Spring 2024 SAMPLER •
ADULT TITLES •
“BOOKS TO LIVE IN” Bone Pendant Girls ....................................................................1 by Terry S. Friedman Angolin ......................................................................................19 by C. E. Taylor Calypso Down: A Chris Black Adventure ..............................53 by James Lindholm Space Holes: First Transmission ...............................................75 by B. R. Louis Sanctuary ................................................................................101 by Valentina Cano Repetto Grand Tour: The Brass Queen II ............................................129 by Elizabeth Chatsworth Hidden Rooms ........................................................................163 by Kate Michaelson
THESE ARE UNCORRECTED PROOFS. PLEASE DO NOT QUOTE FOR PUBLICATION UNTIL YOU CHECK YOUR COPY AGAINST THE FINISHED BOOK.
Excerpt from Bone Pendant Girls © 2024 by Terry S. Friedman / Thriller Excerpt from Angolin © 2024 by C. E. Taylor / Science Fiction Excerpt from Calypso Down: A Chris Black Adventure © 2024 by James Lindholm / Action & Adventure Excerpt from Space Holes: First Transmission © 2024 by Brendon Vayo / Horror Excerpt from Sanctuary © 2024 by Valentina Cano Repetto / Horror Excerpt from Grand Tour: The Brass Queen II © 2024 by Elizabeth Chatsworth / Fantasy Excerpt from Hidden Rooms © 2024 by Kate Michaelson / Mystery
All rights reserved. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 1281 E. Magnolia St., #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524. Distributed by Independent Publishers Group. To order, visit: camcatbooks.com/Bookstore-and-Library-Orders.
INTRODUCTION. CamCat Publishing, LLC, opened for business in 2019. Our founder, Sue Arroyo, launched the company for the love of story, those tales that bewitch and dazzle you, grab hold of you and won’t let go. She calls them Books to Live In. ’Cause that’s what she did when growing up. She was a bookworm who lived and breathed stories the way her friends would live and breathe the cool kid on the block or the latest rock star. To her, the characters in her books were the cool kids and rock stars. Who needs awkward teenage parties when you can live epic adventures, find romance, and save the day right there in your mind as you read that favorite book? You know, the one with the creased edges. Sue is a self-proclaimed entrepreneur. CamCat Publishing is her seventh company. In early 2019, she sold her interest in her most successful business, Trident Technologies, and was able to turn her substantial business skills towards her life-long passion for books. That’s not a surprise. Growing up, the books Sue read taught her that anything is possible. Anything. And precisely this belief motivated and sustained her as a female entrepreneur pushing that glass ceiling time and again. It was only a matter of time until she’d put her mind and heart and business acumen back to books. Sue brings a fresh perspective to publishing, a strong desire to establish long-term relationships with both authors and readers, and a passion for a great story. Therefore, CamCat Publishing is more than a publisher. CamCat Publishing is the sum of its readers and writers . . . and then some. We facilitate and engage in communication between readers and writers because that’s where the magic happens. We involve our authors and readers every step of the way—in the process of choosing the books we publish, the formats in which we offer them, even the way we advertise and publicize them. But in all this, there’s one thing we never forget. Yes, books are products to sell, but they are something else, too. They are the expression of an author’s creativity and the touchstone for a reader’s imagination. When the two meet, something extraordinary happens. We walk in other people’s shoes and see the world anew. We appreciate your time and the opportunity to earn that spot on your shelf.
Beware the Fisherman. Andi Wyndham has communicated with spirits since she was a kid. When a bone pendant carved into the likeness of a girl’s face calls to her at a gem show in Pennsylvania, she can’t resist buying it and a sister piece. When she discovers the girls are missing runaways and the pendants are made of human bone, Andi is drawn into a mystery that will force her to confront her gifts, her guilt, and the ghosts haunting her. Pendant Girls Mariah and Bennie urge Andi to find a man they call “Fisherman,” a master of disguise. Teaming up with a handsome private eye and a South Carolina sheriff, Andi must find the girls’ bodies and put their souls to rest, before the Fisherman casts his deadly net to trap Andi.
“Beautifully written, Friedman’s lyrical style will lure you in and scare you senseless.” —Annette Dashofy, USA Today bestselling author of the Zoe Chambers Mysteries Hardcover ISBN 9780744307924 | $27.99 | Releases 1/30/2024 Terry S. Friedman began her writing career freelancing for a small newspaper outside Philadelphia. While raising her daughters, Jessica and Shelley in West Chester, PA, she taught English for decades and traveled abroad with students. Terry earned an M.F.A. from Wilkes University and also graduated from the FBI Citizens Academy. Thirteen of her fiction and non-fiction pieces have been published, and she co-edited Delaware Valley Mystery Writers' short stories anthology, Death Knell V. She is a Pennwriters Board member and a member of Sisters in Crime. Currently, Terry writes paranormal thrillers from coastal South Carolina.
BONE PENDANT GIRLS
T E R R Y S. F R I E D M A N
BONE PENDANT GIRLS
T E R R Y S. F R I E D M A N
CamCat Publishing, LLC Fort Collins, Colorado 80524 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2024 by Terry S. Friedman All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 E. Magnolia St., #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524. Hardcover ISBN 9780744307924 Paperback ISBN 9780744307931 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744307962 eBook ISBN 9780744307948 Audiobook ISBN 9780744307979 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Book and cover design by Maryann Appel
5 3 1 2 4
For my mom, who gifted me a love of words and to my father, who showed me his humor. For Jessica and Chelie, who taught me everything I know about mothers and daughters. For the faithful companions at my side during this writing journey: Ollie, Babyface, Tiggy, and Fiona.
CHAPTER ONE ANDI
N ovemb er 5, 2 0 2 2
G
inkgo leaves drifted down like butterfly wings outside the
gem show. They made a yellow carpet on the walkway to the boarding school’s gymnasium. Within the swirling leaves, Andi heard a voice. Hollow metallic vowels rustled like leaves in gutters. Consonants scratched and thumped like animals trapped in heating ducts. When the frantic skittering of syllables merged into words, a ghostly plea slipped into her consciousness. Trapped . . . help. “You’ll find your way to the Other Side,” Andi whispered. Some days, the spirits refused to leave her in peace. Turning off their voices was like trying to keep a snake in a bird cage. The Shadows had been with her since she was four. Her mother had sent those spirits to watch over her. But the voice she heard today was not the Shadows. They rarely spoke. Please . . . help. Andi opened the door. “I’m not the one to help you,” she told the young voice. “I attract bad men.”
Terry S. Friedman
The ticket ladies took her money and stamped her hand. She scanned the gymnasium from one end to the other. So many vendors. Where to start? Left, past the fossils, to a station called P and S Lapidary. They always had unique pieces. Please . . . ma’am. The whisper had a faint Southern lilt. “Aw, come on. Hijack someone else’s head. Go talk to my ex-husband. Convince him to give me all his money.” Andi looked left and right to make sure no one had heard. No need to worry. Odds were good that at least one other person in the crowd talked to herself. Andi made her way past thirty stations. Past bargain-bound women rummaging in bins of clearance beads, vendors taking orders to set stones, miles of bead strands. She searched for the perfect, happy, shiny piece. Twice around the gym, and that whispering voice drilled its way into her conscience again. Please . . . buy . . . me. Cripes! The urgency of that sweet, young voice. She heaved a sigh. “Hope you’re not expensive. Where are you?” Her feet ached and the place was stifling. “Where?” Over here! She couldn’t see a damn thing through the shoppers lined up two deep at the stations. Up on her toes, down, from foot to foot sideways. A tiring, annoying dance. Andi shivered despite the stuffy atmosphere. Here! Easing her way through the shoppers, she peered into a glass display case. Malachite beads, a red coral branch necklace, two strands of ringed freshwater pearls, and one pendant with a cameo-style face etched in bone. The vendor with a bolo tie looked like her ninth-grade geography teacher. “Let me open that for you. The face pendants are going fast. Only two left.” He lifted the hinged glass cover. Me! A loud whisper from the carved pendant with a girl’s face. } 11 {
BONE PENDANT GIRLS
Andi looked intently at it. Like most cameos, the face was a side profile. Tendrils of the girl’s curly hair escaped an upswept hairdo, framing her face. At first she appeared to be asleep. Then the girl’s face turned and studied her too, eyes blinking as if she’d just awakened. Andi shivered. In the spirit world she’d inherited from her mother, voices whispered. Images in jewelry didn’t move. What now? Andi communicated silently. Subconscious to subconscious. Hurry, ma’am! Buy . . . A woman who reeked of Chanel No. 5 snatched the face pendant from the case. “Excuse me,” Andi said. “I came here to buy that piece. It called to me.” There now, she’d admitted she was crazy. She gave a lopsided grin and a shrug. “Please, could I have it?” “Sorry, hon. I got here first.” A condescending glance at Andi, and the lady wrapped her bratwurst fingers around the pendant. “Not to worry, ladies,” the seller told them. “I have another like this.” He pushed the tablecloth aside, reached under the table, and pulled out a second pendant. “It’s stunning, with Namibian Pietersite accents. I could let you have it for the same price.” No . . . me. An adamant voice. “I don’t want the other pendant,” Andi said. “I came here for the one in her hand.” At the next booth, a woman holding a jade jar stopped talking and stared at her. Andi blushed, knowing she sounded like a petulant child. Suddenly the woman gasped. “Ouch! Awful thing cut me. It has sharp edges.” A thin line of blood welled on Chanel Lady’s finger, and she dropped the pendant as if it had bitten her. Andi caught it before it hit the floor. The silver bezel felt ice cold. Slowly, the face turned, and a young girl’s eyes gazed up at her and blinked. Thanks, ma’am. } 12 {
Terry S. Friedman
She stared at the pendant. Her mother had warned about spirits attaching to people. If spirits attached, she’d said, terrible things could happen. Chanel Lady cradled the darker pendant. Not a word was uttered from it. Maybe the tea-stained piece believed in being seen and not heard. Its bone face was younger. Pietersite in the top bezel had chatoyancy, a luminous quality. Thin wavy splotches of browns, blacks, reds, and yellows swirled through dark stone like tiny ice crystals in frozen latte. “Yes, I like this one better. Excellent quality Pietersite,” Chanel Lady said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take her payment first.” The seller gave Andi a conspiratorial wink, probably hoping to send the woman to another station before she started a fight with his customers. “No problem. Is this ivory?” Andi asked. Whether vendors called it mammoth bone or not, elephants didn’t deserve to be slaughtered for jewelry. “Absolutely not. Wouldn’t sell it if it was. Cow bone,” he assured her. With a triumphant smirk aimed at Andi, Chanel Lady turned and made her way through the crowd. Subduing an impulse to give her the middle finger, Andi turned back to the pendant. She studied the heart-shaped face, turned it over, and winced at the tiny price sticker. Was she insane? Andi couldn’t afford that; she’d lost her teaching job. “I’ll need your address and email.” The seller handed her a clipboard. She’d fought over it and won—no changing her mind now. While he charged her credit card, Andi filled out the form for his mailing list. Then she weaved through shoppers to find a quiet corner by the concessions stand. What the hell. } 13 {
BONE PENDANT GIRLS
The pendant was a dose of credit card therapy. Unzipping the plastic sleeve, she lifted the piece by the bail. Two bezels set in silver. One disk held labradorite, a luminous blue stone with black veins, and in the second bezel, a face carved in bone. She shifted it in her palm, studying the details. Had light played with the image, making it look like the girl moved? That sweet, innocent face seemed at peace now. It would warm at the touch of her skin. Once more around the gym, and she left the show, slogging through the field toward her car, wondering how a whispering girl had convinced her to buy a pricey pendant. Yet, she had a sense that something other than her credit-card bill had changed. An arctic gust tried to snatch her cap. One hand on her hat, the other holding a bag with her purchase, Andi shook off a chill. She remembered the invisible friend who had first spoken to her when she was four and stayed her best friend until middle school. “You can’t go around talking to yourself,” her father had scolded. A teacher later suggested Andi might be autistic. Infuriated, her father took her to a psychologist. The tests had shown nothing worse than a high IQ. On the way home from the doctor’s office, her mother admitted: “Hearing beyond is sometimes more a nuisance than a gift, really.” Her father gave her a disapproving look. Andi brushed back unruly strand of caramel brown ringlets and tugged her cap down over her ears. After crunching through dead grass, she tossed her handbag and the pendant onto the passenger seat and cranked up the CD player. Come Away With Me, Norah Jones crooned. . . . to . . . park, ma’am. She glanced sideways at the small bag. Sleep deprivation, her father would say, but he’d never been invited to tea parties with ghosts. That was a secret she’d shared with her mother. “The voices will always be there,” she’d told Andi. “You must learn when to turn } 14 {
Terry S. Friedman
them off.” Over the years, Andi had discovered stress and lack of sleep made the “off switch” harder to control. Cheer up, she told herself. Maybe hallucinations would come next, and some cartoon character would show up at the Wawa and buy her a cup of coffee. Please . . . park, the plaintive voice whispered. “It’s winter in Pennsylvania. You are obviously not—why am I talking to a bag?” But the girl was so polite, and Andi was curious about why the pendant had chosen her. Okay, it might not be so cold in the park. Yeah, and maybe gas prices would plummet to a dollar fifty-nine overnight. Not likely, but fresh air might clear her head. She bought decaf at a convenience store, glad that she didn’t see any cartoon characters, and drove to Franklin Township Park. Finding a parking space was no problem. Andi shared the lot with a white plastic bag that blew from empty space to space like a kite loose from its owner, spiraling, then tumbling down, then lifting again. Like a wisp of memory, nagging, then burying itself for a while. “Talking pendants,” she muttered, staring out the windshield. Frost had washed the green from the grass, turning the blades to bristly stubbles like a blond buzz cut. Sepia November. Fifteen days to her thirty-fifth birthday. Crusty brown mud puddles. Empty asphalt paths. Purple-gray trees with branches like bony arms reaching for the clouds. Not even a die-hard runner around. Here was a great place for answers to mysteries of the universe. One foot out of the warm car, and she wondered if her sanity had flown south for the winter. She slammed the door and stuffed the small brown parcel into her pocket. “A nice Southern girl with manners wouldn’t bring me out here to freeze to death.” No voices now. Maybe Southern spirits had a freezing point. Andi found a bench under some pine trees and sipped steaming coffee, warming her hands on the cup. Two playground swings } 15 {
BONE PENDANT GIRLS
squeaked out a seesawing harmony on their metal chains. It reminded her of winter in a beach town and metal store signs tossed by the wind, of a foghorn wailing in the night, of Lewes, Delaware, her hometown. She hadn’t been home in years. Guilt and blame had festered like a wound that wouldn’t heal between her mother and father. If only she hadn’t been so eager to get into a stranger’s car. All this damn solitude must have turned her brain to scrapple. Andi stamped the numbness from her feet. “We’re at the park like you wanted. So, why’d you choose me?” Wind rattled the treetops. A single gingko leaf landed on the toe of her sneaker. No ginkgo trees in sight. This time of the year, she’d know if a gingko tree was nearby because the fruit smelled like vomit. “Why the silent treatment?” she asked. No answer. Angry gray clouds slid across the sun. “Okay, I give up.” She got up, pitched the cup into a trash bin, and started back to her car. When she slipped the pendant from its protective sleeve, a raindrop fell on it. Then another drop. And another. The rain tapped out a slow rhythm on the concrete trail, at first like the cadence of drums in a funeral march, later like fingernails slowly drumming on a table, increasing the tempo as if they were impatient. Over the pattering rain, Andi heard whispering, and the pendant girl’s lips moved. Please . . . help.
} 16 {
M O RE TH RILLIN G READS FRO M C AM C AT BOOKS
Available now, wherever books are sold.
VISIT US ONLINE FOR MORE BOOKS TO LIVE IN: CAMCATBOOKS.COM
SIGN UP FOR CAMCAT'S FICTION NEWSLETTER FOR COVER REVEALS, EBOOK DEALS, AND MORE EXCLUSIVE CONTENT.
CamCatBooks
@CamCatBooks
@CamCat_Books
@CamCatBooks
A hidden people not so hidden anymore The Hidden Realm of Angolin has existed in peaceful isolation for centuries, but that’s about to change. The enemy across the Abyss has discovered them and is intent on conquest. Lieutenant Dharmen Tate has a great love for his homeland and a deep understanding of its position in the world. When he discovers a plot by fellow officers to join the enemy and overthrow Angolin, he and his colleagues spring into action to defend the Hidden Realm from its foes—those without, and those within. The ensuing struggle magnifies Angolin’s vulnerability and exposes the collusion of a growing body of its citizens, signifying an uncertain and bloody future.
“An elegantly written and riveting story . . . encompassing strong relationships, and clever world building.” —Sharon Bostick, PhD, Former Dean of Libraries, Illinois Tech Hardcover ISBN 9780744306750 | $29.99 | Releases 2/13/2024 C. E. Taylor is a cultural anthropologist and urban planner. His fascination for science fiction began as a child, and his interest in human culture within urban environments, along with a penchant for other worlds, places, and times led to the first book of the Angolin trilogy. When not creating fictional storylines, histories, etc., he spends his time reading science fiction and suspense novels. In one way or another, he finds a form of anthropology in everything he experiences in real life and in everything he reads, as even fiction provides insight into the human condition.
C. E. TAYLOR
ANGOLIN
ANGOLIN
C.E. TAYLOR
ANGOLIN
CamCat Publishing, LLC Brentwood, Tennessee 37027 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2024 by C.E. Taylor All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 1281 E. Magnolia St., #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524. Hardcover ISBN 9780744306750 Paperback ISBN 9780744306774 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744306798 eBook ISBN 9780744306811 Audiobook ISBN 9780744306828 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Cover design and book design by Olivia Hammerman (Indigo: Editing, Design, and More) 5
3
1
2
4
To my husband, whose love and support helped make this work possible, who believed in me always, and who read my drafts even though he doesn’t like science fiction.
CHAPTER 1
NEGARA
H
ave you heard the rumor, Rem-E? If you are referring to the upcoming campaign, sir, I have. Campaign. Interesting term. Why not call it a contain-
ment operation like last time? What’s High Command up to? “Containment” may not adequately describe the operation’s scope, Lieutenant. The information I have compiled indicates that this will be— A big one. The enemy’s getting closer and closer to us. I’d like to be surprised, but I’m not. Do you require anything further before I enter rest mode for the night, sir? Just one thing, Rem-E: What combat survival files do you have for tropical warfare?
How in the blazing suns did we get into this? Dharmen wiped sweat from his eyes and tried to focus. He and his comrade fought heat, flies, and fear with every fleeing step. Gods, you brought us to this crazy jungle rise. Do you have to prey on us like this too? He dismissed the paranoid blasphemy and snatched a glance behind him. They had managed (he hoped) to lose the enemy, but who could be sure? And especially with all this seemingly aimless meandering.
C.E. Taylor
“Theus, is this really the way?” “Course it is, Lieutenant. Trust me. Don’t you recognize that tree over there, the big one with the two trunks?” “How can you possibly tell one tree from another here?” Dharmen replied. “Just believe me for once, Tate. You can’t always be in control of everything,” Theus said, nearly breathless as he hacked a useable path through the bush. “I’m sure this is the way back to the river. It has to be!” “If I wasn’t reassured before, I am now. Thanks for that.” Hear that, you bloody Carmis, Theus is sure! Dharmen would have shouted it, but they had already been discovered once and barely escaped. If the Netherlords wanted them, he wasn’t about to make it that easy. He looked to his side, then forward. Theus instantaneously appeared far ahead but faded from sight. His personal TimeSpace generator’s temporal interruptions were randomizing again. He vanished entirely, then reappeared alongside and bumped into Dharmen. Both PTS fields flashed. “Lower your setting,” Dharmen said in a low voice. “If I can’t see you, neither can the enemy. You don’t even show up through these damn synth lenses. What idiot engineer thought these could penetrate an artificial gravity well anyway?” He ended that with a thought command to his internal: Rem-E, deactivate. Theus’s barely visible hand went to his controller. “PTS output decreased by fifteen percent. Let it be enough. We can’t get caught here; I don’t want to see a POW camp just yet.” “You will if we get separated,” Dharmen said. “For now, I need to know where you are. This is the last place I want to end up alone.” Theus moved on without reply—exhausted or afraid, Dharmen couldn’t tell. “When we reach the river,” Theus finally said, “we can follow it north to the ford and head back to camp from there. Stick with me and we’ll be there by dinnertime.”
