Agamemnon Frost and the House of Death

by Kim Knox

  “The Martians have needs.” And it was as if the moments of doubt and apology had simply fallen away. “They have ambition.”

  Frost took a step forward and his scent, the heat of his skin, wrapped around Mason. His chest lifted. He wanted more, more than the light stroke of slow fingers, he wanted skin and mouths and fucking. He caught the uptick of Frost’s mouth. They shared the same thought. “Only ambition?”

  Frost’s hand cupped his jaw. “Not this.” He released a slow breath and wet his lips. “They have no need for this particular pleasure.”

  Their mouths were only apart by a fraction, Frost’s body so close he ached to touch him, to yank away restrictive clothes and kiss and bite him. There was no other need, no other thought. He traced his fingers over Frost’s wrist and up over his bared forearm, enjoying the strength, the firmness of muscle, the roughness of hair.

  Sensation burned under his fingertips. “Why?” How could the Martians, the kardax, the other automata deny themselves the feeling touch and scent brought? He could almost drown in the raw heat churning through his blood. Taste. He had to taste him. “Why deny this?”

  “We are...units.” Frost’s lips brushed his and Mason couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. “Made. Manufactured. Machinery at their command.” His mouth teased him again, his teeth grazing Mason’s bottom lip, the simple action making his dick so hard he could barely breathe. “Why would a tin soldier need to play?”

  Mason closed his eyes, his heart thumping hard. “But you do.”

  “I’m not like them.” His hand skimmed his neck, his shoulder; the insane touch of Frost’s fingers was like a crack of lightning under his skin. “And neither are you.”

  “I...”

  Frost kissed him, the tip of his tongue running across his teeth. He pushed his fingers through the wet, tangled strands of Mason’s hair, holding him, keeping him steady with impossible strength. Frost walked him back until his spine hit the cool length of the shower glass. Mason dropped his towel.

  “Here?” Mason allowed his damp fingers to brush against Frost’s jaw, to dip down over the stiffness of his collar to the smooth, warm silk of his waistcoat. He wanted him naked, skin against skin, moving, tasting. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since he’d last had sex...and it had never filled him with such want. “I need to rip the clothes from you.” His teeth nipped at Frost’s lip. “Will you let me?”

  Frost laughed, but there was an edge to it. That edge only deepened Mason’s grin and annoyed Frost enough to press hard against him. It was torment, grinding his dick against the smooth material of the other man’s trousers and finding the hard line of an erection. “My Mere of Savile Row waistcoat is torn. Do you have any idea how many little apprentices worked their fingers to the bone to stitch its pattern?”

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  Frost gripped his hips. “And you want to casually rip through another of his creations?”

  “Is that a no?” Mason paused, liking the way the sharp light cut across Frost’s face. Strong, handsome and wanton. Everything he needed in a lover. “Sir.”

  Frost grinned. “You’re my new valet. We have over four hours. And buttons are simple.”

  Mason met his mouth, devouring him in a kiss. He hated the barrier of Frost’s clothes, wanted to tear them away. But they had time. Hours. The incredible heat of his mouth, the sweet taste, the strength in Frost’s hands, his body. Whatever insanity had been cut into his flesh was worth it for the almost feverish need pounding in his veins.

  Frost groaned. “I will fuck you hard.” He fisted his hands in Mason’s hair, his hips pushing into his. His eyes were sharp, bright and filled with lust. “Because I can. Because you’re exactly the same as me.”

  Mason’s heart strained, fighting to work the blood through his flesh. He had no doubt the same lust was reflected in his own gaze. “Hours?”

  A grin split Frost’s mouth. “Hours,” he agreed.

  But then he froze and his head jerked to the shower room door. His grin slid away. He swore and stepped back, brushing at his waistcoat and tugging at its hem. Mason stared at him. “What?”

  ‘Visitors.” Frost raked his fingers through his damp hair and lifted his chin. “Stay here. I need to get you clothes.”

