Gaslit Armageddon (Clockworks of War Book 2)

by Jason Gilbert

  Kane watched as Farnsworth started down the pier, leading the two or three men with him. More men walked out of the shadows of the wooded areas and dark streets, making their way toward the pier and the boat. Kane counted in his mind.

  Nine. Nine men.

  Why nine? Was the Master into something involving Voodoo? It made sense. So far, Nick was the only Voodoo Priest Kane had met in Charleston. But thinking that he was the only Voodoo Priest around was as ludicrous as thinking that Gentry only had a single motivation for anything he did.

  He had moved out from his hiding spot behind a large palm tree and crept toward the pier. He reached with his hearing, heard Cliff and Garrett whispering on the boat.

  So much for sign language.

  “Is that all of ‘em?” Cliff sounded impatient.

  Garrett grunted.

  “If that freak did his job right, then yeah. Should be nine.”

  “Guy scares the shit out of me.” Cliff snorted, made grating sound in the back of his throat, and spat into the water. “Men that control the shadows and Voodoo Priests. Leave it to the Master to look to a magic-usin’ lunatic to do this shit.”

  “Just keep them negroes away from the salt water. You know the deal.”

  Salt water? Kane thought. Why does that matter?

  Kane made his way slowly down the pier behind the last man in line, keeping low and ducking behind a tack box here or a pile of rope there. He watched as Farnsworth stopped and turned, letting the others pass. He looked back down the pier.

  Directly at Kane.

  “What’s he lookin’ at?” Kane saw Cliff stand up in the boat and look down the pier. He looked up at Farnsworth. “Go look, slave.”

  Farnsworth moved down the pier toward Kane, his expression still slack, his eyes dull. Kane stepped out in front of the Captain, his hands up.

  It all happened too fast. Kane tried to speak to Farnsworth, but the man grunted, picked up speed, barreled into Kane like a locomotive. Kane went flying backward, landed hard on his back and hip. He got to his feet in flash, the spell out of his mouth before he could stop it.

  “Aethereum Ignus!” He swung his arm to hurl the fireball at Farnsworth, stopped short.

  No fireball.

  Damn!

  Farnsworth was on him, his hand tangled up in Kane’s shirt as his other hand balled into a fist and plowed into Kane’s face. Kane saw flashes in his eyes, shook it off as Farnsworth shifted and hurled him down the dock. Kane hit the boards hard, rolled, ended up on his back. The other men came down the dock to help, all of them with the same emotionless expression on their faces. Farnsworth got Kane back to his feet, made to drag him toward the boat. Kane reared up, and kicked out at Farnsworth’s chest. The captain grunted from the wind being knocked out of him as he fell back into the group. Kane hit the deck again, rolled, and watched as one of the men lost his balance and fell into the water. He was up in an instant, treading water as he looked around, his eyes wide with panic.

  “Whe-where am I?!” he cried. “What the hell am I doing here?!”

  The man’s head snapped to the side, his body limp as he went face down and floated in the water. Kane looked up and saw Cliff standing over him, his lever-action still aimed at the floating body. Cliff looked at Kane, his face contorted in rage.

  “Damn it, I’ll pay for that,” the Hunter said. He looked away as Richard rose from the shadows beside him. The demon looked down at the body, then back up at Cliff, his mouth turned down in a dour expression.

  “The Master will not be pleased.”

  “I’ll pay for that one, no doubt.” He turned his rifle on Kane, chambered a round, and nodded. “Then again, he might be a little more forgiving when he sees the new toy we just brought him.”

  Richard looked at Kane, his expression unchanging.

  “The powder needs nine.”

  Cliff grunted.

  “We think. For all we know, it works fine with one. Only one way to find out.”

  “It doesn’t work on magic users,” said Richard. He looked back at Cliff. “We’ve tried.”

  Kane felt heat in his fingers. The spell. Had it worked? He could have the fireball out, blast the rifle out of Cliff’s hands. Make a getaway. He could report to Anderson.

  Or he could get to Harbor Plantation.

