Wolves and Daggers: A Steampunk Fairy Tale (Steampunk Red Riding Hood Book 1)

by Melanie Karsak

  “Now, why would I do that?”

  “’Cause you’re going to pay if you don’t.”

  My dagger in front of me, the professor behind me, I moved us slowly toward the gate. Fenton’s ruby red eyes watched each step.

  Each of us sized up the other.

  Each of us calculated.

  Almost there.

  The wolf might be able to pull it off if he jumped now—

  “Clem, watch out,” Quinn yelled as the beast leaped toward me.

  I pushed the professor hard—she stumbled forward into the garden—then crouched, waiting. As the beast jumped over me, I rose and heaved him sideways, my dagger connecting with his arm.

  Fenton turned and righted himself. More angry than hurt, he lunged at me once more.

  Quinn shot, but Fenton moved away in time.

  A door at the back of the cathedral squeaked as it opened. The professor was safely inside. Holy ground. Out of the wolf’s reach.

  Howling in frustration, Fenton turned back to Quinn and me.

  “You’ll pay for this,” he said through a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. He held his forearm. Dark blood oozed from between his fingers. Turning, he leaped onto a nearby roof, the moonlight casting a glow on him as he disappeared back into the city.

  While I was used to werewolf macho posturing, as it seemed almost a prerequisite side effect of the lupine infection, his words chilled me to the bone.

  Chapter 2: The Werewolves of London

  Professor Jamison sat in stunned silence as we headed back across town to headquarters. Even Quinn seemed unusually quiet. Something about tonight was different. Something about this whole case was different. Why were the werewolves snatching up scholars? This was not their usual beat. The deep malice in Fenton’s words shook me. That werewolf had frequently crossed paths with Quinn and me, and one of these days, one of us was going to do in the other. But this time, something more was afoot. Fenton had seemed almost desperate. And a desperate werewolf was a very dangerous thing. As we made our way to headquarters, my mind drifted back to my first altercation with Fenton.

  I was just a rookie when I first encountered the beta of Luprecal pack and Cyril, the realm’s alpha. The local constables had come to the Red Cape Society for help with cleaning up an underground fighting ring. Every time one of the Bow Street Boys tried to get involved, he turned up missing. There were whispers about an unbeatable fighter who seemed to have super-human strength. The Bow Street Runners were spooked.

  “I’m not surprised,” Quinn had said with a nonchalant shrug. “This is just the kind of hustle the werewolves would try to pull. They’re strong, but not creative.”

  Following Bow Street’s leads, Quinn and I set out on the case. Thus far I had been chasing down wolves trying to rob liquor shipments or had done surveillance, but this case would have me at the heart of the realm’s werewolf problem.

  Quinn and I stopped under the dim glow of a gaslamp in what felt like the back alley of a back alley of a back alley in the heart of the fog-drenched city. Rats squeaked as they searched for food in the darkness. We were deep in the heart of the city. Hell, I hadn’t even seen a whore loitering on a street corner for at least three blocks. My skin prickled with goosebumps. Werewolves were not the only things living in this dark zone. What else watched from the blackened windows, I didn’t know. But I could feel the presence of the otherworld.

  “Here,” Quinn said, motioning to the alley. “Third door. The arena is below the city,” he added as he opened his bag. “Take off your cape.”

  Frowning, I pulled off my red cloak and shoved it into Quinn’s satchel.

  “Underground is a bad idea,” I told him.

  “Everything about this job is a bad idea. If the wolves don’t get us, we’ll have to be on the lookout for cutthroats, murderers, and rapists.”

  “Or whatever else is creeping around,” I said, scanning the windows.

  “Yeah,” Quinn said with a long breath. “Lots of little spots like this in the city. Makes your skin crawl.”

  “Do any of the preternatural like us?”

  Quinn chuckled lightly. “Not many.”

  “Fabulous.”

  “All right. We go in. We watch. Nothing else,” he said then pulled up a hood, shadowing his face. “And hopefully, no one recognizes me, or we’ll have to fight our way out of the basement of doom. The packs haven’t marked you just yet. You get to do the talking,” he said then handed a coin purse to me.

