A Clockwork Christmas

by Nina S. Gooden

Her cousin shrugged. “Suit yourself, but don’t expect me to be a gracious victor if you end up with some terrible sickness.”

  Olyve laughed, tucking the trinket between the leather tie at her waist and her gown. “As if you are ever a gracious winner, Andrew.”

  * * * *

  It was well after sundown by the time Olyve got back to the manor.

  “Hello, Miss Olyve.” A familiar, chiding voice followed her across the foyer of her home.

  The blonde did her best not to wince as she offered her hat and bags to a waiting footman. “I see you’re still up and about, Mrs. Jacobson. I trust my sister is well?”

  The look she got for her polite question could have melted glass. Mrs. Jacobson was a well built, no nonsense kind of woman. With thick black hair on her head as well as growing out of her top lip, she was a rattlesnake whom her father had found to “keep her in order.”

  As if the man had any right to care about propriety with the example he left.

  “Your sister is doing just fine, Miss, no thanks to you. Were you planning to spend the entire night with that man or were you going to actually take part in the lessons you missed this afternoon?”

  Olyve tried to keep her voice level. “Well, seeing how the lessons were this afternoon and I’ve already missed them, I think it is safe to say that I had no intention of completing them.”

  The woman let out a strangled noise. Olyve had no doubt that she was preparing a lengthily retort as to how young women of privilege should behave. Unfortunately, Olyve didn’t care for reprimands, verbal or otherwise, and had no intention of sticking around for another one.

  “I’m going to my room. If you will have one of the chambermaids bring me my dinner I would greatly appreciate it. Goodnight, Mrs. Jacobson.”

  She escaped up the sprawling stairs, but not before the crone managed to work up a decent comeback. “Your sister has never given me any of the trouble you have. You are years older and yet you act like a child, perhaps you should take a lesson from Kate.”

  Olyve didn’t pause. Instead, she grinned over her shoulder. “I’m sure Kate is only waiting for a good chance to rebel. Perhaps you’re not doing as much good for her as you think.”

  “You’re twenty and five years old, Miss Blackwell. If you don’t take care you will end up on the shelf.”

  “Well, then I hope you saved me a seat.”

  The housekeeper wouldn’t stoop to her level by snarling, but Olyve knew she wanted to.

  Kate was living out in the country now. The doctors thought she would do better with fresh air. Only the Blackwell family knew the truth about her mysterious illness, and even they didn’t truly understand it. Kate wouldn’t be able to venture back into London for several years. She had to figure out how to control her gift, just the same as the rest of them.

  Passing the walls of rich paintings and heavy tapestries, Olyve made her way to the west wing of the manor. He father had purchased the building just for her and Kate, but now the charming little home seemed more empty than anything. It was a sad shell of a place without friends or family.

  Safely within the walls of her own room, Olyve threw herself down on her bed. The very nature of the Blackwell Legacy ensured that they were a solitary people. Loneliness normally counteracted by a deep sense of family and belonging, but for the first time in years, Olyve was on her own. Her brother was across seas. Her sisters (one of whom no one but her knew about) were coming into their own abilities and working through all the chaos that came with.

  She brought her knees to her chest, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. There was no one for her to talk to, not really. Andrew was a relative and well aware of her abilities, thanks to his own. Unfortunately, he was only half blood. As a descendant of her great-grandfather, he was not particularly strong. It didn’t help that he completely refused to use his own gift.

  She was alone with her power. Desolate.

  Olyve rolled over, gasping when the wooden disk dug into her side. Freeing the ties at her back, she sat up. An easy motion sent cargo tumbling across her pillow. The wood was just as it was before, gleaming and polished, though now it had a familiar glow to it.

  She flinched a little, recognizing that the item had something to tell her.

  Rolling off the bed she carefully crossed the room and locked the door. Checking her windows, she made sure all of the latches were set and secure before pulling off her gloves.

