Wolves and Daggers_A Steampunk Fairy Tale

by Melanie Karsak

“Clemeny,” Allen, the tapster, called when I entered. He started pouring me a bitter. “Here for breakfast?”

  I chuckled. It wasn’t uncommon for me to stop by the pub on my way to an afternoon meeting—usually after I’d just woken up.

  “I wish. Up still, in fact. Seen Quinn?”

  “Not today.”

  I pulled out the small ladies’ pocket watch I had tucked into a pocket on my bodice. It was already after three. I frowned.

  I took the mug. “Thanks,” I said, setting some coins on the bar.

  Taking a seat at the corner of the bar, the angle that had the best view of the door and out the window, I pulled out the address Lionheart had given me. The address was in the factory row downriver. Such a location was out of the way of the general eye and gave the packs ample space for whatever misdeeds they had underway. I pulled my dossier out of my satchel and set it on the bar. I flipped through the profiles of the guild members and others who’d been abducted. There wasn’t much to go on. The marks were talented tinkers and alchemists. Professor Paxton, it seemed, was an expert in diseases. But they’d missed Professor Jamison who, according to my notes, was the leading scholar in search of an alkahest, a universal solvent capable of breaking all matter down into its constituent parts.

  I sat back and tapped my finger on the papers as I sipped my drink. What were Cyril and the other wolves after? What were they doing?

  I glanced up at the mural painted above the bar. There, a scene from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream was on display. The character of Bottom wearing his ass’s head, surrounded by the other tinkers depicted in the play, were laughing and drinking. The characters, referred to as the Rude Mechanicals in the comedy, the playwright, and the society were all somehow tied together. How, no one really seemed to know—or at least they weren’t saying. Even Eliza Greystock had been tight-lipped from the beginning.

  I was eighteen when Agent Greystock—Missus Eliza Greystock as I knew her back then—had stopped by the house for high tea with my grand-mère. While I’d tried to sit with them, smile, and be the polite young lady I should have been, I’d felt restless since Agent Greystock arrived that day. I’d pulled book after book from the shelf, always glancing out the window when I did so, perturbed by the man who was loitered on the street just outside.

  I didn’t know then what Agent Greystock’s profession actually was. She’d told Grand-mère and me she worked for the government, nothing more. But that day I uncovered a truth about her—and me.

  Having tried at least a dozen novels, a reference text, the Bible, and a pamphlet on bird hunting, I was about to hunt the bookshelf for yet another book when I paused to look out the window once more.

  The organ grinder and his pet monkey—which seemed too large to be a monkey and was wearing an odd little cape—had stopped outside our flat nearly an hour ago, right around the time Agent Greystock had arrived. I had thought it odd given that Grand-mère’s apartment was a bit off the Strand. As well, the organ grinder never actually bothered to play anything. He just stood there with his drum organ hanging around his neck, his oversized monkey sitting patiently on the curb. The whole thing was just…strange. And each and every time I looked at the pair, I had that odd tingling in my palms. I leaned against the wall and watched the two of them.

  Behind me, Grand-mère and Agent Greystock—having finished gossiping about everyone they knew in common—started clearing the plates.

  I frowned at the pair on the street below, my stomach growing increasingly knotted as a strange sense of alarm washed over me. I suddenly felt very sure Agent Greystock should not leave just then.

  “Missus Greystock,” I said, hoping to distract her for a few moments until the ill-at-ease feeling passed. “Are organ grinders common throughout the city?”

  Agent Greystock, who was carrying her cup and saucer, stopped and looked at me.

  “I’m sorry, Clemeny. What do you mean?”

  “There is a man outside. A man and a monkey, I think. He appears to be an organ grinder, but he hasn’t played anything and his monkey is decidedly still. It’s just… There is something odd about the pair.”

  I stared out the window.

  The monkey twitched and looked up at me. His eyes were a startling shade of yellow.

  Behind me, I heard the china rattle in Agent Greystock’s hand. She set the cup down and crossed the room to join me. She took my arm gently, then from inside a hidden pocket in the skirt of her dress, she pulled out a pistol.

