by Kim Knox
“Because we have to keep up appearances?”
“Exactly.” Frost snorted as the ice caught him again. “My plan worked so much more smoothly in Buckinghamshire.”
“What is going on, sir? I’ve never seen a gun like that. Even the Rolling Death—the aeolipile gun carriages—fire projectiles.” Mason shook his head, the sudden blast playing through his mind, searing, blue-white. “It was as if he held lightning in his hand.”
“Yes.”
“And I was a part of the design for tonight.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Why me?”
“We share a birthday. And to get me, they had to have you.”
It had to be nonsense. He was a former gunner, a servant, he had no money, no influence, and yet he’d been pulled into...insanity. Even with what he’d seen—that incredible weapon—it couldn’t be real. Miraculous devices were appearing with increasing frequency, but to say they came from another planet? Yet, Frost believed.
“Martians?” The question came out with a half-laugh. “It’s...”
Frost laughed too, the sound carrying on the still night. “Yes, it is.”
Silence followed them now. No sound and no chemical-sharp light chased down into the lane. But that little stab of instinct hadn’t left him. The Martians—and he was still having trouble wrapping his mind around the impossibility—were biding their time.
The dulled sound of singing and laughter and the mixed notes of pianos, fiddles and accordions wove out from the houses they slid and slipped past. Twelfth Night carried on, the celebrants completely unaware. The distant clop of horse’s hooves and the creak of a cab carried from the wider road. Mason frowned. Flagging down a cab made more sense than standing in a station waiting for a train...but they weren’t truly escaping.
“Why are you—we—doing this, sir?” He had to know more if he was to gamble his life on trusting Frost. “Who are they really?”
Frost’s mouth thinned. “Did you question your orders?”
Mason flushed, the heat sudden in his cold skin. “No, sir.”
“Neither do I.”
Mason glanced back. He focused, pushing down the doubt and fear, used the fire in his blood. There was only the slow wreath of thinning fog and darkness behind them. “They’ve given up?”
Frost followed his gaze, eyes narrowed on the dark slope of the hill. “They never give up.”
The bleak tone pushed at Mason. Why was he unquestioningly tying himself to Frost’s scheme? He’d run from a situation, broken his good record with the registry, thrown in his lot with a man he didn’t know... Because his heart was pounding. He felt more alive than he had in the years since the army had pensioned him out.
“You’ve played this game before?”
Street lamps cast shallow pools of light down the dip in the road beyond. The cab’s lamps bounced and outlined the little brick railway station set off to the left.
Frost grabbed one of the iron railings of the last house. “This game? No. Others? Yes.” He strode more confidently on the stretch of grass and trees that ended the lane. “Next time, snowshoes.”
If there was a next time. It was too simple. They’d tried to slip something—possibly poison—into Frost’s food. They knew the man’s life. Sir Randolph had flashed lightning over a sideboard and half of it had vanished, without even a burst of ash. They wanted Agamemnon Frost. Yet, there was no sign of their pursuit.
Mason ducked under the low branch of a tree. His every instinct was screaming at him that something was wrong, but he had to ignore it. The one question he’d also been avoiding rose to the surface. Wherever Sir Randolph’s weapon had originated, which planet it came from, it was obviously lethal. And every second he stayed with Frost he committed himself to his scheme. “Will we get out of this with our lives?”
Frost paused at the grass’s edge. The lamp beside the wider road carved his features in dark gold. Mason’s heart thudded for a different reason, and it was a reminder that he hadn’t followed Frost simply for the prospect of adventure.
“I’ve learned never to make promises I can’t keep.”
Mason’s gut tightened. “Understood.”
Frost gripped his shoulder briefly. “The Martians chose well in you.”
“Thank you.” Mason frowned. Had that been a compliment? “I think.”
Frost rubbed his hands together, his attention now fixed on the short stretch of icy road remaining before the station. His breath fogged the air. A dark swathe of trees pushing up behind a high sandstone wall lined one side, a large house just visible behind them, white painted, with smoke curling grey into the sky. The other side consisted of smaller houses, some of them shops, their lower halves shuttered against the night.
