Quicksilver Soul

Book 2: The Shadow Guild Series

by Christine d'Abo

Genres: Fantasy Romance; Victorian Romance; Science Fiction Romance; Steampunk; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

WHERE FEAR ENDS, LOVE BEGINS Nicola Tesla has never needed a man to complete her life. A gifted engineer, she has always had her experiments to keep her company-or she did, before her vile boss stole them. Now she's working at the Archives in New London, where the memories of the dead are stored. But it isn't long before Nicola discovers she's being watched . . . by a most intriguing, sinfully sexy man. Archivist Emmet Dennison should be busy extracting memories from the dead. Instead he's been asked to keep an eye on the brazen, strikingly beautiful Nicola Tesla. Soon Emmet and Nicola are shaken by an attraction neither of them wants. Yet when a nefarious man takes them hostage, Nicola and Emmet will need to rely on their attraction, and the growing bond between them, to stop a madman hellbent on destroying New London forever. Approx. 100,000 words.

Release date: April 1, 2014

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 400

Sample

Keegan O’Connor stayed huddled in the corner of his cell, his forehead pressed to the tops of his knees, and muddled through prayers he didn’t believe in. The man hadn’t been by to visit him for so long that he’d lost track of the time. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours, yeah? Surely not more than a day. The other Underlings would have noticed he hadn’t been seen in a while. They might even start to poke around, see if they could find his sorry arse. They’d assumed he’d been pinched by the Sentry if he didn’t show by midnight. Glyn would be pissed, and he’d catch an earful when he got back.

If he got back.

No one would miss him though. Not really. His mat in the abandoned house they used at night would be filled by another quick as could be. If Keegan was gone long enough that boy or girl would be put to work on Keegan’s streets to pull in the marks, though no one was as good as him. He was the best there was at parting them upper crust from their purses because he was special.

He’d lived longer on the streets than most. That first night all alone after his parents had been taken by the Clockwerker Guild had nearly killed him. It didn’t matter to their landlord that he was five and essentially an orphan. Ye can’t pay the rent then get the fuck out! His fingers turned purple from the cold, his cheeks forever scarred from the frostbite. If he hadn’t found the steam grate in the alley when he had, it would have been the end of poor little Keegs.

That had been the first time his special abilities showed. The one item he’d managed to take from his home before being cast out.

Without needing to look, Keegan reached into the pocket of his trousers and touched the small fob watch nestled between the thinning fabrics. His rising apprehension started to fade, making it easier for him to breathe once more.

It was only luck that the man hadn’t taken his one prized possession away from him. Yes, it was broken and comprised of worthless metals, but Keegan had seen boys killed for far less out on the streets by men who didn’t look a thing like killers. The man had even seemed pleased when Keegan showed him the trick that never failed to bring him coins from the muckety-mucks who pranced around the streets. They always liked him, liked the way he reminded them of their son, nephew, grandchild, and would step closer. He could make the metal sing, dance, do what he wanted, all with a single touch, pulling his marks in as they tried to figure out what he was doing.

Not that they ever could.

This bloke hadn’t been much different from the rest. He knew the man was American from the way he spoke his words, long and stretched out. There weren’t many tourists who came to New London these days, but when they did they were easy for him to pick clean. He’d be the poor starving waif, needing money for his mum. Oh, and look what I can do! It would be simple enough to show him the trick with his watch, spin a bit of a yarn about how the watch was magic, and when he was focused on the ticking of the hands, Keegan would reach into the bloke’s pocket and pinch his purse. Easy peasy.

What he hadn’t expected was for the man to wrap his hand around Keegan’s wrist, his fingers tighter than any metal band he’d ever felt. He’d thought he would surely be dragged off to the King’s Sentry and thrown into the prison in the guts of the Tower. Instead, the man made him perform the trick again and again until Keegan’s mind throbbed from the pressure. It was too much, made his brain hurt and his skin itch, like bugs beneath the surface trying to get free.

“I have a better place where you can show me, son.” The man smiled in a way that made him feel worse than his crawling skin. “Someplace quiet.”

