Myths & Magic: A Science Fiction and Fantasy Collection

by Kerry Adrienne

  “Father, no!” Sarah screamed.

  Mr. Parker didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. The cart sprung to life, tearing down the muddy, rutted road. Villagers scattered, shaking their fists and cursing.

  Evan followed.

  Mr. Parker’s loaded steam cart rattled and clanged as he fled, its loose contents bouncing above the rim, tossing the occasional paper-wrapped parcel onto the grassy verge of the road. One item jolted loose, but didn’t fall free: Mrs. Parker’s heavily bandaged arm. It hung limp, swaying and jerking with the motion of the vehicle, a grim reminder that Piyali was in pursuit of a man not deterred by death. Did he seek to hide his crime? Or was the corpse of his wife no more than a sample of an infectious disease to be delivered to his superiors, a gruesome commitment to his orders?

  Sarah cried out in distress.

  Piyali drew her weapon, but they were too far away. “Closer!” she yelled.

  “This wagon doesn’t go any faster,” Evan yelled back. “But he’ll have to slow down to take an upcoming turn. If I leave us at full speed, we can overtake him just before we run off the road. If we pursue him, we’ll likely lose the race.”

  In short, the wagon’s fully loaded steam hopper would allow it to outrun a crank cart. She couldn’t take the chance. “Don’t slow down,” she yelled back.

  “Get ready!” He gripped the driveshaft with white knuckles.

  Ahead the road reversed course in a tight hairpin turn, a turn necessary to descend the steep hillside. The steamstage had slowed considerably with its approach to Aberwyn; Mr. Parker barely engaged the brakes.

  Bouncing down the rough road on iron-rimmed wheels, Piyali raised her arm, sighting along the length of her TTX pistol. Three darts were loaded. One to stun. Two to render a man unconscious. A third would kill. Mr. Parker was a large man, and she prayed only a single dart would be required.

  “Now!” Evan yelled.

  Time seemed to slow as they shot past the steam cart. Careening about the tight turn, Piyali squeezed the trigger. With a whoosh of compressed air, the dart shot forth, striking Mr. Parker directly between the shoulder blades. He howled in anger.

  The front wheels of Evan’s wagon ran off the road, jolting time back to its proper speed. The vehicle bucked, tossing Piyali free. Hours of training had her tucking into a roll. She hit the ground hard, and her body exploded into pain. Despite the screaming protest of every joint, she forced herself onto her feet and began to run across the muddy grass, back onto the road, pistol firmly in hand.

  Mr. Parker’s shoulders sagged forward, his hands sliding down the driving wheel as the cart careened down the hillside. Lungs heaving, heart pounding, she chased after him, grateful for her raised hemline. Though the sharp edges of gravel stabbed into the soles of the soft slippers she wore, she could not stop now.

  She slid to a halt and gasped for air, trying to steady her arm as she took aim. She fired. The second dart grazed his neck. Schistosomiasis! If any of the neurotoxin had entered his system, a third would kill him. Still, better to chance it. To let him escape was unthinkable.

  Planting her feet firmly upon the ground, she fired a third and final dart into his arm. Mr. Parker slumped sideways on his seat, then fell, disappearing from view. Excellent. Evan ran past her, hauling himself into the cart and yanking on the breaking mechanism. By the time she arrived, he had already dragged Mr. Parker—still breathing—from the cart.

  Sarah collapsed at her father’s side in a heap. “Will he live?” she asked as Piyali unhooked a pair of manacles from her corset and shackled his wrists.

  “Yes.” For now. Once Mr. Black took him into custody, she could make no promises.

  Face contorted in a mixture of anger and concern, Sarah lifted a shaking hand then laid it upon her father’s chest. “And my mother?”

  “Dead,” Evan answered her simply.

  Leaving Sarah to struggle with her grief, Piyali took a deep steadying breath. There was no avoiding it. Mrs. Parker must be examined, the contents of the wagon bed searched. She pulled herself onto the running board. It was impossible to pry her eyes from Mrs. Parker’s ghastly remains. The back of her head was caved in, clots of blood matted her hair. Her arm was wrapped in yards of dingy gauze that took Piyali several long minutes to unwind. Exposed to the light of day, Mrs. Parker’s arm was not only a scintillating blue, but her hand had swollen to twice its normal size. Untreated, blood poisoning—septicemia—had also taken hold.

  Beside her, Evan let out a low whistle. “Murdered, yes, but even so, there’s little chance she would have reached Russia alive.”

  “The frog,” she said. They needed to secure the creature.

  Evan pried the lid off one of the many crates. Inside, padded with straw, lay several glass jars labeled with his own handwriting. A second crate held dried plant cuttings carefully pressed and wrapped in paper. He dug through a third, then a fourth. All filled with a variety of materials stolen from his greenhouse and laboratory. “Quite the collection they made this past year. To think that I never suspected a thing until the blue frog escaped.”