  “Visitors?” Mason pushed out a hot breath and dug his fingers into his jaw. He worked to focus, his pounding pulse still too loud in his ears. Shoes. A cheap leather sole on the rug in front of the room’s outer door, moving at a measured pace. And another set, expensive leather, heeled, followed by the brush of silk against the carpet, suggesting a woman. The depth was off for Theodora. “Lady Cadwallader.”

  “Well done. And Williams. You’re learning, pezos.”

  Mason watched Frost leave the room. He closed the door with a soft click and Mason stopped himself from groaning. They would hear him, just as clearly as he’d heard their footsteps against the soft rugs.

  He buried his face in the damp towel, his fingers rubbing it slowly over his damp hair. His body still burned. The ache in his balls pushed out almost every other thought, but he had to deny his need. As Frost had said, automata didn’t have any interest in sex. If Lady Cadwallader saw his dick like this...

  He coughed into his towel to mask his sudden bark of laughter. Everything he thought he was had been turned over, changed to fit in with what these aliens wanted. The whisper started again, the dark little voice at the back of his mind, admonishing him for succumbing to Frost’s trickery. Mason sucked in a breath, the push of panic there in his gut. But the renewal of the whisper did what he needed. The wildness in his flesh eased. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was time to face them.

  “Here.” Frost reappeared with a selection of clothes over his arm. He laid them with care over the small chair. “Dress quickly. Our kardax awaits us.” And he was gone again.

  Mason did as he was ordered, pulling on fine silk and wool and the heavy cotton of one of Frost’s travelling suits. He pushed his feet into creaking leather boots and buttoned them up. Even Frost’s boots were a perfect fit. He pressed his palms to his still-damp face. He wasn’t ready.

  The twitchiness of his thoughts, the uncertainty of what he would say or wouldn’t say twisted a knot in his gut. Were they...set now? Would he have to watch Frost being interrogated? Mason pushed out a slow breath and headed for the door.

  “Is he ready?” Lady Cadwallader’s hard voice cut across his sharpened hearing. “And you?”

  “I prepared him as best I could in the short time, lady,” Frost said, his voice quiet and deferential. “The changes have sealed, but he’s not yet ready to—”

  “That is not your decision.”

  Mason stopped in the archway, his gut tight, the whispers through his thoughts demanding that he bow, that he recognise the superiority of a kardax. Her mouth had thinned, the lines of her powdered face stark. Lethal. He bowed low, a swift and almost involuntary movement.

  “And you, Frost,” she repeated. Her dark, serious gaze dropped down over him and lifted back to his face. “You seem more settled than Mason.”

  “I feel it, lady. I believe the preparation you used in my food eased my transfiguration.” He pressed his gloved hands together. “I also am his thyreos. I was made more steady, more—”

  “I don’t care.” Lady Cadwallader cut off his words. She flicked a cold glance over them both. “You haven’t shaved, Mason.”

  His gut cramped. The horror of not meeting the expectations of his senior kardax rushed heat through his new body. Whispers formed again, saying how he was unworthy of his makers. The light scent of sandalwood caught his enhanced senses. Just a hint of it, the barest trace. Mason eased in a slow breath, nothing obvious, and the scent teased him, offered promises of mouths, hands and hot, bare skin.

  The pain in his body eased and he pushed down th
e sharp voice. “No, lady. I apologise. I’ve just sealed my body. Shaving was—”

  “Garrulous fools.” She snapped out the words and Mason fixed his gaze on the floor. “I will have the urge to offer so many excuses cut from you both.” The tone of her voice changed, warmed, but there was a nasty edge to it. “Theodora and Arabella need the practice. This planet makes it almost impossible to create enough automata on which females hone their skills.”

  She drew in her breath and her lips pressed together, marking the flush of her skin under the layer of powder. “The humans think they know us.” She glared at Frost. “Your former friends from Station X are in for a surprise.” Her gloved hands flexed around the ornate handle of her umbrella and she fixed her cold gaze on Mason. “And you. You cost your Ilarches five automata. It’s time to prove that your body replaces their loss.”