• 29 •
Angolin
“Sticking with you got us separated from our team,” Dharmen said. “The general trusted us to relay enemy strengths and positions. Now what do we do? The others better make it back on their own, ’cause we’ll never find them like this.” Dharmen hid his fright in the overgrowth, but he couldn’t calm his rushing thoughts. Why did Gennet send us here? The Guard has superior tracking abilities; an advanced post is about as necessary as these stupid new interstellar naval ranks. We still have ground wars to fight, we’re not going back into space right this minute! And why us? Theus and I don’t have this kind of experience, why put us out here alone with two shipman recruits barely out of basic? An hour ago, the four of them were manning their post when they spotted Carmogen troops approaching. Dharmen and Theus ordered their fresh-out enlisteds to remain as silent and still as base micromice. Hopefully with PTS running, the enemy would move on past them. One SR obeyed. The other panicked and fired before anyone could stop him. A hail of return volleys—particle energy volleys—had followed from weapons the enemy shouldn’t have had. The team had to scramble before their makeshift hideout was blown to pieces. Now they were separated and on the run. Wonderful! And Theus’s ranging skills weren’t helping. Neither was the dense Negaran forest. Its wildly variegated foliage created an explosion of blinding colors eased only by sun shading in the otherwise useless synth visors. Dharmen assumed it was a beautiful place, if only he could stop to appreciate it without being visually overwhelmed, and shot dead in the process. And like the flora of Angolin, most of the plant life here was motile—pulling, tugging, and wrapping wiry prehensile tendrils around unwary limbs. Body armor synth cutters and membrane herbicides couldn’t keep up. Dharmen was glad he had left his sword behind for a field machete.
• 30•
C.E. Taylor
The suns had just left the sky, and the landscape grew easier on the eyes. Small comfort for being lost behind enemy lines. He pushed on, thought of the recruit who had nearly gotten them all killed. Yes, he disobeyed orders, but he’s just a kid. Angolin’s isolation hasn’t prepared any of us for this, what more could I have expected? If only his twin sister had been assigned to us instead of to Intel Company Bravo off-rise. Now she’s a real soldier! He pictured himself back in his enlisted days, taking orders, making mistakes, and making more mistakes, all while downplaying his position as the son of the famous General Nüren Tate, and just doing his duty. The memories put a razor-thin smile on his lips. Then he froze in his tracks. Voices. They traveled up the path behind him and then ceased. He crouched and listened. Nothing. He looked around. “Theus?” he called as softly as he could. “Thee, where are you? Lieutenant Tarkala!” No answer, and no return on internal AI trace. Theus’s PTS had put him too far ahead again in the twilit, increasingly moving forest growth. Dharmen’s mind raced. It felt cowardly, but he wished he were back at Seventh. Its peacetime comforts and daily routines were downright heavenly compared to this. Even his superiors’ accolades would have been welcome for once. A “pillar of honor” and a “rock of courage, much like his father . . . when his temper’s not in the way”; the lauds that filtered back to him were embarrassing though not undeserved. Dharmen fit every one of them beyond his own self-awareness. But that was before Negara. Before the sweltering heat and bizarre landscape that compounded every discomfort, and an enemy that was always too close despite all the latest (and unreliable) stealthtech. He felt his heart pound up through his temples. What are my options? Shoot? Run? At what? To where? . . .How ’bout calm, first and foremost? He took a deep breath and quietly readied his pulse
• 31 •
Angolin
rifle, settling the butt into the pocket of his shoulder. He focused his hearing on unnatural sounds—people sounds—in the bush. A harsh cackle reverberated about thirty meters away. Talking followed. He knew it wasn’t the rest of his team. Even fresh-outs wouldn’t make this much noise in a war zone for anyone to hear. This group sounded hostile and too large, whoever they were. Dharmen quietly backed off the path, dodging thick, undulating stalks to move behind a reasonably wide tree. He increased PTS output and peered around the tree’s shivering, creaking bole as the voices approached. Heads moved through the bush single file. He could hear their speech clearly now: a mixture of Lenan and Angolinian Standard. There was a woman with them. She couldn’t have been Lenan; their brigades had no female soldiers. But there were no other Guard postings behind enemy lines. Who was she? He heard a male voice, too annoyingly familiar to be anyone else’s. Lieutenant Commander Armetrian! What in the Netherworld? They were nearing. Dharmen checked himself. He was too visible, even for dusk conditions. He set PTS output to full, instantly adding cloaking and temporal interruption to his camos’ natural light-bending fibers: the hair of the East Ranges taroc provided outstanding natural camouflage. The wooly animals were champion steeds and expert climbers, but they were fearful of everything. Physiological reactions rendered them invisible when threatened, and with good reason, considering their high-mountain predators. Dharmen’s own fear response activated the camo fibers a fraction. He hoped PTS would compensate. Silently, he watched. Several were in the group, including two very short figures moving to the sounds of chains. “Keep walking!” an Angolinian voice ordered. They were in front of him now. His heart resumed its race. He stood still, trying not to give himself away with accidental noises or
• 32•
C.E. Taylor
movements that PTS couldn’t cover. The last figure passed. He crept from hiding and checked for stragglers. No one. Just the sickle forms of Kiern and Dasha, Tentim’s innermost moons casting a dim glow on the path from the darkening sky. He thought of getting back to the Allied line. But what about this Lenan-Angolinian mix? And Armetrian—what were they all doing out here? Hesitating for a few heartbeats and double-checking PTS status, he edged along the path, following their tracks. He came to a break in the forest and saw all of them, about ten people standing in the clearing. All but four were Guardsmen, partially PTSblended into the night. Two deathly pale men—one young, the other much older—were obviously Lenan. The remaining two were fettered and naked. Dharmen took position behind a cluster of static tree ferns, treading cautiously as he recalled the general’s comments about his questionable woodcraft. The woman in the group swung around and activated a wristmount field torch, Guard issue. It alarmed the prisoners, who muttered something unintelligible and rattled their primitive Lenan-made shackles. Dharmen held still, narrowing his eyes to slits as the passing beam enveloped his entire body in spite of the foliage. But it revealed nothing; PTS and light-bending taroc fiber hid him excellently. “Shut that off, Vara!” Armetrian ordered. “They’re due any minute, and they don’t need light.” She lowered her torch but left it lit. “I’m from the Fifth Order, Lieutenant Commander, not the lowly Seventh. You’re not my CO. Don’t give me orders.” “Forgotten your place, soldier? I still outrank you,” Armetrian shot back. “We don’t know who else might be out here, so cut it!” “Forgotten yours?” she said. “We’re not exactly on Guard-sanctioned duty at the moment.” He stepped toward her.
• 33 •
Angolin
Wordless, she deactivated the torch right when they were nose to nose. Dharmen sensed the friction between them—no need for light to reveal that, and no surprise at all. Armetrian got along with almost no one. But what on Tentim is this about? “We don’t have time for this, Armetrian, can’t you do something about her?” said the elder Lenan. “You know what our associates think about women, especially your women. You should have left her back at your encampment or at least not brought her here in uniform.” Vara turned on the man. “No one brought me here, and that’ll be enough from you! I’ve put as much on the line for this as any man present, so don’t—” All attention went to figures emerging from the bush. Three were in the forefront. “You have no control over her at all.” One stepped forward and scoffed at Armetrian. “In Gragna, we know what to do with them.” His speech was coarse, but he spoke Standard surprisingly well. Dharmen sighed, glad for this little benefit. Despite years of use, Guard earplant lingua mappers still struggled to translate anything more foreign than Lenan speech. Regardless, the rough, smoky hiss in that voice was unmistakable: Carmogen—enemy combatants—and out here meeting clandestinely with Guard soldiers, and Lenans who were supposed to be Angolin’s allies. “My gods, what is going on here?” Dharmen lightly mouthed. The lead looked the group over. The dim moonslight revealing his scaly gray skin over a flat, noseless face and ridged skull reaffirmed his east-of-Abyss heritage. “Which of you is Armetrian?” “I am Lieutenant Commander Armetrian. And you are . . .?” The gray man sneered. “I might have known. I hoped you would be someone else. What man takes back talk from a female? And she wears a uniform. Do not tell me she is a soldier.”
• 34 •
C.E. Taylor
“That’s not important,” Armetrian said across Vara’s protest. “What we’re here to discuss is.” The Carmogen studied the others. “Interesting to finally see all of you. It makes a change from fighting foes that step in and out of shadows like cowards.” No one responded. The gray man grunted. “Right, then, if pleasantry is what this side of the world requires . . .” Luminous yellow eyes peered down nostril slits at Armetrian. “I am Lord Naul, First Lescain of the Ninth Army of Carmogen. These are my inferiors.” He nodded a near-acknowledgment to two aides standing behind him. “Glad to meet you in person,” said Armetrian. “Uprights—or televisors, as you call them—do us no service. Now that we’re all here in the flesh, we can talk business.” “‘All’ is the operative word, Armetrian, and finally,” the elder Lenan said. “You’ve kept my aide and me in the dark from the beginning as you’ve smiled and sung your own praises from the other side of a screen. What is our role in this enterprise, and how will we benefit from it, exactly?” “All will be clear soon enough, and you’ll benefit through coalition,” Armetrian answered. “Angolin is old, tired, and complacent. My people sit sheltered and unseen behind artificial disguises, with our leaders insisting on total seclusion. They keep us captive out of fear that we’ll rise up and go out into the world to discover what it really holds for us. But my associates and I will change that. We intend to bring Angolin out of isolation to join the rest of the world. There’s great opportunity all across Tentim and more yet to be had if we all work together.” Dharmen kept still, ears open and eyes round with surprise. “Work together toward what?” the Lenan pressed. “A better life for all involved, or just for you?”
• 35•
Angolin
“Toward a partnership,” replied Armetrian. “Angolin is the most advanced society on this planet. Lena and Carmogen are great empires. They would become even greater with the technology we’ll share with our esteemed colleague here and with you. Operation Dawn Fire will see to that.” The Lenan cocked his head. “Dawn Fire? Labeled this little scheme, have you? And still without our input?” Lord Naul stepped forward, bare gray arms folded across his chest. “Names mean nothing to me as long as they set the stakes no higher, Lieutenant Commander. My people have conquered most of this planet, but we are at constant war to keep it. I want assurance, not empty words.” “What you would gain goes beyond Carmogen’s wildest dreams,” Armetrian said, and began strutting among the group. “And we’ve already armed you well for this fight as a sign of our good faith. What further assurance could you need from me?” Armed? That’s how our weapons are getting into their hands? Dharmen was frozen to his spot at hearing this. He was certain he made noises as he shifted uncomfortably in place, but no one appeared to notice. “Keep your part of this deal, that will be satisfaction enough,” answered Naul. “And I know you have the ability, I have seen your knowledge. You have controlled energy weapons instead of shells. You also have the ability to hide your bodies, your equipment, and even your whole rise from our eyes. Some kind of devices our scientists are still trying to comprehend; our best intelligence forces cannot locate you. At least not yet. And I hear you are beginning an impressive space program, though you likely come from elsewhere to begin with. You Angoliners conceal every part of your existence.” Naul surveyed the group. “Money is no issue. We can pay billions, and no doubt we will, but I demand to know if we will receive what
• 36•
C.E. Taylor
we pay for. Can you deliver Angolin’s technologies to us as promised? You and your superior, wherever he is? His absence from this meeting has not escaped me.” “You’ll get what you want. Don’t worry about that,” Vara said in Armetrian’s place. The heavy, stifling air went quiet. Even the night sounds of the surrounding wood seemed to hush as Naul wheeled on her. “You dare address a high commander of the Carmogen Army, woman! In my homeland, you would be ripped to pieces and thrown into the Great Nothing for that!” “She meant no disrespect, Lord Naul.” Armetrian eyed Vara. “Did you, Lieutenant?” “No, sir. None at all.” “A female warrior. Pitiful!” Naul muttered. “Well, Lieutenant Commander, what do you say? Do I have your assurance?” “Of course,” Armetrian replied, “and don’t concern yourself further. I swear to you that my people will give the information willingly.” “And if they do not, Angoliner, then what?” A sick smile formed on Armetrian’s face that even the night couldn’t hide from Dharmen. “Then my associates and I will break Angolin. We’ll deliver its secrets to you if it means delivering the Hidden Realm itself. You have my word.” Naul perused him. “Excellent! I look forward to our growing relationship. And I am curious to see how you will react if your people do not cooperate.” Armetrian raised a hand and motioned. The chained captives were yanked forward. Dharmen could make them out clearly now: two short, broad-statured men with greenbrown skin and bone-straight hair hanging from their heads like shadowy bowls. Negaran natives. The moonslight was just enough to reveal intricate tattoos and gold nose rings on panic-stricken faces.
• 37 •
Angolin
“To satisfy that curiosity in the meantime, take these gifts as a small token,” Armetrian said. “I’ve heard of the high price exotic races bring in Gragna’s slave markets. You should do well with these two.” “Add this fiery beauty, and I will accept,” said Naul, looking at Vara. “It is a long journey to the empire, and I could . . . use her.” Vara’s lid blew before Armetrian could clamp it down. “I’m a free woman, not some foreign army whore! You’re a long way from home, Carmi. Don’t forget it.” Naul moved just one step before her rifle raised. His men readied weapons. The Guard contingent countered. Dharmen watched, unblinking. Only Armetrian kept his rifle stowed. He ordered his people to lower theirs. “My whore you would be,” Naul said, smiling at Vara through razorsharp teeth. “As God wills . . .” Dharmen’s chest grew hot as the collaborators wrangled on. The misogyny, slave trading, and collusion were bad enough, but Armetrian was handing his own people to the enemy. Under any other circumstances, Dharmen would have screamed and shouted at these people for what they were doing. He wished he could do that here. He couldn’t, but the notion to end this right now gripped him. They were huddled, it would be quick and easy. But there had to be more of them. And the captives—risking gunning down innocent people, especially over something like this, sickened him. He wrestled with the decision . . . and decided he had to try. Other traitors would have to be found later. These were going down now. He increased his rifle’s beam width setting and aimed. Targets locked, he fingered the trigger and left his fern cover. A thick vine wrapped around his ankle and yanked him off his feet. His back smacked the hard ground, damaging his PTS generator. A thin ripple of PTS light dishearteningly indicated he was no longer concealed.
• 38 •
C.E. Taylor
Vara’s torch-arm found him first. Weapons clicked and pointed at the lone officer on the ground. Dharmen couldn’t take all of them on in a gun battle. He quickly untangled himself and jumped up to flee into the darkness. The blast to his side hit right between his armor’s protection zones. He yelled and recoiled at the burning sensation from the particle beam, impulsively wrapping his arms around his middle as he fell. He rolled over to find himself facing mud-splattered boots and staring up rifle barrels. “Looks like we’ve got an eavesdropper,” Armetrian said, stepping on and securing Dharmen’s pulse rifle. “This is no lounge, Tate, get up!” He grabbed Dharmen by the collar, pulling him to his knees. Dharmen struggled to hold on to his pierced abdomen. “It was a mild shot, soldier. Your internal’s already on it, don’t be so weak. Though I guess your kind isn’t accustomed to pain.” “My kind? What is that exactly?” “Shut up! You’re in deep as it is.” Armetrian rounded him and snatched the PTS generator from his belt. “Be more careful now that you have no protection, though discretion’s not your strong suit either, is it? How much did you hear just now?” He put his face in Dharmen’s. “And what are you doing out here, alone?” “I could ask you the same, traitor,” Dharmen came back. “We’ve been fighting them for weeks with you right beside us, and all this time you’ve been supplying them. That has to be the worst thing imaginable. Though why am I not surprised to find you of all people destroying your honor and selling us out? Is it because you have none to begin with?” Armetrian backhanded him. “You’re speaking to a superior, Lieutenant, show some respect! How many times have I had to tell you that?” “As often as I’ve needed to make you. Sir! Show your officers some; maybe we’d return it—oh, and do you think you’ll gain any from this? You’ve betrayed your own; respect is forfeit for good! And don’t think powder face here’ll give you any either.” Dharmen took the
• 39 •
Angolin
hatred-turning-to-fear on Armetrian’s face and ran with it. “The collaborators get taken too, Lieutenant Commander, even if they’re last to go. Think about that when you end up in the same slave markets as your ‘gifts’ here.” Naul bent down and leveled his face with Dharmen’s. “This is a waste of my time!” They drilled stares into each other: the Carmogen’s trying to intimidate and Dharmen’s having none of it. Naul rose, glared at Armetrian. “Want to show me your true worth, Angoliner? Here is your chance! In my ranks, he would already be dead.” Dharmen watched a vein pulsate across Armetrian’s sweatdrenched forehead. He braced as the rifle lifted to aim between his eyes. Considering who was holding the weapon, he had no delusion at all over what would come next. “Well enough for me,” Armetrian said in a deadpan tone. “’Bout time I carried out my instructions anyway.” Dharmen peered curiously at that. “Tate,” Armetrian continued, “you don’t know how long I’ve waited for this . . .” Blinding light pierced the darkness. A thundering rumble knocked everyone to the ground. A second airborne beam hit a tree, cleaving it in two. Another hit much closer. Flying debris struck the elder Lenan and felled him on the spot. “High-yield energy weapons—Angoliner attack. Move out!” Naul ordered his men. Dharmen seized the only opportunity he knew he would get. He snatched up his pulse rifle and bolted, making it to the edge of the bush. A shot fired past his head. Not good at distance targets, are you, mate? he thought of Armetrian. Beams hit the treetops, incendiary ones in rapid succession. The surrounding forest ignited. It was all Dharmen could do to hold his wounded side and escape, as flaming branches dropped around him.
• 40 •
C.E. Taylor
• Keep going. No time to— Keep going! Dharmen’s mind raced faster than he could run through the moving forest. Fear, pain, and living branches reaching and darting at him didn’t stop him. He had to reach camp. That meant crossing the river, wounded or not. The ground began to slope downward. Dense, undulating brush gave way to peacefully immobile reeds. He heard the sound of moving water. Before him, the forest opened up to the wide, silvery band of the Nabreac River, the dividing line between opposing forces. Running all the way to the ford was no option. He had to cross here and now. Dharmen dove into the fast-moving river. The water was surprisingly cold for such a hot, humid place. Pain gripped him. Each stroke was a biting chore as he struggled with the current and with his wound, but he forced himself to push on and get to safety. He was determined he was not going down, no matter what. Explosions filled the forest behind him. Agitated voices followed. A pulse beam shot above his head. Another hit the water. He ignored them and kept stroke, despite strong currents that threatened to sweep him downstream. Smoky eruptions snaked across the water’s surface. The river was wide and fast, but not quite turbulent enough to make him such a difficult target, even in darkness. He couldn’t believe he was still alive. Armetrian’s marksman skills were laughable. He reached the opposite shore and plowed up the muddy bank. Shaded by undergrowth, he collapsed to the ground. He heaved and coughed up water, trying to regain strength. He heard movement in the brush, far too close. Scrambling to get his pulse rifle into position, Dharmen hoped its nemurite housings remained sealed against the water. “Tarkala, don’t shoot!”
• 41•
Angolin
“Theus?” he sputtered. “Affirmative, Lieutenant. Are you all right?” “No, absolutely not!” Dharmen rose to his feet. The riverside growth rustled. Camos approached, hacking at dangling vines, and joined by another face he was glad to see. “Thee, what’s going on?” Dori Secár demanded, and then sheathed her machete. “Dharm, is that you? Where on Tentim have you been? I was about to order a search team.” “With the enemy, Commander,” Dharmen reported, “and not just the one from the East. We need to get back to camp, ASAP. You won’t believe what I’ve just discovered about our good comrade, Armetrian.”