Keegan’s weakened state made it easy for the man to haul him into the back of a hackney, that and the two men he had with him. Keegan had fought, kicked, and punched, called out for help, but no one cared. He was nothing more than an Underling, a street rat who was going to get his what for. That had been the last time Keegan had seen daylight.

Hours? It couldn’t be days, could it? Maybe. It was so hard to tell here in the dark. He shifted so his eye socket was covered by his kneecap. The pressure served as a short distraction for him, though he knew he’d adjust to the small pain soon enough. It was then that his stomach chose to rumble, reminding him of the thin soup he’d swallowed down for his breakfast… whenever that had been.

Approaching footsteps made him release his grasp on the watch and curl further into himself. It was a pointless act on his part; there was no place for him to hide in the empty cell. The bastard hadn’t even put him in one with a steam pipe for warmth against the cold winter’s air. With the sound of each approaching step, Keegan tried to make his brain work, to come up with an idea, some sort of plan to get out of here. But it had been far too long since he’d had a proper meal, and the chill in his bones made it hard to concentrate.

Not that he was going to give up. Fuck that and fuck the man if he thought Keegan would simply roll over and die. He’d survived the streets of New London up to this point, and he’d find a way to survive this, too.

The footfalls stopped with a soft shuffling of soles on stone. Keegan could feel the weight of the man’s stare on him through the cell bars, but refused to lift his face from his knees. He might be small and weaker than most, but he wouldn’t make it easy for the bloke. The second someone touched him, he’d launch himself at them, clawing at their eyes. Let’s see how much they like that.

“Well, that doesn’t look comfortable.” The click and grind of the gears of the locking mechanism that held this cell door closed filled the room. “And I’m sure you must be starving.”

The thought of food had Keegan turn his face so he could peer at the man. He was wearing a well-pressed suit, though the top hat and radiation goggles he’d possessed upon their first acquaintance were now missing. The man was smiling, his eyes crinkling at the sides, as he stepped into the small cell.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you better accommodations, but this warehouse was the best location I could find to suit my needs. With all of my equipment scattered about, I didn’t want you wandering away and getting hurt. Not until I have the opportunity to set up proper living accommodations. I promise that your stay here will be more pleasant in the future.”

Keegan knew every nook and cranny of New London’s darker sides. They hadn’t been in the hackney long enough to have gone out of the city. If they were actually in a warehouse, then it was likely they were down by the Thames. There weren’t many places they could be…

“Why’d ja bring me to Southwark, sir? There ain’t much down here. Or is ya planning to off me?”

The man grinned. “I knew you were a smart one. I could tell by that look in your eyes when you asked me if I wanted to see a trick. No, my boy, I’m not planning to off you. We’ll have to work on your vernacular if you’re going to stay here. You’ll need to speak proper English so I may understand you.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small bag. “Sweet?”

Keegan’s mouth began to water. Sweets were a temptation he’d rarely been faced with. He’d only had one or two before in his life, a stolen joy. “What I need to do for ’em? No one gives away things for free.”

“No, they don’t. I can tell you’ve got a shrewd business sense to go along with your special skills. I like that.” He tossed the bag so it landed by Keegan’s feet. “You are correct. I do need you to do something for me. But I believe in paying my employees up front, as a sign of good faith.”

Pay? He’d never earned a wage before. Even if he had, Glyn, the leader of the Underlings, would have taken every copper. Eyeing the bag, he let his hand slip from its resting place on his leg until it touched the cold stone floor. When the man made no attempt to stop him, he risked reaching out, brushing his fingers along the paper.

“Go on. They’re yours, and no one will take them. What’s your name again, son?”

“Keegan, sir.” He knew he shouldn’t take them, that nothing good ever came from accepting charity from strangers. But the smell had set his stomach rumbling once more and he knew he couldn’t resist. With one final look toward the man, Keegan took the bag and stretched his legs out.

The bag was still stiff, fresh from the confectionary where the man must have purchased the treats. Keegan opened the bag, revealing small squares coated in a white powder that stuck to his fingers, even after he placed one in his mouth. The sugar was a rare and precious delight as it melted away upon his tongue, pulling a smile from Keegan. “S’good, sir.”