“They’ll ambush us there. The gate posts.” Frost nodded towards the low stone posts marking the entrance to the grand house. “Ready?”
Mason gave a short nod, pulled cold air into his lungs and flexed his hands. He focused the surge of heat in his blood, the wild battle of fear and excitement. He knew how to handle himself and willed the belief that he’d survive. He had a position as Frost’s valet. His gaze darted over the man’s perfect profile. And more. “Ready when you are, sir.”
“Remind me to give you a pay rise, Mason.”
Mason pushed back the urge he had to grin. “Thank you, sir.”
They made their way across the cobbled street, slow and steady. Nothing moved. There was only the sound of the wind in the branches of the trees and the muffled laughter from a room above one of the shops.
Nervous sweat dampened Mason’s spine. He held down a shiver. Frost wasn’t a man to be certified. Mason had witnessed the strangeness too. And whether it was “Martians” or advanced machinery from a rival to the Great Nation, he didn’t know. But they were a real danger.
The entrance loomed. Mason’s heart beat hard. Wisps of fog hung over the curve of the wall and wreathed through the bare branches. The distant clops of hooves faded and there was almost an unnatural silence, as if the freezing night air held its breath.
Mason berated himself for falling into melodrama. Beside him, Frost walked with quiet calm. A calm be envied.
The stillness unnerved him. It was a little after nine and even outside the city, there were always people out on the streets, falling out of pubs or intent on something nefarious. But here...stillness. “Do you think, even with it being Twelfth Night, not many venture out after dark here, sir?”
Frost frowned. “I imagine it seems safer to be behind a heavily bolted door. Yes.” His expression lightened. “That we had that luxury.”
“Mr. Frost.”
Mason’s chest burst with heat. Only Frost’s solid hand on his arm stopped him from lurching forward.
Sir Randolph stepped out from the dark gateway. He still wore evening dress, but he had no gun. He put his hands behind his back and straightened his shoulders. Light carved his face and the intensity, the contained fury, fired Mason’s blood. But he couldn’t act. He wondered again why he was trusting Frost’s plan. Sir Randolph looked beyond them. “Come back to the house.”
Frost shook his head. “I don’t take kindly to people deciding my fate.”
Sir Randolph frowned. “I’ve asked politely.” Out of darkness stepped Lady Cadwallader, Theodora and Arabella. The silk of their evening gowns gleamed, skin still bare to the freezing night. Not one of them shivered. Each held one of the Martian guns. All semblance of polite English gentlewomen had fallen away and they had the fierce, uncompromising stances of Amazon warriors.
“Brains, beauty and the ability to turn a man to dust with a blink.” Frost let out an overdramatic sigh. “Such a shame I can’t marry all three of you.”
“Enough.” Sir Randolph slashed Frost to silence with his hand. “We know there’s mor
e to you than clever manners and your infantile obsession with your tailors on Savile Row.”
“Yes, there’s also my perfect good looks.”
Sir Randolph’s mouth thinned and Mason was relieved that they seemed to want to keep Frost alive. The mask of the dandy grated. He was certain Theodora, rather than marrying him, would like nothing better than to turn him into little more than hot embers and smoke. It was there in the hard line of her mouth and the way her fingers flexed around the gun’s grip.
The clops of hooves and the clatter of a carriage grew louder. Mason glanced behind them and a pair-horse landau emerged from the darkness, its lamps extinguished.
Sir Randolph waved his arm, the carriage pulling to a stop only yards away. The black horses steamed the air with their breath. “Gentlemen.”
Frost turned, his chin lifted, and ignored Theodora, who walked with him. Arabella lifted an eyebrow and Mason followed Frost, too aware of the young girl—and the strange gun—at his back. And he thought the night couldn’t possibly get any more odd.
