Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1)

by Lori Williams

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then. Now on with your damn story.”

  “Alan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Any time.”

  The Red Priest raised his rust-colored brows as I explained my affections for the turnkey girl. When I had finished, he just stared at me, nodding.

  “Well, say something,” I said, feeling altogether on edge.

  “You really kissed her?” he finally spoke.

  “Yeah.”

  “What did it feel like?”

  I thought it over. “Nice.”

  He crossed his arms. “Good.”

  “Yeah…”

  “I didn’t realize you two were—”

  “We aren’t. I mean, not yet. I don’t know.”

  “I see. Well, I won’t try to stop you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But…”

  I was getting tired of these snares. “But what? Another catch? Did Gren sign me up to steal the crown jewels?”

  “That’d be nice,” the Priest laughed, “but what I was going to say was, the least I can do is send you off with a few comforts.”

  “Comforts?”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes as I was led by the smiling pirate into the ship’s galley.

  “What do you think?” he said smugly.

  “I don’t believe it,” I replied, astonished. “How? From where?”

  The Priest giggled. The galley before me, that barren, cobwebbed crypt where I had choked down crackers and cooking sherry, was now completely lined with fresh, hot, steaming breakfast pastries.

  “I take it you like it,” the Priest assumed, sitting down before a saucer of cream that stood higher than a frog. “I sent Gren to shore with a cut of last night’s take. I thought after those festivities, the four of you could use a good meal. Besides, I was there for Alexia’s farewell breakfast. I’m not going to bid you goodbye without topping that.”

  “Thanks, sir. I owe you.”

  “Once again, Pocket, you owe me nothing.”

  And I understood.

  We all sat down and ate, sleepy and laughing and recalling the events of the last few days. I felt momentarily sad to be leaving, but then I looked upon a plate of hot scones, and the thought of the Doll brought my focus back to a cold resolve. It was time to go.

  I said my goodbyes when the meal was finished. Quill gave me a sad smile and a matching hug.

  “Be careful, sensei,” she said.

  Hack-Jack expressed himself in a befitting manner, roughly grabbing my arm and slapping me on the back.

  “Give ‘em hell, pal!” he cheered. “Whoever you need to give hell to, make sure that they get it!”

  I gave them my sincere regards and exited to the surface of the Lucidia. The Red Priest and Madame B had asked that I join them there before I departed. The foul breeze of the oil sea still filled my senses, mixing with the saltiness of the ocean air.

  “Hi, hi,” B playfully addressed me. The Prospero was parked upon the open deck, and the lady pirate was leaning against it.

  Solemnly, I clutched the bottle of faerie juice that I once again wore at my side. The typical, effervescent, emerald glow of the stuff appeared now dull and flat, more akin to pea soup than to anything magical.

  “Stop brooding,” B teased. “It’s too dramatic.”

  Rather than answer, I turned my head to the sea. I heard the captain laugh.

  “Something funny?” I asked without emotion.

  “You worry too much,” the red beard gently replied. “Such a cold demeanor after such a warming meal.”

  “Sorry,” I said evenly, and then forced myself to emote. “I mean, thank you. Really, for everything. It’s just—“

  “You’ll find them, Pocket. I know it.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t think about that.”

  I frowned. B decided to lighten the mood and punched me in the arm.

  “You really gotta stop doing things like that, lady,” I half-smirked.

  “Do I look like I care?” she sassed.

  “So I should start trusting your looks now, or—“

  “Hug!” she proclaimed, suddenly throwing her arms around me. “You shut up and do this!”

  I smiled. “Fine, fine,” I said, hugging back. The Red Priest, peculiar as always, surprised me by joining us. His arms wrapped around the both of us, and I started to slide away. “Uh…okay…”

  “Don’t get killed, all right?” Miss B said softly, almost shyly to me. “Be safe.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I worry.”

  “I’ll be careful, B.”

  The Priest furrowed his red brows at me. “You’d better.”

  It was such a tense moment, thicker than the cream that was smeared over my breakfast, but for some reason, standing before that pair of outlaws, something sparked inside of me, and I grinned.

  “What are you two looking so upset for?” I said, theatrically removing my hat and allowing the sea breeze to blow my hair heroically about. “Haven’t you heard? I’m Will Pocket. I don’t know how to die.”

  The Priest clucked his tongue in amusement.

  “Oh?” he said. “So you’re so invincible now?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t know how to die.”

  “You could learn pretty quickly,” B warned.

  “Let’s hope not,” I replied.

  “You’d prefer to be dense?” the Priest asked.

  “Why not?” I jested. “A hero without flaws is too predictable. Give me a little room to fail.”

  “Yes, yes,” the Priest said. “Now if you’re done being silly, there is the matter of your remaining gifts.”

  “There’s more? Really, breakfast was enough of—“

  “Hush.”

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  “So do you like it?”

  “Like what?”

  The Priest nodded at the Prospero.

  “Are you serious?” I said. “I couldn't.”

  “Do you know a better way to get ashore?” he calmly asked. “Take it.”

  “But you'll be trapped here.”

