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

by Melanie Karsak

  I laughed. “Oh, yes. There is no limit to Grand-mère’s enthusiasm for that topic.”

  “Well, I shall assure her that I am doing my best. We’ll let the blame fall on my shortcomings. Now, off to Lionheart. Clemeny, I don’t think I need to impress upon you the trouble that might be brewing if Cyril’s reign has come to an end.”

  “No, madame. I understand.”

  She nodded.

  We came to the end of the hall where a small subterranean train waited. While the first such public rail systems were still being planned, the Society had been using a tram system in subterfuge since their invention by Archibald Boatswain in the late 1700s. Unbeknownst to most, the Society had a complete rail network under London.

  I hated riding in the damned thing. All that lurching and rocking made me sick to my stomach. But I could hardly complain when my superior herself was loading me onto the train.

  I slipped into the small compartment and adjusted the knobs on the dashboard. In theory, the machine would automatically adjust the switches along the rail and get me where I wanted to go. But I wondered what would happen if a rat or a rock got in the way. I had a terrible vision of myself hurtling out of the tunnel like a metal rocket, catapulting into the Thames.

  Sitting down in the passenger seat, I harnessed the straps across my body. With a farewell wave to Agent Greystock, I pulled the lever. The door closed, a series of gears locking the door in place. The train began to vibrate, and I heard a loud whine. A moment later, the train compartment shot down the rail line. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer in the hope that I wouldn’t end up in the Thames today.

  Chapter 4: Lionheart

  I stood outside Sir Richard Spencer’s office door in a narrow hall of the King’s College classroom buildings for a solid three minutes, raising then lowering my hand. Killing werewolves? Easy. Trying to make nice? Not so much. Trying to make nice with a werewolf who was far too handsome for either of our good? Impossible.

  I had finally decided it was time to get it over with when the door opened.

  On the other side, dressed in a fine tweed suit and smoking a pipe, stood Sir Richard Spencer, or as he was called on the street, Lionheart. Our best records indicated he was approximately seven hundred years old. King Richard, from whom he’d earned his moniker, had knighted him. While he was a mere child compared to many of the vamps roaming about the realm, his age and wealth of knowledge—what he had seen, what he had survived—always astonished me. There was a reason the pack in this part of town was named Templar. These wolves had become afflicted during the crusades, which they truly believed was a blessing from God to complete their divine work. And, thank God, their philosophy on the subject left with them with a sense of honor and nationalism that often proved helpful.

  Lionheart removed his pipe and looked at me over his reading spectacles.

  “I was getting tired of waiting to see what you were going to do,” he said. “How can I help you, Agent Louvel?

  “I’m here to talk.”

  “This is not the best time.”

  “I know it’s a bit early, but—”

  “You misunderstand me. This is not the best time to be seen with you.”

  “Then why don’t you let me in before someone sees me? I did bring Scotch,” I said, lifting the parcel.

  Lionheart smirked, and not for the first time, I felt the dangerous charm in that grin. Given I was always partial to men with honor, a sharp mind, and yellow hair, Sir Richard Spencer was a problem. He was far too good-looking to be so very much off-limits.

  “I thought you said it was early,” he replied.

  “I have been awake since yesterday, so it’s actually night for me.”

  The wolf looked at the bottle then back at me. “Very well,” he said then stepped aside so I could come inside, taking the bottle from my hand as I entered.

  The office was lined from floor to ceiling with books, scrolls, artifacts, and maps. Everywhere I looked, I saw evidence that Lionheart was busy researching.

  He pulled two glasses out of a cabinet and poured us both a drink. He handed a glass to me.

  “God save the Queen,” he said, clinking his glass to mine.

  “God save the Queen,” I said then took a swig.

  “So, Agent Louvel, I assume you are here to talk about that mess at Guildhall,” he said, slipping into his chair behind his desk. He pulled off his spectacles and set them on the desk.

  One thing about werewolves was that when they were in human form, they gave off a dangerous masculine air that was either highly repugnant or high intoxicating. Lionheart, of course, was of the latter. I was told that the she-wolves, especially when they were in season, were almost impossible to resist. Like most other wolves, Lionheart was all muscle under that scholarly attire. His form was very…intriguing.

  I drove away the lusty thoughts that kept cropping up.

  I really needed to find myself a man. Soon.

  “You assume correctly. Perhaps you can illuminate me on why Lupercal and Whitechapel are working together, or maybe why they’ve been lifting Guildhall members.”

  “Lupercal and Whitechapel are not working together.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’re behind the news, Little Red.”

  I frowned at him.

  He chuckled. “I rather like the nickname. It suits you.”

  “Suits me? Why? Because I’m petite or because I wear a red cape?”

  “Neither.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because of how you smell.”

  Okay. “And how do I smell?”

  “Like red roses.”

  I stared at him. The wolf smirked again then leaned forward and refilled both our cups.

  I grinned. “I’m sure you say that to all the ladies. Well, that aside, tell me what I’m behind on.”