The driver climbed down from the box and opened the door to the landau. Sir Randolph ordered them inside. Mason glanced across to Frost as he settled into the cushioned seat facing the horses. Theodora sat beside him. Arabella climbed in, her gown little hindrance to her movements. It surprised Mason. Layers of silk and constrictive corsets restricted female abilities. Yet, Arabella, her powdered face a mask of confident dislike, sat beside him with a strong and easy grace, her weapon hand unwavering.
“You’re keen to know what we do, Mr. Frost? Asking so many questions about me in too many places.” Sir Randolph’s grin was stark, etched in yellow from the streetlamp. “I thought it was time you followed your brother and discovered—firsthand—why I call my home the House of Death.”
“Melodrama? Really, Sir Randolph.” Frost brushed the front of his waistcoat and glanced up. “I expected something so much more...witty.”
Theodora cuffed him, a lightning-quick rap to the jaw. Mason surged forward, but Arabella grabbed him. Her fingers bit into the muscle and bone of his shoulder, and pain danced black spots before his eyes. Muffling his moan, he sank back into his seat.
How were they so strong? Mason flexed his shoulder, finding fresh pain.
“Never underestimate my kardax.” Sir Randolph looked to his stepdaughter. “Take them to the Chamber.”
She gave a brief nod and Sir Randolph shut the carriage door. A quick flash of light drew around the seams. The landau lurched forward.
“The Chamber, sir?” There was little point in remaining quiet, or pretending, protesting total innocence. And their guards seemed nothing more than lifelike dolls now, unmoving, their faces like powdered and painted masks.
Frost wiped at the fresh blood that stained his lip. “Your guess is as good as mine, Mason.”
But there was something in his eyes, something the sliver of moonlight caught. Frost was lying. He knew exactly what awaited them in the Chamber. And his need for a lie—to him—pushed fear into the pit of Mason’s stomach.
4. The Chamber
Leather straps bit into Mason’s wrists, his ankles, his chest, and strained against his neck with every intake of breath. They confined him to a metal chair, his head caught by a cold band across his brow. His skin itched as though something brushed against it, as if he stood out in a dry thunderstorm. He wet his lips and the air tasted metallic.
He must’ve blacked out. There was the memory of being manhandled down the stone steps into the cellar, the surprise of the vast open and well-lit space...and then the constriction of the chair.
“Believe me now?”
Frost sat opposite him, strapped down as he was in a high-backed metal chair. They sat on a wide metal circle in the centre of the cellar, brilliant light washing across the sandstone walls and dazzling the two sheets of steel bolted to the side wall. The footmen stood along the opposite wall, blank-faced.
“I never doubted you, sir.”
Frost lifted an eyebrow. “The moment we escape, I’ll double your salary.”
Mason let out a disbelieving laugh. “The thought is appreciated, sir.”
“Nestor—is that his ridiculous name?—must be desperate to put one of his most valuable assets at risk. He prizes your brain.” Sir Randolph strode up to their platform, his heel clacks echoing around the room. “But did you tell Mason how you get people killed, Mr. Frost? How many you pull to you with a look, the promise of a touch, the hint that you’ll let them taste you.”
Mason pressed his lips together, fighting to deny the red burn appearing on his face. He had to ignore Sir Randolph’s words. To have it known that he also liked the company of men would see him convicted and doing years of hard labour.
“You’re mistaken.” Frost’s tone was relaxed, even edged with boredom. “And to imply that I have relations with staff? It’s slander.”
“That I could have Theodora do more than knock your head.” Sir Randolph muttered the threat almost to himself. His voice lifted. “To see a kardax at work is a thing of wonder.” He pulled at the hem of his waistcoat, unnecessarily straightening it. “But, after tonight, you’ll be working for us.”
“I very much doubt that.”
“You think it’s a coincidence you’re here?” His mouth moved into a sneer. “That your chauffeur—what was the ape’s name? Cheston?—was one of my experiments gone awry? His blurting out of who I am and his subsequent death were all a part of my plan.”
Frost flexed his fingers so he could examine his manicured nails. “I find that also highly unlikely.”
Sir Randolph leaned over him, his fingers squeezing around Frost’s wrists until both men’s knuckles were bloodless. “And yet here you are, at the mercy of my apparatus.”