  “Basement of doom,” I repeated with a chuckle then looked at the bag. “And just what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Bet. We need to blend in.”

  I sighed. “All right.”

  With a nod, Quinn led me down the narrow alley, slipping between two buildings where there was barely enough space to walk. We made our way to the third door. It was slightly ajar. Standing just inside was a hulking man who eyed us as we approached.

  There was a distinct feral scent in the air. Werewolves. Lots of them. Including the man at the door who reeked of the musky odor.

  “What do you want?” the werewolf snarled at me.

  “Good evening to you too. I hear this is a good place to play a hand of whist.”

  “Whist?” the man said with a snort. “Get out of here, lady.”

  I rolled my eyes. Was he really that daft? I pulled out my coin purse. “Not much for subterfuge, are you? All right then, how about I’ve come to bet on an illegal fight and I have money?”

  The werewolf looked from the bag to me. “You’re new. We don’t like new around here.”

  “Rather limiting the potential audience, aren’t you? We all have our hesitations. I understand. For example, you smell bad. I don’t like men who smell bad, but you don’t see me complaining. Listen, I might have heard about the fight at the Mushroom. I do enjoy a good bloodletting. I’m here to bet.”

  The werewolf grunted. “You talk too much.”

  “And you’re far too slow,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Come along, my darling. Let’s go.” Taking Quinn’s hand, I gave Quinn my best flirtatious smile and led him inside.

  Annoyed with me, and not remotely interested in who my beau might be, the werewolf barely gave Quinn a passing glance.

  Quinn and I headed in. As we wound down the narrow stairwell, I heard the sound of cheering and yelling from below. The stench of the place, musty due to the damned near Roman age of the building, reeking feral from the wolves, and tinged with the scents of sweat and blood, was gag-worthy.

  “At least they do a good job with upkeep on the place,” I said with a soft chuckle.

  Quinn snorted. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you try to flirt before.”

  “How did I do?”

  “I couldn’t tell if you were trying to give me a sultry smile or if you had gas.”

  “Very funny. It fooled the wolf.”

  “Yeah, nothing gets by that guy,” Quinn said with a laugh.

  I winked at Quinn.

  “Clem, your eye okay? You’re not having a seizure, are you?”

  “Oh my god, shut it.”

  When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we found two more werewolves keeping watch on the crowd. They gave us a passing glance but didn’t say anything. I eyed the surroundings. Throngs of people surrounded a pit dug into the ground. Yelling and cheering, they pushed one another as they tried to get a better view of the fight below.

  My eyes danced across the room. The average observer would be unlikely to detect the differences between werewolves and humans, but Quinn had taught me all the telltale signs. That, and even before I’d been recruited into the society, I always had a sense for the unusual. Before the Society, I hadn’t known what I’d been sensing. Now, I knew the truth. The realm was full of the unhuman: werewolves, goblins, vampires, and even the occasional fae—or so I was told; I hadn’t met any myself. The preternatural lurked just below our awareness. And it was the job of the Red Cape Society to keep them in check.

>   From my initial sweep, it appeared that about three-fourths of the room was human, the rest were werewolves.

  There was a strange roar from the pit below followed by a loud grunt.

  Quinn and I looked at one another then pushed our way through the crowd. Fighting through the mass of arms and jabbing elbows, we finally found a spot along the rail overlooking the pit. Below, a man and a bear were in a fierce duel.

  “Hells bells,” I whispered under my breath.

  The sweaty fighter, who was human as far as I could tell, recoiled to his side of the pit. There was a long scratch across his chest that was bleeding profusely. On the other side of the pit, a bear paced, watching the man carefully. The fighter wiped his nose with his fist then went at the bear once more.

  The massive creature reared up on its hind legs then swiped at the man. The man ducked, bashing the poor animal in the ribs. Rather than rebounding, however, the beast swiped. His paw connected with the man’s head and tossed him to the side.

  Losing his footing, the man tumbled into the wall, hitting the old stones hard. He swooned for a minute then dropped.

  Someone gonged a bell.

  Half the crowd cheered. The other half groaned.