“I’ve yet to meet a young lad who didn’t appreciate the taste of sweets.” The man cocked his head to the side. “And you should have said, ‘These are good, sir.’”

“Mmm.” His stomach rumbled in earnest as the treats filled the void. “These are good, sir.” His tongue stumbled over the speech, but he managed to mimic the man’s words.

“Well, Keegan, there are a lot more where those came from. I’m sure we can include the occasional bag as a part of your fee. I would expect a bright lad such as yourself to be able to deliver on your promises.” The man dusted off his hands before sliding them into his pocket. “How would you like to come work for me?”

Work? Keegan snorted. “I ain’t done a decent day’s work in me life, sir.”

“I find that hard to believe. An enterprising boy has to work hard to keep out of the grasp of the various guilds that plague this city. I imagine with your skills the clockwerkers would love to put you to work in one of their factories. Set you to toil away building some contraption or another for the king.”

He’d come close to being caught by them on a number of occasions. If it hadn’t been for the help of the Underlings, Keegan would have been buried deep in the guts of a machine long before now. No matter how harsh Glyn was, Keegan owed him for getting him off the street.

“I’m too quick for ’em, sir. They won’t catch me.”

“But you do like to work with the machines. Like your watch.”

Keegan shoved the last of the sugary treats into his mouth, holding them in his cheeks as long as he could before he gave in to the temptation to swallow. “That’s just a trick. Something to keep the dandies still so I can lighten their load.”

The man stepped farther into the cell, his smile widening slightly. “I’d like to see your trick again. You can consider it your first task, earning your treats.”

The throbbing in his head had lightened as the sweets worked their way through his body. “Sir? It’s just a stupid trick.”

“No, my boy.” The Man’s gaze narrowed. “Not stupid. From the beginning. The whole thing as though you’ve just met me.”

He supposed it was only fair. The man had paid up front, and Keegan enjoyed making people wonder. Ignoring the way his legs ached and his head spun, he slowly got to his feet. The metal of the watch was warm from his body, giving it a comforting feel against his cold hands. Keegan held it up, showing the unmoving hands of the watch.

“’Ello, sir. Wanna see a trick? This watch is special. It doesn’t work, but it does wot I tell it te do.”

He placed the convex back in the middle of his palm, presenting the cracked glass face for the man to see before Keegan closed his eyes. He thought it might be harder to find the quiet place in his head where he could see and feel the cogs of the watch, given how he currently felt. But the connection was easy enough to find. The spark of life that flowed through the metal, the soft hum as it vibrated against him, was still there, calling to him. The muscles in his shoulders and back relaxed as his awareness spread out.

Keegan could feel the man’s fascination, knew without looking that he was now three and three-quarters feet from him, approaching two and a third inches with each subsequent step. In his front jacket pocket was a second bag of sweets. Keegan would ask for those after. He knew that the man honestly had no intention of harming him, but there was something wrong. As though a dark stain had stretched across the man’s soul.

The first cog, the largest in the watch, the one that always got things started, clicked forward. It was getting impatient to play, wanting Keegan to help it dance. Fine. They would do this, and then he’d get his reward.

The slip and click of gear against gear became the beat of their tune. Keegan picked up the invisible thread and pushed it forward until the wire wound tight. Then a breath, a beat, and a simple nudge sent the cog flying forward. There it was! The rhythm and beat that made the metal slide together, a perfect instrument in an orchestra of motion.

Keegan took a breath and opened his eyes to stare at the now moving second hand. The soft tick, tick, tick was the only sound beyond their breathing. It wouldn’t last long. There was a gear deep inside the works that needed repair. It would grind on every second turn, slowing the dance until it stopped dead.

The man closed the distance between them. Once again his iron grip was around Keegan’s wrist, preventing him from moving. “I want you to make the minute hand move as well.”

There was a note in his voice that made Keegan shiver. It didn’t feel right next to the smile he still wore. It was off. Yet in this moment he was his boss, and Keegan could tell he meant what he said about the food and the room. It would be better than being on the streets, away from Glyn and his heavy hand. Maybe, if the man could actually be trusted, he’d finally be safe from the guilds and the coppers. Given the recent dealings with Jack the Ripper, Keegan wasn’t ready to trust a stranger.

