Peppermint and Pentacles
Steampunk Red Riding Hood, Book 3
Melanie Karsak
MelanieKarsak.com
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Peppermint and Pentacles: A Steampunk Fairy Tale
Steampunk Red Riding Hood Series
Clockpunk Press, 2017, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblances to the living or dead are purely coincidental.
Published by Clockpunk Press
Editing by Becky Stephens Editing
Proofreading by Rare Bird Editing
Table of Contents
Peppermint and Pentacles
Novel Description
Dedication
Chapter 1: The Most Wonderful Time
Chapter 2: Oranges and Lemons
Chapter 3: Tidings of Comfort
Chapter 4: Saint Clement Danes
Chapter 5: Snips and Snails
Chapter 6: What the Dickens?
Chapter 7: The Nutcracker
Chapter 8: Up on the Rooftop
Chapter 9: Meanwhile, in Covent Garden
Chapter 10: Edwin & Clemeny
Chapter 11: Saddle Up
Chapter 12: Duck Island
Chapter 13: Of Sacremental oil, Honey, and Lemon
Chapter 14: Portals, Peppermint, and Ladies Dancing
Chapter 15: In a Heartbeat
Chapter 16: What Sir Gawain Knew
Chapter 17: Princess Helena
Chapter 18: Agent Louvel in the Library with the Lamp
Chapter 19: Not Quite Milk and Cookies
Chapter 20: Why So Naughty?
Chapter 21: Sinners Reconciled
Chapter 22: Under the Mistletoe
About the Author
Sneak Peek of Beauty and Beastly: Steampunk Beauty and the Beast
Beauty and Beastly Chapter 1: Bonjour
Novel Description
Up on the housetop werewolves howl
Out jumps good old Agent Louvel
Down through the chimney chasing monsters quick
Feeling far less jolly than Old Saint Nick
Red Cape Society Agent Clemeny Louvel is used to chasing werewolves across London. But when she’s reassigned to a special case just days before Christmas, she learns that she’ll need more than a silver bullet to keep everyone on the nice list.
Peppermint and Pentacles is a retelling of the Red Riding Hood fairy tale set in Melanie Karsak’s bestselling steampunk universe. This Christmas-themed tale can be read as a standalone but is best enjoyed as book 3 in the Steampunk Red Riding Hood Series.
Dedication
For Erhan
Chapter 1: The Most Wonderful Time
The clock on Tinker’s Tower gonged out nine o’clock as I slipped down the cobblestone street, turning into a narrow alley. A flurry of snowflakes carried by a stiff winter’s breeze blew down the passage and up under my cloak. I shivered and pulled the garment closer around me. Yawning tiredly, I paused to ensure I had not been followed, then entered through a nondescript door.
Inside, Marcus stood guarding the second door, one hand on his pistol, the other holding a cup of tea. The scents of anise and orange filled the small alcove.
I smothered a laugh when he trained his gun on me while taking a sip.
He lowered his teacup. “You’re late, Clem,” he told me with a smirk.
“Suppose they’ll kick me out of the Society?”
“You wish,” he said with a laugh.
I chuckled.
Setting the tea down, he unlocked the door and motioned for me to enter. “Good luck.”
I huffed a laugh and headed inside. The room within appeared to be a humble abode. The small flat had a cot, a rough-cut wood kitchen table, and a cold hearth. The place was perfect in its depiction of misery and meanness. I crossed the room to the worn wooden cupboard. I eyed the old wooden pantry. The initials R. M. were rudely carved at the top. I opened the cupboard door. On one side was a row of shelves sparsely lined with chipped teacups, empty tea tins, and plates. On the other side was a drum of potatoes. I slipped around the barrel then slid the panel on the back of the pantry open to reveal a narrow set of stairs leading below the city. I entered the tight stairwell, closing the panel behind me, and then descended. I could already hear voices rising from behind the closed door at the bottom of the stairs.
Wonderful.
I really was late.
I wound down the stairs, pausing just outside the door. Orange light poured through the cracks around the doorframe. And with it, warmth. I rubbed my hands together, my fingers numb from cold, then opened the door.
Heat and light poured from the room.
They were gathered at a long wooden table; its cherry wood glimmered with so much polish, reflecting the golden light cast by the chandelier overhead, that it hurt my good eye. I winced. Every agent sitting at the table turned and looked up at me.
Agent Hunter was already passing out dossiers as he went over the weekly report. He gave me the briefest of glances.
“Clemeny, good of you to join us,” he said.
I slipped into my seat. “A bit early for someone on my beat.”
“Yes. Well, we all have challenges,” he replied.
I looked around the table. Half the other agents were rolling their eyes or frowning at me. Unfriendly bunch. The other half looked on with sympathy. Friendly enough. And a few others—Pippa, Cressida, and Hank—smirked and passed me knowing glances. Friends.
I scanned the room for Harper. She wasn’t there. From what I’d heard, she’d rotated off Cressida’s beat and was working on a case about which everyone was very hush-hush. Whatever it was, I hoped for Harper’s sake that it included a trip to Africa. It had been months since we’d worked the Fenrir job, and I had yet to be assigned a new partner. Surprising even myself, I was starting to miss that redhead.