  “Missus Greystock,” I whispered aghast.

  “Sh,” she said, quieting me as she peered out through the curtain. “When did they get here?”

  “Just after you arrived. There is something very odd about their manner. Maybe it sounds mad, but I would swear there is something unnatural about them.”

  Agent Greystock narrowed her eyes at them then turned and looked at me. “And do you notice such things often?”

  “I…” I began then paused. The truth was, I did. I knew when others had ill intent, I knew when I shouldn’t walk down a certain street, I knew when men had dangerous thoughts, I noticed when something seemed wrong or out of place, I felt pain when I saw animals and children in jeopardy. I always felt too much, noticed too much. Most of the time, however, I figured I had an overly excited imagination. “I do have good instincts about some things.”

  She smiled at me and patted my arm. “That is no monkey. That small creature is a goblin. And that man is his golem. If you’ll excuse me just a moment. Oh, and if you could keep Felice preoccupied, I’ll be right back,” she said then turned and went to the door.

  Completely bewildered, I headed back to the kitchen where Grand-mère was setting the dishes to soak.

  “Grand-mère, do we have any petit-fours left?” I asked, eyeing the bakery box.

  “Did you finally get hungry, my girl?”

  “Starving, really. And you had some small finger sandwiches. Any of those left?” I asked, knowing full well there were none.

  Grand-mère laughed. “Oh, my Clemeny, I told you to eat. You were so busy avoiding the conversation you missed the meal. My dear Felice, I’ll be back in a moment,” she called to the living room.

  Grand-mère, so distracted by my requests, didn’t seem to notice that Agent Greystock had not replied. It was a good thing that she was distracted too, because a few moments later, the ruckus coming from the street below was starting to get very loud.

  “Grand-mère, do we have any fig jam? I’d love a taste of that with some cheddar.”

  “Oh, yes. That combination is perfect,” my grand-mère said then immediately dipped into her cupboard where—as I already knew—the fig jam was stacked far in the back.

  Moving discreetly, I stepped to the window. When I looked outside, I had to suppress a gasp. There, Missus Eliza Greystock was in a full-on brawl with the creature she’d described as a golem. She hung tightly with her free hand to the leash of the monkey—well, goblin. A woman near my grand-mère’s age, I was surprised to see her quickly subdue the hulkling creature. Slamming the golem against the wall, she tied his hands behind his back. Yanking the creature that was supposed to be a monkey by his leash along with her, she headed toward the Strand. As she went, she looked up at the window. Seeing me there, she winked at me then pushed her captives forward. A moment later, I heard the call of a constable’s whistle.

  Grand-mère clicked her tongue. “Hooligans. Always hooligans up to no good. Doesn’t your work concern such ruffians, Eliza?”

  “I…I think she stepped away to wash her hands,” I said.

  Grand-mère nodded then went back to work.

  Humming a tune, I went to the washbasin and began cleaning the cups and saucers. It seemed like forever before I heard the slight, nearly inaudible click of the front door. A few moments later, Eliza Greystock appeared in the entryway to the kitchen.

  “Dear Felice, I am so sorry, but I’ve forgotten that I have a meeting later today. Would you be a dear and forg
ive my hasty departure?”

  “Oh, not at all. Oranges and lemons, Eliza. You work too much.”

  “Work is good for a woman. Perhaps Clemeny would be interested in seeing what I do some time.”

  Grand-mère gave Agent Greystock a look full of mixed emotions; confusion, worry, and joy were painted on her face all at once. She turned toward me. “Clemeny?”

  “I… Yes. Thank you for the opportunity. I most certainly would love to hear more about your job,” I said.

  Agent Greystock smiled. Reaching into her pocket, she handed me a card. On it was an address and the initials R. M. encapsulated in a circle embossed on the paper. “How about tomorrow morning at ten o’clock?”

  “Sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Oh, Eliza! Thank you so much,” Grand-mère told her old friend, pulling Agent Greystock into a hug.

  If Grand-mère knew then what she knew now, it’s quite possible she would have bashed Agent Greystock on the head with her frying pan—all the while cursing in French—then sent her on her way.