  It was an opportunity he likely wouldn’t get again. He didn’t know exactly where the place was. Going in as a captive would probably be the only way. He could escape later. Maybe.

  It was a risk he’d have to take.

  Kane slowly put his hands up as Richard smiled. He leered at Kane as he spoke to Cliff and Garrett.

  “Get them aboard. And tie up the Magician.”

  * * *

  The boat sailed only a few miles down the shore to a small pier. Kane stretched his fingers a bit, the rope around his wrists tight enough to make his hands tingle. Kane watched as Farnsworth sat motionless with the other men. What the hell had they done to him?

  And why had the other man come to his senses when he’d hit the water?

  Garrett steered the boat to the pier, waited as Cliff jumped out and tied the vessel off. He looked down at the men, blew a snot rocket into the water, wiped his face off.

  “Out. Get into that cart over yonder.”

  The men did as they were told, standing and carefully climbing onto the pier. Farnsworth waited for his turn, standing next to Kane.

  “Farnsworth,” Kane whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  Farnsworth stared ahead, unflinching.

  “Don’t bother,” Garrett said from the helm. “Cain’t hear you. Well, he might can. He sure don’t give a shit, though.”

  Kane looked at Garrett, wriggled his hands against the rope. He had to act like he was there against his will. Had to make it convincing, though he would’ve felt some satisfaction from punching the shit out of Garrett.

  “What do you want with these men?” Kane asked.

  Richard appeared on the dock, leered down at Kane.

  “You’ll know soon enough,” he said, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “You have an appointment with the Master, Piggy. And that is an appointment you’d best not miss.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sun rose in the morning sky, the humidity slowly, agonizingly turning the already damp air into soup as the coach made its way past the sign welcoming guests to Harbor Plantation. Kane looked at Farnsworth, searched the man’s face for any sign that he might recognize him, might be aware of what was happening around him. How much trouble they were all in. All nine of them.

  Eight. Kane’s thoughts went back to the man they shot in the water with a small tinge of guilt. If he’d been able to cast, he could have saved the guy. Burned the Hunters to char.

  The inside of the carriage began to stink. Someone had urinated themselves.

  The men sat chained to the walls, staring into whatever void their mind’s eye was locked on. Kane had tried for hours to get Farnsworth to speak. Nothing. The man just stared at him. Through him. His eyes were glassed, open and unseeing.

  Kane turned and looked out the barred window, the sky slowly lighting up as the sun crawled toward its rightful place in the sky. He could see slaves working, plowing and reaping in the wheat while others picked in the cotton fields. He craned his neck a little and saw an apple orchard further away. Harbor Plantation was impressively large. He knew that plantation homes typically sat in the center, and he wondered what other fields were in the back.

  After the Civil War and the political occupation of the Confederacy by the Union Oligarchy, all Southern plantations were expected to output multiple crops, which meant expanding their size to accommodate the demands of the Union. Many of the Southern Oligarchs had bowed easily, the amount of money and opportunity too much for them to turn away. Others had cooperated simply to stay alive, knowing that the alternative was to live in poverty and be at the mercy of the very people they’d labeled as property, the slaves who had risen up and completely destab
ilized the Confederacy. The Slave Rebellion hit the Southern Oligarchy where it hurt the most: in their purse. Neglected or destroyed plantations meant no money. Commerce within the Confederate States of America had come to a halt as funding was poured into trying to fight back the slaves.

  It hadn’t worked. Not until the Union offered to step in. Now only certain plantations had favor, and Harbor was apparently one of them.

  Kane reached out with his hearing, tried to catch any conversation between the slaves. Anything that might help. Heavy breathing from exertion. The occasional grunt.

  Nothing else.

  He wanted to cast his Ethereal Sight and look at them, but he knew that he’d likely see the same thing he was seeing inside the coach. Blank expressions, eyes glassy and staring. The auras might be different, but Kane could only see auras in his Sight. Knowing what they meant was a different story, and his mother hadn’t been around to teach him once he’d come into his powers.