Agent Hunter cleared his throat. “As I was saying, of primary concern at this moment is the continued fallout from the death of the Queen of Hearts. An operator calling herself the Red Queen—not very creative, is she?—is making moves to fill that vacuum. Her Majesty has asked for additional agents on this case. I have assured her the Red Cape Society has everything under control. Therefore, we must act quickly. Atticus, you and Cressida will join George and Claire on the case,” he said, setting dossiers in front of both of them.
“Thank you, sir,” Atticus said with a nod.
Cressida slid the dossier toward herself with one finger. “Sir, I don’t mean to protest, but I’m making headway in recovering the artifact in question in my current assignment. This is not the best time to set that operation aside. I have traced the mirror to—”
“I understand,” Agent Hunter said. “But I need you on this case.”
“Yes, sir,” Cress replied with a frown.
“Now, can I have everyone’s attention? We have enhanced our protocol for significant event reporting and requests for funds. Please direct your attention to the board, where I have outlined the new, basic procedure,” he said, motioning to a chalkboard so full of notes that it looked more white than black. The unfriendly crowd pulled out small leather journals and notepads and began attentively taking notes as Agent Hunter continued. Some of the friendly-enough crowd were kind enough to pay attention. Cress, doing a poor job of hiding her annoyance with being reassigned, sneered with frustration and looked toward the fireplace across the room. Hank checked his pocketwatch. Pippa flipped through the dossier i
n front of her then leaned back with an exasperated huff.
As I glanced around the table, I made two other observations. First, everyone else had tea and scones. I did not. And second, everyone else had a leather dossier in front of them. Again, I did not. The second issue was a non-issue. With the full moon coming, I had plenty of work. In the last few months, contenders had been popping up, testing Lionheart’s resolve. Since he’d been reluctant to be bothered with them, I’d been stamping out all the fires. There was enough going wrong to keep me busy, and I most certainly didn’t need a new case. The first issue, however, required immediate remedy.
I rose and went to the sideboard. Taking a small plate, I selected the last nut and date scone. I grabbed a cup and saucer. Slightly miscalculating the size of the saucer—a common problem since I’d lost sight in my left eye—I nearly lost my cup, making the china clatter.
The loud noise earned me a reproachful cough from Agent Hunter.
“Sorry,” I mouthed wordlessly.
Moving more gracefully, I poured my tea, adding a dab of honey and a slice of lemon. I stirred in the honey as I listened to Agent Hunter.
“If you require additional funds for your current mission, you must detail that information, with all amounts listed and totaled, in triplicate…” And on, and on, and on. As I stirred, I eyed Agent Hunter.
I’d heard that he engaged in boxing at the Society’s gymnasium, and his form was undoubtedly that of a pugilist. Even in his perfectly tailored suit, I could see the flex of his bicep muscles. His yellow hair was neatly trimmed, the mutton chops on his face well-groomed. I fancied he smelled of cinnamon, and not for the first time, I imagined he tasted the same.
The truth was, since the Fenrir case, Agent Hunter was never far from my mind. I’d spent more time at my desk at headquarters in the last few months than I had the four years prior. Agent Hunter…intrigued me. I lifted my teacup and sipped, hiding the smirk that lit up my face. Unbuttoning that piece of work would be like unwrapping a Christmas package. Who knew what gifts were underneath? I imagined the tastes of cinnamon and the salty tang of sweat.
“Any questions?” Agent Hunter asked. He scanned the room. When his eyes met mine, his perfectly formal expression faltered for a moment, and the corner of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile. He glanced away.
To my astonishment, a hint of blush rose to his cheeks.
Hell’s bells, had my thoughts been so apparent on my face? Trying not to chuckle—or run screaming from the room in terror—I took my tea and scone and sat back down.
Hunger overcame humiliation, and soon I was lost to my breakfast while some of the others asked for the finer details on meal expense limitations. The conversation droned on endlessly. It was only when Hank perked up with a question did I find something in which to be interested.
“Should we be expecting a holiday bonus this year?” Hank asked.
It was four days until Christmas. Last year, Her Majesty had seen fit to gift us all with a little extra coin as thanks for risking our lives to deal with the deadliest, ugliest supernatural elements in her realm. It had hardly seemed thanks enough. This year’s bonus was late in coming.
“Unfortunately, there was no budget in the coffers for it this year. But if you visit Master Pennington’s butcher shop in Covent Garden, you will be supplied with a Christmas goose at no cost. Simply inform Master Pennington to charge Mister Grey.”
This time there was an audible groan of disappointment from the entire crowd.
Agent Hunter sighed. “I know, I know. I do commiserate. I will be enjoying my Christmas goose in lieu of a bonus as well,” he said then rolled his eyes.
I grinned at him.
To my surprise, he met my eyes and gave me a soft smile.
“Now, you all have your assignments. Please review them. I don’t anticipate any issues, but you may contact my office if you have any concerns,” he said then turned to Cressida who had already opened her mouth to protest once more. “Once the situation with this Red Queen is attended to, we’ll return you to your regular case.”
