants. The thirteen other men around him worked their tools in a steady rhythm. The thump-thump-thump helped Clark concentrate on the rocks, kept his mind from wandering.
Something crashed toward the entrance, followed by another, louder, and chute five trembled. The men lowered their tools, stiffening.
Clark sucked a breath through his gas mask. “No, there hasn’t been one in two years….”
“Cave in,” someone hollered.
Clark jumped against the wall and crouched with his hands clasped behind his head. The army had taught them to hide like that in the case of a cave in, but if a rock fell on a person, they still died. Tears burned his eyes. No, he was too old for crying. Mable never wept anymore, not even when the men called her names.
After what seemed an eternity, the mine stopped shuddering and the roaring ceased. The men stood from their walls and edged toward the entrance. From that direction, men screamed.
Go slow, if anything changes, crouch. Clark nodded as he repeated the mantra in his mind. His body shook and his heart pounded so hard his veins ached. He grabbed at the wall with his gloved hands to stay steady.
The entrance to chute three had caved into a mess of rocks and dust. Workers tugged on some of the larger pieces to move them aside.
Clark yanked off his mask and let it hang by its canvas strap around his neck. “Anyone trapped in there?”
One of the older men shoved a rock aside. It rolled against the wall with a thump. “All of Team Three.”
While other workers staggered out, shaken from the shock, to await next orders, Clark fell into line with those who wanted to help. He gripped the rocks and heaved, although the muscles ached along his back and shoulders. His arms tingled and his palms burned beneath the worn out leather gloves.
If he were trapped, he would want his coworkers to help him. As long as they got them out soon, they would survive…
Clark coughed. Blooming gears, he should put his mask back on. Stepping away from the crowd, he lifted the mask, but a new cough wracked his body. It tasted metallic, like the drink. He coughed again, so hard his lungs throbbed. He doubled over. The hertum mineral mined from the rocks shouldn’t have harmed him so fast. Impossible.
Blood sprayed from his mouth with the next cough. Hands pushed him. Someone rubbed the back of his neck.
“You’ll be fine.” The male voice didn’t sound familiar.
Clark staggered to his knees and coughed. More blood, hot as burning coals, shot from his lungs. It strangled him like a thick mass. He couldn’t die. His mother needed his pay so they could leave the brothel. They could buy a farmhouse. He could learn how to farm.
He couldn’t die on his mother.
Clark pounded on his chest until the panic lessened and he could breathe again. His lungs wheezed, but they worked. He dropped his helmet, goggles, and mask onto the stone next to him. He’d gone without his mask before without almost dying. Had it been the panic from the cave in? He leaned back and closed his eyes while he panted. He’d have to get outside, no more helping.
Something soft but firm twitched beneath his hand. Clark glanced down and bile rose in his raw throat. An arm protruded from the rocks, a leather glove on the hand and the black jacket sleeve shredded. Clark had rested on it. Sputtering, he twisted away. That poor worker… gone. It could be any of them, any day of the week.
Despite the pain in his lungs, Clark pulled off his glove and pushed the sleeve up to read the victim’s brass identification bracelet. He might’ve known the fellow, so he could tell the family himself, rather than have the army deliver a letter they would have to pay the priest to read for them.
Clark’s fingertip touched the man’s dry, hairy skin. Warmth shot through the contact.
Suddenly, he stood in a desert with endless sand and an orange sun above
. A man in black dust with mining gear faced him, the outline too blurry for Clark to know who he was.
The man lifted his hands. “Bring me back. Don’t let me die.”
“I….” Clark sputtered, and the man grabbed him. Tingles shot along Clark’s nerves from the contact to his scalp. Heat baked into him from the surrounding air.
Clark screamed as he pulled away. The image of the desert shattered back into the mine. Could he be hallucinating? No, that had happened; somehow he’d been transferred to the desert.
The fingers on the arm uncoiled and stretched, as though reaching. The arm shifted, as if the man were still alive. A moan elicited from within the rock pile.
“Help him,” Clark rasped. A headache pounded against his temple, blurring his eyesight like in the vision. Where had that headache come from so fast?
The man had wanted Clark to bring him back to life. Had he, somehow, when the perished mine worker touched him in that desert state?
“Git outta here, boy. It’s too dangerous.” A man grabbed his shoulder. Clark stumbled into his chest and reached up to brace himself; his hand brushed the man’s neck. At the touch of skin against skin, the headache vanished and the man gulped. Blood spurted from his lips and he collapsed, his eyes wide.
Dead? How? The world had to have an explanation for it. He wasn’t going crazy. Something unnatural had happened, something far more than a collapsed mine chute. Wait, that did sound crazy?
“Get up,” Clark whispered as images whirled past him. Other workers rushed over to see what had happened to the man.
He had to escape the mine. The dust had done something to his sanity. Clark ran, shoving people aside. Sunlight slammed his senses. Soldiers shouted orders that jumbled into gibberish.
“That’s him.” The soldier from the gate that morning grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “Clark Treasure.”
He tried to ask why they were mad, but his lips sagged. Saliva dripped down his chin. His heart thudded and the metallic taste filled his mouth again.
“Clark Treasure,” a soldier behind him said, “you are arrested in the name of our good Queen for stealing a vial.”
Treasure, Darkly (Treasure Chronicles Book 1) Page 1