“Now, please.”

Keegan didn’t need to close his eyes again, now that the connection was locked in place. The watch was still clear in his head, still listening to what he had to say. It only took a heartbeat to find the right path, the right gear, and give it a little push. It was simple to have it move, not a challenge at all. Easy, easy, easy to dance with them.

Keegan watched as the man’s eyes widened.

“Can I have that other bag of sweets now, sir?”

The grip around his wrist was now a painful brand, squeezing deep into his bones. Nails dug into his flesh, sending a bolt of pain up his arm and into a spot on his back. The man met his gaze. Keegan had come face to face with one of them zombies once, the archivists. He’d hated the way their white eyes looked as they hooked up their memory box to the dead body. While his eyes were blue, there was something else there, something that made Keegan’s stomach turn. Something that scared him in a way the zombies never did.

This man was a killer.

“Make it do something else.” The man’s voice was low and seeped into Keegan’s body. “Something special.”

He’d never tried to do anything beyond making the cogs spin. It was a bloody broken watch, not a clockwerker’s automaton. “No.”

“Come now, I thought you wanted that second bag of sweets.” The man patted the outside of his pocket. “This is nothing more than a distraction, a ruse. Show me what you can really do.”

“Fine.” But he wouldn’t do it for sweets. There was something about the man, a feeling Keegan couldn’t quite put a name to. A darkness, a hidden danger that Keegan knew he’d need to protect himself from. And yet he couldn’t turn down this opportunity to change his life. But Keegan had to proceed with caution. If Keegan had learned nothing else during his time on the streets, it was to gather as much information as possible. You never knew when you’d need it to save your neck.

It took him several moments to trace the spinning metal down to its center, but once he found the spot it was clear what he needed to do. With a thought, he pushed the metal, bending it in such a way that the tension broke. The second it snapped Keegan laughed and opened his eyes.

“Yes.” He grinned, watching the result of his handiwork. “How’s that for ya?”

The minute hand was spinning backward, opposite of the second hand, while the hour hand stood straight at the twelve. Each would cross over the stuck fast hour hand, giving the illusion of a man circling his arms in an effort to regain his balance.

“That’s perfect.” The man’s smile became a full-on grin. “You are a very special boy.” He released his hold on Keegan’s wrist and dropped the second bag of sweets on top of the watch. “Very special indeed.”

The temptation to eat the sugary treats was nearly blinding, but Keegan tucked them away in his pocket. “Can I leave?”

“Leave?” He crossed his arms, shaking his head. “I offered you a job. A position with my corporation, one of great importance, I might add. I don’t make such commitments lightly, and I’m always true to my word.”

“I don’t wanna work in no factory.” That was what had killed his parents. The night before their door was busted in and his parents were pulled out, kicking and screaming, he’d promised him mum he’d do what he could to stay out of the grip of the guilds. I’ll run away. I’ll die first. “I’d rather be out on the streets.”

“A factory?” He snorted, cutting the air with his hand. “Nothing of the sort. Do you think a man such as myself would be allowed to run a business here? An American living this close to the French? The guilds would just as soon see me dead as risk me getting a foothold on their business. No, this won’t be that sort of work.”

“Then what?”

“Why don’t you eat your sweets and we’ll discuss it?”

“I dunno.” It would be awfully good to have another taste of that sweetness. But he’d learned the hard way to save any extra food for the times when it was scarce.

The man’s gaze narrowed. He wasn’t expecting Keegan to say no to him. Well, he was an idiot if he thought someone would simply trust him. Respect and fear were the only two ways an Underling would pay attention, and Keegan was still an Underling, so he was afraid of nothing.

“What if I told you the job would entail working with a very special machine? And your payment would be room, food, and all the sweets you would ever want. If you’re concerned about this cell, I promise improvements will be forthcoming.” The man put his hand on Keegan’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You see, I dislike the guilds as much as you do, though that’s not the only reason why I’m here. I have a… special project that could only be accomplished here in New London. There aren’t many people I can trust to help me with a task this delicate.”

