by Tamsin Baker
"How does it work?" The man circled Rupert. He jolted to a stop. "Someone has flogged your back. Neat though, skin looks evenly bruised. Not broken."
Rupert shuddered at the touch of a smooth fingertip down his spine. "If you are staying, at least switch off the confounded machine. Brass lever on the right."
His visitor stepped in front of him to reach the lever. The whirring stopped. With the counterbalance suddenly uneven, the arms wobbled and Rupert pitched forward. Straight into his uninvited visitor. The man stumbled and ended up on his backside on the floor. The safety device clicked on, the wrist restraints unlatched, and Rupert slammed on top of the man.
Except it wasn't a man.
In the few seconds it took to gather his wits and lift himself on his arms, Rupert's brain registered the fast beating heart beneath him, and two firm, round breasts pushing hard into his chest. Up close, her soft, hair-free skin and long eyelashes were obvious. How on earth had he thought her male?
An apology tumbled from his lips. Still muttering, he scrambled back on his heels and widened the space between them.
Her mouth curved into a generous smile and she laughed. She stretched out her hand. "I believe, after that introduction, first names are called for. I'm Priscilla."
He squeezed her fingers between his own. "Rupert Hanley. Miss…"
She laughed again, but turned her mouth to a pout. "Miss Priscilla Pegg. But I will be disappointed if you keep calling me Miss anything."
Pegg? His brain whirred back into action. The Commander of the Watch was Sir William Pegg. She couldn't be related. Could she?
She curled her legs into a neat arrangement and leaned her head to one side. "Are you related to the Chief Scientist by any chance?"
"Professor Hanley is my guardian. Are you—"
"Yes, I'm Commander Pegg's daughter."
At first, he'd thought her young. But her tone held a note of sadness, an unexpected maturity. She wore her long, chestnut hair in a braid wrapped loosely behind the goggles. He raked his gaze from the top of her glossy head to her clinched in waist and back again. Had he read somewhere she would turn twenty-four this year? Something was amiss here. Wasn't Commander Pegg's only daughter recently widowed?
She stared back at him through clear, green eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Then why is your mouth hanging open?"
"You have a sister, perhaps?"
She let out a low sigh. "No. I've returned to my maiden name as I spent so little time married."
"My condolences, Madame—"
"Are not required, I assure you. I was married for four months and in mourning for eighteen. It's time to live again." She jutted her chin at him with a determined air. "I haven't seen you at any of the balls this season. Are you married?"
"I am not." What an impertinent and unusual female. He stood and helped her to her feet. "I rarely leave the tower. My work…" He circled his arm around his room.
"What is this contraption?" She patted the machine she'd just switched off.
"A device to deliver punishment to inmates at Bogdon. Punishment that delivers a lesson but also leaves them able to work."
"Bogdon." She pulled her hand back to her body as if the machine pulsed out heat. "The prison devoted to mental and political prisoners? I've never visited. Nor read much about it. Bogdon exists, and keeps everyone safe, so father would say."
"Your father is right. You should think no more about it."
"You tested this machine on yourself?" She raised her eyebrows.
He dropped his gaze but couldn't stop staring at her lips. Lips a soft and pale pink he'd never imagined existed. Not that he had much experience with females, apart from the handful working in the laboratory. They wore their hair tucked into bonnets, strong lighting drained their color, and shapeless lab coats disguised their shape.
He coughed to clear his throat and refocus. "For earlier models, I used several of the worst offenders. But future improvements are so fine and detailed, I must be close to the modeling. The balance between sufficient pain and physical harm is delicate."
She wrinkled her face, whether with distaste or disapproval was hard to tell. She had no business disapproving anything. Her own father not only approved the work, but also filled the prison.
He folded his arms across his chest. "You said you flew here. Why? How?"
She shrugged her slim shoulders. "I've never seen Ivory Tower up close before. I borrowed a new Aspitain airship from the Watch Hangar."
"They are experimental craft." His body tensed as he recalled the details of the project. "I know the Aspitain engines are common but the ultra-lightweight frames and skins are almost untested." The exciting work used Aspite, a newly discovered mineral found to be light, strong, and an effective fire retardant. Not only were the new airships experimental, but also grounded due to safety concerns. "Your father condones this?"
"Of course not. He's aware of the experimental nature of the material. But you must agree, it's marvelous for airship building." She shrugged again. "Besides, I need something small and fast. I'm not convinced Watch Officers have time to find out who is taking children from our streets."
Rupert avoided reading newspapers. He wrinkled his brow. "Child abductions?"
The timepiece on her belt piped a short tune.
"Bother. Dinnertime. I must return home." She darted to the window and pulled her goggles over her eyes. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Rupert Hanley."
He dashed across the room after her. She jumped nimbly from his balcony to the roof of the neighboring building and raced along the parapet. At its end, she clambered into a small dinghy that dangled precariously from a cigar-shaped balloon bobbing at the roof corner. The balloon hung almost invisible in the evening sky. The rigging that attached the dinghy likewise blended into the grayness. It was a clever design, for stealthily watching from above. But what happened if she landed and bumped into whoever was taking children?
