This Deadly Engine

by Philip Ligon

  Yet a part of myself died with the cyclops.

  I missed him.

  I raised my mug. “A toast to Perrin of the Plemends. As honorable and as true a cyclops who ever lived.”

  Cavendish, Rebecca, and Sera raised their mugs.

  We drank at the same time.

  After a moment of silence, Rebecca asked, “What are you thinking about?” The sound of her voice still made a tingle of excitement move through me.

  “Life, and all that lies before us.” I took out the Gray Heart. So small, yet so powerful. So deadly, yet so full of life.

  Cavendish said, “We should return it soon.”

  “Indeed. First, though, let us enjoy good company and good drink. I think we deserve such a simple pleasure.”

  The gnome raised his mug. “In that case, we should toast again.” He cleared his throat as he looked around for Leesal. Not seeing her, he climbed atop the table. “To adventures we have lived through. And to adventures yet to come. May we stay true to our friends. May we stay true to our hearts. And may we remain true to each other.”

  We raised our mugs together.

  THE END

  Excerpt from The Ghost Machine

  If you love Steampunk, continue your reading with Silver Empire’s Gothic Horror Steampunk novel, THE GHOST MACHINE, written by Kristen Brand! Read the first chapter here, or download the book today!

  The Ghost Machine

  The door shut behind me with a deep thud followed by a clink as the nurse locked it from the other side. A jingle of keys, a rustle of skirts, and then the nurse’s footsteps trailed off down the hallway, leaving me alone in silence.

  The meat pie I’d eaten for lunch tried to make its way back up my throat. I swallowed firmly.

  My new room was small and simple. The only pieces of furniture were a bed with white blankets and a battered wooden nightstand. There was a washing basin, bucket latrine, and… well, that was all. Night was approaching fast, but they hadn’t even left me a candle. The walls were gray and bare, and metal pipes ran across the ceiling. The window had cheerful yellow curtains at least, but the effect was ruined by the iron bars outside the glass.

  Bars… locks… My knees shook, and the room swam dizzily before my eyes.

  No. I pressed my hand against the door to steady myself. I refused to faint, no matter how ladylike and appropriate it might be in these circumstances.

  Someone had brought in my trunk, and it rested forlornly in the corner as if shrinking away from its unfamiliar surroundings. I rushed to it and began to unpack.

  I had brought very little. The patients at Auttenberg Asylum wore only nightgowns and dressing robes, so there was no need for an extensive wardrobe. I tried to picture myself walking down the hallways in my favorite pink-and-peacock-blue gown, but the asylum was so dreary and gray it would probably suck the color right from the fabric. I’d wanted to pack my dime novels but hadn’t been allowed. The nurses had said the tawdry stories would upset my fragile state of mind.

  At least I’d been able to bring my most important belongings: a leather-bound journal and a family photograph. I set them on the nightstand, and some of the tension in my chest loosened at the sight of my parents’ faces even though right now they were in a steam-powered coach traveling back down the mountain. Papa, in his finest tailcoat and pince-nez glasses, smiled warmly at the camera while Mama remained solemn beneath her flower-covered hat. I stood between them, looking like a younger version of my mother. Both of us were plump, blue-eyed, and blond (though the grays of the photograph didn’t show it). I wondered if these past awful weeks had left my face as worn and tired as it had hers.

  Already I was done unpacking, and I looked desperately around the small room for something else to keep me busy. Outside, the sun was setting, dark clouds atop a sky awash in violets and blues. My window had a view of the asylum’s courtyard, which might have been nice enough in spring, but now thick snow hid the barren lawn and flower beds. Beyond the iron fence, the forest began, trees coated in ice so that they glittered in the last rays of sunlight. It would have been pretty if I were in the mood to appreciate it.

  I hoped my parents would make it to the valley before nightfall. Perhaps they were stopping at a quaint little inn right now. It had taken us the better part of a day to reach Auttenberg, and now that I had nothing more to distract me, I realized how tired I was from the journey. It was still early. Had I been at home, we wouldn’t even be starting dinner for another hour or so. But I wasn’t home, and I might as well go to bed now and recover my strength for tomorrow.

  I undressed as quickly as possible, threw on my nightgown, and slid under the blankets. The mattress was hard (predictable, really), and the blankets smelled of whatever chemical had been used to clean them. I took my journal from the nightstand and squinted in the poor light as I scribbled a few lines about my small, depressing room. By the time I’d finished, my eyelids were heavy and begging to be closed, so I lay on the pillow and pulled the blankets tightly around me.