  “All the London packs are working together, not just those two. Templar is uninterested. I had a rather difficult conversation with Cyril on the matter. But as I reminded him, we have our own project,” he said, tapping a very ragged book sitting on the desk in front of him. I noted the emblem of the Templars on the cover. “But the others… Well, it seems they’ve found a common interest.”

  “That’s impossible. The packs never unite.”

  “Untrue,” Lionheart said, lifting his glass. “We were united at least three times in the last seven hundred years.”

  “Okay then, why?”

  He sipped his drink once more, set the cup down, and then tapped his finger lightly on the rim. “I tell you what. You have dinner with me tonight, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “That seems like an incredibly bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I smell like roses, and you have so much musk coming off you that I’m likely to do something I’ll regret in the morning.”

  Lionheart chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the big bad wolf.”

  “Not at all. I have silver bullets enough for that. But I don’t like complications. Thus far, I’ve managed to stay aboveboard. It’s better if it stays that way.”

  Lionheart leaned back in his chair and sighed. “From your point of view, I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Indeed it does. Is Cyril fading? Is that why the packs are rallying?”

  Lionheart laughed. “No,” he said with a shake of the head. “If that was happening, it would be London 1666 all over again.”

  “London 1666? The great fire?”

  He nodded.

  “Then what is happening? Why are they working together?”

  “Since we were disinclined to get involved, I was left out on the particulars—though I was warned that I would be interested in due time. Shows how little they know of me. Pack nonsense. God has blessed us with the lupine affliction to fulfill our holy mission. I have no interest in Cyril’s agendas.”

  “All the more reason to lend me a hand, no?” I said with a grin.

  Lionheart chuckled lightly.
“I’d rather stay out of the matter entirely, but I’m vexed with Cyril at the moment. I have a colleague here at King’s College who is my squash partner. Lupercal lifted her two nights back.”

  “Byrony Paxton?”

  “Correct. No one asked my permission to remove Professor Paxton, and I’d prefer to have her back. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m listening.”

  “Indeed. What big ears you have, so to speak.”

  I smirked. “All the better to hear you with, of course.”

  “But you hear more than common senses permit, don’t you, Agent Louvel?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. How could he know anything about that six sense that guided me? I frowned. “All agents have uncommonly strong instincts.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they don’t all smell like red roses.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Lionheart grinned. “All right, Agent. We’ll come back to that another time. Now, if you go to this address at this hour, you will find some answers. I do recommend subterfuge. Perhaps take Agent Briarwood along,” he said, referring to Quinn. Lionheart scribbled down the address and slid the paper across the desk toward me. “I would consider it a favor if Professor Paxton was found and relocated somewhere safe until the Red Capes have this mess sorted out.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said then polished off the drink. I snatched up the note then rose. “Thank you for your help,” I said then went to the door.

  “Agent Louvel, are you sure about dinner? Would it be so bad to stray from the path just a little?”

  I reached for the handle then smiled over my shoulder at him. “I’m not so easily fooled, tempting as the offer may be. Goodbye, Sir Richard.”

  “Little Red,” he said with a wink, lifting his glass in a toast to me.

  My heart beating hard in my chest, I closed his office door behind me. I hurried down the hall and out of the building.

  I really, really needed to find myself a man.

  Chapter 5: To Grandmother’s House

  Leaving King’s College, I turned and headed toward Saint Clement Danes. My grand-mère, who was the organist at the church, lived in a flat nearby. I called her my grand-mère, but we were not really related. I had been abandoned as a baby at the church, and the widow Louvel had taken me in. She’d named me after Saint Clement, the merciful. God knows I was always grateful for her mercy. I owed everything to my grand-mère who’d raised me.

  I worked my way back up the Strand, passing the church, then headed to my grand-mère’s flat. I gave the door a sharp rap. There was a rattle inside and a flurry of activity.

  “Grand-mère?” I called. “It’s me.”

  The ruckus stopped, and a moment later, the door opened.

  “Clemeny? Oh my girl, come in, come in. Clemeny? What’s wrong? Why are you here? I smell Scotch on you. Have you been drinking? It’s not even lunchtime yet! Oh, oranges and lemons, Clemeny. Let me give you a kiss,” she said, pulling me into an embrace, slathering wet, but well-meaning, kisses on my cheek.

  “I’m well, Grand-mère. Please, don’t worry yourself.”

  “Worry? Who? Me? What do I have to worry about? My girl is out running around the city at all hours of the night chasing after monsters. I should never have let Eliza Greystock talk me into letting you join up with her band of miscreants. And how is dear Eliza?”

  I grinned. Agent Greystock was the first friend my grand-mère had made when she’d moved from France to England. Eliza Greystock had seen potential in me, and much to my grand-mère’s purported dismay, had recruited me for the Society. Of course, I was eternally grateful to Agent Greystock. Well, as thankful as anyone could be when they learned that England was actually full of vampires, werewolves, faerie people, and all other manner of oddities. But still. The job suited me. It was dangerous, but I liked the satisfaction of helping people, of keeping the city safe from monsters.

  “She’s well, and she sends her greetings.”

  “Come sit down. I already had a pot of tea on, but the kitchen—oh, oranges and lemons, the cupboards are ripped apart. Spring cleaning! What a mess. But no matter. Are you hungry?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Okay, I’ll get you some bread and cheese.”

