Steamlust

by Kristina Wright

  “No corset?” His tone was appreciative. Only a few buttons left until he’d be finished. I started work on the worn-in olive tweed waistcoat Sam wore, the fabric imbued with the scents of the wind.

  “The way I’m built, I don’t need one,” I told him. He smirked.

  “That’s true enough,” he replied, resting one of his hands against the flat of my belly, over the remaining pearl buttons. Frustrated, I pushed his hands away and finished the job myself.

  “You don’t need to flirt like that,” I told him in a curt voice. “You don’t need to joke.”

  “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the key lying against my skin just above the swell of my breasts. After a moment’s deliberation, I nodded. I wouldn’t need winding for several more weeks, at least, but I’m not ignorant about the erotic aspects of the act.

  I slipped the slim ribbon up over my head and dropped it into his palm, lifting my hair away from the back of my neck and turning so he could easily see the keyhole. He slotted the key in place carefully and gave it three slow, careful turns.

  I could feel the coils and springs in my belly tighten with each movement of the key, the tension making me more aware of every part of myself, of every sensor and artificial nerve in my skin. I pulled off my lambskin gloves, turning to face Sam and taking his face in my hands as I leaned in to kiss him.

  Knowledge of his body filled my mind—the aroused racing of his heart, the flush of want under his skin. The slight sunburn on the back of his neck, the good quality of his knee-high leather boots and the good posture they gave him.

  “Your compass is in working order again, by the way,” I told him when we broke apart from the kiss.

  “When I have my permits, I’ll show you and your girls the skies,” he promised me.

  As we removed the rest of our clothes Sam found and worshipped each small part of me, the neatly stitched seams hidden at the joints of my thighs, the exposed hinges of my fingers. I tasted each of his scars, the little marks and survived wounds of a well-lived young human life.

  I could taste his pulse, the electricity of his existence, on my tongue again when I sucked at his neck. My thighs were straddling his lap, and I knew that I’d be able to follow his heartbeat while I sucked his cock later, when he’d caught his breath and was ready for another round. Automatons don’t have the same problems with exhaustion as humans do.

  For now I needed him inside of me more than anything. I ached with it, every refashioned ratchet wheel and suspension spring inside me wound so tight I felt as if I’d shatter if I went another moment without being touched.

  I arched in closer, urging his face down toward my breast. The flat, thin edge of his teeth grazed the nipple, barely a touch, and I felt so open and ready for him that I think I moaned aloud. He shifted his hips, lifting me up and then down, and then we were locked together, parts in perfect mechanism.

  I was going to fly apart, like an incomplete clockwork knocked off the edge of a table, sending gleaming pieces in all directions. I couldn’t cope with something so good, not unless I had something solid to grasp and ride through it. I rocked up, experimentally, letting him almost slip free as I clenched and held him in. The push back down made his length stroke the upper wall inside me, and I felt a wave of sensation shudder through me.

  “You feel like silk,” Sam whispered, his breath hitching in damp gasps against my throat. I brought myself up again and then down.

  “You feel like life,” I answered, as we moved together under the jewel colors of the sky beyond the workshop. A smuggler and a clockwork girl, in a glass room built to fix a broken world.

  MAKE YOUR OWN MIRACLES

  Nikki Magennis

  Violet takes a steamcab to the dirty end of town. She suspects the driver is taking her on a tortuous, inventive route, but she doesn’t mind as much as she should. She likes these dark, narrow streets, the pockets of decrepit and dangerous buildings populated by fiends and outlaws. In addition, she herself is up to much the same kind of misadventure. This whole trip, in fact, is part of a tortuous, inventive route to increase her personal gain. Her very personal gain.

  She raps on the ceiling.

  “Here will do,” she calls, over the hissing of the pistons. The wheels grind to a halt against the cobbles. She’s on the corner of Trongate, could almost be visiting a hat shop, looking for a suitable frippery to wear to her next afternoon garden party—if she weren’t dressed in rather unusually somber clothing and if she were not draped with a dark, voluminous cloak of thick velvet.

  “Tenner,” said the driver, turning to spit into the gutter.

  “That’s outrageous,” she said.

  “My usual rate for such a precious cargo. Sir Catter wouldn’t like to think his daughter were bein’ carried round by some fly-by-night villain, now would he? ’Specially in these parts of town. A woman needs lookin’ after round here, don’t she?”

  He leered at her with a mouth full of broken teeth.

  Violet passed him the note, her fingertips feeling greasy although she didn’t touch his grubby mittens.

  Once the cab had spluttered along the street and was lost among the afternoon traffic, Violet slid down the alley between the baker’s and the music hall. The smell of hot bread made her mouth water, as it always did. Or perhaps it was anticipation of another sort.

  The door was heavy, but Violet had learned the trick. With one sharp kick of her leather boot, it sprang in the hinges and gave enough that she could tug it open. She lifted the cape to cover her face. The smells down here were of the night soil variety—thick enough to make you retch.