  Slowly the sky grew darker. Every so often I’d hear a distant murmur or a door being closed, but the building was overwhelmingly silent. I curled up, trying to protect myself from the growing cold. No, “cold” wasn’t the best word for this room. “Arctic” was more accurate. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees in the past minute. I knew I was high in the Carpathian Mountains, but…

  What was that light? It couldn’t be morning already. I opened my eyes—and my breath froze in my lungs.

  No. Not again.

  It was a woman. But then it wasn’t, not really. Women weren’t eerily transparent. Something that looked like both smoke and light composed her body, and she was right next to the bed, her feet hovering just inches in front of my face. At first, I thought she was floating, but I was wrong. A rope made of the same wispy, glowing substance as her body was fastened to the pipes in the ceiling. It ended in a noose around her neck. My mouth opened in a voiceless scream, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

  The woman was beautiful in an otherworldly sort of way. She wore a lacy, white nightgown like my own and had dark hair that ran wild down her back. Her face was as white as her dress, her features smooth and fair—all except the eyes because she had none. In their place were two gaping dark holes like pools of shadow.

  I was suffocating. I forced myself to inhale. Thank God the woman’s black gaze wasn’t directed at me. She hung facing the window and didn’t seem as if she would move.

  Stop it. I was thinking of her as a spirit, but she wasn’t. She was a hallucination, a symptom of my insanity. She wasn’t real. I should ignore her and go to sleep.

  Heaven help me, but I couldn’t.

  She seemed so real. I was afraid to move in case the action drew her attention. The thought of her turning to me, looking at me, was more than I could bear. I couldn’t even close my eyes, terrified if I didn’t keep watch, she’d come for me. I lay there, muscles clenched tight, cold sweat on my chest and back. How long would the specter—the hallucination—remain?

  Maybe I should call for help. I’d come here so the doctors could treat my hallucinations, and I’d never needed treatment as desperately as I did right now. But just thinking about calling out made me sick to my stomach with fear. I kept picturing the woman turning to me at the sound, snarling and attacking. She’d tear my soul right out of my chest and send it to hell.

  She’s not real, I told myself. I forced my lips to part, my mouth suddenly dry. I’d have to shout so the nurses would hear me; otherwise, it would be useless. My heart raced, feeling like it had migrated from my chest into my throat. Seconds turned to minutes, and I couldn’t make so much as a tiny whine. My voice wouldn’t come. I couldn’t do it.

  The nurses probably wouldn’t come anyway. This was an asylum; they must be used to hearing screams in the night. It was a terrifying thought that if I cried out for help, no one would come. Nor was it comforting to realize I was a coward.

  If I couldn’t act, then I
should ignore the hallucination and go to sleep. I forced my eyes to close, but they flew open an instant later, staring wildly at the hanged woman. She hadn’t moved. It was no use watching her. Even if I saw her coming, there was nothing I could do to stop her from killing me.

  With that cheerful thought, I closed my eyes again. Hopefully, sleep would come soon and save me from this nightmare.

  Keep reading THE GHOST MACHINE now!

  Ella Rosenfeld doesn’t feel insane.

  In fact, she feels quite normal. Exactly how she did before the accident.

  Until the sun goes down. Then the hallucinations start...and the ghosts come. Sometimes they speak to her. Sometimes they merely stare. But they couldn’t possibly be real, could they?

  Checking herself into an asylum in the mountains of Eastern Europe, Ella hopes the doctor there can cure her. She doesn’t want to be a burden to her family. She doesn’t want to keep seeing ghosts, or whatever they are, every night. Desperate for relief, she’ll try anything to banish the dead.

  But there is no solace to be found. Only silence, knitting, and cruelty. Soon Ella realizes that while she could check herself into the asylum, she cannot check herself out. At the mercy of the doctor, her treatments grow more barbarous and agonizing by the day.

  Ella must escape before the horrific experiments leave her dead. Or completely mad. But her only hope is the surly and stubborn Baron. Only he can stand between her and the twisted treatments her Doctor insists are necessary.

  Will the Baron help Ella or betray her? And what terrible fate is waiting for Ella beneath the asylum?

  Check into Auttenburg Asylum and read The Ghost Machine today!

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  Thank you!

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you for all who helped usher this book along its journey. For Sally, Janice, Karen, and Morgon for reading, critiquing, editing, making observations, and asking questions. For Morgon and Russell for willingly taking on this book series and guiding it through the publishing process. For Brian, Jim, and James for their ‘encouragement.’ And especially for my family for putting up with all of this writing stuff.

  About Philip Ligon

  Philip Ligon lives in the northern reaches of Alabama, where modern science brings what was once thought to be magical to reality.

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  THIS DEADLY ENGINE

  By Philip Ligon

  Published by Silver Empire

  https://silverempire.org/

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover by Steve Beaulieu

  Copyright © 2019, Matt Ligon