  “Lady?” Mason stood perfectly still. This wasn’t a simple inspection nor Frost’s interrogation.

  “You’re needed to defend Holt Hall.”

  Lady Cadwallader was calling them up to die. Again.

  7. Miss Theodora Cadwallader

  The landau rolled to a stop, the crunch of gravel sharp under the wheels and the shod hooves of the horses. The driver jumped from his box to open the door and pull down the steps. Lady Cadwallader swept from the carriage. Williams followed her and Mason glanced at Frost. They were back at the house. In the exact place they were meant to avoid.

  Frost rubbed his gloved hands together. “Our duty awaits.”

  Mason climbed out of the landau after Frost. The usually bitter winter wind sweeping in from the river brushed over his face and he didn’t shiver. The chemical stench of the water, factories and warehouses lining the banks burned against his nostrils. And something else that had the dark corner of his mind pulsing.

  His body and skin were the same, had the same texture, the same feel, but it reacted differently. Protecting him from the elements yet deepening his reaction to the world. What the hell was he now?

  Sir Randolph strode out of the house, his boot heels clacking against the steps, his walking stick a quick counterpoint. Mason’s blood surged, pulling away all thoughts from the strangeness of his body. His spine straightened. The sudden urge to snap out a salute jerked his hand. But it was more correct to bow. This was his master, his Ilarches. The source of the whisper at the back of his skull. The one who’d implanted it there.

  With a blur of movement, Sir Randolph whacked his stick against Frost’s arm. The thick material of his greatcoat dulled the sound. The strike had been vicious, but Frost didn’t move. “He’s not shaved.”

  Frost stood straight and gave a short nod. He didn’t reply. Mason had to ignore the pulse of anger rising up from his gut, the need to defend Frost conflicting with the orders circling his mind. The man was his thyreos. Any dereliction in a pezos would—and should—earn him punishment.

  “To maintain the working order of what I have given you, you must remain clean in appearance. The very air is toxic to us. Is that understood, thyreos?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You two, take your positions on the roof. Diana, Williams, Boreham, with me.”

  Sir Randolph strode away towards the stables with his wife, the butler and the carriage driver in tow. Mason let out a slow breath and rubbed his hand down over his bristled cheek. He pitched his voice low. “What now? We run?”

  Frost shook his head. He wet his finger and held it up to the fast rush of the wind. “They’re generating a protective cover. The air is full of static.”

  “We can’t get out?”

  “No.” He stared up, the sandstone hall dull in the overcast sky. “So we do as our Ilarches instructed us. Station X will have eyes trained on this place.”

  “You’ll signal them.”

  He squinted into the sky and Mason followed his gaze. He blinked. The air seemed to shimmer...like the touch of oil on water.

  “The shield’s thick.” Frost’s voice was almost to himself. “Damned thick.”

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “We’ll have to see.” Frost led the way back into the house and turned towards the stairs. The house was almost silent but, through his boots, Mason sensed the thrum of the machines filling the basement. The air pulsed with it, tasting so clean and sharp. And he knew that any unmodified human who stepped into the house would be shredded, the skin and meat stripped from the bone in seconds.

  He stretched his fingers, the movement a distraction to deny the tight knot of satisfaction in his belly. The Martians were vicious. But what did humans have that they could want? Sir Randolph hated everything about the plot of earth he’d planted himself on. Yet he fought to defend it. “What do they need here?”

  Frost glanced back as he reached the landing. “Ours is not to question, pezos.” There was that hint of devilment, the one that pushed back the darkness lurking in Mason’s brain. “But as you’re still...young, I can share what I believe you should know to do your duty.”

  Mason frowned. “Thank you.”

  Frost’s gave him the ghost of a smile. He’d heard the sour tone. “An Ilarches is the advance scout for his esteemed race.”