  That, and a spell would set off the Seeker and alarm the Hunters. It wasn’t a passive ability like his hearing. He needed to stay alive. Needed to get free and inform the Revolution.

  Tabitha.

  The coach pulled up in front of the most impressive mansion Kane had ever seen. He’d been born in South Carolina, but his parents moved North only a few weeks later to escape the chaos in the South. Kane had never seen one of the homes up close. The few times he’d been to South Carolina, he was in charge of inventory on the transport airship and stayed aboard while the others brought in the goods and materials for the voyage back to the Union.

  The house was white, two stories with large columns in the front and a porch that spanned the entire front. The windows were fitted with black shutters, the front doors a deep red that reminded Kane of blood. Each window was adorned with a cross inlaid with gold.

  The coach came to a halt. The front door opened, and two well-dressed slaves stepped out into the daylight, their expressions no different than the rest. Garrett barked at them to assist in getting the new arrivals out of the back.

  “Leave the white one,” he said. “That one goes inside.”

  The rear door of the coach opened, and the two men stood there staring in. Cliff came around from the front and stepped inside, unlocked the chains as he muttered under his breath.

  “Damn! One of them pissed himself! Good Gawd the stink!”

  “Dadgum,” Garrett said from the outside. “I ain’t cleanin’ that shit up. Have the one who did it clean it. He ain’t gonna care no more no way. Just don’t shoot him, is all.”

  Cliff shook his head.

  “Shit, I don’t need this. Damn.”

  “Scared to tell your Master about your little slip?” Kane asked, unable to help himself.

  Cliff snarled at him.

  “You shut the fuck up.” He unlocked the cuff on Kane’s ankle, then reared back and landed a solid punch. Kane fell to the coach floor, his jaw hurting from the blow, his head spinning a little. “I want a comment from you, I’ll beat it outta you.”

  “Yeah, noted,” Kane said, blinking away the stars in his eyes. He pushed himself back up and scooted out of the way as Farnsworth and the others rose lazily to a crouched position and shuffled out of the coach in single file.

  “Stand over there, and wait,” Garrett ordered as they filed out. They did as they were told without argument or hesitation, their movements still slow and slightly meandering. Obediently confused.

  Kane breathed out. Farnsworth should’ve been a one-man wrecking crew the minute he set foot on soil. The Farnsworth he knew didn’t take orders from assholes like the Hunters. You had to earn his loyalty.

  That Farnsworth was gone. This was nothing but a shell.

  “Get out, Piggy,” Garrett barked, leaning inside the coach.

  Kane looked at him.

  “More effective coming from Richard.”

  Cliff stepped back in, grabbed Kane by the shirt, and yanked him toward the door.

  “I told you to keep your damned mouth shut,” he growled. “Garrett! Help me with this fella!”

  Garrett stepped in, gabbed Kane’s other arm, and the two dragged him out into the morning light. Richard stood by the black men, smiling as Cliff and Garret stood Kane up next to Farnsworth.

  “Hello, Piggy,” he said.

  “Better,” Kane said, not looking away from Richard’s dark stare. Cliff drove his fist into Kane’s stomach hard enough to make him retch. He coughed, spittle drooling from his mouth as he bent over double. Garrett and Cliff stood him back up as Richard looked at the two well-dressed black men.

  “Take them.”

  The two turned and led Farnsworth and the group away toward the side of the house. Richard stepped up to Kane, looked him up and down as he got close enough for Kane to smell his breath.

  “You are incomplete. Where is the pretty little thing you keep with you?”

  “Where you can’t get to her,” Kane said, his muscles tensing as he resisted hitting the bastard. They wouldn’t kill him. Not until he met this Master. But they obviously had no problem beating the shit out of him. What was next? He wouldn’t do anyone any good if he couldn’t walk.

  Richard laughed, moving close enough to where their noses barely touched. His voice was a whisper.

  “There is nowhere safe from me. Where there is light, there is shadow.” He pulled away, gestured to the front doors as he spoke to Cliff and Garrett. “Time for you to meet your new Master.”