  But she hadn’t.

  So here I was.

  Polishing off the first mug, I ordered a second bitter and read a bit more as I waited. When I rechecked the time, it was 4:15. No Quinn. Where was he? The bottoms of my feet tingled as I thought about it. Not a good sign.

  I set some coins on the bar then rose to go.

  “Leavin’, Clem?” Allen asked.

  I nodded. “If Quinn shows up, tell him to meet me at the circus?” I said, using the codename for headquarters.

  Allen nodded. “Of course.”

  I headed back out onto the street. I looked both directions as I thought it over.

  Quinn could be at home.

  Or he could be following a lead.

  Or he could be in trouble.

  I didn’t like the nagging feeling in my gut and the way the bottom of my feet kept prickling. What was it the witches in Shakespeare’s play had said? “By the pricking of my thumb, something wicked this way comes.”

  I turned and headed back across town toward Fleet Street, home of the Lolita pack’s well-noted and highly popular brothel.

  Something told me wickedness was afoot.

  Chapter 7: Ass

  I groaned as I stared up at the face of the brothel. It wasn’t even dark out yet, and already the place was in full swing. Music, rowdy laughter, and the smells of tobacco smoke and heady perfume filled the air. And then there was that other scent, the musky, unmistakable odor of werewolves. I rolled my eyes. This was the last place I wanted to be.

  The Lolita girls and I never got along well. I suspected they already knew that unlike Quinn, who seemed to be a bit soft toward them and their plight as second-class citizens in the wolf pecking order, I had no such illusions. Human women could be some of the nastiest bitches on the planet. Female werewolves? Literally bitches.

  As I climbed up the steps, I noticed a vagrant sitting in the shadowed entryway of the building next door. The small man was dressed in rags, his face shadowed. I slowed as I looked him over. A moment later, he cast a glance at me. I caught the glint of yellow in his eyes before he turned and looked away.

  I frowned. What was a goblin doing hanging around a werewolf brothel?

  “Careful, Little Red,” he said with a wheezing laugh.

  Wonderful.

  A footman, eyeing my red cape skeptically, opened the door but motioned to someone inside before letting me in. I bit the inside of my cheek then entered.

  The place was overly warm, overly loud, and very…ripe. A young woman—well, werewolf, really—dressed in a flowy toga of some sort, both of her breasts peeking out, laughed loudly as two mostly-naked men chased her up the stairs. From somewhere above, I heard another tart articulating her pleasure loudly, her bed creaking. The place was swarming with half-naked werewolves and men. Werewolf women were lusty lovers with a lot of stamina. The brothel turned a good business, as was evident by the number of bouncing cocks and jiggling tits I saw everywhere I turned. I tried to avert my eyes but found nowhere to look. Even the ceiling depicted an Olympian orgy scene.

  Hell’s bells.

  “Agent Louvel,” a voice purred. While the sound was all pleasantry, I hadn’t missed a sharp undertone.

  I turned to find Alodie, the madame of the house and pack leader, walking toward me. She had flowing yellow hair so pale that it was almost white. Her eyes were gold-colored. Her face was undeniably beautiful. And, given the sheer gown she was wearing, it was evident that her form was stunning as well. Stupidly, for a moment I felt a bit awkward. Under my leather bodice, pants, and steel vambraces, I was muscle and bone. My sinewy form kept me alive, which was all I really ever thought about. My curves were nothing compared to those of the whore. Was that part of the reason I couldn’t find a gentleman? Was I too…hard?

  Focus, Clemeny.

  “Alodie. I apologize for coming. I’m looking for Quinn.”

  “Quinn?” she said then turned to the footman who shrugged.

  “We haven’t seen Quinn today.”

  “You haven’t seen Quinn today? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said with a wolf-like smile. “I never miss my chance to try to convert that Red Cape.”

  I frowned at her. Alodie’s affection for Quinn was partially why he was so successful in getting information out of her. Given his devotion to his wife, I never questioned his methods. But many times, I questioned Alodie’s. How far would she go to win Quinn? You couldn’t trust a bitch. Ever. Which is why I found trusting her word right now particularly difficult. The she-wolf had no reason to be honest with me.