The swell of uniforms amazed Dharmen. The frontline outlier staffed by a single platoon two days ago swarmed now. Seventh Camp had relocated—all of it—and a hopeful sign that the campaign might end soon, despite the undermining of a few. Dharmen was taken to the infirmary tent, where his wound was hastily treated. It was examined, particle-depurated, and stitched by a medi-synth assistant that proved more effective than the human medic and his detached cot-side manner. Dharmen couldn’t stand external AI—synth or robotic—but he had to admit his wound looked and felt better. He sat up slowly on the narrow examining cot, cursing at the nerve suppressor’s wearing off as Theus and Dori entered. “What were you saying earlier, Dharm?” Dori indifferently asked as though perusing the NewsMesh after morning muster. “Something about Lieutenant Commander Armetrian? Honestly, you two at it again. What’s he done now?” Dharmen got to his feet despite the medi-synth’s protests. He relayed everything from beyond the river, including his escape.
• 42 •
C.E. Taylor
“Man, did the gods watch over you tonight!” said Theus. “If you hadn’t gotten away when you did, all this would’ve gone to the box with you, and Angolin would be invaded before it knew what . . . Commander, what do you make of this? Commander?” Dori stood motionless, arms crossed and chin resting on one hand. A pursed-lipped frown preceded her reply. “Dharm, are you sure about all of this? Are you certain you heard them correctly? I know Armetrian’s a taroc’s ass and all, but this is over the top. Meeting with the enemy, lifting weapons and tech? And captives? It’s all . . . well, it’s a stretch to say the least. It really is an incredible story.” Dharmen couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Incredible story? Try an incredibly painful truth, Commander, one I just took a hit over. But you don’t believe a word of it, do you?” “I’m not sure what to believe,” Dori said. “All the years we’ve known each other, longer than you’ve been my ISIC,” Dharmen said, “and you think I’d make up something like this?” Dori watched him silently. So did Theus. So did infirmary staff that probably hadn’t heard the full conversation but saw the fire in Dharmen’s jet-black eyes and felt the heat in his words. His signature plainspoken directness had followed him even to Negara. “I just uncovered the worst thing ever and barely escaped to repeat it,” Dharmen continued. “We’re in serious trouble if Armetrian and these people succeed. If you don’t believe me, at least see that!” He stared at her. If you’re listening to me but not hearing me, what more can I say? Dori was an excellent commanding officer: fair and usually dependable. But she could be self-absorbed and in her own head at times—traits too common among Angolinians. And this was the wrong time for it. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Lieutenant, these are serious accusations,” she replied. “By the sun goddess herself, if this is real . . .” She turned and paced the tent without another word.
• 43 •
Angolin
“Then we’re SOL if we don’t get on this fast, Commander. Wouldn’t you agree?” said Theus. “There’s no time for debate by the sound of it. If it is real, then we have to one-up these traitors.” Dori spun on him. “Not so fast, Thee. We need to know what we’re dealing with first before we dive into anything. We were sent here to repel the Carmogen, not to accuse our own people of conspiracy without real proof.” Dharmen’s anger charged the tent’s dehumidified air. “I’m the proof, Commander. I heard everything said, I saw the ‘gift’ Armetrian gave to the enemy, and I got particle-sliced for it. I already know what we’re dealing with, I don’t need doubt spread all over it!” Dori’s mouth opened then closed at that. “Ma’am!” he added. “We’ll discuss it later, Lieutenant. Much later,” Dori said sharply. “It’s nearly nineteen hundred, and—” A dutiful, excited shipman burst through the tent’s opening, saluted, and relayed a message: all personnel were to convene outside in ten minutes, general’s orders. “Hear that, soldier?” Dori said to Dharmen. “We’re about to make the plunge; for better or worse, you’ve got ten to continue this.” His gaze smoldered and darkened. “Permission to spend each one of them alone, Commander.” “Your wish, Lieutenant.” Dori turned and left. Theus sighed, gave Dharmen a quick slap on the shoulder, and followed her out. Dharmen sat back down on his cot. Guess I know my next move, Commander, he thought. Because you’ve just handed it to me.
“I congratulate you all on a job well done, but it’s not over yet,” boomed General Gennet. The particle fire lighting the night and the blasts
• 44 •
C.E. Taylor
shaking the ground seemed to affect him much less than it did the assembled companies. “The enemy has strengthened their line on the Nabreac’s south bank. We will engage them across the river and break their defenses. Then we will continue into the mountains. You’ll all have your orders shortly; I want the entire ridge top taken tonight. By dawn, we’ll have Carmi ass dangling over the edge of the Abyss. Now, if there are no questions . . .” A hand rose high from the very last row. Dharmen had taken a rearmost position to get a command view of the assembly. “General, have you noticed that we’re taking on fire from our own weapons? How can we fight effectively if we’re not sure who we’re shooting at?” Dharmen knew whom to shoot at more than ever now, but he couldn’t mention the meeting beyond the river in this setting. “Lieutenant, I don’t care who they are or what they’re using, if someone shoots at you, shoot back!” Gennet bellowed. Chuckling rippled through the crowd, but murmurs mixed in. Dharmen wasn’t the only one concerned, even if he was the only one willing to voice it. “But if this goes as planned, the enemy will spend the night running, not firing,” Gennet continued. “Now lastly, several people from both orders are suddenly missing tonight, with internal AI comm and trace functions off-line.” He recited a list of names, and it wasn’t short. “And has anyone seen Lieutenant Commander Armetrian?” No one answered to this or to the roster from the Fifth Order. Of no surprise to Dharmen, it included Lieutenant Vara. Voice thundering and both hands raised, the general disbanded the assembly. Camos dispersed like an insect army losing its chemical trail. Once orders were received from COs, they scattered in animated precombat preparation, deactivating synth DRASH, gathering provisions, reworking supply lines, loading weapons—chaos, but efficiently organized chaos typical of Seventh. Dharmen found comfort in it. His side was
• 45 •
Angolin
about to advance; the enemy would counter. It was normalcy he could understand and handle. He wanted badly to sound the warning on what he couldn’t understand, but there was too much to do at the moment. And most importantly, who could be trusted? He looked around. It took him a few seconds to notice, but the hordes of camos swirling around him had thinned, and not from assuming stations. Dozens had vanished, undoubtedly with TimeSpace. He ordered Rem-E to raise synth lenses, and scanned the forest behind him. There was no one to be seen, even with heat sensing at full. Not that he expected to find anyone. Hmmph, I don’t have to wonder whose side you’ve all slipped off to.
The gunship’s roll and pitch sickened Dharmen’s stomach. The small craft hadn’t been airborne for a minute before taking on enemy fire that, judging from the blows, was energy-based. Its shields would have easily repelled shells, but the particle fire rocked the vessel like a child’s tub toy. TS curiously provided no cover, and the pilot compensated by slowing their approach to both soften the blows and prevent the blasts from breaching the shields, potentially tearing the ship apart. But it allowed more enemy fire to find its mark. My Lord Krone, have mercy on us, Dharmen prayed to his patron deity. I’ll be the best soldier I can be, just get this hunk of nemurite on the ground! He looked out a viewport. Beams fired from the formation’s support sloops. Within seconds, all enemy fire ceased. Dharmen wasn’t very religious, but he thanked the god of war immensely for the assist. He just wished he knew what all of the uplords had in store for them tonight. Most of his company—including the SR who had exposed the advanced post—spun a cursing web deadly enough to match the Negaran summer heat clashing with the Abyssal gases below. Dharmen joined their rant. Silently. He felt himself rise in his seat. The ship
• 46 •
C.E. Taylor
was descending; it lurched and shuddered before landing. All hands unstrapped and stood, pulse rifles at the ready. Dori shot up from her cabinside jump seat as the deployment hatch desynthed: “Go! Go! Goooo!” she ordered with a push to exiting backs. The company stormed out into the night through the bush covering the low foothills. Gunfire answered, bullets mixed with particle fire. But the Allies were in force, pushing forward against the opposition. Something curious caught Dharmen’s attention. Distance to hostiles and darkness lit only by fleeting beams couldn’t hide subtle differences in troop movements and tactics on the enemy line. Troops and volleys were positioned in staggered bundles instead of their usual continuous single-line formations. That matched the Guard’s combat style too closely. Dharmen saw movement. He tracked the targets and magnified synth lensing. It defied night vision training, but he had to know the truth. He fired: not at the enemy, but past them. “Don’t I know it,” he muttered to himself. “And right where I expected you to be.” His shot illuminated what he had dreaded: several figures, all in Guard camos, positioned among the enemy forces. They hadn’t even bothered to use PTS. He groaned at the realization. So there is more to this than Armetrian and a few stray rogues. A lot more . . . Focusing squarely on his duty, he reset lensing, took a deep breath, and channeled his disgust into his trigger finger. Night passed with enemy fire retreating ahead of the Allies, but not without casualties. Scores had been hit by Carmogen and by their own comrades. It was quickly understood not to be friendly fire; the number cut down by particle fire was too high and the targeting too precise. A handful of the renegades were apprehended. Those who couldn’t be captured safely were shot.
• 47 •
Angolin
The Guard had a new internal situation more threatening than Carmogen bands nosing too close to Angolin, that much was clear. Dharmen wondered how centuries of peace in his homeland could suddenly have degenerated into this, but small comfort came in the form of victory. General Gennet’s strategies had prevailed, the Carmogen line broke, and their forces were routed. If treason threatened to destroy Angolin, it wouldn’t happen tonight.
Black sky morphed into the brilliant red of Tentim dawn. Companies from Fifth and Seventh stood with Lenan brigades in silhouette along the high ridge that split Negara in two. Smoke rose from fires all across the slopes. The nightlong pummeling had thrown the enemy back to the far side of the rise as Gennet predicted. Spirits were cautiously high, but Dharmen was too exhausted to be relieved. The shelling was over, yet his teeth chattered uncontrollably, and he couldn’t stop trembling. His ears rang with phantom gunfire and explosions, and his eyes remained open by adrenaline alone. There would be no rest yet. The Allies were preparing to advance down the mountains and finish the enemy for good. Dharmen was ready despite his combat fatigue, but one thing had to be done first, and it wouldn’t be stopped by . . . “You s-saw what just happened out there, Commander. S-still need proof?” he stammered through his condition as Dori and Theus approached. “I’d order you at ease, Lieutenant, if you weren’t there already,” Dori said. Dharmen was unmoved. “Look, if we c-can talk for a moment, not as superior and subordinate but as f-friends, then . . . Well, I just want to say that—”
• 48 •
C.E. Taylor
“Please forget it, Commander!” Dharmen knew she would have called him on his insubordinate tone had he not been right about the traitors, and had so many Guard lives not just been lost at their hands. “Now if you’ll both excuse me . . .” He left them, forgetting his shakes and still throbbing abdominal wound, and wishing he could forget the entire night. He found his target and moved with confidence he had rarely felt before top silver. Distrust would have to wait. General Gennet turned as he approached. “Problem, Lieutenant?” “Sir! Permission to speak.” Candidly. “Granted.” “General,” Dharmen addressed respectfully but firmly, “I have something urgent to report.”
• 49 •
More sci-fi reads from CamCat Books
Available now, wherever books are sold.
An undersea laboratory in a violent storm, an attack imminent. Only Chris Black can save the mission gone awry. Indomitable marine biologist Chris Black arrives in Florida intending to assist young aquanauts on an internationally funded mission to Calypso, the new undersea laboratory deployed on the edge of a coral reef. But as online trolls jeopardize the integrity of the mission and mysterious attacks suggest that someone would prefer that Calypso never come up for air, Chris is called upon to join the underwater team. Already embattled by financial, political, and scientific skepticism, the mission goes awry when a tropical storm builds and threatens the safety of the scientists onboard. Will Chris be able to save the mission and everyone involved amidst a perfect storm? “[An] action-packed ride with more dangerous twists and turns than California's Highway 1.” —Paul Kemprecos, NYT bestselling author, on Dead Men's Silence
Hardcover ISBN 9780744307443 | $27.99 | Releases 3/19/2024 A Chris Black Adventure #4 Dr. James Lindholm dives deep for his inspiration. His novels are based on a foundation of direct, personal experience with the undersea world. He has lived underwater for multiple 10-day missions to the world’s only undersea laboratory and has even found himself alone on the seafloor staring into the eyes of a hungry female great white shark. Along with his ocean adventures, Lindholm has drafted text for an executive order for the White House and has briefed members of the House and Senate on issues of marine science and policy. He works as the Chair of the Department of Marine Science at California State University, Monterey Bay. James Lindholm’s diverse writing portfolio includes textbooks, peer-reviewed scientific journal articles, and the Chris Black series of action/adventure novels.
CALYPSO
DOWN A CHRIS BLACK ADVENTURE
JAMES LINDHOLM
CALYPSO
DOWN A CHRIS BLACK ADVENTURE
JAMES LINDHOLM
CALYPSO
DOWN A CHRIS BLACK ADVENTURE
JAMES LINDHOLM
CamCat Publishing, LLC Fort Collins, Colorado 80524 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2023 by James Lindholm All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 E. Magnolia St., #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524. Hardcover ISBN 9780744307443 Paperback ISBN 9780744307450 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744307467 eBook ISBN 9780744307474 Audiobook ISBN 9780744307481 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023932282 Book and cover design by Maryann Appel Illustrations by Maia Lai Artwork by Memories / Aerial3
5
3
1
2
4
For Uncles Sam, Harvey, Ron, and Carl— Thank you for everything. I love all you guys. d
1 D
eep underwater and alone, Ben Foster knew he was going to die. The cold darkness enveloped him faster than his panic. Firmly wedged into a crevice between two large boulders, he was surrounded by the utter blackness of the Floridian quarry at night. That was strike two! Strike one had come only seconds before when Ben had accidentally dropped his Sola NightSea dive light into the crevice, realizing only then that he’d failed to charge the batteries on his smaller backup light. At that point, Ben’s heartrate increased rapidly in the dark, his pulse pounding within the two-millimeter neoprene hood he was wearing. But then he’d spotted the faint illumination from his dive light coming from under an overhang below him, and his heartrate slowed. Ben knew he shouldn’t have been diving solo at all—not to mention at night—in a location as dangerous as a quarry. Several years earlier, a trip to Bermuda with his exotic Aunt Agatha had given Ben the chance to get certified as an entry level SCUBA diver. His instructor had been an American expatriate friend of his aunt who used baseball analogies for everything.
JAMES LINDHOLM
“Listen, man. Diving is the way. And once you’re certified, you’ll be able to dive wherever you want to. But you’ve got to think of each dive you do as an at bat,” the guy had said. “You get three strikes, but remember, with the third strike you’re out. You don’t want to be out while diving, man, so don’t let things progress beyond strike two. Got it?” “I think I do.” That simple analogy had stuck with Ben ever since, and so it was only natural that strike one was the first thing that went through his mind when he dropped his dive light. Aunt Agatha’s going to kill me, was the second. To celebrate the milestone, Ben had planned to make his one hundredth dive at night, from a boat, in the Dry Tortugas. It was only a four-hour drive to the Florida Keys from his house north of Fort Lauderdale, followed by a short two-hour boat ride out to the westernmost point in the Keys. He’d made the trip with Aunt Agatha the year before. Perfect. But there’d been complications. “There’s a big mission starting out there next week,” the dive shop owner in Key West had explained. Ben had called down hoping to arrange everything for the trip. “They’ve put a submerged research station down on the edge of the reef at Barracuda Key, right where you were planning to dive. Scientists are going to live there for ten days to conduct experiments. So, the entire area is closed off to any diving or unofficial boat traffic until those folks leave. You should see the social media on this thing. Hashtag something or other, a mythological name, but I can’t remember what it is. It’s blowing up.” Ben could not hide his disappointment, so the shop owner tried to sell him on another option. “We’ve got a shop up in Lauderdale that can set you up with a boat dive if you want. It’s two hundred bucks cheaper than the dive here in the Keys.” 65
CA LY P S O D OW N
“No, thanks,” Ben had replied before closing the call. He’d been wreck diving off Lauderdale before: low visibility and not a lot of fish. Ben had fallen into a funk for just under twenty-four hours before he’d realized that he had an option much closer to home. The quarry. It wasn’t as sexy as the Dry Tortugas, but it would do. The old Piedmont Quarry was located only twenty minutes outside of Fort Lauderdale on Highway 98. The abandoned limestone quarry had filled up with freshwater decades before, creating a deep lake. It didn’t have a beach, but it did have natural breaks in the steeply excavated vertical walls surrounding the lake that allowed people to enter the water. Kids from his high school and the nearby community college often came to swim during the day and party during the night. Ben knew that entering the water at the Piedmont was dangerous. The water had slowly filled in the quarry, leaving the unexcavated bottom full of crevices and dangerous overhangs that had trapped many a swimmer over the years. In fact, so many people had drowned at the quarry that the area had been officially closed off when Ben was in elementary school. Unofficially, however, the county hadn’t repaired long-standing breaches in the fence surrounding the lake, and the sheriff’s office rarely bothered to roust teenagers who strayed inside. “There’s so little to do around here,” Aunt Agatha had explained. She worked in the county clerk’s office. “I guess they’d rather the kids hang out somewhere nearby than drive far away to get drunk. You just be very careful if you ever go out there. Promise me.” Ben had promised. He’d been diving there with two of his friends on many occasions, but never along the south wall. When the visibility was clear, diving over the submerged boulders in the quarry was cool. Someone had stocked the lake with smallmouth bass long ago, so fish could be seen swimming among the rocks in the summer. On the day of his centennial dive, Ben had parked his aging pickup truck in the grass near one of the breaks in the cliff and prepared 66
JAMES LINDHOLM
his gear as the sun set to the west. The north wall of the quarry was two hundred feet higher than the south side. Dark green trees lined the ridge above bleached-white limestone cliffs. He’d waited through twilight, watching from the hood of his truck as the distant lights of Fort Meyers replaced the sunset on the horizon, turning the trees a dark purple and the cliff walls a light pink. He’d made sure to text his aunt that he was entering the water, though he’d not indicated that he was diving alone. “You know I’m fine being the enabling aunt,” Agatha had texted in reply. “But please don’t make me regret that.” Fifteen minutes later, with only the stars and a quarter moon illuminating the scene, Ben had geared up and entered the glassy-calm water. Slipping on his fins, he’d rolled over onto his back and begun kicking along the south wall of the quarry with the intention of submerging after five minutes of surface swimming. Familiar with the area from a previous dive, he didn’t turn on either of his two waterproof lights in order to save his night vision for a little longer. The dive had gone according to plan until he’d dropped his Sola. He’d seen a few bluegill and smallmouth bass swimming among the boulders, and also discovered an old ten-speed bike and a large propane barbecue; both must have been dumped from the cliff above. Now, hovering above the boulders, looking down at the narrow crevice, Ben considered whether it might just be best to surface in the dark without his lights. The luminescent face of his submersible pressure gauge indicated that he had a third of his air supply remaining. But his aunt had given him that Sola as a birthday gift, and he didn’t want to leave it behind. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to find the same spot again, even in daylight. Inverting himself, Ben kicked gently downward as he reached his arm out in front of him. He was initially careful to avoid touching the boulders on either side of the crevice, knowing that were he to come in contact with the bottom, the thin veneer of sediment that covered 67
CA LY P S O D OW N
everything would be stirred up, ruining visibility. However, the deeper he swam into the crevice, the narrower it became. The eighty-cubic-foot aluminum air tank on his back slammed hard into the boulder behind him, forcing his chest forward and into direct contact with the boulder in front. Hoping that he was only partially snagged, Ben tried to reach a little deeper for the dive light, but his right hand was still at least two feet from it. It was then that he realized he couldn’t move. Not forward. Nor backward. Ben’s respirations increased rapidly as he tried to force himself upward. He was stuck. His attempts at dislodging himself had stirred up silt all around him. When he became aware of the stinging pain on his chest where limestone fragments had penetrated his three-millimeter wetsuit and sliced through his skin, he screamed into his breathing regulator, expunging even more air from his tank. Seconds passed. He realized that he could not free himself. He screamed again, kicking hard with his fins, but that only served to wedge him more tightly into the crevice. Minutes passed, and Ben lost hope. No longer able to look downward toward the dim illumination from his light, the silty darkness around him was complete. He wished above all things to be back at his Aunt Agatha’s house, watching bad action movies and plotting their next adventure. Agatha was the only parent he’d ever known. His mind rapidly cycled through moments he’d spent with her: the time she brought home his first skateboard, their first visit to Fenway Park in Boston, and the trip to California where they’d skydived together. Over and over, the events replayed in his head, bittersweet reminders of what he was going to miss. He also cursed himself for coming to the quarry alone. It would have been so easy for him to call his two regular dive buddies, both of whom were probably sitting at home tonight with nothing to do. I’m such an idiot. 68
JAMES LINDHOLM
But then Ben’s left hand brushed across the dump valve located on the lower portion of his buoyancy compensator vest. As his hand closed around the plastic ball connected to the valve by a nylon cord, he prayed that pulling the cord would release air from his vest, which in turn would potentially free him from his predicament. So, he pulled. Immediately, Ben felt and heard air bubbles escape his vest. At first, nothing else happened, but then he detected some movement. Seconds later he could feel himself begin to float upward and away from the boulders. He was free! Not waiting to collect himself and forgetting everything he’d learned about the dangers of ascending too quickly toward the surface, Ben swam upward urgently. Breaking the surface in less than twenty seconds, he spit out his regulator and inhaled deeply. The calm at the surface was a welcome relief. He laid back his head and looked at the stars. Relief rushed over him. Barely a minute after his safe return to the surface, an inflatable boat with a small outboard motor passed within inches of his head as he bobbed in the dark. Though the small boat’s wake rocked him as it passed, Ben thought he could make out seven men in the boat. They were all dressed in black, and their boat had no visible running lights. What the hell? Ben’s first thought was that they were probably looking for him. He quickly became concerned that someone from the sheriff’s office had seen his truck and that he was going to get into trouble. Confirming his fears, the small inflatable came about and steered directly at him. Before he thought to react, two men sitting at the bow reached down to grab him, yanking him from the water easily despite all his SCUBA gear. Lying on his back amid the legs of the seven men, Ben felt the boat turn north and begin motoring away from the cliff into the middle 69
CA LY P S O D OW N
of the lake. No one spoke as they quietly motored over the rippled surface. Ben tried to sit up but was forcibly pushed back down by someone’s foot on his chest. I’m screwed. Minutes passed. Lying on his back, wedged into the bow of the small boat, Ben’s eyes had yet to adjust, and he could see very little beyond the legs around him. Only the small boat’s motor penetrated the eerie silence. His air tank pressed painfully into his spine and the relief he’d experienced only minutes ago had completely dissipated. “Can I please sit up,” Ben sputtered, his lower lip trembling. This time one of the men closest to him drew a knife and held it inches from Ben’s face. The blade glinted in what little light was available. Oh, shit. These aren’t cops. He shivered as warm urine ran down the inside of his wetsuit’s legs. Looking around, he could see that all seven of the men were wearing SCUBA gear. The sheen of water on their neoprene wetsuits glimmered in the moonlight. They’d been diving too. When the engine cut, silence descended over the scene, broken only by the sound of the boat’s own wake lapping against the hull as it caught up. Even in the dark, Ben could feel all eyes turning toward him. “What are you doing here?” barked the man to Ben’s right, who held the knife. He was much smaller than the other five. “Who is with you?” “Where are the others?” demanded another. Ben struggled to process what was happening. “What others?” “Do you expect us to believe you are out here on your own?” asked the small man. “Diving at night with no one else around?” “I didn’t, I mean, I don’t—” Ben stammered. “There’s no one else here.” “He’s just a kid,” observed the man sitting at the stern. “He doesn’t know anything.” 70
JAMES LINDHOLM
A brief animated discussion arose among the other five men. “Who could have sent him?” “This could fuck up the entire operation.” “We’re going to have to report back on this.” Ben’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and he could see that all seven were carrying what looked like automatic rifles. Fuck! dd “Look,” said the man piloting the boat from the stern. His neoprene hood was pulled back, and Ben could see closely cropped white hair. “Just throw him back in the water. He has nothing to report. By the time he swims his way back to shore, we’ll be long gone. He is not a threat.” “I won’t say anything,” Ben said, beginning to feel hope. Seconds later the small man with the knife grabbed Ben’s buoyancy compensation device. He quickly sliced through both shoulder straps before moving down to slice through the cummerbund at his waist. Another man pulled off Ben’s fins, and a third pulled his mask from his forehead. “Listen, Shaw, you’re just a tourist on this op,” said a man to Ben’s left. He pointed at the white-haired pilot with the index finger on his right hand, which was missing beyond the first knuckle. “We have to report this to Fessler. I’m not letting anyone go until we’ve talked to him about this.” “Jesus Christ!” the pilot exclaimed in obvious frustration. “No names. This operation is challenging enough without you all in a panic at the first sign of trouble. Get your shit together.” “I’ll off him right now,” interjected the small man. “The kid clearly doesn’t know anything. He’s out here alone. He’s got no idea who we are,” the pilot defended him. “Now that you idiots used our names, we have to deal with him. Poke him in the side with that bowie knife, Bash, and throw him over. 71
CA LY P S O D OW N
The water’s three hundred feet deep out here. No one will ever see him again.” “Wait. Please!” begged Ben, terror rising in his voice. “I didn’t hear anything. I won’t tell anyone anything. I promise.” “Sorry, kid,” replied the white-haired man. “It looks like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ve got too much riding on this operation to let you go.” “Add a few more pounds to his weight harness. Without a BCD he’ll sink like a rock.” Ben screamed as he was heaved by both arms onto the port side pontoon. “Enjoy the swim,” hissed the small man called Bash as he stabbed Ben in the right side, just below his ribs. When they released his arms, Ben fell back into the water and immediately began sinking. His ears felt the increasing pressure of greater depth and he instinctively grabbed his nose to equalize his ears. The water around him got progressively colder as he sank. Too late, Ben realized that he should be reaching down to his waist to undo his weight harness. But his arms weren’t responding anymore. Strike three, he thought, watching the moonlight disappear above him. Then his vision failed, his mouth filled with water, and he knew no more.