  “Five minutes until the next match. Tom the Blade versus Fenton,” a man at the back of the room called.

  The crowd shuffled off to make their bets or collect their winnings.

  I stared down at the pit. The bear, which was wearing a harness attached to a chain, had been reeled back so two strong men could retrieve the unconscious and bleeding fighter lying in the pit. Once he’d been pulled back, they prodded the bear with blazing irons back into a cage.

  “I feel sick,” I whispered to Quinn.

  Quinn nodded but didn’t say anything.

  I scanned the room. Across the pit from Quinn and me was a set of stone steps leading into the arena. The area around the stairs had been blocked off. A dark hallway led away from the steps, deeper into the basement. I watched as two men appeared from the back. One was shirtless, his hands taped. He had long, silver hair, and had stripped down to his trousers and boots. A sour look on his face, he nodded as he listened to the man walking beside him. If the fighter was massive, the man walking next to him was a giant. With head full of red hair and a neck thick around as my waist, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen such a massive creature before. And, of course, both were not truly men but werewolves.

  “The red-headed tree trunk is Cyril,” Quinn whispered almost inaudibly in my ear.

  Cyril. Cyril was the realm’s alpha. I had heard his name over and over again, but never saw him in the flesh. He loomed over all the others in the room. The agency records said he was at least five hundred years old, maybe older. And he’d been alpha since the seventeenth century.

  “Fenton is the fighter,” Quinn added. Fenton was Cyril’s right hand. Fenton was the beta of Luprecal pack, one of the strongest packs in London.

  I scanned the room. Both humans and werewolves were placing their bets.

  A second man appeared near the steps close to Fenton. He had a scar stretching from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Also stripped down to a pair of trousers, I could see his ripple of muscles. He was strong and wiry, a good match in a fight against such a hulking brute, but not a good match against a werewolf.

  Lifting the money pouch Quinn had given me, I grinned.

  “And what are you up to?” Quinn asked.

  “Making a bet, of course.”

  Quinn rolled his eyes but followed along behind me.

  We crossed the room to the bookmaker. I listened as the others made their bets. The werewolves were all betting on the Luprecal beta. The others, judging the wiry fighter more likely to win as I had, were betting on the human.

  “Five on Fenton,” I said, setting down my money.

  “That old tree trunk? Nah. You’re wasting your money, Miss. Tom the Blade will have him down in no time,” another man placing his own wager told me.

  I shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  I made my bet, took my ticket, then turned back to Quinn who looked decidedly calm considering we were deep in enemy territory. With a nod, we headed back to the pit. We’d just got into position when a gong clanged, and the fighters descended into the arena. Just off the pit, behind iron bars, the bear roared. The sound of it nearly broke my heart. Bear baiting was illegal, but here, in the midst of the werewolves, the creature’s presence seemed doubly odious.

  The ringmaster came to the side of the pit. “Fenton versus Tom the Blade,” he called.

  The crowd cheered.

  I eyed the werewolf. How the others failed to see the unhuman gleam in his eyes, I didn’t know. But it was there, the flash of red that was always in the depths. I scanned the room. While the humans outnumbered the wolves, the werewolves could take this place in heartbeat. It would be over before it started. But bloodshed wasn’t what the wolves were after. This was a hustle. The werewolves were here for the money.

  Once again, the gong clanged. “Fight!” the ringmaster called.

  Fenton and Tom the Blade moved toward one another. I watched as they circled one another. Both were excellent fighters. After a few feints, the fight began in earnest. The screaming around me began as the bidders cheered for their champion. My eyes went to Cyril. This was the big bad wolf of London. Right there. He sat surrounded by bodyguards, all wolves, watching Fenton take a pummeling. His heavy brow furrowed as he surveyed the scene. Running the numbers quickly in my head, I realized that Cyril was going to make a killing from Fenton’s inevitable win.

  The sound of flesh and bone cracking interrupted my thoughts.

  I turned back to the fight in time to see Tom the Blade fly across the pit, hit the wall, and tumble to the ground.

  “Knockout,” the ringmaster called.

  “Christ, is he dead?” a woman screamed.

