Clockwork Image

by L G Rollins

  Tressa’s scowl deepened until it threatened to give her a headache. This was so very wrong. These children deserved to be loved and protected, not used. She lifted the camera and snapped another image. At least the click on these were soft enough to go unnoticed.

  But if the few men standing over these children did anything more brutal—which they most certainly had done when Tressa used to work in this room—she would stop caring about the pictures and start using her fist.

  Just wait until she got these images to the Constable. Whoever was behind this would pay. She would see to it.

  One of the overseers approached another and the two whispered together. The second nodded his head and then pulled a whistle from his pocket and placed it in his mouth. The shrill call made more than one child jump.

  “Line up,” he ordered.

  Tressa rocked back on her heels. What was going on? There were still several hours before dawn. During her days in the orphanage, never once had they been allowed to end so quickly after starting.

  The children silently obeyed, blowing out the candles atop their tables and then falling into a line beside the single door. One of the men standing guard over the brood opened the door and out they all filed.

  Brox, crawling on all four, silently moved up close to Tressa and Jasper. With his head close to hers, he whispered low. “The children seem confused.”

  Tressa was confused, too. “They never finish this early.”

  Though the room was quickly quieter as the children left, the soft patter of their feet against the wooden floor was enough to hide Tressa, Jasper, and Brox’s conversation.

  “Maybe someone tipped them off?” Jasper said. “Maybe they’re expecting—”

  “Shh,” Tressa clamped a hand on Jasper’s shoulder. The last couple of children slipped out the door and the room was far too quiet.

  A single adult form, walking several paces behind the last child, reached the door and laid a hand against it.

  “I am sorry,” he said loudly. Tressa recognized the voice; it was Mr. Clark. Though to whom he spoke, Tressa couldn’t say. “You will be missed.”

  He moved through the door and shut it soundly behind himself.

  For a moment, the room was absolutely still. Not a whisper, not a single creak of wood. An icy fear trickled down Tressa’s spine. The room was dark, but it wasn’t just that the space lacked light; it felt dark, like a muggy mist, one she couldn’t see or touch, had enveloped them all.

  Someone laughed.

  It came from the opposite side of the room, well away from herself, Brox, and Jasper. It was rich and confident. Tressa slowly stood, fists clenched and feet spread in a defensive stance.

  “Normally I would say that fighting is futile.” The voice was clearly the same one that had laughed moments ago. It held the same lilt and resonance. “But, tonight, I could use a good workout.” More laughter. But this time, it came from the four corners of the room. They were surrounded.

  Surrounded and outnumbered. Though by whom, she didn’t know.

  Tressa eyed the distance between them and the door. It was nearly the full length of the room. If they bolted—

  Fabric rustled and someone ran up close to her. Tressa pulled a fist back, but before she could let it fly several strands of thin metal wrapped around Tressa’s throat and squeezed. Unable to see what had assailed her, Tressa kicked and punched. She felt her right hook pummel someone’s chest, but the person didn’t so much as shutter.

  Grunts and scrapes filled the room to either side of her. Jasper and Brox were also fighting. They had to get out of here. They had to show these pictures to the authorities and save the children.

  The camera flew away from her chest. Someone, or something, had taken it. There was an unmistakable crunch and pieces of metal, glass, and gears hit the floor in pieces.

  Tressa wrapped both her hands around the metal against her neck. She wasn’t going to let these people win. She wasn’t going to let Mr. Clark win. Only, it wasn’t metal. She felt the softness of skin beneath her own hands. But the grip was every bit as cold and hard as metal. It tightened yet further and Tressa wheezed.

  There was only one being who was icy to the touch, could see in the dark, and was this strong.

  Mr. Clark was not only exploiting the children, he was employing vampires.

  Spots of light fluttered across her vision and her lungs burned. Was she still standing? Or had this unnatural being lifted her from the floor? She couldn’t feel wood beneath her feet. She couldn’t feel her feet at all.