  Frantic, Piyali dug through the remaining crates. “It has to be here…” A soft, plopping sound came from a copper teakettle tucked into the straw. Why would anyone pack a teakettle whilst fleeing for Russia? Frowning, she plucked it free. The teakettle was heavier than it ought to be, far heavier than could be accounted for by the addition of a small frog. As she shifted the kettle and reached for its lid, something inside scraped noisily across its base.

  “Wait!” Even cried. He dug into the straw and then emptied a glass jar of its contents. “Slowly and carefully.” He held the jar close as Piyali pried free the kettle’s lid and peered inside.

  At first glance all she saw was a thin film of water and shards of the white ceramic pot she’d handed to Sarah, the container of khu-neh-ari ointment. But then the light glinted off two small, beady eyes. A dazed and confused frog. She tipped it gently into the glass jar. It looked exactly like the one they had trapped at Seren’s Well.

  Except it wasn’t blue.

  “It’s green,” Evan said, eyebrows knitting in confusion.

  “Cured?” And then all the tension melted away as she began to laugh. Gallows humor, perhaps, but the two Russian spies had managed to steal so much, yet botched it in the end. “So close to success, but…” She examined the kettle, then held it up. “A copper teakettle to provide a damp habitat for the frog—not the worst plan. But add in a jar of your ointment and a rough wagon ride through the Welsh countryside…”

  “And the frog itself is cured,” Evan finished.

  Had the Parker’s plans not been disrupted—with more time to pack and pad the stolen goods—they might have reached the port of Cardiff with intact specimens. With a ship ready and waiting, there was a small chance the spies and a blue frog would have reached Russia. And then…

  No. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Evan braced as Piyali straightened and dragged in a deep breath. “The Parker family must be delivered into Mr. Black’s custody along with any documents found in their private apartments.” Her voice held an edge that informed him she would tolerate no further objections.

  “Agreed.”

  Surprise lifted her eyebrows. “But concerning the blue frog and my report…” She set down the teakettle and brushed a piece of straw from her tunic. “I propose a compromise.”

  “Go on,” he prompted. He wanted to reach out and gather her into his arms, but knew he could not. Terms were being set. There was no avoiding Mr. Black or his men now. A lump of coal burned in his stomach. What kind of future could they have together if they could not find common ground?

  “Before the Queen’s agents arrive, I propose we soak Mrs. Parker’s arm in the copper-liana solution. We treat both Tegan and the water in Seren’s Well. If this works, if we can eliminate all traces of the parasite, I will petition Mr. Black to allow me to personally monitor the pool for the next several years. Mr. Black and the
Queen’s agents would receive nothing more than a report about the parasite itself, excluding its origin. I won’t include a single reference to the frog.” She cleared her throat. “It will, of course, mean convincing everyone that Tegan fabricated the story concerning a certain blue amphibian.”

  Dark eyes met his. Was Piyali holding her breath as she waited for his response? Did she envision a future which included him? What an amazing woman, one who could be his if he too made this small concession. The infectious parasite would not be preserved, living or dead, but it would be carefully documented along with its cure, a cure he would quietly share with the shaman of the village that had hosted him in Brazil. The Crown would not be provided with the means to create semi-invisible men, but neither would Lister biologists be left with no identification or treatment particulars should the intracellular parasite ever resurface.

  “Tegan will never speak to me again, but I’ll manage.” With a light heart, he caught her shaking hand, pressing it between his palms. “If I augment that report with a living specimen of the khu-neh-ari liana, will you personally recommend me for the position of Director of Tropical Plants in the Lister Botanical Gardens and Greenhouse? I’ve a sudden desire to relocate to London.”

  A wide smile brightened Piyali’s face. Her eyes sparkled as she answered, “Absolutely.”

  “Curing unknown tropical diseases, uncovering entrenched Russian spies, firing poisonous darts with deadly precision.” He drew her close. “What other mad skills have you acquired these past years?”

  Her smile turned coy as her arms slid around his waist. “I’m afraid you’ll need government clearance to find out. Have you ever considered working for the Queen?”

  “I believe I could be persuaded,” he said, then lowered his lips to hers.

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Sarah, alternately weeping over the death of her mother and railing at her father, was returned to her room at The White Hare. Although they took the precaution of locking her door, neither he nor Piyali considered her a flight risk. Mr. Parker, however, was kept securely restrained and administered regular doses of laudanum to ensure he remained subdued.

  Tegan was promptly treated. Clutching his hand and pressing it to her heart, she swore her undying love and loyalty. Until he mentioned that he expected to join Dr. Mukherji soon in London and wished her—and her parents—all the best here in Wales. At that unwelcome and unexpected news, her face soured, and she threw his hand back at him with a frustrated howl.

  Together, he and Piyali searched the Parkers’ living quarters, finding both her original message—still sealed in its tin cylinder—as well as the punch cards stolen from her trunk. Lips pursed in annoyance, Piyali dashed off a brief message informing Mr. Black that she had apprehended a Russian spy and required backup.