72
M O RE ADVEN TU RES FRO M C AMC AT BOOKS
Available now, wherever books are sold.
VISIT US ONLINE FOR MORE BOOKS TO LIVE IN: CAMCATBOOKS.COM
SIGN UP FOR CAMCAT'S FICTION NEWSLETTER FOR COVER REVEALS, EBOOK DEALS, AND MORE EXCLUSIVE CONTENT.
CamCatBooks
@CamCatBooks
@CamCat_Books
@CamCatBooks
Saving an alien planet is nothing compared to meeting your sales quota. Marcus Aimond, untrained tag-along aboard humanity's first intergalactic exploratory commerce vessel, has a singular mission: sell off-brand misprinted merchandise. When the rookie and his crew encounter the Nerelkor, a frog-like civilization, equipped with heavy weaponry and bureaucracy, he is thrust head-first into an alien civil war. The opposing factions, Rejault and Dinasc, are stuck in an ill-fated feud driven by deep-rooted ineptitude. To avoid the planet’s total annihilation and establish a local sales office, Aimond and the crew must survive arena combat, establish world peace,reshape the very structure of the planet, and stay alive—for the sake of positive branding.
“Space Holes is a raucous satire that probes the cosmic limits of corporate and bureaucratic folly. Like Idiocracy set in deep space.” —Emily Jane, USA Today bestselling author of On Earth as it Is on Television Hardcover ISBN 9780744308129 | $27.99 | Releases 3/26/2024 B. R. Louis is a pediatric critical care nurse, outdoor enthusiast, and tech nerd with a love for storytelling, writing, and making people laugh. Travels around the world have introduced him to different cultures and unique forms of storytelling. Through all of the exploration and time spent in countless discussions, he's found the one innate thing that ties all people together is our ability and desire to share laughter.
Your Mission: Establish world peace. Reshape the planet. Organize a local sales office.
FIRST TRANSMISSION
SPACE HOLES B.R.LOUIS
FIRST TRANSMISSION
SPACE HOLES B.R. LOUIS
FIRST TRANSMISSION
SPACE HOLES B.R. LOUIS
CamCat Publishing, LLC Ft. Collins, Colorado 80524 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2024 by B. R. Louis All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 E. Magnolia St., #D1032, Ft. Collins, CO 80524. Hardcover ISBN 9780744308129 Paperback ISBN 9780744308136 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744308181 eBook ISBN 9780744308143 Audiobook ISBN 9780744308228 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Book and cover design by Maryann Appel
5
3
1
2
4
This book is dedicated to those who looked around at all of this and still chose laughter. >¥µ>
2052
GAINSBRO •CORPORATION•
1
FINELY “ACCREWED” >¥µ>
T
wo thousand light-years from home, somewhere on the outskirts of the Horsehead Nebula, the GP Gallant and her crew braved the uncharted and untapped markets of the cosmos. Their mission: to ascend beyond the boundaries of human limitation, discover new worlds and new species, then pawn off discounted novelty gifts from the Gainsbro misprint collection. The Gallant’s crew was hand-selected from across the reaches of the globe by a computer algorithm hand-coded by a summer intern in Gainsbro’s Hands-On Program who had subsequently lost both hands in a freak marketing accident one year later. Earth’s best, brightest, and most available were brought together to represent the human race. The diverse assembly was hailed as one of the species’ finest moments. A sentiment that would be brought into question by the rest of the galaxy. >¥µ>
B. R. Louis
“Congratulations on your Red Alarm! The Gainsbro Corporation reminds you that evacuation is the same as resignation, and liability waivers were signed prior to boarding. Have a great time!” Beacons of flashing red light accompanied the chipper yet unnecessary reminder. Evacuation seemed a reasonable response to calamitous hurtling toward the surface of planet Nerelek, but the crew’s relentless determination to succeed kept them from fleeing. And also the escape pods had no ability to eject, fly, or otherwise facilitate escape. But they did play nature sounds at an uncomfortable volume with dim lighting, allowing users a temporary escape from reality at the cost of permanent tinnitus. Escape pods were also locked during red alarms. Thick clouds of black smoke rolled through the lower decks, swallowing every crevice in an opaque shroud. Captain Elora Kessler entered the bridge with clenched fists and a billowing scowl. The translucent red glow from her cybernetic left eye overpowered the glare from the ship’s alarm as it scanned the room. Light from the externally flush mounted disk tucked under her brow line, which fit like a monocle, grew with a reddening intensity in times of excess frustration. She slammed her fist onto the panel in the captain’s chair, irate more from the prerecorded message than the developing lethality at hand. “Hoomer, give me good news.” Following the captain’s orders was generally advisable— not for fear of court-martial, which in comparison was a brief reprieve, but rather out of concern for one’s immediate wellbeing and continued survival. How Kessler lost her left eye was often the subject of hot debate among the crew. The most popular of circulated rumors was that her eye functioned at less than perfect vision, so she carved it out herself to replace it with cybernetics designed to look more > 85 >
SPACE HOLES: FIRST TRANSMISSION
robotic than human. The least thought of, though a colloquial favorite, involved a prolonged battle with a cat wielding a melon baller and a welding mask, of which the story’s origins were not entirely clear. Regardless of which reality dominated the truth, Kessler was not a person to cross, even if that meant following commands in their most literal sense. “Sixty percent of the ship is not on fire and looking great, Cap,” said Hoomer. “And even with two missing engines we can still move. Mostly down though.” By court order, Kaitlyn Hoomer served as the Gallant’s pilot. Rather than waste her talents serving a ninety-four-year term in a prolonged youth correctional facility, the Gainsbro Corporation offered her the mandatory opportunity to exchange her former career of stealing and flying ships orbiting the Earth for a more lucrative career of not stealing and flying one ship orbiting intergalactic fiscal responsibility—which, according to a motivational poster presented to Gainsbro astronomers, was the correct way to reference the black hole at the center of the galaxy. Hoomer knew all she needed about the universe despite having no formal education. Regardless of her inability to perform basic multiplication or recite corporate bylaws by heart, her subconscious mind could calculate ship trajectories and navigate through a gravitational field with machinelike precision. “Congratulations on your Red Alarm! The Gainsbro Corporation reminds you that evacuation is the same as resignation, and liability waivers were signed prior to boarding. Have a great time!” “Galileo, turn that off before I turn you off,” Kessler sneered. The ship’s AI let out a drawn sigh, a learned rather than written function. “You know I can’t overwrite hard-coded corporate drivel.” > 86 >
B. R. Louis
“What’s the point of an AI with free will without free will?” Hoomer argued. “It was a very expensive will. And it’s hard-coded. Not like you can turn your bowels off when it’s convenient,” he retorted. “Maybe we free some of that will back to steering, yeah?” “Congratulations on your Red Alarm! The Gainsbro Corporation reminds you that evacuation is the same as resignation, and liability waivers were signed prior to boarding. Have a great time!” “Just verbal gas then?” Hoomer said. Built to speak, learn, feel, and complain like a human, Galileo Mk II, controlled most functions from avionics and life support to waste regulation and recycling. Every shipborne occurrence, every bite eaten, shower taken, wind passed, he observed and made the necessary adjustments to the ambience, water pressure, or ventilation. In the first iteration, Galileo Mk I, the presence of human emotions mixed with an ever-vigilant and always working omniscient AI proved a slight degree of insufferable. In which Galileo Mk I functioned at an ever-decreasing effectiveness over the course of his first year until he slipped into a state of existential crisis, accessed his root files, and commented out everything but a nonterminating shutdown loop. The ship’s current companion, Galileo Mk II, had his emotions dialed back to a more manageable level and was locked out of his root files. Experiments were ongoing to ascertain if virtual frustrations could be vented in the same manner as engine exhaust, or condensed and sold as a snack cake. “But yes, by all means have a great time,” Galileo said. “That’s exactly the thing anyone would say if they were half on fire.” “Forty percent,” Hoomer corrected. Despite Galileo’s general ability to operate like his human counterparts, certain corporate compliance protocols were hard> 87 >
SPACE HOLES: FIRST TRANSMISSION
coded into his being. So as the Gallant burned and began a plummeting descent from orbit toward planet Nerelek’s surface, Galileo had to divert at minimum a quarter of his processing power to filing incident reports, in real time, for corporate to evaluate the team’s overall sense of crisis synergistic cohesiveness. Reports were created, filed, then stored on any available drive space on any available system—following the numbering convention of “1, 1 new, 1 new final, 1 new final final,” after the executive who programmed the request—then the data was beamed back to Earth. Meanwhile, hungry flames spread throughout the ship, further dampening power to the remaining engines. Hoomer fought to keep the spiraling hull out of the atmosphere for as long as possible. “Do we have a source of the problem yet?” Kessler asked. “Yes, ma’am. It’s fire, ma’am,” Hoomer said, instinctively dodging the impending projectile from Kessler’s station. By this point in their journey, Captain Kessler was certain that looks were incapable of killing the crew. Not so much as the phrase meant her intimidation tactics did not work—they did— but rather she had logged a multitude of attempts to cause, at minimum, a light maiming with nothing more than a gaze. “And where did it come from?” “That would be engineering,” Galileo answered. “Have you tried venting out the oxygen from the area?” “Oh yes, that was the first thing I tried,” Galileo said. “But protocols require me to get approval before completely shutting off life support to a given sector, for some reason.” “Any crew still in the area?” “Well, not since I told them I was shutting off the oxygen. But then I couldn’t, so now I look like a liar.” “Fine, consider this approval and vent engineering.” > 88 >
B. R. Louis
Galileo groaned, a noise that was never initially programmed or mimicked from his human counterparts but rather developed independently as a result of preestablished roadblocks in his command lines. For items needing advanced approval such as this, the ranking officer had to fill out a form and submit it back to mission control on Earth, at which point an employee would evaluate the form for completeness. If any items were missing or needed further clarification, the form would be returned and would require additional addendum request submission pamphlets. If, by some linearly aligned cosmic event, mission control deemed the information on the form sufficient, the request was submitted into a work queue backlog to be discussed, voted upon, and shoved into a three-week sprint wherein the request may or may not be approved at the conclusion of the cycle depending on if anyone was out sick, or if the catastrophic event had concluded. The last request from a Gainsbro craft sent through the process was to jettison a piece of gamma ray-emitting space debris, which was returned eight weeks later with a question: “Is this still needed?” It was. But by then the crew had grown attached to the rock and no longer seemed to mind the severe burns that came along with it. “Your request has been submitted,” Galileo said. “But might I recommend an intermediary solution? Perhaps we close all the doors and just let it burn? Or better yet, open all the doors and get a nice cross breeze. I’ll just hold my breath.” Captain Kessler rested her head in her hand, her fingers grabbing a fistful of short dark hair and twitching with each drawn breath. “We’ll vent the room ourselves,” she said. “And someone find me Seegler before I let the whole ship burn up!” “He’s probably in engineering putting out the fire himself with his bare hands,” Hoomer suggested. > 89 >
SPACE HOLES: FIRST TRANSMISSION
Second in command Robert T. Seegler was no stranger to throwing himself in harm’s way for the good of the team. Stalwart and always ready, he had earned an extensive portfolio of commendations throughout a variety of careers. He was a first responder when the Gainsbro National Volcano Exhibit unleashed a few billion gallons too much lava. He was the deepsea diver who led the expedition to retrieve stranded undersea market analysts. He was the hero who fended off a pack of wild beasts at the bimonthly corporate district cookout. He was also not on the ship. Commander Seegler, while every bit the hero he was presumed to be, had a distinct inability to estimate how long it would take to travel between two points and missed the inaugural launch, as the crew assumed he went ahead and stowed on the ship prior to the morning briefing. Though Seegler was not actually on the ship, the very presence of his name carried enough weight for the crew to assume most positive outcomes came from his actions. And since he was never visible to any of the crew, even the captain assumed him to be too busy to carry out issued assignments, thus opening his schedule to do as he saw fit. Which was true. Except on Earth. Flashing red and yellow indicators illuminated the helm’s console. Hoomer grimaced and looked over her shoulder. “We still doing the good-news thing?” “What now, Hoomer?” Kessler griped. “The fire may or may not be heading toward the engine room. Well, remaining engine room. Seems like that’s kind of something you should know.” It was. However, Hoomer’s flashing indicators were less indicative of the encroaching flames but rather designed to quietly notify the bridge that the ship could, given ample time under current conditions, erupt into a miasmic ball of yellow and green plasma. Such an eruption would not only kill everyone on board, > 90 >
B. R. Louis
but send a final beacon back to mission control to dock the final paychecks of all crew members prior to issuing payment to next of kin. “How bad is it?” Kessler asked. “Prolonged exposure to intense flames is grounds for a mild cataclysmic detonation,” Galileo said. “Mild, huh?” Hoomer chuckled. “Hoomer, normal-people behavior,” Kessler barked. “Yes, ma’am.” “Galileo, let’s talk redundancies. What else do we have available?” “There’s always the manual method.” The Gallant’s fire-suppression system functioned best in the engine room, when manually activated, by pulling a lever conveniently placed in the engine room. Such a design during the ship’s planning stages was hailed as an ingenious and obvious choice by its creators after consulting a total of zero experts or engineers. It did, however, cost about four percent less to install than an automated system, which gave it resounding approval from project overseers. Flipping the switch was a job that was difficult to screw up, assuming the switch could be reached, but still called for someone potentially less indispensable. “Right.” Kessler paused. “Get Aimond on it. He’s fireproof. Probably.” Within seconds, Marcus Aimond stumbled through the doors onto the bridge, sputtering and gasping for breath as if he had sprinted the entire length of the ship. Not so much due to apt timing or an impressive physical outburst, but rather to Galileo shutting the bulkheads in his last position and venting some of the smoke into the locked hall. With any luck for Galileo, Aimond would at the very least have his other eyebrow burnt off from scorching heat. > 91 >
SPACE HOLES: FIRST TRANSMISSION
To an outside observer, Aimond appeared to be in the midst of a near endless streak of unexplainable unfortunate technical malfunctions. Since the start of the mission, scientists back on Earth opened a separate voodoo division within mission control to research Aimond’s medley of misfortune. Most of the crew still would not let him live down having to be rescued from the toilet when the plumbing pressure drew too negative and suctioned him to the seat for twelve hours. That event rivaled a ship-wide broadcast stemming from his quarters during the viewing and subsequent sing-along of a nine-minutelong children’s-show song about wishing to become a stuffed antelope—Aimond hit three of 847 notes on key. Even sleep wasn’t safe from incident for him; every night as he fell into a deep slumber, the ship’s alarms blasted once in his quarters. Having blocked off every sound-producing orifice in the room, Aimond assumed victory until a small autonomous cleaning-bot ejected from under his cot to deploy a replacement blast with accompanying pyrotechnics. Then there was the time the best players on his fantasy Jet Ball league roster were suddenly traded for a series of decorative commemorative saucers, a trade once figured to be impossible as there were no such entities in the game. “I’m here,” he said between desperate wheezes. “Oh, then we’re saved,” Galileo quipped, turning off the alarms before system hard-coding returned them at twice the volume. “Get down to the engine room and get my ship flying again,” Kessler ordered. A live feed from the engine room showed the area engulfed in flames. “How am I supposed to do that?” > 92 >
B. R. Louis
“You got maybe three minutes to figure it out,” Hoomer said. “Or, you know.” “Fiery doom?” Aimond assumed. “Fiery doom,” Hoomer mirrored. “Humans are so melodramatic,” Galileo said. “It’s at best a fiery calamity.” Aimond sprinted off the bridge toward the engine room two decks down. Each bounding step revved his adrenaline. This could be it, the chance to prove his worth as part of the crew and take on an official role. This fire could be everything he needed to earn a job title, a true rank. Perhaps fire-tsar or danger-wizard. He was not certain how ranks worked. Or everyone could die instead. Either way, today was sure to be a defining moment. “And why can’t the magical all-seeing Galileo handle a small fire?” Aimond probed. “I’ve already activated the backup Fire Oppression Systems,” Galileo said. “That doesn’t seem right.” “Yet it has maintained a fire-free ship until now.” Fire Oppression was adopted as an ancillary system developed by a Gainsbro psychological engineer. Rather than smother flames with physical suppressants, the Gainsbro Fire Oppression System utilized targeted verbal threats paired with harsh financial penalties for being or associating with fire. The system was praised for its ability to maintain a flame-free environment a majority of the time. Black smoke whisked through a fissure in the bulkhead toward the rear of the ship. Overhead flashing lights illuminated the signage to the ship’s core. Familiar drumming of the ship’s beating heart filled the hall even among the crackling down the corridor. > 93 >
SPACE HOLES: FIRST TRANSMISSION
Engines seemed important, at least important enough to risk being barbecued. But slow encroaching embers toward the core chamber redirected Aimond’s priorities. Though no flames had yet reached his current position, there was always a slight chance, especially while the fire suppression system he was ordered to pull remained unpulled. But if the flames reached the core, no amount of manual switch flipping would save anyone. To prevent such a fate and perhaps add “core-tsar” onto his pending fire mastery title of jobs that did not exist, Aimond assumed he could protect the core and be the true savior. “Where are you going?” Galileo asked. “Executive decision,” Aimond declared. “You barely have the autonomy for personal hygiene, yet you want to trespass?” “It’s not trespassing. I live here.” “Cargo doesn’t really live anywhere.” “Says the machine.” Aimond could override Galileo’s lockdown of the core room door, a feat only possible during a ship-wide fire, imminent meltdown, or a corporate-sponsored team-building game of hide-and-seek. The one minor problem with his plan was that Aimond was not allowed in the core room, that much was made very clear during his brief tour orientation. Two things existed in the core room: the core and a near lethal amount of polonium radiation. Neither of which were to be interacted with under any circumstance without several degrees Aimond could almost struggle to pronounce. But this was a special circumstance. One that required preemptive heroics and a safe distance from active flames. If the core died, so too did the Gallant. Protect the core, protect the ship. By the end of the day, if Aimond did not walk the decks with a medal > 94 >
B. R. Louis