And why in blazes was someone abducting them? He wrapped himself in his dressing gown, a frown forming on his face. It was none of his concern. Nor was it his business what a strange and impudent young woman—one disguised like a man at that—got up to.
Not his concern, but he still gazed from the window long after the small craft disappeared.
On the other side of the city, the Watchtower sat atop an iron skeleton lighthouse that towered above the squat Watch compound. It was visible on a bright, sunny day, but hidden by dirty fog that blew across town most evenings.
He checked his own timepiece. On schedule, two beams broke through the mist. From his own tower, a beam of steady white, from the Watchtower a pulsing yellow. Every five minutes, from dusk to dawn, the air traffic control beacons on the top of both towers beamed out their warning to all flying craft venturing out after dark.
He shook his head, pulled the shutters together and refocused on his room. His work was all that mattered. The professor's retirement loomed and he didn't believe in nepotism. The only way Rupert would persuade him he was fit for the position of Chief Scientist, was to focus and deliver results.
The last thing he needed was a female interfering in his life. Especially not a presumptuous widow.
He let out a soft sigh. Not even one as intriguing as Miss Priscilla Pegg.
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Books by Kim Cleary
Path Unchosen
Truth Unveiled
Dead Certain
Tower Tango
Unfreezing Lucy
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KIM is a USA Today Bestselling Author who writes urban fantasy and paranormal mystery for anyone who longs to discover they are extraordinary. She writes about hopefulness and determination, and about heroes who push through extraordinary situations and obstacles, one step at a time. Magical friends and gorgeous guys help (and often hinder) in one adventure after another.
When not writing, or researching, Kim enjoys paper-crafting, gardening, plays with her dogs, chats on social media, catches up with friends or cooks an Indian feast. She is a certified chocoholic.
Kim grew up in Birmingham, UK. She studied medieval history and psychology at Adelaide University in South Australia. She now lives with her husband and a mischievous Moodle in Melbourne, Australia.
Kim would love to hear from you. She blogs sporadically from her website, tweets at times, but is very active on Facebook!
CONTACTING KIM
Kim would love to hear from you. She blogs sporadically from her website, tweets at times, but is very active on Facebook!
Taken by the Vampires
Charmaine Ross
Chapter One
“It’s not a hard choice, Ella. Sleep with me, or your dirty little secret is out.”
It wasn’t a hard choice.
It was an impossible one.
If I were in my right mind, I’d just close my eyes and let Gary do to me what he’d always wanted to. There were many times during my life I could have done just that. Maybe he would have scratched that itch and never come back for more, but because I’d always turned him down, it had become more than an itch for him.
It had become an all-out rash.
“I’d rather lick my own day-old vomit off the floor than sleep with you.” Shit. Those words poured out of my mouth before I’d fully thought this through.
Sleeping with Gary was the logical choice. My life would be so much easier. I’d have probably received that bank loan I fiercely needed to pour into our little farm that so desperately needed to be repaired. Fences, gates, livestock, food. Hell, I’d even settle for a safe powerline that didn’t crackle whenever it rained. I needed food for the livestock so I could sell the wool to my one and only client. But no food equaled sick sheep, low-quality wool and no client.
As son of the mayor in this little godforsaken town on the outskirts of bum-fuck nowhere, Gary the sleezy little prick, held all the aces. His father was a crony of the bank manager, who was figuratively in bed with the local bible-wielding minister, who had tainted everyone for miles around with his tripe about hell and redemption and had brainwashed everyone into a very sickening version of holier-than-thou born-again Christianity.
Mayor Ellis Myers held everyone’s legal rights and police force in his right hand. Herman White, the bank manager held everyone’s money in left hand, and minister Jeremiah White held everyone’s soul in the pits of his fat, fleshy, sausage-fingered hands. The Holy Trinity of Conway.
I couldn’t look sideways when I went into town without someone pontificating on about how pathetic I was to live on my dinky little out-of-the-way farm with my mother. I should be married by now, with ten kids. Wanted any more out of life than that? You were flat out of luck if you lived around Conway.
Sounded archaic? That was my life in this hick-town I couldn’t seem to escape.
If I could sell our farm, I’d bundle Mom into the car and get the hell out of here, into a city where I could lose myself. I’d get Mom to decent medical care in an affordable facility and never, ever look back. I’d just never been able to get that far. Something always came up to keep me nailed down here.
As it was, Gary’s dad had scared off anyone from looking at this farm, despite the rock-bottom price I’d put on it. My one customer was the only buffer between me and the town. If I didn’t have my customer, I’d be forced to sleep with Gary so the townsfolk would be “allowed” to do business with me.
It wasn’t like I was spoiled by a choice of new customers. This town was isolated from larger cities, tucked in the Berkshire Mountains, and the close-knit population tended to chase off outsiders. The weather could turn terrible here in the winter, when the horrible nor’easter storms would hit with anger and dump snow measured in feet.
