Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (47 page)

Additional themes include:
Mr. and Mrs. Myth
(Paranormal, fall 2014),
Out of This World
(Fantasy, winter 2015), and
Losers Weepers
(spring/summer 2015).

Visit
www.xchylerpublishing.com/AnthologySubmissions
for more information.

Look for these releases from Xchyler Publishing in 2014:

Tomorrow Wendell,
an urban fantasy by R. M. Ridley. June 2014

Relative Evil
, a suspense mystery by Debra Efert, July 2014

Black Sunrise,
sequel to
Shadow of the Last Men
and second book in the Next Man Saga by J. M. Salyards. August 2014

Accidental Apprentice
, a wizardry fantasy by Anika Arrington,September 2014

Mr. & Mrs. Myth: a Paranormal Anthology
, October 2014

Gun & Bohemia 2
by Pete Ford, November 2014

On the Isle of Sound and Wonder
, a Shakespearean steampunk rewrite by Alyson Grauer,December 2014

To learn more, visit
www.xchylerpublishing.com
.

BOOK BONUS: EXCERPT FROM SHADES AND SHADOWS: A PARANORMAL ANTHOLOGY (2013)

Darkness met Marcus’ eyes. Something had awoken him. He fumbled desperately for the matchbox on the nearby nightstand. At the same time that his fingers found the small tin, he heard the delicate clink of metal against the hardwood floor. With a scratch, the sulfur tip burst to life, casting a warm glow on the room.

Marcus slid from his sheets and scoured the floor for the ring he had knocked from the nightstand. A glint of diamond and a gleam of gold shone from under his bed.

As he stooped to retrieve the precious object, something beyond the ring caught his eye. On the opposite side of the bed, a pair of small, bare feet stood by his bedside.

The tiny flame burned down to his fingers, singeing them before disappearing and leaving the room in the darkness. Marcus’ heart pounded in his ears. He now recalled being awoken abruptly. Striking another match, he rose stiffly, afraid of what stalked him in his sleep, afraid to find the familiar face he longed for and knew he would never see again.

The creak of floorboards and the slamming of the window behind him broke the dark silence. He spun quickly, and his tiny light snuffed again.

Nothing but blackness and the silhouette of the swinging window met his gaze.

Was that all? Or had he seen something else disappear from the sill the moment he turned?

With four strides, Marcus found himself looking out onto the familiar narrow streets and crowded buildings under the dark London sky. Three stories below, a post lit the flat façade of the building with the glow of its gas lamp.

It was just another dream.

Marcus sighed, then chuckled at his childishness as he brushed his sand-colored hair from his brow. How foolish he was to leave the window unlatched. Turning back to the dark room, he lit the candle on the dresser beside him. He rested his elbows on the dresser’s edge and placed his cheek against his upturned palm. Weary hazel eyes looked back at him from the dresser-top mirror.

“This is becoming a bit much, chap,” he spoke to his reflection. Restless sleep and nightmares plagued him of late, and he had imagined seeing her watching him from dark alleys before, but nothing quite so vivid as the vision that had woken him that night. “Perhaps we should go and have that chat with Dr. Martin tomorrow.”

As a resident physician at St. Thomas’, Marcus wouldn’t need an appointment to speak with the chief psychiatrist. Nightmares often afflict those who grieve, he told himself. There likely existed some simple remedy that would allow him a peaceful night’s rest.

Marcus picked up the candleholder and walked back to his bedside. The diamond ring still lay on the floor. Picking it up, he sat down solemnly on his bed. As he caressed the smooth circle of gold, he couldn’t help but ponder how such a small bit of metal and rock could provide so much solace, and at the same time, bring such pain.

He knew he would not be able to sleep again that night. Fortunately, his occupation never failed to supply work at any hour. Marcus washed and dressed, and prepared to head out into the still-dark streets. His co-workers knew the long and unusual hours he kept. The busyness and bustle of the hospital kept Marcus’ mind occupied and prevented it from wandering into memories which he did not yet want to address.

By the time he finished fastening his trench coat, Marcus found himself on the dimly lit street where the chill of the autumn night air nipped at his nose. Realizing he still held the ring, he slipped it into his right coat pocket.

Only then did he remember the warnings issued by the authorities. Over the past month, nearly a dozen citizens had been murdered or gone missing, and everyone in London had been urged to stay indoors after dark. Some even claimed that the infamous Jack the Ripper had returned to plague the city once more.

Marcus pushed through his apprehension, reminding himself that most of the attacks were on women or invalids. In the beginning, many of the incidents had taken place at St. Thomas’ Hospital itself, though they had moved into the streets with the addition of guards to the night staff. Surely a grown man had little to fear, and besides—he had no intention of staying alone in his flat until dawn.