Keegan could appreciate that. “And you trust a street rat?”

It had been years since anyone had shown him any kindness, let alone trust. Not since his parents had been taken away by the guilds. They’d been able to make machines do special things too, though not in the way he could. They would work longer and longer hours, leaving him home alone to fend for himself. He still didn’t know why the guild took them the way they did, but he knew they were dead.

God, he’d been lonely, despite having fallen in with the Underlings. On the nights when he couldn’t sleep, Keegan would dream that his mum was still there, that she’d wrap her arms around him and kiss his cheek. His dad would pick him up and carry him around on his shoulder, so high that Keegan could touch the ceiling. Those were the nights he’d wake up with tears on his face, wishing someone, anyone, would hold him, take care of him.

This might be his chance to find a new family. Maybe the man could be a father for him. Keegan squirmed, not wanting to let the warm feeling growing in his chest show.

“What kinda machine is it, sir?”

He laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, none of that sir stuff with me. Come along and I’ll show you what I started to build. You can tell me what you think of it. I bet you’ll be able to make it do amazing things, maybe even offer suggestions on how to make it better. Even more than what you can with your watch.”

The hallway outside of his cell wasn’t in much better shape. The air was cool and damp, making it hard for Keegan to warm up.

“Thanks, sir. Ah, what should I call ya if not sir?” As they walked away, Keegan took the bag of sweets out of his pocket and shoved more of them into his mouth. I could get used ta this.

“In America it’s customary to refer to your employer by his name.” He reached down and ruffled Keegan’s hair. “You can call me Mr. Edison.”

Emmet Dennison stood outside the Ministry of Guild Relations building and let the bitter winter wind slam against him. The freezing temperatures were a welcomed change from the stagnant air of the minister’s office. The steam heat had been turned too high in the small space, which was filled with more bureaucrats than legally should have been allowed in one location. For seven hours he’d been forced to sit and listen to the demands of the government, the changes they expected the Archivist Guild to make in the wake of the recent tragedies that had gripped New London, all while being forced to suffer the stench of their sweat.

“We expect the archivists to do their duty, to extract the memories of the dead,” the minister said with such disdain it was nearly palpable. “Jack the Ripper was your guild’s doing. Your arrogance unleashed a monster upon this city, and he tore at our society’s very fabric. We are here to ensure your pride doesn’t cause further harm.”

Government inspections. Official records keepers. Liaising with the Hudson’s Bay Company. A list of all active archivists. A list of any other “secrets” the Archives might be keeping.

Bloody idiots didn’t have a clue what they were asking. As though any guild in New London would be willing to part with their deeply guarded skeletons, laying themselves out for others to pick apart. Pulling up his collar and securing his topper low on his head, he turned sharply and marched toward the iron walkway that would take him to the Archives.

Guild Master June had put him in charge of government relations while the rest of the Elders were busy with reconstructing their refuge. The physical structure of the building itself would take time to repair, the memory vaults having suffered the greatest amount of damage after the Archives’ central machine had gone into shutdown. Emmet along with every available archivist had been enlisted to help with inventory. Rows upon rows of shelves, each one containing dozens of memories, taken from New London’s deceased. So many memories lost, lives once stored for future generations snuffed out of existence.

Maybe they were better off now. Finally gone on to the afterlife.

No. The memories of the dead were a commodity so precious they couldn’t afford to lose a single one. Every effort was being focused on the rebuilding.

But it was the damage to the reputation of the archivists themselves that would be the hardest to fix.

They’d unwittingly created the most devastating killer New London had ever known. The zombies, as the public loved to refer to them, were a menace to both the living and the dead. They needed to be controlled, watched; otherwise, how could the people of New London be assured that they would remain safe? How could they know if another Jack the Ripper was hiding in the basement of the Archives? It was a refrain he was tired of hearing. How could the Guild Masters expect Emmet to right the mountain of wrongs that now lay atop the soul of the city without giving in to the demands of the king and his representatives?

He was third son of the Duke of Bedford, not a fucking god.