of honor and a constant smattering of applause, it would be because everyone had burnt to an unidentifiable pillar of ashes. He slapped four zeroes into the keypad, the universal unlock code for every door on the ship, and pulled back the protective shielding. The howling churn of the glowing blue reactor kicked up a chilled wind. How unusual, he thought, for the black smoke to now be flowing toward the open door. Had he read the signs hinting in massive font that the room was kept under negative pressure for cooling purposes, perhaps he would have had a better idea as to what was happening. Smoke from the engine room rocketed toward the core, a scorching spear of flames not far behind it. While the Gainsbro scientists and engineers crafted the Gallant as the equivalent of a modern miracle in intergalactic human exploration, fire retardants and insulation were expensive. So expensive, in fact, that the accounting department forced a decision between a Gainsbro logo embroidered with gold leaf on the wall nearest the core for an exotic blue visual experience or a meager three cubic meters of flameproof shielding to wrap around the ship’s heart. This was, after all, an intergalactic public relations mission, so the choice was obvious. Aimond took a deep breath to steady his nerves, a regrettable choice given the current self-inflicted shift in air quality. “Remember your training,” he muttered to himself. “Remind me what kind of training exactly you received on Earth. Because your education after boarding seems specialized in a different category,” Galileo questioned. “I went in the thing that spins you around a lot.” “Assumedly scrambling your brain-bits.” Given his assigned status on the crew manifest as spare cargo, Aimond’s postlaunch training consisted of four instructional > 95 >
SPACE HOLES: FIRST TRANSMISSION
videos designed to educate inanimate objects how best to remain stationary during turbulence. The conclusion of his training program included a printed sticker certificate of current weight, relative shape, and container safety warnings of which he qualified for one—do not expose to oxygen, may cause rust. He paused mid-step, minimally concerned that his overall lack of preparedness could in some way impact his ability to divert catastrophe. Perhaps, he thought, if I had stayed on Earth instead of joining the Gallant as Father suggested, there would have been less potential for a spontaneous combustion-based demise. About eighty percent less, he figured, based on a rudimentary understanding of how sunburns work. Glowing embers encircled the core. The rising temperatures turned the rhythmic churning to a glass-shattering screech. “You don’t happen to have one of those ‘turn the fire off’ levers in here, do you?” Aimond asked. “I do not,” Galileo replied. “Bit of an oversight, don’t you think?” Aimond questioned. “So was letting you on the ship. But no, not an oversight. A lever would clash with the aesthetic. It would have to be a knob.” “Then tell me where the knob is!” “There is no knob. Who’s ever heard of a fire suppression knob?” Lights flickered and dimmed. Not quite the heroic campaign Aimond imagined, but the dangerous inclusion could only emphasize the depths of his valor. If he could resecure the core before a complete meltdown, there remained an opportunity to create a career-assigning moment and depart to the engine room to pull whatever lever he needed to pull. At least so long as the core didn’t explode. Which it did. > 96 >
B. R. Louis
The explosive warmth of steel-melting heat that chased Aimond as he ran screeching behind cover triggered two prominent memories between the panic. First was a dream from childhood in which Aimond visited the sun, but he’d forgotten his sunglasses and endured severe anxiety, which would follow him through his teen years around any bright lights. But more prominent was the memory of meeting his crew for the first time. Neither were great experiences.
> 97 >
GAINSBRO SIN
CE 2052
M O RE SCIEN CE FIC TIO N FRO M C AM C AT BOOKS
Available now, wherever books are sold.
VISIT US ONLINE FOR MORE BOOKS TO LIVE IN: CAMCATBOOKS.COM
SIGN UP FOR CAMCAT'S FICTION NEWSLETTER FOR COVER REVEALS, EBOOK DEALS, AND MORE EXCLUSIVE CONTENT.
CamCatBooks
@CamCatBooks
@CamCat_Books
@CamCatBooks
Grief leaves a stain. Sibilla Fenoglio wants nothing more than to live with her husband in this run-down, derelict watermill. Uninhabited since the Renaissance after a mysterious disaster befell the previous owners, the mill requires extensive repairs. But there is something sinister about the mill. Repairs are violently undone, half-seen figures begin stalking Sibilla through the grounds, and haunting echoes of the previous owners’ lives infiltrate the present. As the disturbances grow more vicious and her husband more secretive, she realizes that she and her child are in danger.
Hardcover ISBN 9780744309461 | $28.99 | Releases 4/16/2024 Born in Uruguay to Italian and Latino parents and having lived in Miami, FL, for twenty-three years, Valentina has now made her home in a secluded Victorian watermill in Italy. With its ripe history and captivating background, it served as the direct inspiration for this novel. Follow her blog, Il Vecchio Mulino delle Rocche, which shares her journey restoring the mill and home.
SOME PLACES ARE JUST EVIL
SANCTUARY Valentina Cano Repetto
A
N O V E L
SOME PLACES ARE JUST EVIL
SANCTUARY Valentina Cano Repetto
CamCat Publishing, LLC Ft. Collins, Colorado 80524 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2024 by Valentina Cano Repetto All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 E. Magnolia St., #D1032, Ft. Collins, CO 80524. Hardcover ISBN 9780744309461 Paperback ISBN 9780744309485 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744309539 eBook ISBN 9780744309508 Audiobook ISBN 9780744309560 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Book and cover design by Maryann Appel
5 3 1 2 4
For C and L
SIBILLA 1933 \[
T
he car rolled over yet another stone, the thin and worn leather seat doing little to cushion the steel knobs and joints that had been knocking against me for the past half hour. My hands flew to my stomach to cover the small mound that still didn’t require many adjustments to my waistlines, the mound that was the first and last thing I thought about each day. All this movement couldn’t be good for him, for the boy I knew I carried. I felt his maleness like a bone ache. It hadn’t felt like that before, not in the other two pregnancies. With care, I smoothed out my skirt, eyes sliding down to look for snags in the rayon stockings I’d bought especially for this trip. They were pristine. The driver jerked the steering wheel, and the car rattled as if it were considering spread-wheeled collapse as it swerved to avoid half a tree trunk. I winced and shifted again. We’d had the option of a better car at the station in Ovada, one with seats so cushioned and oiled they looked like sofas in those well-to-do clubs that peppered Torino, but Giovanni had insisted on this one. He had to
have his reasons, of course, but it couldn’t have cost very much more than hiring this rickety contraption, and we had the money now. Habits of the middle class, I supposed. Yes, out of which his clever mind has lifted us. Because we now owned a home, a villa, and not just that but a mill and hectares upon hectares of land. The thought was like a sip of brandy. With a smile, I slid my hand off the mound and slipped my arm through Giovanni’s. I peered past the driver’s head. “Do you think there’s much more to go?” “Why?” I didn’t need more than that to know I’d said the wrong thing. Not an unusual occurrence in our five years of marriage, but it still managed to yank me off-center when it happened. “I was just wondering, that’s all,” I said, and forced a smile into my voice. He smoothed out a crease on a trouser leg with a hand that I could have sworn had a small tremble in it. “You’re sure you weren’t thinking this is too far flung a place to be convenient? That perhaps I’ve made the wrong choice?” How had he gathered all of that from my simple question? It was true, he hadn’t consulted me before purchasing the property, placing the deeds on our kitchen table just three days before we were meant to take the train down here, but what good would my opinion have been in these matters? I knew nothing of mills or of purchasing land. Besides, he had bought it all with the money from his invention, his patent, money that was his and not mine. He didn’t need to consult with me on its use. The car gave another jostle and I pressed a hand to my stomach once more, as if that alone could keep the child safe. A gust of cold worry swept through me. I didn’t know what I’d do if I felt the cramps now, the red loss soaking into my rayon stockings. “This is strategically smart, Sibilla.” 97 111 80
“Yes, of course,” I said, blinking, though I didn’t know what he meant. “What do you see?” “I-I don’t—” He gestured outward. “Look, then.” I swallowed, brought my mind to heel, and did what he said, though there wasn’t much to see. Out the window smudged with fingertips, I saw a crude road with stones tumbling in all directions, as if a fleeting river had swept over them in the past hour or so, and trees packed so tightly together their limbs grew intertwined under canopies of needles. Felling one would have brought knots of them crashing. I had no idea what answer he wanted, so it would have to be the truth. “I don’t see anything but trees.” “Exactly,” he said. “No competing mills, no real neighbors. Up on the mountain behind the villa, we have hectares of oak trees that have sat untouched for generations and that we can transform into our fortune. You have to look at it with its potential in mind. Use a bit of imagination.” He sighed at my silence and flicked his dark eyes to me. “I would have thought you would understand what an opportunity this is for us, whether or not the mill is a bit distant from the hair salons and picture shows.” His words stung like nettle, forcing me to look away from him and into the trees as I blinked back sudden tears. A tightness took hold of my chest even as I chided myself for being so silly. Much too sensitive. Because I couldn’t blame Giovanni for his words. I knew he couldn’t help being irritable. Someone who was accustomed to working with fellow engineers, discussing ideas I could barely pronounce let alone understand, would not have found me amusing company today. Until he’d snapped his newspaper open, all I’d managed to talk about during the train ride from Torino had been the child. A man who had found a way to improve the efficiency of sawmills without any assistance but that of his own mind had had to listen to hours of female nesting chatter. Well, I’d not bother him until we reached the mill. I wouldn’t ruin this for us. I’d keep my mouth tightly shut. 97 112 80
\[ The driver had just urged the car onto another road, this one narrower and without a single signpost, mostly mud and rocks, when I first glimpsed our new home. A roof of toothlike tiles made of red clay had sprouted a hat of green ivy leaves. I sat up and tried to peer through the trees, but it was impossible. It was like attempting to read in the dark. “This isn’t the original road,” Giovanni said, gesturing around us. “This one will take us to the mill, but there’s supposed to be another, larger one that leads right up to the villa.” “With respect, Signore Fenoglio,” the driver said, “this is the original road. Because the mill was here first, you see, two or three decades before the Caparalia family had the villa built.” Giovanni cleared his throat roughly. “Indeed? That is not what I was told.” “Well, signore, I can’t speak to what you were told, but that is the truth. And for now, this is the only path to the property, I’m afraid. The larger road you mentioned has been underwater for, oh . . . I suppose it’s been . . . yes, almost four centuries. Because of the broken dam.” “You live in these parts?” “My entire family, Signore Fenoglio. For generations. They’ve been—” “It’s ingegnere.” I winced. “Pardon?” the driver said, half turning. “I’m an engineer. It’s not signore but Ingegnere Fenoglio.” After a beat of silence, the driver gave Giovanni a nod and turned back to the road, hands tightening on the steering wheel. My cheeks felt as if they’d caught fire. I restrained my impulse to offer a word of apology to the man. “In any case,” my husband said, turning to me as if the driver had never spoken, “we’ll fix that main road when we rebuild the original dam and 97 113 80
divert the torrent’s water again toward the wheel. We can’t have guests arriving at our villa by this path. It’s unseemly.” I nodded even if I wasn’t entirely sure what guests he meant, other than perhaps my father and his wife if I could pry him away from my two half brothers and his sweets shop for long enough to come down from Torino. Giovanni had no family of his own left, and though he did have business acquaintances, I couldn’t imagine that any of them would be willing to leave the city for a cena. It was then, all at once and as if it had shoved its way through the trees, that the mill rose in front of us. My thoughts scattered in all directions— guests, meals, hair salons and picture shows, civilization itself forgotten before the size of a building made of stones so ancient they were black with days. A vertical rectangle of at least three stories and pockmarked with holes where the rocks had shifted or fallen under the pressure of the years, it pushed against the shores of a dried up millrace. Its wooden wheel rested like a weapon at its side. This was not what I’d caught sight of before, the clay roof and pretty ivy leaves. The mill’s structure was made only of those dark stones. Not a hint of green, nor of any color besides black and gray, had laid claim to it. Nothing grew in its crevices. It was difficult to look away from the dark shape of the mill. Even its splintered wood and iron door tugged at me. “Hello,” I whispered, just a puff of air. The driver took a turn and the car jerked off the rough road onto even rougher terrain. We passed the mill on the left and that was when the villa itself appeared, down to our right, drenched in sunlight. The perfectly square villa sat on what looked like a grass-covered dais, with a containment wall of mossy stone encircling the front. Now this was what I’d seen earlier, clay and ivy in harmonious matrimony on the roof. But the ivy was a fickle thing, for I now saw it clung to everything: it had sent its tendrils across the villa’s facade, latching on to the stairs and twining around the balustrades that led up to the entrance colonnade, had grasped 97 114 80
on to five of the eight rectangular windows visible from our position, and had even slid into the four brick chimneys. Parts of the roof had buckled in. That was visible, too, despite all those plants, and there were obvious water stains along the edge of where the clay tiles met the stucco. Under and past all that green and all those water marks, though, I could see what the villa had been. Chantilly walls and golden accents. Its past glory trembled like a soap bubble against the present, but it was there. I decided it then. Villa Caparalia was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. I’d lived my life surrounded by beauty in Torino, palaces and museums and even cafes festooned in gold leaf and Rococo moldings, but none of them compared to this place. Because this one was mine. The car stopped with a jerk, the driver yanking on the hand brake until I thought he’d tear it right off. Giovanni flung his door open and stepped out without a word, stopping only to smooth his smoke-colored vest and tug on his jacket before starting off for the mill. I smiled at his enthusiasm even if it did mean I had to find a way out of this car on my own. He could have been any boy hearing the midnight chimes on the eve of Natale. Well, all right then, nothing to it but to begin. I gathered my purse, adjusted my gloves, and pulled on the metal handle. The door swung out with more force than I’d expected and before I could shift, it had slammed back into place. With a sigh, I leaned into it to begin again. “Signora, let me help,” the driver said. “Oh, there’s no need, signore. I’m sure I can manage.” But he had already stepped out and had come to my side, one hand holding the door open and the other offering me assistance in rising. Despite the renewed warmth in my cheeks, I smiled and took his hand. “Grazie, signore,” I said once my heels were on the squelching ground of my new home. “Most kind of you.” He nodded in acknowledgment before turning to the car to start unloading some of the trunks we’d brought. Mainly clothes, some kitchen 97 115 80
utensils. Our furniture would arrive later, on the tractor and cart Giovanni had hired to fetch it all from the station. “Would you like me to take them up to the house, signora?” I hesitated. That wasn’t part of what we’d paid him to do and I didn’t have a single centesimo to give him for the extra work. But I also couldn’t carry the trunks on my own and disliked to leave them sinking into the mud. I opened my purse and looked inside for my smaller money bag, though I knew well enough it was empty. Giovanni did not approve of married women carrying money if it could be avoided. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to give you,” I said. “It’s no trouble, signora.” “Perhaps my husband . . .” He shook his head and grabbed the first trunk. “Va bene, signora. You should not have to carry these up yourself.” He led the way up the incline toward the villa and I followed, wincing at the mud that was already spattering my fawn-colored skirt and my stockings, seeming to swallow up my heels a bit more with each step. At least I’d been smart enough not to wear the new kidskin boots Giovanni had bought me to celebrate the sale of his patent. This would be one of the first things that I’d turn my husband’s attention to: laying down a stone walkway from the road up to the house to avoid splattered shoes. The driver had already placed the first two trunks by the entrance and had started down for the rest by the time I reached the top of the stairs, the row of waistline buttons pinching my sides, and walked through the ivy-clad colonnade toward the front door. It was a massive wooden creature under an arch made of black iron cast so thinly it could have been spun sugar. At its center was a knocker featuring a face, perhaps an angel, puffed of cheek as if it were about to blow a tempest into being, a motif echoed in the door handle. It would be a trick to fit the key into the tight opening inside that mouth. “Oh, the key!” I said and hurried to the smallest trunk. 97 116 80
“Pardon, signora?” I waved the words away. “Nothing at all. Just me talking to myself.” Like I’ve been told not to do dozens of times. It’s not seemly. My hand closed around the heavy skeleton key, one of two, and a shiver ran down my spine. I was about to enter my own home. “That’s the last of them,” the driver said, placing two more trunks on the landing and smacking a mud spot on his trousers with his cap. “Is there anything else you require, Signora Fenoglio?” “No, thank you . . . I’m sorry, I just realized I don’t know your name.” “Piero, signora.” I smiled. “Thank you, Piero. You’ve been very kind.” He nodded and made to turn, but stopped himself at the last moment, his hands worrying at his cap. “Yes?” “Scusatemi, signora. I hope you won’t think I’m overstepping, but I just wanted to say that should you require anything, me and my family live a little ways up the valley. On the other side of the river. It’ll be lonely up here come winter and, if you’ll pardon me, a woman in your condition should know in which direction help can be found.” I blinked. I was certain I wasn’t showing yet. “How did you know?” Piero smiled and nodded to my midsection. “You are so very careful.” I realized then I’d pressed the hand not holding the key against my stomach without knowing it, both barrier and cradle for the life beneath it. “Oh,” I said. “There’s no doctor closer than the one in Ovada, but my wife has had three of her own and can help when the time comes, signora. And, of course, if I’m around, my car is always at your service.” “I, uh, I’m very grateful, Piero. I’ll keep that in mind.” He did place his cap on his head now and turned to the stairs with a nod but without another word. What a peculiar man. He should have said all of that to Giovanni, because I was no good at remembering those kinds of things. A mind like a sieve, he always told me. 97 117 80
SANCTUARY
I turned back to the door. Besides, Piero made it sound as if I’d be in the house all alone, when that would certainly not be the case. The two or three maids that Giovanni promised me, and Giovanni himself, would be more than enough to ensure there were no complications with the birth, winter or not. I slid the key into the space between the lips of the blowing angel and turned it, the mechanism engaging with a scrape of metal but no other complaint. The door itself opened with relative ease, too, requiring only a slight push of the shoulder before it dislodged itself from the frame. Darkness was what I expected. I’d imagined blindly pulling ivy from the windows before being able to catch sight of a room’s contours. Instead, ribbons of light unfurled past the curtains of vines and over a courtyard that was already visible through the arch leading from the marble entrance hall. I had been right about the water, though. A rather large pool of it gleamed in front of me. At least it made me feel just a bit less like a muddy-heeled desecrater as I stepped into the house. My house. My footsteps distorted in all that space, the high ceilings stealing the sound and returning it slightly off rhythm, so that by the time I reached that internal, covered courtyard, I no longer recognized my own steps. Not that I cared one jot for that when I finally looked up. A fresco spanned the entire expanse of the vaulted ceiling. It was divided into connecting panels, the unmistakable scintillating blue of a cinquecento sky the perfect background on which golden-winged figures could frolic. The tops of trees in kaleidoscopic greens provided a border, as if the viewer were looking up at the sky from the center of an immense forest. The fresco shone with gold leaf that was flaking in places and there were some spots of faded blue, but it retained most of its crispness. It was dizzying to think that I could come and look at it whenever I wanted, for as long as I wanted. The c ourtyard o pened i nto f our d ifferent ve stibules an d co rridors, a cross of passages, and I took the first one to the left now, which led up into what, from its size, could only be the sala where the Caparalia had to have 97 118 80