  I chuckled but said nothing. Grand-mère’s effusive attention was to be expected.

  “And where is Quinn?” she asked, leading me into the small kitchen where we had a breakfast table. She was right. The kitchen was a disaster. Everything had been removed from the cupboards. The entire place smelled like soap.

  “We’re working a case. He’s…elsewhere.”

  “And why are you here?”

  “I was at King’s College.”

  Grand-mère crossed herself. “May God protect us. You said those creatures are there teaching children! How is it permitted? Oranges and lemons, God save us all.”

  I grinned. Lionheart, a true Templar, was one of the most religious creatures in the realm—despite him knowing I smelled like red roses—but explaining that to Grand-mère would be incredibly complicated, so I said nothing.

  Grand-mère dug through the stacks of dishes on the counter until she found a cup and saucer. She poured me tea then found a tiny corner of the breakfast table that was not heaped with the contents of the pantry, and set down the drink, moving the jar of honey closer to me. She dug into her goods once more and returned with some lemon.

  “Drink, drink,” she said then went back to fix me a plate. “How is Quinn? Jessica?”

  “They are both well,” I said, stirring in some honey. I sipped the tea, relishing the taste. Nothing ever tasted as good as food and drink from Grand-mère’s hand. I sighed contentedly.

  “And Quinn’s brother, Robert?”

  Hell’s bells. On with this again? Robert, Quinn’s younger brother, worked on an airship crew. He was a good-looking man, albeit dark-haired. He was very kind, but he lacked a certain something I needed in a potential beau. That, however, did not dissuade Grand-mère from suggesting him—repeatedly.

  “Very busy. I believe his crew has been running merchant shipments to Calais and back.”

  Grand-mère returned with a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit spread. She shifted pans aside, clearing a space for the food. “Oh, well, he must watch for airship pirates then. Such a brave man, just like his brother. And a good, sturdy man too. If Quinn’s brother is anything like him, you’re missing out. Clemeny, you must tell Quinn to arrange something for you and Robert. Quinn is such a good man. I’ve never seen Quinn bat an eye at another lady or curse or drink Scotch at ten o’clock in the morning,” she said then gave me a look.

  “Grand-mère, I told you, I am on a case. Sometimes you do what you must to get a source to talk, thus the Scotch.” I realized then that if I told Grand-mère that Quinn was currently at a brothel, I might shatter her entire worldview. Sipping my tea, I chuckled when I thought about it, but said nothing.

  Clicking her tongue disapprovingly, Grand-mère shook her head and looked away. “If I had ever known how many bad things were in this country, I would have told your grandfather we needed to stay in France!”

  I laughed. “You think London is bad? Paris is a hundred times worse.”

  “Is that true?” Grand-mère asked, her eyes wide.

  I nodded. “Yes. Very.” Paris was a sewer. Three agents who’d gone to work cases there last year had come home in caskets. We had our own challenges in England, but Her Majesty had a strong grip on the preternatural. Between the force that was our Queen and the ancient Society of the Rude Mechanicals, a mysterious body of people who lorded over the Red Cape Society, England kept a lid on its magical issues. Well, until recently. Something told me Her Majesty would not be happy to hear about the incident at Guildhall last night.

  “Humph,” Grand-mère said then began stirring her cup of tea vigorously. “Well. No matter. Oh, I must tell you, P
astor Clark inquired after you yesterday. Such a sweet, charming man. You know, I think one day he will take a living in the countryside. Can you imagine a nice, peaceful life as a minister’s wife? Then you can set all this danger aside before you get yourself killed. Oh, Eliza. That silver-tongued devil. Why I ever agreed to let her take you away from me, I’ll never know. Yes, I’ll tell Pastor Clark you were here and that you asked about him. He will be so pleased!”

  “Grand-mère!”

  “Oh, Clemeny, oranges and lemons, I worry about you so.”

  I chuckled softly and set my hand on hers. “I love you, Grand-mère.”

  “I love you too, my girl. Please be careful out there.”

  “Of course.”

  “And come see me more often.”

  “I will.”

  “And find a husband.”

  “Grand-mère!”

  “Well, you were being so agreeable, I thought I would try.”

  I laughed then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll try…for you.” But up to that point, Lionheart was just about my best option. Something told me Grand-mère would not approve.

  Chapter 6: Ales

  I left Grand-mère and headed across town to Ales and Ass to meet Quinn. The pub was located not far from headquarters at Marylebone and was frequented by agents.

  As I approached the old building, I eyed the sign. On it was depicted a donkey wearing a top hat while drinking ale. But above that, discreetly carved, were the initials R. M., the letters encapsulated by a circle: the Rude Mechanicals. Her Majesty’s secret investigative services covered a lot of ground, but our division, the Red Cape Society, were the only ones to keep the preternatural in check. But who kept us in check? Somewhere in the echelons above me were the Rude Mechanicals, a secret society whose name was whispered, identity secret, and activities even more elusive. Not for the first time, I wondered about my organization’s mysterious benefactors.