  Tressa couldn’t move her legs, but she lashed out with a hand intent on clawing the vampire that held her. She heard the swish of hair and fabric as the being moved out of reach just in time.

  Her arms felt weighed down and difficult to move, as though she was pushing them through mud.

  Tressa strained to hear Brox or Jasper. Was the room truly silent? Or had she simply lost the ability to hear as well? She was so hot, her chest felt like it was on fire.

  Her arm dropped to her side. She couldn’t move either of them. She couldn’t keep her head upright. Even the tightness of the vampire’s hand around her throat seemed to float away. The darkness pressed against Tressa until it was all she could feel.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tressa hurt. Everything from her shoulders to her legs to her feet and hands ached. Her head was pounding, like someone was beating against it with a wrench. Her neck especially hurt—her neck, and her lungs.

  She tried to lift a hand to rub her neck, but it wouldn’t move. Where was she? She was lying down—against something hard—and there was the drip-drip-drop of water somewhere in the distance.

  With a moan, Tressa tried to open her eyes. They responded, but slowly. Sharp jolts of pain tore across her forehead. Gads. What had the vampires done to her? Had they injected her? Was this what transforming into a vampire felt like?

  Tressa would rather kill herself than become one of them. She turned her head to the side, intent on sitting up. But her wrists refused to leave the hard surface they were resting against. Tressa tried again.

  She was tied down. With a grunt, she rested back. They had tied her down to whatever she was lying on. Something pressed painfully against her lower back. It seemed the vampires had not thought to take her large wrench away. If her hands ever got free, she’d see to it they regretted that oversight.

  Tressa glanced around. Pre-dawn light filtered through a grate above her head. The ceiling curved, meeting seamlessly with the walls. Water flowed somewhere not far away.

  It was as though she were inside a massive tube, a . . .

  The sewers. They were inside the sewers.

  Another groan. Tressa twisted her head toward the sound. Jasper, and past him Brox, lay atop metal tables, their wrists and ankles tied down with wide straps.

  Tressa tugged against the straps, letting out a cry of frustration.

  “I must say.” A chilling voice echoed around them. “You were rather a disappointment.” A woman floated close to Tressa. Her face was ghostly white, her eyes wide and dark. “After all I had heard about you, I had expected more.”

  Tressa studied the vampire’s face. She was ghastly, frightening, awful. But there was something else. Tressa recognized her. It had been over two decades since they had last been in the same room together, and never had they spoken. But, Tressa knew her.

  “You’re Mrs. Clark.” The words came out muddled. “But, you’re dead.”

  “Believed to be dead, bumpkin. Big difference.”

  Did Mr. Clark know? Then she thought back to what Mr. Clark had said before he left the work room. Of course he knew. He knew and he was going along with it.

  How awful for him, to have a wife injected and turned. How awful for her, to be forced to become a monster. “I’m so sorry,” Tressa said. Her words were clearer, but no stronger.

  Mrs. Clark—Tressa could hardly think of her in such bland and um-impressive terms—only laughed. Tressa was c
ertain she would hear that laugh over and over in her nightmares until the day she died.

  Which very well could be in only a few minutes.

  “Don’t be. I’m no victim. I never have been.” She leaned down low, her icy breath brushing against Tressa’s cheek and neck. “I always come out on top, no matter what others try to do to me. I believe we are the same in that way.”

  Tressa clamped her jaw tight to keep from visibly shivering. “Is that what you’re going to do to me? Turn me into a monster like you?”

  The woman trailed a finger down the side of Tressa’s neck. “Do you want me to? I could use another soldier as dedicated to her cause as you.”

  Tressa pulled away from the touch.

  The woman let out a long sigh, full of feigned sadness. “Very well, then. My soldiers are hungry, after all. And I can’t have you running to the police with your little pictures and demanding Westwood stop using children as free labor.”

  Brox called out. “Why do you care?” His words were forceful. No doubt he was speaking through a blinding headache same as Tressa.