  Almost immediately, the tips of her fingers began to sting with eager pressure. The nails that graced her slender digits bled with color, this time a deep purple. Olyve gasped, shaking her head. The glow around the wooden offering matched up with that of her nails, signaling a high power request.

  The barriers around her mind shuddered, begging to be set free. Purple was a strong color, signaling that many barriers would have to fall for her to read everything that the object had to offer.

  Again, she shook her head, trying to calm the demand of her ability.

  The stinging heat swept higher than her fingertips, engulfing her entire hand slowly. She pushed it back when it traveled up her wrists, the same watery fingertips now spreading over her hands. “No. We’re doing this my way.”

  The barriers continued to tremble and the power fought against the shield she erected around her wrists. The struggle continued for fifty erratic heartbeats until the tips of her fingers slowly bled a soothing blue.

  Olyve let out the breath she’d been holding and took a step closer to the bed. Every time her foot landed on the ground, she relaxed a little more, watching the blue take over the purple. By time she was within reaching distance the item was humming with anticipation.

  Steeling herself, she let her fingers come to rest on the smooth wood. “Show me.”

  A clap sounded in the space between her ears, a tsunami landing on a hard surface. Garbled, broken images flooded her mind:

  A woman knelt in filth, tears flowing down her face. The crack of a whip sounded, followed by an inhumane cry of pain.

  A brothel danced in her vision. It was all red paint and heavy curtains hiding moans of pain and savage pleasure. The paint moistened and wept until it was blood running down tattered walls.

  A man traded coin for ripped, tortured flesh. Weeping assaulted her ears. Salt and human waste battled for the space of her nose. Olyve stood somewhere outside of the vision, knowing she was gagging, knowing that her free hand clawed at her throat. She desperately tried to rip the taste of smoke and stale alcohol from her mouth.

  The third barrier within her mind threatened to crumble. It wanted to push her deeper into the vision, deeper into the vortex of lust, pain, and madness. She struggled for control, centering her mind even as she held the barrier firmly.

  “This gate shall not fall. This gate shall not fall.” The mantra echoed in the cavity of pain that lay between her ears, crowding out the answering cry of skin landing violently against skin.

  She slammed the second barrier into place, able to breathe a little clearer as the visions left, leaving only the voices. They spoke to her in hushed tones, telling her she wasn’t safe.

  “…beware…”

  “…have to find…”

  The voices were too loud. They were so earnest that Olyve was only vaguely aware of the fact that her own mouth was moving. The words she said were lost to the broken sentences.

  “You mustn’t trust…”

  “James Reeves.”

  Just as violently as it all began, Olyve jerked free. She slammed backward and away from the bed, landing sprawled out on the ground. Her hands throbbed along with her head but she managed to crawl over to where she dropped her gloves. With one last look at her now normal colored fingernails, she slid the gloves on before collapsing bonelessly.

  She didn’t realize she was crying until wet puddles formed in her ears.

  Chapter Two

  James Reeves stepped out of the carriage. The sickening thing powered jerkily via steam and what he could only describe as the mos
t unsophisticated pulley system he ever had the discomfort of sampling.

  “Many thanks, friend.” The yellow-toothed hackney driver chuckled when he tossed him a heavy coin.

  The easy way the driver spoke to him made James smile. He’d taken great care with his disguise and was pleased that it was holding up, even with the light snow that was falling. A sooty flake landed on the shoulder of his tattered green velvet waistcoat and he made no attempt to brush it off. The stained spots would only lend to his desired appearance.

  Underneath the worn great coat, he wore a snug black shirt of simple wool. It was plain and modest, nothing near what the aristocrats of the season were wearing. Leather straps formed an ‘X’ across his chest, each connecting with the wide leather belt at his waist. On either hip, he wore a low pouch with tarnished buckles. To any pickpocket they’d seem too flat and old to be worth stealing, even though they carried the various parts that formed one of his weapons.