  * * *

  The mansion interior gave Kane the sense of stepping back to a time before the Steam Revolution. He glanced at the front door as he passed by, noticed the ornate carving of a cross with a Bible verse printed in brass plate underneath the knocker.

  “Joshua 24:2, 15. As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

  The light fixtures were non-gas, each requiring a candle and a poor soul responsible for walking the house and lighting each one before the night sent the place to pitch black. The wood floors and walls weren’t unlike the mansion on the battery, but the paintings on the wall were strikingly different. Each was a different depiction of children or people praying as rays of light shone down on them. Some were paintings of tables set for a meal, others renderings of the cross. A few portraits of people hung here and there, people Kane assumed to be family members. As old as the paintings were, he gathered some of them were either dead or old enough to be his grandparents by now.

  The Hunters led him into a lavish study, the walls lined with books, all neatly rowed on shelves that were built into the structure of the house. A massive desk sat in the room opposite the French doors, the high-backed chair turned to the fireplace, turned away to all those who entered.

  Garrett and Cliff dropped Kane into a chair in front of the desk, the stepped back as Richard went around to the person behind it and spoke. Kane focused in.

  “We have him, Master.”

  “Do you?” Richard stepped back as the chair turned around to face Kane. The man was old, likely in his seventies. He wore a white suit, the color matching his goatee and handlebar mustache. He wore no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. The hair on his scalp was thin, liver-spotted skin showing through the strands of white. He wore a monocle over his right eye, his left eye covered by a black patch. He lifted a corn-cob pipe to his lips, struck a match, and lit the tobacco, pulling the smoke into his lungs as the leaf smoldered. The smell was sweet and charred. Kane would’ve found it pleasant under different circumstances.

  The old man leaned forward, eyeing Kane as he smiled. His teeth were yellowed, stained by years of smoking and coffee, judging by the cup on the desk and the carafe next to it.

  “So you’re the one who’s been causin’ my Hunters so much trouble,” he said, his Southern accent thick and proper.

  Kane met his stare, not flinching.

  “I can be difficult,” he said, keeping his tone casual. Casual seemed to bother Richard, who glared hard at him. Kane made a mental note to keep at it. �
��You must be the one they call The Master.”

  “Thaddeus Douglas,” the man said, standing as he reached across the desk to offer a handshake. Things were certainly different in the South. Kane would’ve spat in Gentry’s face before he shook his hand. He was outnumbered, and South Carolina wasn’t his home, birthplace be damned. He reached out, took Douglas’s hand, and shook.

  “Kane Shepherd.”

  “I know,” Douglas said, sounding impressed as he released Kane’s hand and sat back down in his chair. “I’ve heard all about you. I thought that negro Marsh Witch was a handful. But you, sir.” He gave a low whistle through his front teeth. “You are a whole ‘nother story.”

  Kane bristled a little at the word “negro.” He really hated that word. He’d heard it one too many times while he’d been working the barges. Most of the crewmen referred to the blacks that worked on the unloading crews using no term other than negro. He’d never understood disrespecting people because of their skin. A few of his crew members had a love of the word, among other terms.

  Outnumbered, he reminded himself. Remember?

  “He can create fire,” Richard said, grinning at Kane. “Unlike his woman.”

  “The ice Magician?” said Douglas, tilting his head at Richard, but keeping his eyes on Kane. “Your woman? Fire and ice!” He slapped the desk and guffawed. “Whoo-wee! Now that is a combination from Hell!”

  “How do you know I’m a Magician?” Kane leaned forward. “I could be a witch.”

  “Simple,” Douglas said with a grunt. “I was warned about two Magician fugitives from the North. Two people tossin’ spells like a couple of fools show up in South Carolina. I’m many things, Mr. Shepherd, but a fool is not one of them.”

  A servant entered, one of the black men dressed in a suit. Kane caught him out of the corner of his eye, found himself unable to keep his eyes from widening a little as Anthony reached for the carafe, shook it slightly, then looked at Douglas.

  Anthony. The same man who worked for the Revolution. Christ.