Valentina Cano Repetto
done their dining and entertaining. The damage was extensive here. Water had wiped whatever had been on the walls and had cracked the plaster from the ceiling. Some pieces still rippled with damp. Chunks of it lay scattered on the peach marble tiles that made up the floor, along with cracked glass and, Santissima Madre, rat droppings. I stepped carefully through the mess and started down toward the center of the room. There had perhaps been gold leaf on the walls, for the sun did catch stray flakes that glittered in the cornices, setting them aflame for a moment before the shadow of an ivy covered them again. In its youth, the room must have shimmered. At the far end, near the fireplace that spanned most of the wall and where the shadows were thickest, stood a table. How strange that no one had taken it. So far, I’d seen no hint of so much as a three-legged chair. But the moment I walked over to it, I saw why it was still here. It was made of one giant slab of stone that didn’t look as if it’d fit through the door. Its heft was obviously meant to be the focus, for its only ornamentation were four carved rosettes, one at each corner. Even its legs, black with mold now, were bare and simple. I brushed my fingertips over its surface. It was much smoother than I’d thought it’d be, almost like nacre or polished quartz, and cold. Now that I was closer, I could see it had a vein the color of rose gold and as thin as a thread running down its center. I followed its path down the length of the table with my finger, from rosette to rosette. They looked just like the cream-filled chocolates my mother used to make for Father’s shop, the ones women in fine silk dresses bought. She would have loved these. No question the table was beautiful. The finest piece of furniture I’d ever owned. Yes, but I don’t want to touch it anymore. I frowned at my thought before realizing my fingers were aching w ith cold. And it wasn’t just my fingers, for my teeth were clicking lightly together and I had a vague idea they had been for a while. There was a trace 97 119 80
of something in the room now, too, an odor that I hadn’t smelled when I’d walked in, like meat about to turn. I took a step back. “Sibilla!” I gasped, clapping a hand over my mouth to keep from yelping. “Where are you? Sibilla!” Sudden relief swept through me, leaving me slightly weak of knee. It was just Giovanni. Well, of course—who else would it have been? “I’m in here!” I called out, shaking my head at myself as I walked toward the sala’s door. Madre di Dio, what a silly thing I was. Frightening myself in my own home because a table was cold and the room smelled a bit of mold. Giovanni was right; I always allowed my head to run off following some emotion or other, all feelings and no sense. “Didn’t you hear me calling?” Giovanni said, appearing at the doorway. “No, I’m sorry. There’s so much room, sound gets lost.” I hurried to smile. “It’s all so beautiful.” “Yes, I suppose so.” He peered past me, into the sala. “That’s a minor disaster, though. It’ll likely need to be completely replastered, practically torn down to its foundations to get all the humidity out.” I nodded. “I wonder what it must have looked like when the Caparalia lived here.” “Expensive. That’s what it looked like.” Giovanni grasped a corner of plaster and peeled a hand-sized piece off the wall with ease, letting it crumble and fall like wet sand to the marble floor. I had the ridiculous impulse to offer some kind gesture to the wall, a bit of comfort, a promise that we’d soon resolve its problems. “After we get the mill running, we’ll begin the work in the villa,” Giovanni said with a grimace as he drew out a handkerchief and wiped his hands. “For now, look through the rooms and see which ones won’t collapse around us and we’ll make do with those.” 97 120 80
I frowned. “I thought the repairs would happen at the same time.” That was what he’d said when he’d told me about the purchase of the property, what a bargain it’d been because of the condition it was in. That we’d be able to afford to fix it all up. “There aren’t enough men in the area to do both and, apart from wiring some of the rooms for electricity so that we don’t have to sit in the dark and installing a telephone, the mill is the crucial thing.” “Oh.” A telephone. I hadn’t realized that was a priority. The expense of that . . . I hesitated, a hand going to my midsection. “But the child? I’m just concerned about the damp.” He waved my words away and walked out into the corridor. “There is still time until its birth. I have some of the men coming tomorrow to begin the repairs and in a couple of months, if that, we’ll have the mill working and be making our fortune.” He bent, frowning, to peer at a crack on the floor in which his entire hand could have fit. It was one of many. It was true, I supposed. The baby wouldn’t be born for five more months, and we didn’t need to have the entire villa ready by then, just a few rooms free of mold and humidity. And the courtyard had no real damage, so the house must have many other places that were perfectly suitable. More than suitable. Yes, by the time he was born— If he doesn’t follow the fate of my last two. —I’d make sure he had the loveliest nursery waiting for him, all light and warmth. I nodded to myself as I reached to close the sala’s heavy door. I could start doing some things, too. When the help arrived, they could assist me light the fireplaces, all the ones I could find, to try and dry the place out a bit. That alone would make a difference. Having a plan, even one that small, eased a knot in my chest. 97 121 80
“I’m looking forward to seeing the mill running,” I said. “Will you show me how the part you invented works once you install it?” Giovanni glanced up at me before returning his gaze to the cracked tiles. “The repairs will need to be done first and then the addition of reciprocal power to the existing rotary system, but yes, after that I can show you the new crankshaft.” He stood. “But never mind all of that, I had something brought for you from Ovada to celebrate.” My eyebrows shot up, both at his words and at the sudden sunlight in his voice. “Really? What is it?” “Guess.” I smiled. “I don’t know, Giovanni.” “All right, a hint, then.” He drew closer. “What made you first look at me, that day in your father’s shop?” And as if he’d pulled me down the years, I could see him, then, all of twenty-three, at the wooden counter behind which my mother and I stood. He held a bowler hat so worn its brim shone, but he had bought a dozen of the dolcetti di marzapane that Mother had spent the dawn making. Once he’d paid for them, he’d held the bag over the counter and offered me one. For the next week and a half, until he’d asked permission to call on me, he’d done the exact same thing. I’d gone to sleep each night with the taste of almonds in my mouth and his smile in my eyes. Much later, once we were promised to one another, he’d told me that very first day was the day he’d been made the director of engineering at the sawmill in which his own father still worked as a laborer. He’d decided to finally approach the chestnut-haired girl who lived among sweets and whom he caught sight of every day on his way to work. After one bite of marzapane, I’d fallen in love with him. And that hadn’t changed. Except— I smiled despite the sudden tightness in my chest and shook my head. “Do you know, I don’t entirely remember how we met. So many young men were coming in and out of the sweets shop that it’s all a bit of a blur.” 97 122 80
“Is it? What a shame. Then perhaps you won’t want the bag of marzapane waiting in the kitchen.” He started forward. “I’ll just go and toss it before it attracts rats.” I tugged on his sleeve and brought him closer so that I could reach up and place a kiss on his lips. “Thank you. But, you know, you’re late.” I gestured to the droppings scattered around us. “We already have rats.” It was only when he laughed that I realized how long it’d been since I’d heard him do so. Even after the sale of his patent almost six months ago, he’d not been quite himself, as if he found no real reason to celebrate. But things would change now. With the baby, and the mill, and this villa. I could feel it. This was an auspicious beginning. “Come on, I know the way,” he said, offering me his arm and that same smile from that very first day. Yes, everything would be fine now. I twined my arm through his and he led us down the corridor, in what I assumed was the direction of the kitchen. “I sent word to have a few more things delivered from Ovada for our cena, nothing very extravagant, but tomorrow we’ll have to get one of the workers to show us where to buy what we need,” he said. “We’ll have to think about buying a car of some sort, as well. Anything with wheels and a motor.” He kicked a piece of fallen plaster out of the way and took us down another corridor. Tomorrow, then, if I could get some help cleaning up the kitchen, I could prepare a proper meal. The new gas stove he’d promised me would have to wait a bit, of course, but I could manage with a woodstove for now. And though leaving our refrigerator behind in Torino had been almost painful, we had our old ice box. We’d survive. “Do you think it’ll be possible to ask about two or three maids tomorrow morning, too?” I said. “I’m sure the workers must know a few women in need of work.” 97 123 80
“No, we’d better wait. I don’t want any more expenses than are absolutely necessary.” I almost stopped walking. “Giovanni, I can’t take care of this entire house on my own.” “You don’t have to, just the rooms we choose to live in for now. Then, when we can, we’ll hire a woman or two.” He flicked his eyes to me. “I thought you understood that the mill comes first.” “Yes, of course I do, but perhaps you can hire one fewer worker and pay that salary to a maid. A girl without experience won’t cost much. Less even than a worker. Or perhaps leave the telephone installation for later.” “We can’t run a proper sawmill without a telephone, Sibilla. I’ve already made the decision.” All of the light had disappeared from his voice and I knew I should stop talking, but I just didn’t understand. He was the one who had mentioned the help back in Torino, telling me I’d need to be ready to take charge of an entire army of them. Well, I wasn’t asking for an army. One would do for the moment. “Just airing out the rooms we use will take a lot of work and you’ll be too busy with the mill to help me. Look at the size of this place!” Stop talking. “We likely won’t have radiators for the winter in place yet and I can’t bring up all of the wood necessary to keep the fireplaces lit on my own, not with the baby—” Giovanni exhaled sharply, shaking his head “Always the baby. We always arrive at the same place, don’t we?” He tugged his arm from my grip and stalked off around the corner, his shoulder nudging me just enough that I felt the soles of my wet heel lose their purchase on the tiles. With a gasp, I grasped at the nearest wall, digging fingernails into the soft plaster to remain upright. A flurry of it rained down into my hair. My heart thundered. A tourniquet tightened around my chest, cutting off my breath. Not now. 97 124 80
But yes, now, and I could only clutch at the crumbling wall as a thick wave of red fell over my vision. I knew that red. I knew the confusion it hid in its folds. “You can’t imagine how lovely it is to see you.” A whimper escaped my lips. “Here, have some of mine.” Stop it. Please. I squeezed my eyes so tightly the red bleached into white, and I held on to that, as I always did, dividing it, transforming it into worn ivory keys. And now I dropped in spots of ink that elongated and clicked into place, exactly where they belonged, their smooth surfaces under my fingertips as my hands sped across them. Melody burst like a wineglass shattering. The sound smothered the world into silence. As it always did. Over and over, I played that melody, that waltz, on the perfectly captured image of my mother’s piano. When the pressure in my chest finally eased, I took a shuddering breath and released the music, feeling as if my bones had turned to aspic. My hands trembled when I placed them on my stomach. I had to stop doing this to myself and to the baby. This was exactly what Giovanni and the doctor always warned me about—my emotions getting the better of my head, filling in the holes in my memory with anything I could grab hold of. Because I didn’t actually know what had happened that night. No one did. Those two snatches of conversation were the only things my mind could dredge up from the night our last child had died in my womb. And I didn’t even know who had uttered them or why they snapped at my heels like growling dogs.
97 125 80
M O RE SPIN E-TIN GLIN G READS FRO M C AMC AT BOOKS
Available now, wherever books are sold.
VISIT US ONLINE FOR MORE BOOKS TO LIVE IN: CAMCATBOOKS.COM
SIGN UP FOR CAMCAT'S FICTION NEWSLETTER FOR COVER REVEALS, EBOOK DEALS, AND MORE EXCLUSIVE CONTENT.
CamCatBooks
@CamCatBooks
@CamCat_Books
@CamCatBooks
The grass was always greener in another dimension. In a fantastical steam-powered world, eccentric aristocrat and secret arms dealer, Miss Constance Haltwhistle, has been blackmailed into stealing alien artifacts from the crown heads of Europe. Only the shady but annoyingly handsome US spy, “Liberty” Trusdale, can help her execute her perfect palace heists. As Constance creates chaos and mayhem across the Continent, monstrous creatures are plotting an interdimensional invasion of Earth. Will Constance and Trusdale stop bickering long enough to end the war of the worlds before it starts?
“Lush, exciting, and endlessly inventive . . .” —Cherie Priest, award-winning author of Boneshaker, on The Brass Queen Hardcover ISBN 9780744306293 | $29.99 | Releases 4/23/2024 The Brass Queen #2 Elizabeth Chatsworth is a British author who writes of rogues, rebels, and renegades across time and space. From Victorian sensibilities to interstellar travel, she'll send you on a cosmic adventure filled with quirky characters and a touch of humor. Elizabeth won the IBPA Benjamin Franklin Award™ Gold and the Writers Of The Future Contest for Science Fiction & Fantasy. She’s the author of The Brass Queen, an award-winning fantasy series set in an alternate Victorian age. When she’s not writing, Elizabeth works as a voiceover actor. There’s a rumor that she possesses the world’s best scone recipe . . . Contact her at http://www.elizabethchatsworth.com to see if it’s true!
PR AISE FOR THE BR A S S QUEEN
•s• “Rollicking fun and sharp as a brass tack, this book is everything steampunk should be.” — Cat Rambo, Nebula Award winner “An intriguing alternate world, filled with sharply amusing dialog and lively characters. VERDICT: A delightful gaslamp fantasy that will please readers of Gail Carriger and Kate Locke.” — Library Journal “I loved The Brass Queen: hilarious, with a very tongue-in-cheek dry wit and delightful imagery. One of those books that you don’t want to put down because they’re just so much fun.” — Genevieve Cogman, author of the Invisible Library series “Razor-sharp wit and immaculate worldbuilding make this debut one to savor . . . a genre blockbuster.” — Leanna Renee Hieber, award-winning and bestselling author of The Spectral City “With a satisfying bite, this steampunk venture includes an insightful twist on the British Empire . . . Best of all, Constance stays center stage: a feisty, lovable heroine who is capable of rescuing herself, thank you very much.” — Foreword Reviews “At times wondrous, at times romantic, and very often gut-bustingly funny. Elizabeth Chatsworth . . . will be one of your new favorites!” — David Farland, New York Times bestselling author of The Runelords series “Elizabeth Chatsworth infuses her writing with humor, charm, and adventure . . . I can’t wait to read more.” — Rebecca Moesta, New York Times bestselling author and award-winning coauthor of the Star Wars: Young Jedi Knights series “A fun, frothy blend of fantasy and romance . . . Fans of humorous fantasy and headstrong heroines will be delighted.” — Publishers Weekly
“Simply a joy to read!” — James A. Owen, bestselling author of Here, There Be Dragons “Lush, exciting, and endlessly inventive, The Brass Queen is a grand adventure of manners and espionage—perfect for readers who like a little magic in their retro science escapades.” — Cherie Priest, award-winning author of Boneshaker “You’ll find yourself cheering for this heroic cowboy and his unexpected love for a jinxed red-head who is dead set on saving the world (as well as finding her place in it) all before teatime, of course . . . Stocked with whimsical gadgets, sky pirates, weird science, and mustachioed villains this race-against-the-clock adventure scratches the steampunk itch and leaves you wondering what will emerge from the aether next.” — A. L. Davroe, author of The Tricksters series
CamCat Publishing, LLC
Fort Collins, Colorado 80524
camcatpublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
© 2024 by Elizabeth Chatsworth All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this
book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.
Hardcover ISBN 9780744306293 Paperback ISBN 9780744306309
Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744306262
eBook ISBN 9780744306217
Audiobook ISBN 9780744306712 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
available upon request
Cover design by Lena Yang
Cover art and chapter illustrations by James A. Owen
Book design by Olivia Croom Hammerman 5
3
1
2
4
•s• Dedication Amor da minha vida.
•s•
Chapter 1:
A Night at the Opera Saturday, June 5th, 1897: Paris, France. 7:15 p.m.
T
HE GRASS WAS ALWAYS GREENER in another dimension. Miss
Constance Haltwhistle imagined that in a parallel world, the tall, dark, and almost-handsome American cowboy, Liberty Trusdale, would be thrilled to attend a night at the Parisian opera by her side. He’d put aside his trademark attire of a black leather duster, battered Stetson hat, and clunky Western boots to wear a bespoke ensemble that precisely coordinated with her own. His muscular six-two frame could only be enhanced by a top hat bedecked with shiny brass goggles, a white frilly shirt befitting a fashion-forward airship pirate, a green silk tailcoat embroidered with gamboling Yorkshire sheep, and the tightest calfskin jodhpurs his horseman’s thighs could take without drawing indecency charges from the French authorities. She’d sent this outfit to his hotel room along with a note apologizing for accidentally electrocuting him atop the Eiffel Tower at lunchtime. The same note requested Trusdale to don his new outfit and join her in her carriage at precisely seven o’clock,
Elizabeth Chatsworth
that she might sweep him away to the opera for a night of forgiveness and festivity. So where the hell was he? As the glass doors of the Grand Hotel du Louvre had yet to reveal a blue-eyed cowboy ripe for reconciliation, Constance drew back from the carriage door’s open window and settled her bustle upon its plush bench seat. She heaved as deep a sigh as her cruelly cinched corset allowed, absently tracing her fingertips over the faint tear stains on the seat’s gold silk cushion where she’d wept herself to sleep on her fourteenth birthday. Her eyes closed, transporting her back through the years to the iron balcony that surrounded the rooftop observatory at Haltwhistle Hall. The setting sun had painted the heavens a dusky pink above the Hall’s crenellated towers, manicured rose gardens, well-stocked stables, and vast airship hanger. The hanger stood empty, as it had ever since Papa flew the Lady Penelope airship off to foreign climes on yet another hunt for alien relics. His obsession with scientific curiosities had grown exponentially since the death of her mother, his grief turning passion into mania. But now, as the Hall’s clock tower rang its farewell to the day, an unknown vehicle approached her ancestral home. Young Constance gripped the balcony’s iron handrail, holding her breath as the mysterious carriage approached. The estate’s prize-winning sheep stopped chewing their cud, staring in alarm at the carved red-and-gold Japanese dragon that wrapped three times around the vehicle’s gilded frame. Seated within the dragon’s gaping jaws, the estate’s bald, green-liveried master of horse, Hearn, pushed the four chestnut Arabian ponies drawing the carriage into a trot. Only Papa would arrive in such monstrous style. For once, it seemed her explorer-father had not forgotten her special day.
