A Soul's Worth

by T. S. Barnett

  “Not with you,” Ben growled, watching the other man warily. The Travers appeared in the doorway, drawn by the noise, but Ben kept his eyes on Warren. “Look at what you’ve become. What’s the blood in the cellar for, Warren? You’ve taken to the unnatural.”

  “I’ve taken the steps necessary to give you the life you asked for.”

  “The life you asked for.” Ben stretched his hand out again and snapped, “Claene,” the corresponding mark on his hand giving off a bright light for just an instant.

  Warren swayed on the spot, half doubling over and putting a hand to his stomach as he retched. Blood spilled out of his mouth and onto the floor, causing the twins to rush to his side, but Ben silenced them with a quick word and dropped them to the floor. Warren looked up at him with bloodstained fingers covering his mouth, and he pulled his hand away slowly, a panicked look crossing his face as he drew the bloody fingers back into his mouth in an attempt to regain the lost blood.

  Ben stood frozen to the spot, horror thudding through him almost as quickly as revulsion. The cupboard full of blood made sense to him now. Warren had been drinking it. He felt sick thinking of all the times Warren must have kissed him with the taste of some poor soul's blood barely gone from his mouth. “Look at yourself,” he whispered, his heart in his stomach. "The man you were is completely gone, isn't he?"

  "The man I was?" Warren echoed, droplets of blood falling from his chin to the small puddle on the floor. "The man I was never dreamed of the power I have now. You can't know, Ben. This is freedom like we never imagined. I thought it would be the money that saved us, but it's not money at all—it's power. I can teach you. Nothing would ever be able to touch you."

  "Teach me to drink blood? To kill innocent people for my own gain? You're sick, Warren. Touched. You ‘ave to come in. I’d prefer you did it willingly.”

  “You don’t understand,” Warren said with a cool chuckle that broke Ben’s heart. “You think I did all of this so that you could march me to prison? I would grant any boon you asked of me, Ben, except that.”

  “Unwillingly it is,” Ben answered with stern resignation in his voice, and he tried again to bring the other man to heel with a word.

  Warren snarled at him, not moving from his place despite Ben’s pull. “You would rather do this than come with me? Rather than get everything you ever wanted.”

  Ben took a single, steadying breath. “I would rather die than take another thing from you,” he murmured. He grit his teeth and heaved with all his might, and Warren stumbled forward, glaring across the parlor at him as he balanced himself.

  Warren growled and lifted Ben from the ground with a gesture, tugging the inspector back to him and twisting him in the air while he fought the invisible grip. He drew Ben near to him with his back to the floor and his limbs held spread eagle, watching the sweat begin to bead on the other man’s forehead.

  “I would have been your slave, Ben,” Warren whispered. Ben caught sight of a glint of metal over Warren’s shoulder, and then the redhead crumpled to the floor, releasing Ben from his hold and causing him to drop suddenly onto his back.

  Ben heard the Travers shifting across the room and swore, though he supposed he could forgive himself the disruption in focus. He touched the back of his head and flinched, but he paused when he saw Cam standing over him with an offered hand. He accepted it and pulled to his feet, glancing between the recovering brothers and Warren’s unconscious body.

  “Why didn’t I think to just knock him out?” Ben said with an empty smile.

  “I have no blood to control,” Cam pointed out. “Also, I believe Warren Hayward was too distracted to hear me approach.”

  Ben looked over at the twins as they seemed to clear their heads. “Coming to your master’s defense, lads?” he sneered. “I must say I’m in no mood.” When they only watched him in silence, he returned his attention to Cam. “Will you ‘elp me take ‘im in?”

  “No,” the golem said simply. “You must go.”

  “Go? I can’t just go,” Ben objected, gesturing to Warren’s limp form. “He’s a killer, Cam.”

  “I know. He would have killed you.” The machine tilted its head as it looked up at the inspector. “I do not want this, and neither would Warren Hayward. He has lost himself, but he would regret killing you.” Ben’s face softened slightly, and he looked across at the twins with a questioning lift of his brow.

  “He wouldn’t want us after ye, I don’t think,” Owen said after a moment, rubbing at the wide strip of hair on his head. “If you wanted to save it fer another day eh?” Simon nodded his agreement, and Ben sighed and looked back to the golem at his side.

  “I can’t let him be.”

  “Warren Hayward is stronger than you. He could have changed your mind.”

  “Instead he was going to kill me? Don’t do me no favors.”

  “You did say you would rather die.”