  Advance scout. Mason blinked and increased his stride as Frost disappeared along a narrowing passage. The Martians planned to invade Great Britain? More connections fired in his brain and the whisper in his mind was almost an agreeable hum. His island nation was the key. It was why Sir Randolph had to build his apparatus in the toxic, sodden place. Liverpool was a powerful city and removed far enough from London for the Ilarches to work almost unseen. The city reached out to the known world and Great Britain had charge of almost a quarter of the face of the planet. The Martians had their sights set on the Empire. And no doubt, beyond.

  Frost took a dark, narrow staircase two treads at a time. Mason followed, his thoughts twisting over themselves.

  Would the whole world be forcibly transfigured? What else did the Martians want? Resources? Land? Or was it about all-conquering ambition?

  The sharp scrape of a bolt being drawn back brought his mind to the present. Frost pulled open the heavy door and clambered out onto the roof, gusts of wind flaring his greatcoat out behind him.

  Set on the hill, the view from the hall sloped away down to the river. Copper works bellowed smoke on both banks, the shadow of foul gas and ash thickening across the cluster of workers’ houses. Wagons and people filled the cobbled streets, the filthy air wrapping around them in wreaths.

  Between the chimneys on either side, the great stretch of grey-brown water churned and rolled, huge ships navigating through the hazardous sandbanks. And above the river, dirigibles merged into the murky, leaden sky, the ribbons of their running lights beacons to other airships.

  Everything seemed...normal. Unexceptional. There was only the slight shimmer of the protecting shield as it formed little drops of oil in the air. Mason frowned. He had no idea what he was looking for.

  Frost’s hands were moving in subtle, twisting, turning little patterns that, after a while, started to repeat. His signal? That was his signal?

  “You know where they are?”

  “No.”

  Mason squinted into the hazy distance, the huge brick roundhouse that lodged the dirigibles a red blur on the horizon. No unusual movement there, either. The vast airships turned out from the long runway to follow the river, or southeast, heading for London and the Continent.

  Mason caught his windblown hair, raking it back with his fingers. The bitter taste of the air burned his tongue and the little demon in his skull slipped forward. A dark voice, reminding him that he was a loyal pezos, that his thyreos was a traitor to everything that he fought for, believed in, knew to be true.

  His fingers stretched, but the tight pain in his hands didn’t work, didn’t push back the devil in his skull
. The dull, cold edge to his thoughts only deepened.

  “There. I see them.” Frost ran along the narrow, lead-lined valley between the roofs.

  Mason glanced behind him. The door leading back into the house creaked open and Theodora glared at him. She was dressed in a man’s tweed bicycle suit, her long hair tucked up into a matching cap. Surprised by her clothing, Mason found himself performing a low bow.

  As he straightened he noticed the alien gun in her hand. Pelekys. He knew the name of the energy weapon now. His blood burned. He knew what that gun could do, how it could obliterate a target. He found Frost balanced on one of the build-up chimneys, his hands still weaving his messages to the enemy. He was newly made, but the incredible power of her weapon had to rip even a thyreos apart.

  “Lady, I—”

  “Be quiet. You’re supposed to be our eyes up here.” Theodora strode past him, her jaw set, the winds catching the loose strands of her dark hair. “Frost. Can you see them?”

  He stilled, his fingers caught in the middle of his communication with the enemy. “Something’s moving on the southern edge of the estate, lady. Men. Ten at the most, with conventional weaponry.”

  She pulled a slender copper device from her pocket, pressed her thumb to it and held it to her mouth. Ektaxis. Another new word pushing through Mason’s thoughts. It was similar to the device Frost had used, but that inferior machine could never compare to his masters’ work. “Kardax-3. We have movement on the southern border. Ten men. Human weapons.”

  “Kardax-1. Noted.” Lady Cadwallader’s voice was clear, the stony echo to it revealing she was in the cellars. “Keep us apprised.”

  “I will.” Theodora took her thumb from the metal and dropped the device back into her jacket pocket. “What else can you see, Frost?” She turned to glare at Mason. “Get up there with him, pezos. Now.”

  “But, lady—”