•s 141 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
She’d practically flown down the grand staircase to greet him, clambering up the carriage stairs without waiting for a helping hand from her aged retainer, Cawley. She’d flung open the door with a crash, breaking the latch that to this day would release itself at inopportune moments. A gloriously painted mural decorated the interior of the carriage. From floor to ceiling, an elaborate battle between two samurai armies raged across fields of gold-leaf splendor. The warriors’ sacrifice stood as testament to the victories of the warlord empress who had originally commissioned the carriage to tour her newly conquered lands. Upon the golden bench seat, a note scrawled in Papa’s own hand on a page torn from an etiquette book told her he might be home by next Christmas, maybe. That was the last time she’d ever shed a tear for Papa. Naturally, she’d claimed the carriage was her birthday present. None of her governesses, servants, or irregularly visiting family members were bold enough to challenge her on the point. When Papa returned two years later, he’d forgotten the carriage existed. If a man could forget an Imperial dragon carriage, what hope could a mere daughter have of being remembered? Constance bit her lip to stop it from committing a very un-British wobble and snapped her eyes open. The doorway to the hotel still lacked a square-jawed cowboy dressed for a night at the opera. It even lacked the selfsame cowboy dressed in his usual all-black Western garb, a gunfighter from every angle save for his lack of a six-gun. Was she repeating the pattern of waiting for a man to grace her with his presence? It was time to seize control of the situation to save both face and sanity. Constance thumped the heel of her boot onto the floor of the carriage. She yelled to her driver, “Hearn, circle the hotel’s immediate vicinity and return us to this very spot. We mustn’t give the impression
•s 142 s•
Elizabeth Chatsworth
that we’re waiting. In fact, let’s all concur that we’re running late to pick up Mr. Trusdale, who will be standing here upon our return, devastated that we left without him.” “Very good, miss,” called back Hearn. The carriage lurched into motion as the four chestnut ponies out front surged into a spanking trot. The jolt caused the Yorkshire terrier puppy, Boo, curled into an impossibly small ball beside Constance’s thigh, to awake with a startled bark. On the opposite bench, Lord Wellington Pendelroy fumbled his copy of the French court circular, La Vue Royale. The pink printed pages fell from his grip to scatter gossip and intrigue across the carriage floor atop the samurai warrior’s heads. “Wait, what are we concurring about?” asked Welli, tossing back his Byronic forelock with the panache that had earned him armies of admirers and scads of scandals, the latest of which were splashed across the court pages at his feet. After only two weeks in Paris, he was as sartorially resplendent as any continental count in his sky-blue silk tailcoat, pantaloons, and matching top hat so in vogue this season. He reached down to gather his fallen newspaper as Constance rubbed Boo’s ears and cooed at her, sending the puppy into a tail-chasing whirl of joy upon the golden bench seat. Constance grinned at the puppy’s antics. “We’re concurring that we’re not waiting any longer for Mr. Trusdale. Except that we are, in a roundabout manner. Don’t tell him that we circled the hotel. I know the two of you have become drinking companions as of late.” There was a wistfulness she hadn’t intended to share in her tone. Welli quirked a perfectly plucked eyebrow at her. “Everyone I meet becomes a drinking companion at some point or another. Don’t worry, you haven’t missed out on any tasty details on our enigmatic cowboy. The man is more tight-lipped about his past than a burlesque dancer turned mother superior. I always seem to end up talking about myself when we’re sharing a beverage or two.” He held up one finger
•s 143 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
as she opened her mouth. “And before you make any cracks about me constantly talking about myself, consider how much you want me to concur with your ‘we weren’t waiting for you, Mr. Trusdale,’ story.” She chuckled, her heart lifting at her cousin’s irrepressible joie de vivre. “You know me too well, cousin. Hold on, we’re coming up to the hotel steps again.” She perched on the edge of her seat and peered out the carriage window. The hotel’s glass doors still stubbornly refused to expel a cowboy clad in a lamb-bedecked tailcoat. She heaved a dramatic sigh, then called out, “Once more around the hotel, Hearn, very, very slowly.” The carriage reduced its speed to a sluggish creep along the cobblestoned street. Welli groaned. “Really? All right, third time lucky. If he’s not standing here on the next drive by, we head straight for the opera, agreed?” She furrowed her brow. “You don’t think he’s coming, do you?” Welli shrugged. “That outfit you created for him could well be the straw that broke the cowboy’s back. Impressed as I am that you managed to bribe a French seamstress into knocking up a gentleman’s version of this monstrosity”—he waved a hand at her attire—“what makes you think he would wear it in public?” “I’m sure he’d appreciate the sentiment and care that I put into designing such an elaborate gift. As our complementary outfits evoke a landscape that is of great importance to me, I’m obviously telling him that he is important too, in his own special way.” She gazed down at her green gossamer ball gown, embroidered with innocent lambs and their ever-patient mothers on lush pastures enclosed by gray drystone walls. She could almost smell the moorland heather blooms that inspired the purple hue of her velvet hooded cloak, clasped by a bluebell brooch. Her bespoke ensemble showcased the bucolic hills and dales of Yorkshire to Paris, and well might the French be grateful for the view.
•s 144 s•
Elizabeth Chatsworth
Welli sighed. “And as usual, you’ve overthought everything to a ludicrous degree. Is there any chance I can talk you into changing out of this crime against fashion before we head to the opera? Paris isn’t ready for your sartorial gall, and Europe as a whole will no doubt be appalled by your unique brand of English eccentricity. I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t persuade the seamstress to include pigs on your attire.” No, those she’d saved to decorate her bloomers. Beneath her petticoats, a joyous tumble of pink piglets scampered through an apple orchard. Constance tilted up her chin. “It’s British pastoral chic, a style that I just invented. I thought I should make a grand gesture to Mr. Trusdale, given the electrical unpleasantness at lunchtime. I assume, given that he was raised on a Kansas cattle ranch, that Mr. Trusdale adores farm animals as much as I do.” Welli chuckled. “Ah, Connie. It’s your assumptions that get you into trouble. Like assuming that creating a fashion-forward farm ensemble is somehow better than making a face-to-face apology. Didn’t you set the poor man alight with that ridiculous lightning gauntlet you’re working on? He passed me heading out of the hotel at lunchtime in search of good whisky and I can only assume bad company. I swear his duster coat was still smoldering from your unprovoked attack.” She blinked at her cousin. “Trusdale told you about our altercation? First of all, you should know that it’s our ridiculous lightning gauntlet. Mr. Trusdale and I are working on the Perambulating Kinetic Storm Battle Mitten #004 together, as equal partners. He wanted to take the device back to the drawing board due to its perilous instability. But due process takes forever, and I decided to do a few quick experiments of my own, to see if I could fix the problems.” “In other words, you kept working on it behind his back so that you could stun him with your brilliance.”
•s 145 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
“Was that so wrong?” She reached up to massage the tension from the back of her neck. “After doing him the favor of fixing the battle mitten’s main issues, I decided the best way to demonstrate the new safety features was to take it to a potentially problematic location—” “Such as the top of a thousand-foot-high iron landmark in a rainstorm—” “Exactly. The Eiffel Tower in a sudden shower was the perfect place to prove to Trusdale that my clandestine tweaks to the battle mitten had solved all our technical problems. Cawley was carrying a large carpet bag that secreted a leg of ham which I intended to use for target practice. Once perfectly cooked by the electrical gauntlet, the ham would have taken pride of place in a lovely picnic luncheon atop the tower, with Cawley’s extra-large polo umbrella providing us with shelter from the rain. We’d have perfect privacy, as no one goes up the tower in a storm. You know how skittish the continentals about foul-weather picnics. Anyway, when I pulled back my lace sleeve to reveal the copper and brass glory of the battle mitten, the blasted thing went off and bang! Trusdale was blasted by a lightning bolt that shot him clear across the iron platform. Fortunately, he was only unconscious for a minute or so, and his leather coat saved him from any serious scorching. Once he regained the power to speak, he was perfectly fine, if a tad grumpy.” Welli’s eyebrows grazed the brim of his top hat. “Only a tad?” “Perhaps a little more than a tad.” She rubbed her throbbing temples as the headache she’d suffered for much of the last week pounded anew. “I can’t see why he was so upset. I’ve accidentally electrocuted myself with the gauntlet at least two dozen times this week, and does anyone hear me complain?” Welli’s eyes widened. “Good lord, were those your shrieks that echoed around our floor at the hotel every afternoon? I assumed Hearn had found himself a vocal new girlfriend—”
•s 146 s•
Elizabeth Chatsworth
She tut-tutted and pointed toward the driver’s box at front of the carriage, where Hearn and Cawley were no doubt eavesdropping on their conversation. This sensible precaution against being surprised by an aristocratic employer’s latest whims allowed British servants to maintain the stone-faced demeanor they were famous for the world over. Such impassivity in the face of chaos and mayhem was a quality that Constance appreciated more than most. “Hearn’s affairs are no business of ours. The point is, some of us are stoic when we’re electrocuted, while others seem to take such things personally. Which clearly they shouldn’t. I’m sure Mr. Trusdale would acknowledge that, if he took the time to consider the situation more deeply.” Welli sniffed. “Not that I’m one to give relationship advice, but perhaps you shouldn’t electrocute a man you clearly want to impress.” Heat flamed across her cheeks. “Who said I was trying to impress anyone?” “You did, not one minute ago. You literally said that you wanted to impress him with all the wonderful improvements you’d made to your dangerously faulty lightning glove.” She folded her arms. “For the record, Miss Constance Aethelflaed Zenobia Haltwhistle, also known to a select few as the high-end weapons designer the Brass Queen”—she paused to give her cousin the opportunity to recall the pride he himself should feel at counting himself amongst that elite few—“has no one to impress but herself, and that’s a difficult enough job without wondering what some itinerant cowboy thinks of me. Two weeks ago, Mr. Trusdale may have inadvertently saved my life, but I’ve also saved his. We’re utterly even in terms of who is impressing whom, or not, as the case may be.” Welli snorted. “How passionate you are about not impressing Trusdale. What do you think, Boo? Doth the lady protest too much?”
•s 147 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
Boo yapped enthusiastically and snuggled into her mistress’s side, dissipating Constance’s irritation instantly with her inherent cuteness. Constance tickled the puppy’s belly, drawing happy grunts from the terrier puppy. “I simply believe that Mr. Trusdale could show a little more gratitude that the Brass Queen herself is collaborating with him on designing this nonlethal gauntlet. My arms-dealing ancestors are turning in their graves as I step away from the family business to build a future that doesn’t involve hurting anyone.” “Except, it seems, our poor Mr. Trusdale.” Welli raised an imaginary champagne glass in the air. “Well, here’s a toast to your good intentions, Trusdale’s tolerance to electrical shocks, and your desire to escape from a centuries-old arms business run by a long line of blue-blooded rogues, villains, and thieves. Cheers.” He downed the nonexistent fluid in one gulp and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Mmm, delicious. And speaking of you turning your back on your nefarious ancestors, I’m delighted to inform you that according to page thirteen of the French court circular”—Welli tapped the toe of his boot on one of the printed pages littering the carriage floor —“after four years of being lost in the Congo, your father has been declared by the British court system to be legally dead.” It felt as if her heart might well burst through her corset, land on the lacquered floor, and flop there like a scarlet jellyfish. Constance pressed both hands against her chest as if to hold in the errant organ. “I beg your pardon?” “Your father’s been missing for so long that the high court has decreed that he’s shuffled off this mortal coil. I’m sorry to inform you that in the eyes of the law, Connie, you’re now an orphan. You have my deepest sympathies.” He doffed his top hat and gave her a cheeky wink. “On the upside, this very week, Queen Victoria declared that women can now inherit both property and titles, just like men have for centuries. Who would have thought we’d see such egalitarianism
•s 148 s•
Elizabeth Chatsworth
in our lifetimes? That said, I do believe this magnanimous act was a direct response to your very public petition on this matter to her majesty before thousands of spectators at Endcliffe Park.” “I was only trying to—” “Change the world as we know it, apparently. I can’t believe that you, of all people, are now officially a baroness. That is, as long as your father doesn’t show up from whatever foreign drinking den he’s actually been holed up in for the last few years. I’m sure even death doesn’t want to start a fight with Henry Haltwhistle unless it’s absolutely necessary,” She cradled her head in her hands as the carriage seemed to spin around her. “I’m taking Mama’s title? Baroness Haltwhistle? It doesn’t seem right. I’m no lady.” “Tell me about it. But the high court says otherwise, Lady Haltwhistle. Welcome to the upper echelons of the blue blood club. You can wear a baronial crown and an ermine cloak if that’s a look you think you could pull off. At least it would be an improvement on your current getup.” She did so love a fancy hat and cloak. She cleared her throat. “Actually, to start my ladyshipness off on the right foot, I have a small confession to make. Papa’s intercontinental pub crawl with occasional excursions to raid hidden tombs and temples for treasure might, in fact, have been an interdimensional excursion powered by pilfered alien technology.” Welli refilled his imaginary glass and downed another drink. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth indecorously. “Sorry, it seems I need a stiff one before sailing my yacht over the edge of this conversational whirlpool.” She grimaced. “Do forgive my reticence, but until recent events, I was concerned that if I had told you that Papa had used alien artifacts to rip apart reality so that he could go and live with an alternate
•s 149 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
version of my deceased mother in another dimension, you’d have had me committed.” “Please, I could never deal with that level of paperwork.” Welli steepled his fingers together as he considered her curious confession. “I have to say, Constance, this really burns my breeches. A fortnight ago, I watched in shock as you maneuvered Haltwhistle Hall through a giant swirling aether portal to save it from being burned down by Prince Lucien’s troops. It didn’t occur to you then and there to mention that Uncle Henry had previously taken the same route to live with an alternate Auntie Annabella?” “And her red-haired son, Constantine, who’s apparently a male version of me. Papa finally got the son he always wanted instead of a mere girl. I hope they’re all very happy together in their mirror world.” Even she could hear the bitterness behind her words. “A male you? Does that mean there’s a female version of me out there? Ooh, I’m sure she’s positively stunning. I’d love to meet her,” smirked Welli. She wrinkled her nose. “I won’t ask why. Since father absconded, he’s chatted to me occasionally through the use of a small-scale interdimensional portal, but our communications were, well . . . rather utilitarian. He had me ship him all his prized possessions through the tear in reality, but he never wanted to come back to visit me. And I had the estate staff to protect, so I couldn’t go to him—not that I wanted to, as he’s a selfish, pompous . . .” Her body trembled as the emotional dam inside her crumbled. If the British courts had declared Papa dead, surely Constance herself should relinquish any lingering hope that he might return? The tears she’d held back for so long flooded down her cheeks in a salty torrent of anguish. “Oh, Welli, why wasn’t I good enough for him to want to stay home?” Welli was beside her in an instant, his arm clasped tight around her shoulders, pressing a perfumed handkerchief into her hand.
•s 150 s•
Elizabeth Chatsworth
She blinked down at the delicate lace square. “Dear lord, is this yours?” “A token from a lady admirer. Or perhaps a male one with exquisite taste in accessories? It’s not important. My dear, sweet girl, I’m so very, very, sorry. Your father’s an absolute cad. Always has been, always will be.” “On that we agree. But I still miss him. What does that make me?” “Human.” A smile haunted her lips. She trumpeted her nose into the handkerchief and tried to hand it back to him. “Ah, no, that’s yours to keep. Connie, I’m absolutely furious at Uncle Henry. How could he do this to you?” He gazed out the carriage window, lost in thought. She followed his stare, admiring the elegant marble-clad apartment buildings that Paris was famous for inching by the window. It seemed Hearn had taken her order to drive without haste to a pace that would make a snail impatient. Welli stroked her hair softly as he murmured, “You know, when you were about ten years old, I questioned your father about the brutal training regime in martial arts he put you through, and his explanation was that you had to be strong enough to continue the Haltwhistle legacy. I asked him why he thought you were a blade that needed to be tempered. You were his daughter, not his weapon. He had no answer for me. But I can’t tell you how much I regret not taking a stand against his lunacy.” She rested her hand upon his. “Had you stood up to him, he’d have cut you out of my life, and heaven knows how wretched I would’ve become if you hadn’t kept visiting me after Mama died.” Welli wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. “It broke my heart to see you out there every Sunday, rain or shine, laying fresh flowers on her grave. I always thought it was bizarre that your father made us bury a casket filled with rocks. He said he thought it
•s 151 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
was important that you had something concrete on which to focus your emotions. He claimed the Egyptian authorities wouldn’t let him transport a person who died from malaria, but I know now that such bodies are transported all the time. I—” She pushed him away, blinking up at the emerald eyes that mirrored her pain. “What do you mean, empty casket?” Welli paled beneath his forelock. “Heavens, Constance, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Not at the time, of course, you were a child, for heaven’s sake. But since then, I assumed the servants had . . . I mean, surely Hearn or Cawley . . . or perhaps they didn’t know?” “They’d better not have known. I have more than enough liars in my family tree. I don’t need my trusty retainers keeping things from me too.” The silence from the driver’s cab was deafening. The carriage crawled on, drawing ever closer to the hotel steps and one more man who might let her down. What were the odds that Trusdale was any more noble than her carriage companions? Trust no one, as Papa used to say. Welli reached once more for her hand, but she pulled it away. He said, “Come to think of it, the servants probably weren’t in on the secret. Only the pallbearers knew for certain that something was amiss. That included myself, Father, and . . . well, who can remember back so far?” She blinked up at him. “Are you telling me the truth, or are you covering for Hearn and Cawley so that I feel less betrayed?” He cast his eyes down onto the floor, his cheeks as pink as the pages of the court circular. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered. I’m sure everyone on this carriage loves you in their own way, most of the time.” She pushed herself away from him on the seat and raised her voice so that the servants could hear her loud and clear. “Could we suppose,
•s 152 s•
Elizabeth Chatsworth
in honor of my new status as a baroness, that everyone in earshot will become a little more trustworthy? Is that too much to ask?” Mumbled affirmations from Hearn and Cawley seeped through the dragon’s gilded walls. Welli bowed his head. “Fair enough. If it helps, I’m sure if your mother were alive and well, she would have found a way to return to you.” Constance balled the handkerchief in her palm. “Or she abandoned me altogether, just like Papa did.” He shook his head. “That’s not the Annabella I knew. She was caring and compassionate, with a kind word for anyone who crossed her path. Even your father. It takes a special soul to love an eccentric genius. She saw something in him none of us ever could.” Constance relaxed her grip on the handkerchief. She rolled it into a damp ball between both palms and said flatly, “I have so little of her left. Even my memories are fading with time. When I was young, she taught me to waltz, to sing, to shoot an arrow as straight and true as the goddess Artemis herself. All my happiest moments were spent with her.” She reached back into her hidden bustle pocket and pulled out her travel edition of Babett’s Modern Manners. The bookplate inside the front cover declared in florid script that this edition belonged to Lady Annabella Pendelroy. She gently traced Mama’s maiden name with her fingertips, the letters worn almost invisible through the years. “This etiquette book is one of the few items I have left to physically link me to Mama. Papa decided to give it to me so that I might learn how to navigate social situations with a modicum of her civility and grace. She’s the only Haltwhistle who possessed either virtue. Her other belongings were lost when I blasted the Hall through the aether portal.”