  The lift was a fearsome cage—rusted so thick that it appeared made out of dried mud. Flakes of old paint came away on her glove when she closed the doors behind her. She swallowed her fear. Four floors, she said to herself, pulling the lever to raise the lift upward. The higher she rose, the more lightheaded she felt. Her palms were damp, and she rubbed them against the soft fur of the cape.

  He knew she was coming. Of course he knew. Would he be waiting for her? Automatically, she reached to her face and buried her hand in the wild black frizz of her hair. She drew her shoulders back and watched the floors roll slowly past outside the crisscross lift bars. Something clicked as she rose higher: A cog complaining of the strain. Cables stretched to their breaking point.

  Violet closed her eyes.

  The lift drew to a halt. She got out and arranged her skirts before ringing the bell.

  “Hello,” he said, pulling open the studio door.

  “You were expecting me.”

  “Of course.” He stood watching her. His—she didn’t know exactly what to call it—his machine hand, the prosthesis, gripped the door frame.

  “It is cold out here, sir.”

  “Come in, come in.” At once, he flung open the door and turned to the dim chaos of his studio. Violet followed with as much dignity as she could muster, even though her knees felt horribly like they were not connected to the rest of her. As if she were cobbled together, like Gustav, a broken person who’d been remade and was now something other than entirely human.

  “Care for a drink?” he threw the question over his shoulder.

  “Yes.” She needed something sharp.

  Gustav lived like a wild animal. His workshop was also his home. Violet had been shocked, on her first visit, to see a heap of blankets and animal skins tumbled in a corner, disheveled and obviously recently slept in. Women like her were not raised to visit the sleeping quarters of males. The sight of Gustav’s bedsheets was enough to make her cheeks burn. But Gustav laughed when she blushed, and now, after two subsequent trips out here to Hell’s western outpost, she had taught herself to ignore the depraved manner in which the man chose to live.

  “I’ve made some modifications,” Gustav said as he reappeared and handed her a shot glass. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

  “I know what I want.”

  “And you are all the more admirable for it.” Gustav said. H
e raised his glass to her. When he threw back his drink, Violet’s treacherous gaze hooked onto his throat, the jut of his Adam’s apple. Her eyes slid inexorably down, toward the second, more shadowy jut, the slight protuberance at his crotch. It wasn’t the first time she’d been secretly fascinated by the workings of a man’s body. Only Gustav’s seemed, somehow, so much more… vivid than those of other men.

  “Unusual,” Gustav said. Violet’s eyes jerked up to meet his. She swallowed, and tasted the fumes of whatever potcheen he’d just served her.

  “What is?” she asked.

  “A woman who has the gall to demand what she wants. But then, you are born to a family that is used to doing whatever it pleases.”

  “I’d be grateful if you would not mention my family,” Violet said. “While I’m here, I’m your employer, not anybody’s daughter. Is that clear?”

  Gustav stared at her.

  “You’ve been amply rewarded for your compliance,” Violet continued. “It would be wise not to forget that.”

  “And it would be wise of you to learn not to try to buy someone’s loyalty,” Gustav said, his voice low.

  “I beg your pardon?” Violet clutched her glass. Somehow, it was empty. Her mouth was burning dry.

  Gustav didn’t answer. Instead, he set his glass down with a click and moved toward the bench in the center of his studio. The table was strewn with detritus, piled high with spanners and cutters and hammers and glass tubes, all discarded over scribbled plans and intricate drawings. Gustav abandoned projects when his attention was drawn to something else, the newest, ever more exciting inventions that his brilliant, daring mind came up with. Here and there among the rubble, there were tiny marvels. Violet noticed a clockwork bird, its feathers minutely engraved and its one wing perfectly constructed. She knew without asking that it was a working model; that it would fly if it were ever finished.

  Because Gustav was a genius. It was how she’d heard of him, all those stories the servants retold in backrooms when they thought none of the gentry were listening. The outraged claims of her married lady friends, the hotly whispered secrets. What she’d overheard. How he’d fought as a young man, in the Clockwork Revolution, and nearly been killed. And how he’d rebuilt himself. A firebrand beholden to no one, living on the edge of society, building his awful toys for the idle rich.

  “I think you’ll find it still fulfills your demands,” Gustav said. His voice was flat now, like any servant’s. His face turned away, Gustav pulled the tarpaulin from the lurking shape in the center of the room.

  The chair was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Anyone would be taken with the skill of the carving, the finely wrought detail on the headrest, the way the wooden spindles virtually melted into the metal. The seams were invisible. It looked almost as though it were something alive. Violet’s mouth watered as she ran her eyes over the curves of it. In particular, she lingered on the special additions, the hidden components that made the “fainting chair” such a very special piece of art.

  “Rather wonderful, isn’t it?” Gustav said. His hand stroked the undulating backrest, as if it were the shoulder of a friend. “I’ve grown quite attached.” With this, he held out his hand—not the flesh and blood hand, but the other one, his wire and steel simulacrum.

  Violet hesitated for a fraction of a second. Long enough for a shadow to pass over his eyes.