  Ben hesitated. He was exhausted. This afternoon, he had been contemplating the quiet life he would have with Warren in the country. A tense one at first, perhaps, until Warren recovered from the blood magic, but a free one. But there was no recovering from this. Not from drinking blood, from—whatever else he had done to himself to be able to do the things Ben had seen today. Even if he got Warren to the station, who knew what he might do when we woke up? He couldn’t risk anymore lives, and Cam was right. He hadn’t the strength to do the deed himself—neither his magic nor his heart.

  “Why not come with me, Cam?” he asked. “You can’t want to stay here with him.”

  “Warren Hayward is my master. I must stay. But you are my friend. So you must go now,” the golem pressed. “Perhaps someday he will be better. But not today.”

  Ben took a last glance at Warren’s body on the floor, bloodstained and moving only with shallow breath, and he briefly touched Cam’s shoulder and went to the front door. It wasn’t over, but today was not the day.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  In the autumn of 1891, Warren stood on the small, makeshift platform that had been erected at the entrance to a massive brick building. He wore a tailored black suit with long tails and a dark grey overcoat, the silver chain of his pocket watch glinting in the light as he checked the time. He tucked the watch back into the pocket of his grey waistcoat and glanced around at the gathering, feeling the weight of the flask in his pocket as he buttoned his coat.

  Cam and Elizabeth stood off to the side with two other men in dress attire, and a large group of laborers filled the space between the platform and the building. The Travers stood on the ground at the front of the platform, ensuring that the gathered press kept a polite distance. Warren passed by a dark cloth covering something easily seven feet tall, the edge of the sheet fluttering slightly in the light breeze. Flashbulbs went off at the base of the platform, and Warren could hear the whirring of a few cinematographs capturing his movement as he approached the standing microphone at the front of the platform. He flinched very slightly against the light of the dreary day and paused to remove a pair of darkly tinted pince nez from his waistcoat pocket, settling them on his nose.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he began. “I’m very pleased that you’ve come to celebrate the opening of this factory with me. With the help of the fine gentlemen you see here—as well as my lovely wife—I believe this factory can be the spearhead of a revolution in labor forces and worker safety. I’m sure that all of you are familiar with my automatons, and some of you may even have one in your home. My personal service line has shown that it is possible to create intelligent, self-motivated servants without sacrificing loyalty for awareness. Today, I would like to go a step further.”

  He gestured back to Elizabeth and the men lined along the edge of the platform. “Coal mines are the foundation of modern society. Without fuel, every luxury—and every necessity—that we enjoy today would be impossible. But the human cost is high, and I for one would rather see far fewer families ruined by the loss of men simply wishing to provide for
them. To that end, I am proud to introduce the zero-two line, available beginning this winter.”

  At Warren’s signal, Cam tugged on one end of the cloth covering the new golem, and it slipped free to reveal the machine’s massive body, built of polished iron and fastened with thick bolts. The square on its chest glowed blue, as did the line that took the place of eyes on its mouthless face. The golem took a heavy step forward, rattling the platform, and stood still to allow the multitude of camera flashes to capture its likeness.

  “Good afternoon,” it said in a rumbling voice that seemed to echo within its metal shape. The effect was a bit alarming without the humanizing motion of a mouth, but the golem bowed with grace seemingly disproportionate to its bulky form, and the applause from the surrounding press increased.

  “This line is built to withstand the hard labor of a coal mine,” Warren said, touching the machine’s gleaming arm. “They will be able to dig deeper, build faster, and haul heavier loads than the strongest human worker. Each unit will come equipped with first aid knowledge so that they may help their human fellows in the event of an injury, as well as an internal methane detector to prevent workers from entering dangerous areas. It is my sincere hope that these machines will improve the efficiency of our mines, increase their output, and keep its workers safer.”

  A new round of applause was soon replaced by raised hands and shouts, and Warren pointed out one of the men near the base of the platform. “John Platt, Fulham and Hammersmith Chronicle, Mr. Hayward,” the man called. “Do you mean to replace the workers themselves with your automatons? What good will they do the working man if he loses his employment because of them?”

  “Absolutely not,” Warren answered immediately. “The zero-two line exists to supplement the worker, not replace him. In addition, I’ve already employed fifty workers at my factory here in London, and I expect that number only to grow. My automatons are intelligent, and they can be taught any number of skills, but only a man has the insight and intuition to judge a situation in the moment. I have no interest in putting good men out of work, and I believe the human element is necessary in any business.”