  The woman’s brow creased. Her china doll features seemed nearly delicate enough to crack under the subtle movement. She glided around Tressa’s head, past the table with Jasper strapped to it, and slipped up daintily next to Brox.

  Tressa twisted and squirmed, but she couldn’t lift her head high enough to see fully.

  “My dear Mr. Broxholme.” Her voice was colored with something different this time—something that sounded almost like a caress. Tressa’s hands tightened into fists.

  The woman stood up straight and Tressa could once more see her. She turned and looked across the room.

  “Why didn’t you tell me one of them was Mr. Broxholme?” she demanded.

  There was the sound of fabric shifting about. Ah, lud. There were more of them.

  Mrs. Clark bent low over Brox, her voice curling at the tips and going soft once more. “If I had known you would be joining us, I would have made your stay more comfortable.”

  Tressa was done. If they were going to kill her then they might as well get on with it. If they were going to change her—well, she’d find a way to make sure that didn’t happen.

  She strained against the bindings around her right wrist. If she could only get the pipe cutter out of her pocket—after all, a good mechanic never went anywhere without at least a few tools. She could feel the chunky block of metal against her thigh. She just needed to ease it out and into her palm.

  The woman vampire was still crooning over Brox. Though it set Tressa’s teeth on edge, it was also a blessing. Tressa snaked the pipe cutter up closer to her waste with two fingers. She only needed a couple more minutes of being left unobserved.

  The pipe cutter slid out of her pocket and Tressa caught hold of it between her middle and ring finger before it could clatter to the ground. The pipe cutter was a square block of metal, with a C-shaped opening in the center. And in that center were three tiny blades.

  After years of experience, it only took Tressa a few seconds to flip the cutter around so that the leather strap holding her wrist was caught up inside the ‘C’. She began sawing through it. The leather cut easily. Must have been cheaply made. Tressa certainly never would have used such poor quality leather herself.

  Tressa glanced around her. She still couldn’t see much and she didn’t dare lift her head higher than she had before cutting the strap. No use notifying all the vampires that she had one arm loose before it was necessary.

  She could just barely make out several forms in the shadows, past her feet. How many vampires were there? Tressa wasn’t sure, but it seemed all eyes were trained on their leader, Mrs. Clark.

  Mrs. Clark had become the general over a vampire gang. Gads, who could have seen that one coming?

  Moving slowly, praying all the soldiers were too focused on their leader flirting with dinner to notice her, Tressa lifted her hand holding the cutter, slid it across her stomach and dropped the cutter into her left palm. She then quickly rested her right hand back against the table.

  Cutting the leather with her left hand was harder than doing so with her right, but she finally got it. Lying flat against the hard table, Tressa wriggled her left hand until the straps fell away and she was sure she was free.

  This next step was going to be far harder. There was no way to cut the bindings around her ankles without sitting up. Doing so would never go unnoticed. There was a good chance she wouldn’t be able to get even halfway through the straps before being jumped and forced back down.

  Brox was speaking, and his voice took on that tone he used whenever he wished to commandeer a room—the deep timbre that caught one’s ear and drew one in.

  Tressa twisted to the side a few inches, then paused to see if her movement had been noticed.

  All the vampires were still focused on Brox.

  She glanced Brox’s direction and willed him to read her mind: Keep them occupied.

  Holding to one side of the table, Tressa swung her torso over the edge and angled her arm down toward her ankles. The weight of more than half her body pulled on her arm and the corner of the table bit against the inside of her fingers.

  But if she could manage without sitting upright, it might buy her a few extra minutes. She stretched the pipe cutter forward and reached for the thick strap around her ankles. The cutter brushed against the leather but didn’t hook it.

  Her arm sagged lower. Already her muscles cried out at the awkward reach and strain. She didn’t have time to fail over and over again. Brox still seemed to hold the vampires’ attention, but for how long?