  The wily pirate stroked his beard knowingly. “Not for long, my friend. Not. For. Long.”

  “I don't follow.”

  “You don't think we sent Gren off just to grab breakfast, do you?” Miss B said.

  I shrugged.

  “Friends are on the way,” the Priest said slyly. “Why don't we leave it at that?”

  I nodded and glanced at the steam car. “I'll take it as a loan, not a gift.”

  “Sigh...if you insist. Now look in the backseat.”

  “More?”

  “Just look.”

  In the back of the Prospero I saw an object sitting under a velvet cloth, and next to it, a familiar flash of gold.

  “The boots?” I inquired, picking up one of the copper-bolted pieces I had worn during my trek through the oil.

  “All cleaned,” the Red Priest said with pride.

  “But why?”

  “Eh,” he postured, “they fit you better than me. And let's face it, Pocket. Your old boots are beaten to Hell.”

  “Sure, but—“

  “Plus, it never hurts to have a little extra protection. These are sturdy, reinforced, and can stop a stray bullet if need be.”

  “Good,” B piped in, “because it's only a matter of time before Gren shoots off someone's foot with that damn toy you went and made him.”

  “Toy?” I asked.

  “I told him it wasn't properly functioning,” the Priest objected to B. “If he wants to go and use it anyway, then it's his own fault.”

  “Well, look!” B retorted. “What did you think he—“

  “Thanks for the boots,” I broke in, not wanting to wait around for the argument to end itself. “I can't believe you were able to clean off all of that oil.”

  “Ah!” the Priest said, eyes twinkl
ing. “Every stubborn drop! Want to wager a guess on how I did it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Come on.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Guess.”

  “Really. No clue.”

  “The cloth.”

  “You cleaned it with a cloth?”

  “No, no! Just look!”

  “Look where?”

  “Under the bloody cloth!”

  Indirect as always. B must've sensed my wilting patience, as she scolded the captain for his lack of specifics and bent over the Prospero. She produced the covered object from the backseat.

  “Under the cloth,” she said, nodding to the elegant cover. I moved to it and pulled away the velvet. It was the captain's soap-dispensing contraption, or least at one time it was. The cobbled device was now reworked, adorned, and integrated with beautiful golden gearwork. A fresh coat of paint, a bright, candy-colored pink, had been applied. New to the design was a length of tubing, connecting the original invention to a shiny, platinum-colored wand. The wand's tip curved into the shape of a heart, much like the ends of the Doll's turnkey. The Red Priest asked if I approved of his handiwork.

  “Nice, I guess,” I said without enthusiasm. “Pretty.”

  He frowned. “Don't you see? The gears?”

  “Gears...” My stomach suddenly tightened. I stared in pained understanding as I pressed my thumb to one of the pretty pieces. “You...you made this from the Doll...?”

  “From her discarded pieces, yes.”

  “I'm not sure whether to hug you or throw a punch.”

  “A punch? Why? It's not like I've committed some barbaric act. And the gears were given to me.”

  “Captain, you cannot just go and build something out of...out of someone's parts!”

  “Pocket,” he said calmly, “turn the crank.”

  I wanted so much to refuse, but I spoke not a word of protest. Quietly, I operated the machine and watched. It chugged as I cranked, producing pink exhaust from its bottom side. Then, from the tip of the wand, came a series of round, pink-tinted circles that floated skyward. My eyes followed them up and over the oil sea. Small soap bubbles. They floated over that wash of petrol, their contained rainbows a momentary oasis of fragile cleanliness above a dirty world. I watched one pop and then rejoined my hosts.

  “You turned it into a bubble maker?” I asked.

  “Pocket,” the Priest said. “The Doll gave me her pieces because she felt that they no longer held any purpose, any meaning. I wanted to give those parts new utility.”

  “In this toy?”

  “Yes! I mean, sure, the soap can still clean a dirty boot, but look at the charm of it now. I wanted something playful.”

  “I see. Well, thank you. It makes a wonderful gift.”

  “Oh, that gift's not yours. It's just your job to deliver it.”

  I understood. “Then I shall do so. And I'll send her regards.”

  “Tell her to send them herself,” Madame B said. “We'll be waiting.”

  “And if you happen to find my stolen shuttle, do me a favor and send it along, will you?” the Priest reminded me.

  “I promise,” I quietly replied. “Well...I suppose it's time I said my goodbyes.”

  “I suppose it is,” the captain nodded, eyes sparkling as ever. “Happy sailing, Mister Pocket. Good luck to you!”

  “Thank you, sir. Miss.”

  I shook with the pirate and took the lady's hand. And then they bid their adieus and left me on my own. I took a last, lonely breath and sat behind the wheel of the Prospero. I tried to ready myself.

  And then Gren stomped into view, lugging an oblong satchel.

  “Hey!” he shouted to me.

  “Well, well,” I laughed as he drew near, “if it isn't the great tin gambler. I was starting to think that you weren't going to see me off—”

  “Move over,” he said.

  I drew an eyebrow. “Beg pardon, Spader?”

  “Move. I'm driving.”