  He gestured to one of the other shouting men, who addressed himself as “Phillip Palmer, South London Press.” When Warren nodded, the man went on, “Mr. Hayward, if the zero-two line proves a success, have you any plans to expand into other industries? Can we expect to see automatons manning shops or driving taxis in London? Perhaps even military applications?”

  Warren raised a hand against the murmur that went through the crowd. “Thankfully, we are at present enjoying a time of peace,” he said, “but that is not to say that this will always be the case. I have been in early talks regarding the future safety and protection of Her Majesty’s empire, but I am not at liberty to say any more than this.”

  More shouts sounded from the gathering, and Warren answered questions about the golem’s specifications, the state of the factory, how many machines he expected to ship before the year was out, and a number of other boring things. There would be no shortage of bodies to power his golems now. Elizabeth’s mines in Virginia lost plenty of workers every year to accident or disease—an accepted number that could be reasonably inflated without suspicion—and the men that his golems did inevitably displace would find themselves one of the poor unfortunates that went unmissed. Whether men stayed employed in the mines or not, there would always be bodies, either from England or America.

  Simon knew the ritual and could pass it on to a limited number of trustworthy witches who didn’t mind working as butchers, and the factory had been placed strategically above an entrance to the den of the Llewan. Any questioning or investigation that might be done could easily be turned aside by Warren himself, either by money or magic.

  The only obstacle in his path stood at the back of the crowd with folded arms, watching him with familiar hazel eyes. Ben had been like a ghost ever since their parting last winter—Warren saw him like a shadow out of the corner of his eye, seemingly everywhere he went. He kept waiting for the other man to make his move, but so far it hadn’t come. It was of little concern to him—he didn’t consider Ben a threat so much as a troubling reminder that he didn’t need.

  He caught Ben’s eyes from across the chattering group of reporters, but the inspector’s face was hard and unforgiving as he leaned in to whisper to a man beside him. He knew that Ben was only waiting until the moment he thought Warren was vulnerable—even a single moment when he could be overpowered. There was very little chance of being able to set the blame for the continued disappearances at his feet without also revealing his use of magic to the world, which Ben simply couldn’t do. He would either look like a madman, or the truth would finally be revealed to the modern world. The chaos that would follow the latter outcome was not something Ben would be willing to risk, so his only remaining option was to take justice into his own hands.

  Warren had heard through some quiet questioning that Ben was one of the most active inspectors in London—constantly on the street with his constables and on his own. He was looking for gaps in Warren’s security, lapses in judgment or consideration. Surely he hoped that with the opening of this new factory, he would be able to find some hole in Warren’s plan, but there could be none now. He was too focused, his mind too clear. He would no longer suffer the fear of discovery or the anxiety that came with the risk of maintaining a love like they had. He took his pleasure now where and when he desired, at a hotel or in one of Wakefield’s rooms during one of his many parties, and he did so without fear. Nothing could touch him now.

  When Warren looked into Ben’s eyes, he saw a man desperate, driven to obsession by misplaced guilt. He knew that the inspector would never leave his shadow until one or the other of them was dead. Watching him now, Warren felt nothing of the love he had known in years past for the gentle man who glared at him with such bitterness. He felt nothing at all. He couldn’t feel the familiar patter his heart used to make when Ben entered a room or the exhilaration when Ben caught him in his arms and kissed him. He would never know again the warm touch of the inspector’s hand on his cheek, the sight of him smiling when he first woke up, or the sound of his voice muffled around a mouthful of stolen chocolate biscuits.

  But he remembered.

  ***

  Thanks so much for reading my book! I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please consider leaving a glowing review at the retailer of your choice, and make sure to check out the rest of my work!

  About T.S. Barnett

  T.S. likes to write about what makes people tick, whether that’s deeply-rooted emotional issues, childhood trauma, or just plain hedonism. Throw in a heaping helping of action and violence, a sprinkling of steamy bits, and a whisper of wit (with alliteration optional but preferred), and you have her idea of a perfect novel. She believes in telling stories about real people who live in less-real worlds full of werewolves, witches, demons, vampires, and the occasional alien.

  Born and bred in the South, T.S. started writing young, but began writing real novels while working full time as a legal secretary. When she’s not skiving off work to write, she reads other people’s books, plays video games, watches movies, and spends time with her husband and daughter. She hopes her daughter grows into a woman who knows what she wants, grabs it, and gets into significantly less trouble than the women in her mother’s novels.

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