  The weight of the gun at his back comforted him. The cooling mechanism felt good on his skin, despite the cold, letting him know that the barrels were in no danger of going off on their own. He made them specifically to release steam steadily before arming, so that the carrier would know if they had become imbalanced.

  Several knives rested against his figure, including a spring-loaded gadget that he still needed to test properly. It would send diminutive knives out from the straps that crossed his chest and back, impaling anything they came in contact with. The steam used to launch them would burn his skin, which was why the straps were the best leather available, as well as sewn with brass threads to absorb the heat.

  He stood still for a moment, making sure that no one was following him. Even with the colored half-frame bifocals resting on his nose, he knew his eyes were his worst give away. The striking green muted and muddied into a nice hazel thanks to the glasses but he still had to be careful.

  Weapons and surveillance check completed, James began walking. The Fourth Quarter was a filth-covered rat hole filled with gamblers and prostitutes. No one from the First or Second would be foolish enough to venture into the yawning abyss of danger. Not if they were looking to come out alive.

  Lucky for him, he wasn’t an aristocrat today.

  Fistfuls of sleet continued to drop from the sky, drumming ash into the already squalid grounds. A group of mud-plungers walked right past him on their way to the other Quarters, their filthy bare feet leaving tracks across the few rough sidewalks that existed. There was little to no light, thanks to the neglected streetlamps. The moon was out, hanging sadly in a purple sky that swallowed up the setting sun. Every few minutes, James would catch the glance of a wayward constable, taking time away from his beat to dally with the same riffraff he should have been putting behind bars.

  No one paid him any attention until he came to stop before a rickety building guarded by a couple of no-neck thugs. “’Ey, you. Think you can stroll in ’ere by yourself, do ya?”

  James buried his hands in his pockets, fingering the metal balls of gunpowder and steam that he kept on hand. These men weren’t supposed to be here. They were probably hoping to steal some coin from anyone attempting to get into the infamous gambling hall. He didn’t have time for the distraction, but there wasn’t much he could do to avoid it now.

  With a quiet shrug, he lowered his voice, adopting the rough and tumble accent of the streets. “You don’ want to be givin’ me trouble, no sirree. Got bus’ness and you best be letting me pass.”

  The second thug snickered. “What if we don’t? Ain't heard a thing ’bout a new face poppin’ up and we don’t looike uninvited guests here.”

  Three to one odds weren't a problem for James. He rubbed his hands along the balls, tucking two into his palms before withdrawing his hands. “Move or I’ll ’ave to make way meself. Like I said, gots bus’ness and I can’ be late.”

  One of the men let out a loud guffaw, bending over and slapping a hand the size of a ham against a knee of equal proportions. “Cocky little shit, this one. Y’d think you could take all of us with that kind of talk.”

  James shrugged, sidestepping as a third mammoth man tried to catch him from behind. A knife flashed and James caught an arching arm. He rolled, keeping his hold, and going to one knee before releasing the huge body.

  His momentum caught the big man unaware and his attacker didn’t make a sound as he flipped through the air. He landed hard but didn’t have time to scramble back up, as a hard knee connected with the side of his head viciously, knocking him out.

  The other two winced when their companion hit the ground. James took full advantage of their stunned hesitation, throwing a ball to each one of them. In midair the little brass weapons unfurled, spinning gears opening until they were in the shape of tiny crabs. Upon contact, their claws sank into the flimsy material of their victims’ clothing.

  James couldn’t help but grin as the men scrambled to get the gadgets off. It was no use. They exploded with a shock of red steam that floated up into the air and passed by open mouths and flexing nostrils. Both men were unconscious before they hit the ground.

  Keeping his head lowered, James hissed low in his throat. The noise echoed off the building along with the sounds of the drumming slush that collected in slippery globs. He was completely soaked and in a bad mood but he quickly righted himself. For several minutes, he stood still, simply listening to the weather and his steady heartbeat.