  “You're...driving?”

  “That's right.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don't trust you behind the wheel of—”

  “No, no. Clarification. Why are you planning on driving the steam car?”

  “Do you know a better way to get ashore?” he smirked, echoing the Red Priest. “Our options are pretty limited, you know.”

  “Our? You mean to say that—“

  “I'm coming along with you? Damn right, I am.”

  “No.”

  “Say again?”

  “I'm sorry, Gren. It's nothing against you. This is just something I have to do alone.”

  “Alone?” he frowned. “Damn it, Pocket. Aren't you tired yet of working alone?”

  “How could I be tired of it? Ever since a price was attached to my name, I haven't been left to myself for a moment.”

  “No, not like that. I don't mean physically alone. I mean...you're shut off. You just stand around, staring off into the sky, excusing yourself in the dead of night, or holding conversations in your head instead of with your friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “You think you're the only one who was hurt when the Doll and Kitt disappeared? You think you're the only one who cares? Who needs to fight?”

  “I thought...well…”

  “That no one else would fight with you?”

  “I don't know. Those are the kind of requests I tend not to ask. I'm not the master criminal the city made me out to be, the one you set out to originally find.”

  “No kidding. But I'm not in this for a profit anymore. So I will say this one more time. Move over. I'm going with you.”

  I complied without argument.

  “And where precisely are we going, Gren?”

  He threw his satchel into the back of the Prospero and gave me a stony look.

  “Fox hunt.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chase

  Our unusual transport rocked through the open sky, swaying clumsily. The wind whipped against the bobbing Prospero like a lion tamer directing a beast that couldn't quite march a straight line. I sighed from my seat and began thumbing through a stack of bills. My cut from the heist, delivered by the pirates after breakfast. I was less than proud to accept the stolen money, but I didn't refuse it. Tracking Dolly and Kitt was going to be difficult, and I was going to need whatever help I could get.

  “Bringing it down,” Gren said as we reached the shore. I nodded in acknowledgment and the Prospero rejoined the earth, roughly smacking a patch of dirt before sliding onto more favorable terrain. Gren killed the propellers and we drove.

  “Where first?” Gren asked.

  “Hmm?” I asked, pocketing my money.

  “Where are we heading? This is your expedition, right?”

  My thoughts strayed back to my last interaction with Kitt, to his angry characterization of me as a man without decision, without direction.

  “Yes,” I told Gren. “It is.”

  “Good. So where do we start?”

  My response required little thought. It was an obvious first move to make, and as unsettling as the prospect was to me, I knew that it was inevitable.

  “The city.”

  “What?!?” Gren rumbled.

  “The city. We're going back.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No.”

  “Then you're insane!”

  “No...well...maybe. But we're going.”

  “The hell we are! I'm not driving us back to a place swarming—you hear me, swarming—with men on order to kill us where we stand!”

  “Then pull over and get out. Because I'm going.”

  “Not gunna happen.”

  “A word of advice, Gren. This is not a good day to say 'no' to me. Do you understand?”

  “Are you threatening me, Pocket?” he hissed, colder than ice.

  “Do I need to?” I retorted, burning like fire.

  He squeezed a fist until it began turning purple.
>
  “We...are not...going to the city,” he snarled. “I'm not about to let you get shot.”

  “Let me worry about my—“

  “No!” he shouted, clutching my coat with his other hand. “I don't want to hear it. Say another word and I swear to God, I'll knock you cold.”

  I knew he was serious. And yet, I let a warped, angry smile spread across my face.

  “Idiot,” I said.

  Making good on his promise, Gren launched a punch straight at my face.

  “Who's Kari?” I suddenly said. His knuckles stopped mere centimeters before my jaw. Holding his pantomime, Gren mixed up his face with such a wash of emotions that I couldn't tell if the look in his eyes was one of anger, sorrow, embarrassment, or confusion.

  “How do you know about her?”

  “I don't. That's why I asked who she is.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Fine. But answer me this. If she was, at this moment, being held at gunpoint somewhere in the city, where would you want to be?”

  I could tell he was having trouble finding a valid argument to use against me, and he eventually just grunted, turned away from me, lit a cigarette, and took his aggressions out through mouthfuls of smoke.

  “What makes you think they were even headed to the city?” he said, eyes averted. “For all we know, we could be walking into nearly certain death for nothing.”

  I weakly dropped my shoulders. “Just a feeling I have.”

  “So that's it? We're chasing after a feeling?”

  “A pretty strong one.”

  Gren deeply pulled another round of smoke into his lungs and flicked away some ash. “It had better be.”

  “I'm confident in it.”

  “Oh yeah? And why's that?”

  “Because I think Kitt's planning to hand over the Doll. To the authorities. To the King.”

  Gren thought long and deeply on this possibility. He left the remainder of his cigarette to die out in the dirt, its smoke mixing together with the dust stirred up by a steam-powered carriage racing quickly away down the road.

  “He's not so bad a gent, Pocket.”

  “Who, Spader?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Gren's...how do I put it? A hassle. But at the end of the day, a good hassle to have around.”