  Tressa reached out a second time and the cutter’s open mouth hooked around the leather. Tressa jammed down on the tool, hard. It sliced through the leather.

  Her legs no longer restrained, Tressa nearly toppled off the table and onto the floor, but she righted herself just in time. Lying back on the table, she listened.

  Mrs. Clark was speaking. “Oh, but I do so love the things it buys me. I may not be human anymore, but I do still enjoy my creature comforts.”

  It sounded like Brox had brought the conversation back around to why they forced the children into labor. And to think, this woman was depriving children—children—of food and warmth and sleep solely so she could enjoy those very things, despite no longer needing to eat, stay warm, or rest herself. Tressa felt bile rise up in her mouth. This woman was the worst kind of despicable.

  It was time someone ended her.

  Tressa, glancing around one last time to be sure no one was looking her way, slipped noiselessly off the table and to the floor. She hit the floor with a soft splash. Slow moving water flowed up to her ankles.

  Brox’s voice stopped and Tressa tucked herself up close to Jasper’s table. If they glanced around and noticed her not stretched out as part of their buffet, she would be caught before any of them could escape.

  Mrs. Clark spoke. “It’s just the fish, darling. You needn’t fear them. They don’t bite.”

  “Your ancestors established Westwood,” Brox said. “Why would you hurt the children they worked so hard to save?”

  Tressa breathed out silently. So far, so good. She turned and faced Jasper.

  His head rocked back and forth. Though his mouth moved, no words came out. He must just be coming to.

  “Stay silent,” Tressa whispered to him.

  He started at her voice and struggled against the straps, growing more panicked when he couldn’t move.

  “Cut it out, Jasper,” she hissed.

  He calmed a bit, but his gaze jumped from ceiling to walls to all those around them.

  “Don’t move,” she said. “I’ll cut you free.”

  Though, how she was going to get to Brox before being caught, she had no idea. The cutter sliced easily, first through the leather around one of Jasper’s wrists and then through the strip near his ankles.

  Tressa kept herself tucked up close to the table. Jasper only had one strap left, but she couldn
’t get to it without moving around to the other side of the table. If she were over there, Mrs. Clark would most certainly spot her.

  No matter what, Tressa had to protect the people she loved.

  She slipped the cutter into Jasper’s palm. “Give me a minute, then cut yourself and Brox loose and get out of here.”

  Jasper swore softly.

  “Hush. She’ll hear you.” No doubt more than one objection sat on his tongue, eager to jump off. He was awake enough to understand the need to be silent, wasn’t he?

  Tressa slipped farther down the large sewer pipe, past the table she used to be strapped to, and deep into the shadows, her back toward Brox and Jasper. Each swish of her leg through the sewer water sent chills up her back. At any moment, they would hear her and give chase.

  But they didn’t. She made it ten strides away, then twenty. Brox’s barrister trance truly was magical.

  Tressa put a hand against the sewer wall and felt her way farther down. If she was to be chased, she would normally bless the darkness. But it would only hinder her and not her assailants this time.

  The wall against Tressa’s hand gave way to a side pipe and she paused at the intersection. Tressa glanced over her shoulder. She could barely see Jasper and Brox, laid out on their tables.

  This was it.

  Tressa banged, purposely, against the sewer wall and stomped several times. Water splashed up against her legs, making her yet colder. The sound echoed down the pipe.

  Mrs. Clark’s head snapped up, her gaze falling on the empty table where Tressa had once been. She let out a cry. The slithering suspense of being prey fingered its way up Tressa’s spine.

  Even as several vampires charged her way, Tressa watched a moment more, just long enough to see Jasper sit up, cut his last binding and hurry over to Brox. Good. If the two men ran the other direction they had a good chance of getting away.

  Tressa stepped into the smaller, secondary pipe and hurried forward. The water was shallower here and she was able to move quicker.

  After hiking several yards, she found yet another intersection and crawled into a third pipe. Gears above, one could get lost for days down here.