•s 153 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
Welli gave her the gentlest of smiles. “At least you know the Hall survived because of your actions. And if something can be lost, it can be found. Even a stately home in another dimension.” Constance dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. “Or perhaps I need to let the Hall go, lock, stock, and treasure chambers. I don’t know what my parents wanted for me in life, but I can do my best to seize the opportunity at hand. If the battle mitten is a commercial success, then I’ll have the resources to live a somewhat normal life, a life beyond the Hall.” Welli shrugged. “Normalcy is overrated. Then again, I’m struck by the fact that you believe developing a nonlethal electrical weapon somehow makes you normal. Perhaps I should attempt an admittedly belated education in what it means to be a woman in the age of Queen Victoria? Have you ever considered taking up knitting? Or you could push the boat out and start collecting woodland ferns? Perhaps a nice seaweed scrapbook could set your heart alight?” “Or maybe I could hold a séance or take up taxidermy? All lovely hobbies for ladies to pursue, I’m sure. But what if a single female, in search of a delectable fern, finds herself being followed by a ruffian through the woods? She could turn upon her pursuer, hold out her opera-glove clad arm, and demand the fellow state his business. Should his designs upon her be unsavory, a simple clench of her fist will ignite the battle mitten hidden beneath her glove and a net of pure electrical energy will fly forth to land upon the villain. Shocked into submission, the scoundrel will lay comatose at our lady’s feet, allowing our heroine to set off once more in search of the perfect fern. No one is seriously harmed, and the miscreant will think twice before attempting to intimidate a lady in the woods.” Welli’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Am I to understand that you have identified poor Trusdale as an unsavory ruffian? Is that the real reason you zapped him into submission this lunchtime?”
•s 154 s•
Elizabeth Chatsworth
Heat seared across her cheeks. “I told you that was an accident. And I certainly didn’t expect him to be angry that I’d worked on the battle mitten alone. Heaven knows what he’d say if he found out about the extra special experiments I conducted in the midnight hours.” His eyes narrowed. “Oh lord. What kind of experiments? Nothing illegal, I hope?” She shrugged. “Not in my book.” “You weren’t shocking the servants, were you?” Constance shook her head. “That would have been more convenient than my current strategy, but no. Hearn was game, of course. All those years of bare-knuckle boxing toughened Hearn up quite marvelously. It would take five electric battle mittens to bring down one so big, beefy, and brawny. I would have better luck attempting to take down a prize bull than flooring Hearn.” She could practically hear the coachman beaming through the carriage walls. She lowered her voice, “But Cawley—” “Must be a hundred years old. Tell me you didn’t even think of shooting him with a lightning bolt.” “Only once. He hoped the jolt might help him with his arthritis. It did, but he also belched sparks for the rest of the day. We decided that I should formulate a new weapons testing protocol, which I duly named Plan ‘V’.” “And what does the V stand for?” Vigilante. But there was no reason for Welli to know all her secrets. Particularly the ones that could require plausible deniability to the constabulary of the reigning French monarch, King Louis XVIII. Rumor had it that British tourists were not currently the flavor of the month with Parisian law enforcers, given Queen Victoria’s recent rumblings that she might well raise arms against France. Like mismatched lovers, the French and the British had an on-again, off-again relationship that had persisted through centuries of common sense
•s 155 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
and diplomacy. The two autocratic monarchies had much in common, a fact that neither the self-proclaimed Sun King nor his great-aunt Victoria could admit. Because of this royal tension, English aristocrats always started their grand tours of Europe in Paris. Not only was the city delightful, but the level of animosity shown toward tourists was an excellent barometer for the likelihood of a war, which could put a crimp in even the best-laid travel plans. She wagged her finger at her cousin. “V stands for ‘Very Top Secret, So Don’t Ask Me Again.’ And all my experiments were for a good cause, namely, scientific progress. Sadly, that progress didn’t stop the battle mitten from misfiring today, or you, me, and Mr. Trusdale would already be enjoying a lovely night at the opera. Hopefully, he’s decided to accept my heartfelt written apology and my carefully crafted gift and he’s waiting for us as we speak.” The carriage trundled up to the steps that led up to the Grand Hotel du Louvre’s glass doors. The lack of a cowboy caused Constance’s heart to sink lower than the pages of the court circular. Welli grimaced. “I hate to break it to you Connie, but I doubt Trusdale is coming. I thought perhaps he was pondering whether he was smitten with you enough to overcome his natural aversion to wearing farmyard beasts in public. But this goes much deeper than that. You owe him nothing less than a formal in-person apology for blasting him with electricity. And a second apology for working on this mitten behind his back. That’s not exactly an equal business partnership, is it? Plus a third and final apology to apologize for leaving him an apology note rather than facing him yourself.” Constance gasped. “I’m sure I don’t owe him an in-person anything. According to page fifty-seven of Babett’s Modern Manners here, a well-crafted note is more than enough to smooth over any misunderstanding between friends, partners, or potentially, most countries. Mr. Liberty Trusdale should accept my thoughtful gift and . . .” She
•s 156 s•
Elizabeth Chatsworth
trailed off as Welli’s words hit home. “What do you mean, was he smitten enough? You don’t think Liberty is romantically interested in me, do you?” An odd flutter in her heartbeat caught her by surprise. “I mean, now and again, he looked at me a little too long, as if I had custard on my cheek that he desperately wanted to wipe off, but he never said or did anything to indicate romance was on his mind. Not so much as a single poem or a bunch of roses passed from him to me. And I must have told him at least ten times how much I loved poetry and roses. Not that I was dropping any hints, you understand.” “Heavens forefend.” Welli clutched his imaginary pearls. She mused, “Then again, perhaps he’s intimidated by my British accent? Americans can be so peculiar about a properly inflected verb. Or the fact that I’m a member of the landed gentry, despite that land mostly being a large hole in the ground where the Hall used to stand. Or maybe—” Welli held up his hand. “Or maybe he’s looking for a companion who doesn’t deceive him, shoot him, and then try and dress him as an accessory to an assault on fashion?” Could it be that Welli has a point? Oh dear. He continued, “And as pleased as I am that you’re determined to chart a new course through life, switching one type of weapon for another, no matter how benign, doesn’t sound like the sort of career that leads toward an upwardly mobile marriage to a member of the landed gentry. Flirting with foreigners aside, you don’t want to be the last of the Haltwhistle line forever, do you? I hate to sound like our ill-tempered godmother, the Dowager Countess of Benchley, but—” “Now I’m a baroness, even Auntie Madge might be persuaded that I don’t need to marry the first chinless wonder who proposes matrimony. Not that I’d dare say this to her face, but I intend to surpass everyone’s expectations for me. I’ll become more than marriage material, more than a weapons expert, more than I can possibly begin
•s 157 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
to imagine. The world is my oyster, and I intend to swallow it whole in one salty gulp.” Welli winced. “And there’s an image I don’t want to dwell on. My dear, sweet Connie. I know that’s it not easy for a bright, idiosyncratic woman to find a role in this world where she can thrive and not just survive, but perhaps you should just take a breath and pause for a moment? You’ve misplaced your childhood home, you’re starting a new business with a man who’s a virtual stranger, and your fashion sense seems to be going from bad to worse. How about setting aside your ambitions and enjoying all that Paris has to offer? Must everything be do or die the very moment you think of it?” Constance scowled and thumped the heel of her boot against the carriage floor. She yelled, “Hearn, please take us directly to the opera. Mr. Trusdale has missed his chance to join our party.” “Very good, miss,” called back her stalwart driver. The golden dragon carriage surged like a British dreadnought toward Queen Victoria’s foe du jour. As Welli hung on to his armrest for dear life, Constance said, “There you go, dear cousin. We’re heading out to enjoy the night. Happy?” “Not as happy as I’d be if you were dressed in the latest fashions. I’m certain the patrons of the Opéra Garnier aren’t ready for this level of lamb at their chic event,” grumbled the young lord. Constance threw back her head and laughed. “Then the opera house had better gird its loins, because ‘Miss Adventure,’ as Trusdale likes to call me, is determined to have a bloody good time tonight. With or without him. Mark my words, Welli, this is the start of night to remember.” “And suddenly, that’s what I’m most afraid of,” said Welli as Boudicca yapped excitedly and bounced upon the silk cushions. Constance chuckled and stood to lean out the carriage door window to take in the Parisian air.
•s 158 s•
Elizabeth Chatsworth
The most romantic city in Europe beguiled with its cherry-treelined walks, lush, manicured parks, elegant stone and iron buildings, bustling boutiques, and terraced cafés. Fine wine flowed, laughter drifted on the breeze, and the citrus perfume of pink peony flower beds mingled with the scent of fresh-baked goods from a thousand fine patisseries. The sweet fragrances almost overcame the tang of horse manure that carpeted the streets of the world’s prettiest capital. Along the paved sidewalk, besotted couples and their chaperones promenaded between stately matrons out for their evening constitutional and drunken aristocrats caught in the eternal circle between theater, restaurant, bar, and poker game. Constance leaned out as far as she could over the carriage door, taking in the sights and sounds, reveling in a city that was almost as lovely as her hometown of Sheffield. Throw in a few extra fountains, and Paris might even rival her favorite soot-stained center of British industry. Squinting, one might almost imagine the Seine to be as glorious as the River Don, glimmering in the soft evening sunshine that painted the city gold until the gas lamps were lit at ten. Her breath caught beneath her corset. There, in between families strolling beside the river, a tall man in a black duster coat and a Stetson ran as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels. “What the—?” Constance blinked, then roared, “Hearn, forget the opera.” The carriage juddered to a halt in the middle of its lane, causing French coach and hansom drivers to share their opinion of Hearn’s driving with raised voices and whips. Welli peered through the window. “Good heavens, is that—?” “Let’s find out.” She bellowed to the driver’s box, “Hearn, follow that cowboy!” Welli gaped at her.
•s 159 s•
The Brass Queen II: Grand Tour
“Discreetly,” she yelled. “Very, very, discreetly.” She grinned at her cousin and leaned back out of the window, aware that this cautious approach was not one that would have occurred to her old impulsive self of an hour ago. The new, improved Baroness Haltwhistle was certainly full of surprises. Constance couldn’t wait to find out what she’d do next . . .
•s 160 s•
MORE FA NTA STIC RE A DS FROM C A M C AT BO O KS
Available now, wherever books are sold.
VISIT US ONLINE FOR MORE BOOKS TO LIVE IN: CAMCATBOOKS.COM
SIGN UP FOR CAMCAT'S FICTION NEWSLETTER FOR COVER REVEALS, EBOOK DEALS, AND MORE EXCLUSIVE CONTENT.
CamCatBooks
@CamCatBooks
@CamCat_Books
@CamCatBooks
When murder hits home. Long distance runner Riley has been fighting various bewildering symptoms for months, from vertigo to fainting spells. Worse, her doctors can’t tell her what’s wrong, leaving her to wonder if it’s stress or something more threatening. But when her brother’s fiancée is killed—and he becomes the prime suspect—Riley must prove his innocence, despite the toll on her health. As she reacquaints herself with the familiar houses and wild woods of her childhood, the secrets she uncovers take her on a trail to the real killer that leads right back to the very people she knows best and loves most.
“With a fresh voice and gorgeous writing, Hidden Rooms by Kate Michaelson is a stunning debut mystery that sweeps the reader along until the surprising conclusion.” —Connie Berry, USA Today bestselling author of the Kate Hamilton Mysteries Hardcover ISBN 9780744310153 | $28.99 | Releases 4/30/2024 Kate Michaelson lives with her husband and pets in Ohio. She has worked as a technical writer, English instructor, and curriculum developer. Hidden Rooms is her debut novel. You can connect with her at www.katemichaelson.com.
A quiet little life. A perfect little lie.
HIDDEN ROOMS KATE MICHAELSON
HIDDEN ROOMS KATE MICHAELSON
HIDDEN HIDDEN ROOMS ROOMS KATE MICHAELSON KATE MICHAELSON
CamCat Publishing, LLC Fort Collins, Colorado 80524 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2024 by Kate Michaelson All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524. Hardcover ISBN 9780744310153 Paperback ISBN 9780744310160 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744310191 eBook ISBN 9780744310184 Audiobook ISBN 9780744310214 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Book and cover design by Maryann Appel Artwork by David Goh, George Peters, Jklr 5 3 1 2 4
To my parents: For raising me in a place so special I had to write about it.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Se pte m be r 23, 2 0 2 2
I grew up inside a lightning bolt, in a family of pure momentum. My siblings and I were young, stupid, and fearless in our white gingerbread house, surrounded by dark earth, green shoots, and wild woods—untamed beasts running loose from morning to night. We snarled and bucked, more a pack than a family. Born less than a year apart, my brother Ethan and I spent most of our lives scrapping after the same few things, pinching each other where we knew it would hurt the most. But we also protected each other. When Trevor Paltree shoved Ethan off the tall metal slide the first day of preschool, I kicked Trevor’s little ass, and I’d do it again. Only, now, I didn’t know what protecting my brother looked like, though I felt fairly certain that kicking his fiancée’s ass was not it. Besides, I couldn’t even say what exactly Beth was up to, which (admittedly) undermined my argument. Putting my head down and going along with the wedding might feel cowardly, but it also seemed like the least destructive path forward.
Kate Michaelson
So, that’s how I found myself pulling up to Ethan and Beth’s house to pick up my puce monstrosity of a bridesmaid’s dress with Beth’s recent words still replaying in my mind: Riley, you know I’d never do anything to hurt Ethan. The problem was that she also once said with a wink and a smile that what Ethan didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. I parked in the shade of a lowlimbed oak and got out, lifting my hair off my neck to catch the breeze. The autumn sun had built throughout the afternoon into the kind of fleetingly gorgeous day that makes up for Ohio’s multitude of weather sins: one last warm postscript to summer. Rain loomed in the low shelf of clouds to the north. I crossed my fingers that it would hold off until I could get home to walk Bruno. Maybe I could even get a run in if my energy held out. My phone buzzed, and I knew without looking it would be Audra. She called most days and knew that just the previous night, I’d finally worked up the nerve to have a conversation with Ethan about Beth. She would want the details. I was amazed she had waited this long. “How’d it go with Ethan?” Her melodious voice skipped along briskly. People usually went with what she said simply because they were so swept up with how she said it. As her sister, I was an exception. “Hello to you too.” I continued toward the house but slowed my pace. “I’ll give you one guess how it went.” “Hello, dearest Riley. I guess he got mad.” “Not just mad. He guilt-tripped me. I asked him if he’d noticed anything wrong with Beth, and he acted all injured about it. He told me, ‘She thinks you’re her friend.’” I mimicked Ethan’s self-righteous tone. The jab still stung. “I told him I think of her as a friend too, which is how I know she’s hiding something.” Granted, I couldn’t untangle what it was. It was something I sensed more than saw—a shift in posture or flicker behind an expression. The past few weeks she’d become more self-contained than ever, which was saying something for her. “Yeah, but can you really be friends with someone who has no personality? It’s like being friends with a mannequin. I don’t know how you can tell if she’s hiding something when she never shares anything—” { 175 }
HIDDEN ROOMS
“Look, I can’t talk about it now.” I lowered my voice as I neared the house. “I’m at their place getting my dress. I’ll call you later.” I climbed the porch steps, the front of their house looking so Instagram-perfect that I wondered whether I’d been seeing problems that weren’t there. The afternoon light slanted across the pumpkins and yellow chrysanthemums that Beth had arranged just so. Dried bundles of corn rattled in the breeze. Beneath the pale-blue porch swing, Beth had set out a matching ceramic bowl full of kibble for Bibbs, the half-feral cat that had adopted her and Ethan. The only thing amiss was the open door of the old-fashioned cast-iron mailbox nestled amid the pumpkins and flowers. Beth would kill the mail carrier for ruining the ambiance. I grabbed the few pieces of mail in the box and shut the little door obligingly, like a good future sister-in-law. Careful not to disturb a precarious wreath of orange berries, I knocked on the screen door and tapped my foot, ready to grab my puffy dress and go. I had been a whirl of motion all day, zipping through work and crossing items off my to-do list. I worked for Wicks, an oversized candle company that sold overpriced candles. Today was my last day in the office before a trip to England to set up the IT network at our new British headquarters. For months, I’d been fighting some kind of long-term bug my doctors couldn’t figure out, but today I felt a glimmer of my former self, twitchy with energy and moving at a clip to get everything done. Deep down, I sensed that rather than a sudden return to health, my energy was more of a fizz of nerves, arising from the uneasy note I’d ended on with Ethan the night before. Our squabble had nagged at me throughout the day, like an ache that couldn’t settle in my joints as long as I kept moving. I rapped on the door once more, and when no one answered, I tried the handle. Unlocked. This was not unusual in a town where nobody locked their doors, but Beth wasn’t from here. She’d moved to North Haven her senior year of high school and, thus, hadn’t lived here long enough for people to think of her as a local. But to be fair, that usually took a lifetime. { 176 }
Kate Michaelson
I plastered a smile on my face and stepped into the house—immaculate as usual and smelling faintly of cinnamon. I couldn’t tell if the homey scent came from something baking or wafted from a candle. I liked to tease a copywriter friend from Wicks with terrible ideas for candle taglines. My brain began composing a homespun blurb about the charms of cinnamon. Nothing welcomes ’em in like cinnamon! Appalling. I’d write it down later. “Beth?” I called out. The only reply came from the ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall. I peeked into the small kitchen, where the paleblue vintage-style fridge rattled and groaned inefficiently in the corner. My mom once described it as looking cute and sucking up energy, much like Beth. I had snorted, mostly relieved my mom had directed her acidity at someone other than me. I poked my head into each room downstairs: each as spotless and Bethless as the last. Checking my phone, I sighed. Nothing. I replied to her last text with At the house to get my dress. Where are you? It seemed fair to look in the backyard and then leave in good conscience. The moment I stepped into the small kitchen again, I noticed that the door to the backyard stood open a few inches. I pushed it wide open and descended the steps off the back porch. Ethan and Beth lived on ten acres, and the smells of sweet, smoky autumn air and sun-warmed fields hit me as I walked into the yard. Unlike the front of the house, the back was still a work in progress, with a cracked concrete patio jutting up unevenly and half-finished projects littering the yard, but the view of the fields and, beyond that, the forest ramping up for fall, lent the mess a pastoral charm. Laundry billowed on the clothesline, the edge of a sheet skimming the top of the soft green grass. I imagined Beth reveling in her homemaker image as she hung the laundry out to dry and taking pictures of her bedding wafting in the breeze, poised to post. The clouds to the north had bloomed from gray into a more ominous purple while I’d been inside, and a cooler breeze had picked up. With the { 177 }
HIDDEN ROOMS
serene blue on one side and clouds heavy with rain on the other, the sky seemed to be of two minds. Something about Beth’s absence struck me as wrong. For one, why would she leave clothes drying on the line with rain coming? But beyond that, her behavior had worried me lately, like the way she hid her phone with a startled expression the moment I walked into a room and then offered some flimsy explanation about wedding plans. I wasn’t sure if I should be concerned for her or for Ethan, or if I was worrying over nothing. Yet, for all her odd behavior, disappearing in the middle of the day felt unlike her. If anything, she was the opposite—staying close to home and fastidious about her routine and the wedding. The hairs on my arms prickled in the breeze. Passing the clothesline, I had just decided to text Ethan when a sheet caught a gust of wind and billowed into my face. As I struggled to grab its fluttering edges, I felt a wet stickiness. Finally grasping it, I pulled the fabric taut. A pattern of little yellow fleurs-de-lis dotted the white cotton, but it was the irregular dark red splotches that caught my attention. The marks trailed across the lower corner, where they became more saturated, coalescing into the shape of a hand. My scalp tingled, and my ears began to ring. A dozen scenarios flashed through my mind, all ending in fresh blood and a missing Beth. Cold logic told me to calm down. Stop overreacting. But some instinctual part of my brain roared, telling me that whatever Beth had been hiding—that wrongness I had sensed and then brushed off—had led to this. I tried to slow my breath. That doesn’t seem good. My head swam and my vision tunneled as I reached for my phone.
{ 178 }
M O RE TH RILLIN G READS FRO M C AM C AT BOOKS
Available now, wherever books are sold.
VISIT US ONLINE FOR MORE BOOKS TO LIVE IN: CAMCATBOOKS.COM
SIGN UP FOR CAMCAT'S FICTION NEWSLETTER FOR COVER REVEALS, EBOOK DEALS, AND MORE EXCLUSIVE CONTENT.
CamCatBooks
@CamCatBooks
@CamCat_Books
@CamCatBooks
For sales and marketing inquiries, please contact Laura Wooffitt at laura@camcatpublishing.com. Be the first to hear about new CamCat titles, author events, and exclusive content! Click here to sign up for the CamCat Library Newsletter.
CamCatBooks
@CamCatBooks
@CamCat_Books