  A soft, male voice snaked out to disturb the symphony of silence. “Can you go nowhere without causing some kind of commotion? Honestly.”

  A deep sigh escaped James before he could catch it. He knew that if he looked around, there would be no one there. He moved carefully to retrieve his gadgets before straightening his clothing, not bothering with the still forms of his would-be attackers.

  The disembodied voice continued. “I mean, really. You were all of five feet away from safety and yet you managed to end up in a fight.”

  Finally, he made his way toward the building and the awaiting warmth that beckoned. He didn’t move to take off any of his wet clothes, simply stood in the foyer, dripping. Even though the building looked like a mess from the outside, the inside was another matter entirely. It was well kept, clean, and even a little luxurious. The wooden beams that kept it together gleamed. Sanded carefully, they set the tone of the high-end venue. There were even a few pictures hung on the walls that he could see. The floor was comprised of simple rushes, not what one would expect from a house in such a modern age, but they were clean and soft, made up mostly of silky petals.

  “Oh no. It’s just as I thought. You managed to get injured in that little tiff, didn’t you?”

  James turned to scowl at the average looking man who had addressed him. His green eyes collided with those of simple brown. His frown only increased as the man continued to smile at him, withstanding the scrutiny of his gaze.

  The man’s entire face was something of little note. He was average height, average build, and had brown hair. He looked like someone who could be anyone, and that was probably why he was his contact.

  When James finally deigned to answer him, he kept his voice steady, no longer needing the fake accent. “It’s not as if I had any choice in the matter. You could have had them cleared out before I got here, you know.”

  “Yes, yes. I could have done that, but then where would I get my daily dose of fun?”

  “Aeschylus…” He drew out the codename pointedly.

  “Yes, yes. I know, Prometheus. The gamblers will be arriving soon and you don’t have time to listen to me ramble on. I’ll be right back, then.”

  James sighed again, running his hands through his thick hair. This summons had come while he was in the middle of an operation, which could only mean it was urgent as well as important. He had only been called off of an assignment once before and that hadn’t ended well.

  Looking around, he felt a weight of awe once again. The Hall had a blatantly black and white nature. It was one of the most
notorious gambling houses in the Fourth Quarter, which said a lot. After a certain hour, this place would be full of seedy characters and loose women. James had been here before, when the trap had been set, and he could still smell the putrid scent of human depravity. It had a reputation for danger and hedonism.

  The Hall was also a secret base for the best weapons a monarchy could have: intelligence operatives. James was part of a special organization known only by the Monarch and a few close advisors: The Stieber Watchmen.

  Comprised not only of informants and police, they had operatives everywhere. From paper editors to housemaids who worked for the ton, The Watch had its hands in every pie imaginable. There were prostitutes as well as gentry in the group.

  James grinned to himself; after all, he was one of the nobles working for the government.

  Aeschylus–at least that was his name while he ran the Hall–stepped back into view, all the teasing laughter gone from his expression. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you are being reassigned. Your current job will be discarded.”

  “Is it that bad, then?”

  Aeschylus held out an ornate box, made up of smooth gold panels as well as exposed gears. “You’re one of our best and being pulled off an already vital mission in order to see to this one personally. It must be pretty bad.”

  James’s stomach turned and for a heart wrenching moment, he wasn’t seeing the eyes of a fellow operative. Instead, he was watching tears roll down the pale cheeks of a wide-eyed little girl. Her brown eyes glazed over, even as her mewl of pain reverberate against his eardrums like a high note hitting fragile glass.

  “Hey, now. Prometheus?”

  Shaking free from the haunting memory, James took the package. A shadowed indention in the shape of a flame sat on the top of it, marking it with his symbol. He chose to ignore the sad, thoughtful frown on his handlers face. “You don’t have to accept, James. The Crown is well aware of your recent…challenges. A sacrifice so large is worthy of a reprieve.”

  “I don’t need a break, old friend. Right now, all I need is to use a quiet room.”