  One of Alodie’s customers wandered into the foyer, stopping when he saw me. “Well, well, well, have a look at this! Alodie, why didn’t you tell me you had a new girl? And she’s so fit,” a lusty man wearing only a pair of knickers said as he stumbled toward me.

  “Sir, you are mistaken,” I began in protest.

  The man hiccupped. “Are those handcuffs on your belt? That looks fun. Oh, Alodie. Let me have her,” the man said. He stumbled forward, reached out, and gave my bottom a squeeze.

  It took only a second for me to pull the silver dagger from my belt and hold it to the man’s neck.

  “Sir, if you want to keep your fingers, remove your hand,” I said.

  The others around me stilled and quieted. I cast a glance around. There was a glint in the eyes of the brothel girls, a menacing red fire provoked by the sudden appearance of the silver blade.

  “What? Oh. All right,” the man said then stepped back. “My mistake.”

  “My apologies, Percy. She’s not one of my girls,” Alodie said then waved to another harlot. “Jewell, take Percy upstairs and give him a taste of what he’s after. Agent Louvel was just leaving.”

  Taking me gently by the arm, Alodie walked me back to the door.

  “If I ever see you in my establishment again, Agent Louvel, I will have my girls rip your throat out,” she said, her voice sounding sweet.

  “You can try. But I’ll probably shoot you all first,” I said, keeping my voice equally pleasant. “Again, my apologies. I was only looking for Quinn,” I said then stepped outside.

  “As I said, he was not here today. Goodbye, Agent Louvel,” she said then turned and went back inside, slamming the door behind her.

  Dammit, Quinn. Where did you go?

  “She lies,” a voice hissed.

  I turned back to the entryway where the goblin was still sitting. I cast an eye up at the face of the brothel building. No one was looking. I turned and headed down the street toward the next building where the beast sat. Even from this distance, I could smell the scent of spirits wafting off him.

  “Indeed?” I asked, leaning against the wall.

  The goblin chuckled. “Indeed,” he said in a mocking tone.

  “I don’t suppose you’d tell me what you saw?”

  “Not for nothin’.”

  “Of course not. What do you want?”

&nb
sp; “A kiss.”

  I sighed. Goblin men. Always on about kissing and fornication. No wonder he was poised outside the brothel. He was probably enjoying the view through the windows.

  “I think not.”

  “Too bad,” he hissed then laughed. “Prudey agent won’t give a single kiss to save her partner’s life.”

  “My partner’s life? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, now you’re interested, aren’t you? Pucker up.”

  “Can we discuss an alternative?”

  “All right. Show me your tits.”

  I pulled out my pistol and trained it on the little rat. “Try again.”

  “What? I’m just trying to be helpful. You’re the one who’s being difficult.”

  I pulled out my coin pouch and tossed it to him. “That will have to do. Go buy yourself a kiss.”

  The goblin sighed. “Fine. Fine. I saw your red-caped partner. Big man. Grey hair. They took him out about five minutes after he got here, threw him into an auto and drove off.”

  “Who took him out?”

  “Cyril’s dogs.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  The goblin pointed. “Downriver. Strange things happening. It’s not just your people they’ve been picking up. Two of my kind are missing too. And rumor has it, they picked up a sanguinarian.”

  “The wolves picked up a vampire?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me,” the creature said then shifted back into the shadows and out of sight. I heard an odd screeching sound. “You didn’t hear it from any of my kind,” he said, this time his voice sounded further away.

  I stepped forward and looked into the dark entryway. There was a small grate just under the front window that was slightly ajar. The goblin was gone.

  I stared downriver.

  Quinn.

  Chapter 8: Magnum Opus

  It was already after dark when I arrived at the manufacturing district. Spotting a ladder up on the side of the building that housed The Daedalus Company, I scampered to the top of the tall building then began working my way toward the address Lionheart had given me. Given it was already dark, I stopped a moment in a shadowed spot and pulled out the optic Master Hart had made. It took a little adjusting to get it to sit right, but when I turned it on, I was surprised to see how well it made out shapes in the dark.