Marcus had walked almost halfway to the hospital before he saw another soul. At the edge of the St. James’ Park, a man in a battered felt hat leaned against a lamppost. The dim orange glow gave off just enough light to show the way down the dark London street, but did little to reveal the stranger’s features. With tattered mitts, the stranger pulled an unlit cigarette from beneath his wiry mustache as Marcus passed.

“Got a light?” grunted the man.

Marcus shook his head without pausing. Not one for smoking, he truthfully did not have a match with him, and wanted only to get to the hospital and out of the damp night air. The voice followed him, louder and laced with malice.

“I said, do you got a light?”

Marcus halted. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied calmly, without turning.

Shadows moved out from the park ahead of him, followed by a pair of rough-looking men. Marcus stepped back, turning toward the first stranger. A wide grin now spread across the man’s dirty face. The cigarette rested between the fingers of one hand, while the other brandished a sizable knife. A fourth stranger slipped from an alleyway to join them.

“Now, gentlemen, I’m merely on my way to St. Thomas’ to care for my patients. I have no quarrel with you.”

Surely these ruffians will respect a physician, Marcus thought.

Marcus bumped against the broad chest one of the thugs that crept from park, and realized he had been backing away.

“Who said any’fing about quarrelin’, Mister Doctor?” jeered the first assailant.

Marcus soon found himself bullied into a wooded corner of the park. Outnumbered and unarmed, Marcus had nothing but his wit to save him.

“So this is it, then? The new Jack the Ripper is nothing more than a handful of thugs armed with pipes and sticks?” Any time Marcus could buy himself might serve to create some opening for his escape. Quite unexpectedly, the thieves broke into laughter—all but the knife-wielding smoker.

“Shut it! You damn meatheads,” he bellowed at his cohorts. Moving in, he waved his knife at Marcus, the tip coming uncomfortably close to Marcus’ chin. His breath stank of tobacco and alcohol.

“You ‘fink you know the Ripper?” His bloodshot eyes looked deep into Marcus’. “You don’t know nofin’. I seen ’im. And it ain’t the Ripper what been takin’ people. Whatever else ’e was, Ol’ Jackie was a man. What’s out there now ain’t out for brass or pence like a feller jes’ tryin’ to get his due . . . ”

He reached into Marcus’ coat and removed the billfold. “Alls this’un wants is blood. It ain’t no man, what’s out there. I tell you that, Mister Doctor.”

The brash thief stepped away to count the few bills he had extracted while the other vagrants moved in, and before he knew it, Marcus had been relieved of his timepiece and belt. Rough hands rifled through his coat. The thug beside him reached into his right pocket, and Marcus suddenly remembered the ring.

That ring was his last connection to her. For nearly a month now, it had lived on his nightstand, watching over him as he slept. Marcus’ muscles tensed and he blocked the vagrant’s hand with his elbow. He started to struggle. Whatever else they took, he could not let them have the ring.

Another thug pinned Marcus’ hands behind his back, and a forceful blow to his solar plexus knocked the wind from his lungs. Between punches, the thieves continued their rummaging while their leader looked on.

Gasping for breath, Marcus strained against the arms that bound him. Abruptly, his assailants halted to look behind them. Hoping rescue had come, Marcus twisted against their grip to likewise look, only to turn into the blunt end of a spade handle.

Lights flashed in Marcus’ eyes. Confusion and noise surrounded him as his vision blurred. The thieves released him a moment later, and he collapsed, his legs limp and useless. His head struck the ground before he knew he was falling.

The musty smell of earth and decayed vegetation greeted him when consciousness returned. Silence met his ears. For a moment, he dared not move. A ringing pain reverberated in his temples, and something wet and sticky coated his shoulder and neck.

Marcus tried to raise himself from the dirt, but gasped as a new pain shot from his shoulder and coursed through his whole being. He must have been stabbed in the struggle. His head swam, and the sickening feeling in his stomach made him wonder how much blood he had already lost.

Fighting against the pain, he looked up to survey his surroundings. Despite all his years of medical training, he nearly wretched at the sight that met him. Before him lay the knife-wielding assailant—or, most of him. Missing an entire arm and most of the other, his open eyes stared into nothing. A gaping hole had been torn in his chest. The remains of the other three vagrants, likewise torn and mutilated, were littered about him. Marcus wondered if he was in a dream.

Then he saw her.

Her sobbing drew his attention. Hugging her knees, a young woman sat at the base of an oak a few paces from the carnage. Thin rags clung to her, and tangled brown hair concealed her face.

“Emily?” Marcus strained hoarsely.

Deep blue eyes looked up into his. Her thin lips quivered.

“Emily, my God. How?” He crawled toward her, fighting against the pain in his shoulder.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered, averting her gaze. Those few, sorrowful words spoke a strength into his heart he had not felt in such a long time.

Marcus dragged himself closer, but the woman rose and stepped away.

“Emily!” He struggled to his feet.

She retreated further, turning from him toward the unlit corners of the park.

“Emily, no!” He stumbled after her. She broke into a run.