  The White Hare’s skeet pigeon, though rusty, had taken to the sky easily enough, winging its way to London. A strong response arrived the next day in the form of a silver-ballooned dirigible. The entire village turned out in the rain—jaws hanging open—to watch the unprecedented arrival of a hawk-class vessel descend from the sky and settle in the mud before the tavern.

  Two men leapt from its compartment; neither were Mr. Black. With a glance of apology, Piyali left Evan’s side, secreting herself behind closed doors to present her report. Disappointment tightened his chest, but he was not an agent. For the moment, he was nothing to the Crown but an importer of a biological hazard. Step one toward their future involved Piyali arguing on his behalf.

  Several hours later, they emerged. Precious few words were exchanged as they began the process of loading evidence—including a potted sample of his liana—into a secure storage compartment of the airship’s gondola. A few minutes before their scheduled departure, one of the men led Mr. Parker and Sarah in shackles from the tavern to securely bolt them into their seats.

  Mr. Parker’s lips pressed into a thin line. He stared stoically into the distance, refusing to acknowledge anyone or anything.

  “How is it possible?” Sarah asked, her eyes red and swollen. Gone was her usual ebullience, squashed beneath the truth of her parents’ lives. “Russian spies!”

  “It’s a lot to take in.” Piyali placed a hand on her arm. “Cooperate. Answer all their questions truthfully and, if—when—you’re cleared of all wrongdoing, I shall do my best to help you start a new life in London. I’ll see your textbooks delivered to your cell. Focus on your studies to pass the time and improve your future prospects. When this is over, I’ll do what I can to arrange for you to take the entrance exams for Girton’s College.”

  As the airship departed, as all faces turned upward to watch its departure, Evan asked, “Is all well?”

  “Mr. Black agreed to my proposal,” she answered, tugging him by the hand down the main road and away from the crowd. “The pool is now your—our—responsibility.”

  Together, they slipped away into the woods. Piyali folded her arm through his as they came to a stop before Seren’s Well. Its waters glistened a turquoise blue from all the copper sulfate they had poured into the pool, and branches from the khu-neh-ari liana floated on its surface.

  Traditions transformed and evolved with time, and another step forward needed to begin today. While Piyali spoke with fellow Queen’s agents, he’d spoken with Mr. Price, impressing upon him the need to return his supply of steel pins to the manufacturer, to request that only copper pins be sold in the village store. Even better if Evan could convince the villagers that the gwragedd annwn desired payment, not bent pins, in the form of copper farthings. The more copper introduced to the pool, the better.

  “I’ve been granted three days leave,” Piyali said, breaking the silence. “Three days to convince you that both you and your plants belong in the Botanical Garden of Lister University.”

  “Done,” he said and reached into his coat pocket. Heart pounding, he lowered himself onto one knee and held up his grandmother’s opal and diamond ring, a ring that had burned against his chest all day. “That leaves me three days to convince you to say yes. Dr. Piyali Mukherji, I cannot envision my future without you in it. These years without you nearly killed me. Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  A tear slid down her cheek as she slipped the ring on her finger. “Yes.”

  Her answer dispelled the gloom that had descended upon his life some three months past. Intensity of color rushed back into his life, leaving him breathless. Evan leapt to his feet and scooped her into his arms, turning toward his cottage. “How shall we spend the next three days? Planning a wedding? Packing the laboratory and the contents of my greenhouse…”

  She tugged on his arm. “Anticipating wedding vows.”

  * * *

  The End

  Read another story from The Elemental Web Chronicles: The Golden Spider

  http://www.annerenwick.com/books/the-golden-spider

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  About the Author

  Though Anne Renwick holds a Ph.D. in biology and greatly enjoyed tormenting the overburdened undergraduates who were her students, fiction has always been her first love. Today, she writes steampunk romance, placing a new kind of biotech in the hands of mad scientists, proper young ladies and determined villains. Anne is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and Johns Hopkins School of Medicine. She lives in Maryland with her family.

  Anne brings an unusual perspective to steampunk. A number of years spent locked inside the bowels of a biological research facility left her permanently altered. In her steampunk world, the Victorian fascination with all things anatomical led to a number of alarming biotechnological advances. Ones that the enemies of Britain would dearly love to possess.

  Read More from Anne Renwick

  http://www.annerenwick.com/

  Warriors of Surtu

  Lisa Lace

  Warriors of Surtu © 2015-2017 Lisa Lace

  * * *

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ed under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Warriors of Surtu

  The one thing she couldn’t do was fall in love.

  * * *

  TERRA

  I've been preparing for this day my entire life.

  For sixty years, Earth has been getting ready for their return. The first time they came, they killed our men and took all the women. That's not going to happen again. This time, we're ready. My unit looks unassuming, but we have degrees in kicking alien ass. They're not taking us without a fight.

  So why can't I stop thinking about him?

  * * *

  JIDDEN

  I've been preparing for this day my entire life.

  Sixty years ago, we found what we were looking for: an entire species that we could successfully mate with. It's taken us this long to make sure the offspring were viable. I've been selected to be part of the initial mission to claim the women as our own, and it's my key to promotion. The one thing I'm not allowed to do is touch an Earth woman.