I’d taken Mom to a friend’s house hoping she’d have a nice evening away from the house for once. I’d left her my car so that she’d be able to get home, as I had work to do, only to find Gary walking out of my front door, with my Grimoire clutched in his meaty hands, while Dean stood outside. I hated to think they’d broken in and had rifled around my things while no-one was there. My fists curled and uncurled with impotent anger.
“That might be your only source of food. Wouldn’t want Minister Jeremiah to find out just what you’ve got, would we now?” Gary’s smile was more a grimace that was overshadowed by his flabby cheeks and three-day growth.
Dean giggled like a little girl, safe in the knowledge he’d never be on the outs like me. Not when he was the minister’s son.
“Give it back to me, Gary. You have no right to walk into my house when I’m not home!” Let alone snoop around like it was his God-given right. Rage made me tremble and I hated showing weakness. Especially to him.
“You know it’s against the law to have contraband like this.” Gary flipped his thumb over the pages.
“Don’t!” I held out my hand to stop him ruffling through the delicate parchment, my feet coming onto the bottom step. That book was centuries old, carried down from a long lost ancestor – my third removed great grandmother, to be accurate. “It’s a family heirloom.”
Not to mention my most prized possession.
I knew every page like the back of my hand, wishing like anything the spells I knew by heart were actually real magic. That I could cure my mother’s mystifying illness, restore her to perfect health, get out of this town and live my fullest life.
But that was only fiction.
Wishful thinking.
If I lost my customer, I’d have to sell it. It would provide us enough money for food, heating and a few months of survival. The truth was, that book was worth far more than an heirloom.
It was my last straw.
“It’s heresy.”
God, I wished I could wipe that shit-eating grin off his face. “Give it back, Gary. It’s not even mine. It belongs to my mother.”
Of course it would eventually be mine, but it was still my mother’s, passed to her from her mother. And so on.
Gary’s eyes narrowed and gleamed. An uneasy feeling swept through me, making me sweat despite the frigid air. “Then your mother will be taken into custody.”
My heart thumped to a stop. “You can’t do that to her.” She was too weak to be forgotten in some cold, dank cell. I couldn’t – wasn’t – going to let that happen.
“Then you know what you have to do, Ella.” He cupped his balls and licked his lips. “Sleep with me and I’ll forget all about this little thing.” Gary punctuated the air with my Grimoire.
“Yeah, this little thing,” Dean repeated.
“Just stop talking about the size of your dick, Gary,” I couldn’t help myself. Again.
“What?” Gary clutched my book in just in one hand, but he was looking down at his pants as though to check the package I’d insulted.
I didn’t pause long enough to deal with the outrage I knew was coming. I jumped the remaining steps, grabbed my Grimoire out of his hands, bolted down the porch stairs and dove into the open door of Gary’s truck. The idiot had left the keys in the ignition. I had the motor started and was backing out, the wheels spinning in the mud, before he stumbled down the porch steps towards me, a look of horror on his ruddy face.
He pointed at me. “Don’t do anything you’re going to regret, Ella.”
I only paused to give him a one-finger salute before spinning the steering wheel and turning the truck onto the road. I pressed the clutch and threw it in first. “The only thing I regret is not kicking you in the nuts before I took back my book, you souless asshole.”
I lifted the clutch, pressed the gas and zoomed down the road in a squeal of Gary’s brand new tires.
Chapter Two
WhathadIdone, whathadIdone, whathadIdone?
That singular thought banged non-stop in my head like a resounding base drum. I’d stolen Gary’s truck. He knew I was in possession of an illegal spell b
ook. If the townsfolk knew I had a Grimoire—specifically, if Minister Jeremiah knew I had a Grimoire—I didn’t want to guess what everyone might do, juiced up on Jeremiah’s hatred of anything remotely pagan.
I glanced at the book on the passenger seat beside me. It bounced a little as I shot over the rough roads. Its brown leather was embossed with exotic-looking sigils. The sigils were framed in gilt gold, overlaying the embossed pattern with minute detail. In the middle of the sigils, in its own little circle, was a symbol more heavily embossed than the other patterns.
The symbol itself was a mystery to me. It was divided into six sections, where lines intersected and created smaller triangular shapes. Within the triangular shapes were little images of a quarter moon, a male and female symbol. There were four others made from circles and curved lines but I had no idea what they might mean. Despite spending many an evening from my youth memorizing the various spells that never worked, I still hadn’t found the meaning within the thick pages.
A weathered brass lock held the pages closed. Thank goodness for that. I hated to think that Gary might have opened the book and read the spells. There was something intimate about them. They were mine, bound by something that went deeper than consciousness. When I read the spells, I could almost taste their magic. I know it sounded stupid, like I was living in some kind of alternate reality, but that’s what I seemed like to me.
Sometimes, it would be like an elusive word on the tip of my tongue. The more I tried to recall the word, the more fleeting it would become. It was frustrating beyond belief.
My mother had no affinity with the spells it contained, thinking the book just a far ancestor’s fancy. When the spells failed to work, I’d agree, but then I’d look at the detailed work on each page. The neat handwriting in old English that made sense to me. The elaborate illustrations and meticulous, documented results of the spell, and I’d think that it was way beyond someone’s simple pastime