  Fenton smirked as he looked on, stopping to spit some blood.

  An attendant rushed to Tom the Blade, putting his finger’s to the man’s neck.

  The room stilled.

  “Alive. Bring the surgeon though. His eye is out,” the man called.

  To my horror, the room erupted in cheers.

  “Come on,” Quinn said, gently taking my arm.

  We moved through the crowd to the bookmaker once more. I collected my winnings. Over my shoulder, I watched as they carried Tom the Blade out on a stretcher. One of the men was holding Tom’s eye in place.

  “Next fight, Loki the bear versus Fenton,” the ringmaster called.

  “He’s going to fight the bear?” I asked, turning back to look. While I couldn’t see into the pit, I could hear the sound of chains rattling and the bear’s cage opening.

  I looked up at Quinn.

  “We need to go,” Quinn whispered.

  “Ain’t you gonna bet?” the bookmaker asked, moving the cigar perched between his lips from side to side.

  “I do like the bear. Cuddly fellow,” I replied.

  The man laughed. “Oh yeah, real cuddly. No one has taken out old Loki yet. That bear has killed five men.”

  “I think I’ll sit this one out,” I said, stuffing my winnings—which were about the same as a week’s salary at the agency—back into my bag.

  “There is no way I’m going to let that wolf beat a bear to death. Did you see what he did to that man?” I whispered to Quinn.

  Quinn nodded then took me by the arm, leading me into a dark corner then pulling me close. To the average observer, we’d look like a pair holed up for a quick cuddle before the next match.

  “There are seventeen wolves in here, including the beta and the alpha. If we make a move, we’ll die,” Quinn whispered.

  “We don’t need to kill anyone. We just need to end the fight.”

  “All right. Suggestions?”

  “I have a new toy from tech,” I said with a grin. “Notice those old wood pipes on the wall? The ones dripping water? You can swim, can’t you?”

  Quinn s
ighed. “How did I ever get landed with you?”

  “Luck,” I said with a smirk.

  The bell gonged indicating the fight was about to begin. As the crowd gathered around, Quinn and I moved toward the pipes along the wall. I dug into my bag as nonchalantly as possible and pulled out the small clockwork device therein. The small detonator, designed to punch a hole through a wall, would do the trick. I leaned against the wall and set the device, turning the gears until I detected the almost inaudible click.

  I nodded to Quinn. “Let’s go.”

  Quinn and I turned and headed back upstairs, passing the guards who paid us no mind whatsoever. Once we were outside, Quinn motioned for me to stop. We stood waiting in the alley just outside. I lifted my hand and counted down on my fingers: 5—4—3—2—1.

  From below, there was a loud popping sound. The building shuddered. A moment later, screams erupted from below along with the telltale sound of rushing water.

  “That will flush them out. Let’s go get the Bow Street Runners. They can sort it out from here,” Quinn said.

  “But the bear.”

  “The bear?”

  “Yeah, the bear. He’s all chained up. He could drown. We need to go back and get him.”

  “Clemeny, that pit will soon be full of wet, pissed off werewolves. And something tells me the bear is not going to thank you either. We need to go. Now.”

  “You don’t know that. Maybe he’s a shapeshifter. Either way, that animal doesn’t deserve to die in there—not drown nor be beaten to death by a werewolf.”

  Quinn gave me a half-amused, half-annoyed look.

  I motioned to the fire escape on the building at the end of the alley. “We go up, and we wait until the crowd clears. After they’re all out, we get the bear then get the hell out of here.”

  “By then it will be flooded in there.”

  “Maybe. We can head back in now, if you want.”

  Quinn sighed. “Fine. But I’m not swimming to save a bear that’s just going to maul me to death.”

  I grinned. “All right.”

  Moving quickly, Quinn and I headed up the fire escape to the rooftop from which we had a good vantage point. A few moments later, the crowd filtered out of the door, heading down the alleyway in both directions. Wolves and humans looking equally wet and annoyed at the sudden interruption of their fun hurried on their way. We waited until the crowd dispersed then headed back down. As we did so, Quinn handed me my cape.