Darkness had crept upon the city while he’d been stuck inside arguing with fools. The glow from the sulfur lamps left pools of shadows and light across the frost-covered cobblestones. Emmet walked to the side of them, not wanting to face the continuing assault on his sensitive vision. He’d foolishly left his radiation goggles at the Archives. More and more, Emmet was finding himself distracted, an unfortunate habit that in the end would cause him physical harm if he continued.

The dark halls and cavernous rooms of the Archives provided him with respite from the growing radiation in the New London air, a reminder of their war with the French. Things would only get worse for him once he underwent his first extraction. His mind would slowly be filled with holes, picking away at his memories until he was left as a pale shadow of his former self.

Emmet adjusted his collar, pulling it tighter against his neck. He’d managed so far to put off his inevitable step to become a true archivist. While one by one his friends were assigned a mentor and an extractor, Emmet found other tasks, important responsibilities that required his presence anywhere but out on the streets of New London extracting memories from the deceased. It was only a matter of time. Soon the Archives would be repaired, the government would be appeased, and his name would once again appear at the top of the assignment roster.

His father would laugh if he knew how hard Emmet had worked to stay as far away as he could from the thing he’d begged to be allowed to do.

Bloody little fool. Go then, be nothing more than a harbinger of death. But don’t expect to come crawling back. I’ll harbor no zombies in this residence.

The gate that led to the iron walkways came into sight. The moving walkways that crisscrossed New London weren’t policed by the King’s Sentry or the Bow Street runners. Emmet could certainly afford to take a hackney, or could even have requested one of the Guild’s carriages to take him back to the Archives, keeping him out of harm’s way.

But where would the fun be in that?

The collector swallowed his copper as he pressed it into the slot. One of these days he’d love to find out where all the coins went.

As the gate closed behind him and Emmet gained his balance on the moving walkway, he took stock of his surroundings, cataloguing everything with a single glance and storing it in his eidetic memory. A group of three was in front of him, slumped forward in exhaustion as they stood silently. The iron walkway track joined in with a second, adding more bodies to the mix. Emmet slipped his hands into his overcoat, to curl his fingers around his pistol. Not that many were foolish enough to attack an archivist, but a person couldn’t be too careful. He looked around once more, catching the eye of a burly man, who sneered at him. Emmet silently dared him to make a move by refusing to look away. The contact lasted only a moment before the man turned his face away from Emmet’s.

It was a good thing the man hadn’t pushed him tonight, given his foul mood. He’d been itching for a fight for weeks now, needing to find a way to burn off his excessive energy. Even a covert visit to the boxing club the previous week had done little to quell his need to hit, punish, vent his frustrations at the direction his life had taken. He couldn’t risk losing that sort of control, not after he’d seen the result of what had happed to Jack.

No. Emmet knew he was under scrutiny by too many people to let his control slip now. Not simply because he’d gone against the Guild Masters’ orders and helped his friends Piper and Samuel, but because he’d never truly been one of them. His brief dissention had simply reinforced what many already believed to be true—Emmet was only a part of the guild for his own benefit.

A man stepped up beside him, his long black coat, high collar, and bowler doing little to hide his surreal visage. Emmet hadn’t been aware of his presence or his approach, which set the hair on the back of his neck on end.

Clearing this throat, Emmet kept his eyes forward. “Good evening, Administrator.”

The Administrators were the secret enforcement officers of the Archives. While the populace of New London was often scared of the archivists, the archivists were equally scared of what the Administrators would do to them. They were an all too real boogeyman who coexisted with them, watching their every move.

Even Emmet wasn’t above their watchful gaze or their rules.

“Good evening, Mr. Dennison. How was your meeting?” The man’s voice was as flat as the dark night.

“As I’d anticipated. Tedious and a waste of the guild’s time. I was able to deflect the majority of their requests, while ensuring the ones that required action would flow to the correct individuals so as to not inconvenience the Guild Masters.”

“Well done, Mr. Dennison.” His tone undercut the compliment.

There’d been rumors for the past several years that Emmet was being groomed to become an Administrator himself. They existed. . .