Mason swore and struggled against his bonds, but Sir Randolph ignored him. He wasn’t even worth a cursory glance, and fear and anger twisted in his gut. Did Sir Randolph consider him an ape, comparable to Frost’s dead colleague?
“Do you know what I’ll do to you? Every inch of your bones and muscle will be made over to me, made in my image, to my design. You’ll have no thought in your head but the ones I put there. You will betray your comrades. For me.”
“Your equipment is...inferior.” Frost’s voice lay thick with disdain and it lifted Mason’s mouth up into a smile. Yes, he’d been pulled into this insanity by Frost and Sir Randolph, they’d used him to play out their games, but Frost’s resistance pushed back his own fear.
“Inferior?” The word was a whip and Sir Randolph stood back. Anger pinched at his mouth. “I created my officers here in this stinking hole of a city. My terrible beauties, my kardax. Relentless, remorseless. Your sister-in law, so slight, but so fierce. And I will transfigure you, Frost, and you’ll become an automaton, my foot soldier. As is your brother and so many others. My creations are anything but inferior.”
He looked up and a dark smile cut his mouth. “I’ll prove it in your flesh.”
Another disc hung from the stone-clad ceiling no more than a yard above their heads. Copper lines threaded around and through it in a twisted mass of gleaming metal. It hummed, and Mason had to look away. His instincts didn’t have to be sharp to know that whatever hung above him was wrought to inflict pain.
“And you’ve told me all this to scare me? Or you simply needed to get it all off your chest?” Frost’s gaze slid to the footmen standing against the shadowed wall, blank-faced and inhumanly still. “You’ve taken away their individuality, left only a shell. Are you lonely?”
“You won’t change much. Some of the individuality you prize will remain. For appearance’s sake.” Sir Randolph’s eyes narrowed on Frost. “We need you as you are, as you act with others in public, and in private.” He half turned away, his attention already fixed on the wall where the sheets of steel lined up against the stone. �
�But you will be mine, completely.”
“And me?” Mason had to delay whatever the insane man was going to do to him. And truthfully, if he was going to die, he wanted an explanation. He wasn’t a monied man, but he wasn’t someone to be simply...dismissed. “What’s to become of me?”
Sir Randolph stopped and a heartbeat later turned on his heel. His head tilted and the man’s cold gaze swept over Mason’s body. “You’re strong.” His gaze moved to his forehead. “Perhaps even intelligent.” His lips stretched into a sneer. “For one of the lower orders.” He clasped his hands behind his back and straightened his shoulders. “You will serve me. I need the strength of your body because this poisoned country with its smoke and dirt interferes with the operation of my machine.”
He looked up to the disc. “Copper will feed into your flesh and take everything. You will subjugate Mr. Frost for me.”
Mason couldn’t speak. Had he fallen into a penny dreadful? He expected to wake up, tangled in his lodging house sheets and cursing bad rum. “You can’t believe this will happen.”
“Belief has nothing to do with it.” Sir Randolph turned away and strode to the two sheets of steel. He waved his hand and ghostly spectres hovered over each one. A cold shiver ran over Mason’s body, pain following as his muscles tensed against the leather straps.
“Stay calm.”
Frost’s words picked at him and Mason wanted to lash them back. He didn’t. For a moment, he closed his eyes and willed the panicked thud of his heart to slow. Frost had used him, known that whoever Sir Randolph paired him up with would meet this fate. Raving at Frost would get him nowhere.
Mason pushed down his fear, shoved it into a box, as the fire in his blood was no use to him here. He remembered the fallen who hadn’t shared his further time on earth. He remembered he was a soldier. An Englishman. He would meet his end with grace and dignity.
The spectres grew more solid, disturbingly growing organs—hearts, lungs, stomachs, intestines—and around the head—brains, eyeballs, tongues—until he was certain one wore his face. His attention jerked to the other ghostly head, and found Frost’s likeness forming over the writhing, indistinct shape.