Frustrated, Cressida grabbed her dossier and bag then rose, her red cape swirling around her, and left in an angry huff.
I leaned back in my seat to finish off my tea before heading back outside into the cold winter air. Yawning once more, I scanned the table. No dossier. No change in assignment. Good. No one could do what I did anyway.
All the others had just departed when I finally took the last sip. Setting my cup down, I pushed my seat back then rose to go.
“Agent Louvel,” Agent Hunter called, crossing the room to meet me. “You don’t have your dossier. I was hoping to discuss your case with you before the meeting began, but since you were late—”
“Yeah, late night. Sorry, sir.”
“Yes. Indeed. In which case, I think you will appreciate this temporary reassignment,” he said as he handed a leather folder to me.
“Temporary reassignment?” I asked. I stared down at the binder. Deliciously button-down or no, Agent Hunter could not possibly think that taking me off my beat so close to the full moon was a good idea. And there was no way another agent was going to get Lionheart to cooperate.
“Her Majesty asked for you by name on this one.”
“Did she? Why?”
Agent Hunter shrugged in such a manner that indicated he knew why but was not saying.
I took the brief from his hand then sat back down. Agent Hunter sat beside me, waiting patiently as I scanned the pages.
The intel on the case was minimal, but it seemed that children had been disappearing from homes and charity schools all along the Strand not far from St. Clement Danes…the church where I had been abandoned as a baby, and the neighborhood in which I’d grown up.
Ah. Now, just how did Her Majesty know enough about me to make that connection?
“Not much here,” I said, choking down some stray emotions that wanted to bubble to the surface.
“No, that’s why we need you on the case.”
“You do know the full moon is coming.”
“Yes, that’s why you’d better get this situation resolved before your regular duties come howling,” he said with a soft chuckle.
“Was that a joke?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him. I smiled softly.
“It was an attempt,” he said, shifting nervously in his seat. He tried to suppress a smile, but this time, he was less successful. His left cheek dimpled in the most adorable manner. It took everything inside me to ignore the image of him and me lunging onto the well-polished table, the silver buttons on his coat popping off like fireworks, the taste of cinnamon and salt tingling on my tongue.
I coughed, clearing my mind. “It was a good one,” I said, casting him a sidelong glance. Why wasn’t he married? Certainly, there wasn’t any shortage of girls out there looking for a well-employed man with good manners, a solid build, and a soft smile.
“Right. Well. Very well then,” he said, standing, returning to his rigid posture and manner once more. “Do you need anything for the case?”
I sighed. Dream on, Clemeny. There is no way this man is ever going to see you as anything but just another agent. He probably has some elegant lady in the country embroidering his face onto a pillow and dancing the quadrille with him at a country ball.
“No…not yet. I’ll go have a look, check in when I can. I will need to keep an eye on the wolves as well. I’ll be pulling double duty, you know. Suppose that will earn me two geese?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said then held my chair as I rose, pulling it back for me.
I stuffed the parcel inside my satchel, gave Agent Hunter an appropriate and formal nod, then headed toward the door.
“Be careful out there, Clemeny,” Agent Hunter called. The comment was benign, but there was a lilt to his voice, an edge of genuine concern that caught my attention. And he’d called me by my Christian name.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, hoping he didn’t hear the cat
ch in my own voice. I headed back outside to the cold London streets.
Or…just maybe…
Chapter 2: Oranges and Lemons
St. Clement Danes. Why my mother—whomever she was—had chosen to leave me on the doorstep of that particular church in London, I would never know for sure. Maybe the reason had something to do with Saint Clement being merciful. Perhaps she hoped God would take mercy on her for leaving an hours-old baby in a basket on the church steps. Or maybe she hoped Saint Clement would be merciful to me, or that I would stay on a sound and Godly path since she’d delivered me—literally—to God’s doorstep. I had no idea. But what I did know was that I would be forever grateful for the church organist, Widow Louvel, who’d taken me in and raised me as her own.
As I headed back across town, snowflakes started to fall. It really was Christmastime. I had hardly given the holiday a second thought. My work for the Red Cape Society had me far busier than I realized. Picking off stray wolves and quelling arguments had become commonplace jobs. In truth, I had been both busy and lonely. Quinn was back on his feet but still very much retired, and Harper was gone. It was just the wolves and me. Even Lionheart had grown strangely quiet. I hadn’t seen him in weeks. No wonder I was spending so much time at headquarters ogling Agent Hunter. But now, my boots were headed back home for the first time in longer than I cared to admit.
I stopped by the bakery where I picked up a loaf of bread and some gingerbread cookies and then at the grocer to get a bottle of claret. Well stocked, I headed to Grand-mère’s house.
Widow Louvel lived in a small flat just off the Strand near Saint Clement Danes. I headed up two flights of stairs until I reached the door. Inside, I heard the woman whom I’d come to love like she were my own flesh and blood singing in her native French.
I knocked on the door. “Bonjour, Grand-mère.”
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