  “It won’t hurt you, you know,” he said, voice full of spite. “I do control it.”

  He reached for her hand and took it, his grip surprisingly warm, as though the metal fingertips had a pulse, and the smooth battered leather of the palm were still living skin. Still, Violet flinched.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, shrinking back.

  “You? Sorry?” Gustav raised an eyebrow. “A Catter, apologizing to a miscreant and a rebel?”

  “Don’t,” she said, tugging at her hand. But his grip was firm. Of course it was. It wasn’t entirely human. He probably couldn’t read her signals, Violet thought, trying to stop herself from panicking. Couldn’t feel her try to shake him loose. There was no feeling in his arm, after all—

  “Oh, come now,” Gustav said, almost whispering. He smiled at her. “We have to try out your machine, after all.”

  “No!”

  “No? It was a very expensive commission, my lady. Surely you wish to satisfy yourself that it works?”

  “I trust you,” she said, hopelessly. His hand held her wrist casually, belying the strength of his hold on her.

  “Do you?” he said. “Do you really?”

  Their eyes met. His were a deep, dangerous brown, like metal that had rusted, been tempered by time and experience. Violet was no weak, simpering girl. But she wasn’t used to meeting people as forthright as Gustav. The men in her circle were powerful, buoyed up by riches and inherited empires. They put on a good show of force and bravado.

  Gustav was different. He had virtually nothing, yet he carried himself with the ease of a prince. With his rough, ragged shirtsleeves and his wild, shoulder-length hair he managed to wear the look of a man beautiful enough not to need polished boots and well-cut clothes. It was the way he moved, Violet supposed. The way he held himself. The way he…touched her.

  She was silent as he pulled her toward the center of the room.

  “You want me to sit?” she asked, obedience coming far more naturally than usual.

  It was, in fact, a fainting couch, he’d told her. Not for sitting in. She would lie prone over it. Facedown. The thought did indeed make her feel faint.

  “First things first.”

  His voice was as low and quiet as an idling engine. “Remove your clothes, please.”

  Violet felt the blood drain from her face.

  “How dare you.”

  Gustav merely inclined his head. “Violet.” It was the first time he’d used her name. “Remember the measurements I asked for?”

  Though she thought it impossible, she blushed harder. Her face must be as beetroot red as a scolded child’s. She gave a hard nod. How could she forget? Sharing her intimate details with a stranger—it had been the most intrusive and excruciatingly embarrassing conversation. Well, almost. Asking for the machine itself should surely have been her worst nightmare. That first visit, that exhilarating leap into the unknown. She had felt herself on the edge of life, that day, ready to scream or swallow the muzzle of a gasgun. Desperate enough to do something insanely reckless. You’re hysterical, she’d told herself, and then she’d gone out to find a steamcab.

  She had found herself in Gustav’s infernal den, and she had met the man with a bravado and daring to match his own. “For my health,” she’d said, almost smirking. “As my dear friend Amelia was advised by her own physician.”

  Of course, she wasn’t married. But meeting Gustav, she was certain that this detail would not bother him. Not with a purse full of coins and not with a customer as formidable as the daughter of Lord Catter himself. She’d almost felt dizzy, as she stood in front of Gustav’s laughing, bold brown gaze. For once, the idea struck her that she might use her power for her own satisfaction, rather than let it use her.

  At the same time, she had felt herself so overtaken by rising sensation that she had barely trusted herself to stay upright. As though her body might swoon with the rushing tides of pulse and breath, as though she might lose control at any moment.

  The feeling had returned.

  “Measure twice. Cut once,” he said. “I cannot check the fit through thirty layers of lace.”

  “This is necessary?” she said.

  “It is, if you wish your commission well made,” Gustav said reasonably. “And I did warn you this would be an intimate process.”

  “Your threats have not been forgotten!”

  “I merely reminded you of the need for discretion. A project like this is not without risks, as you know. Sensitive information must be kept under wraps, for protection.”

  “Whose protection? I think you care not for my honor, sir! If my fat
her knew what you were doing…”

  “He’d disown you,” Gustav said mildly, refilling his glass and taking a leisurely swallow. “You’d be cut off with nothing. Milady.”

  Violet trembled. But it was rage, not fear, that spurred her onward.

  “You would not emerge unscathed,” she said. “Remember that.”

  “No. But I think of the two of us, you have more to lose.” He came close, then, and the smell of whisky on his breath swept over her. “Far more at stake than your inhibitions, don’t you think?”

  “You’re enjoying this,” she said, reaching for the button at her throat. “You want to see me broken.”

  “Not broken,” he said. “Merely—undone.”

  She shrugged.

  “I am not afraid of your scorn,” she said.

  Then there was no sound, only the muffled pop of her buttons and the swish of silk as she pulled her bodice apart. She would not let him see her cowed.

  “I have defied men greater than you, sir.”

  “Yes. But I bet you never let them see your underwear,” he said, idly, walking round his machine as if he’d lost interest in Violet’s striptease already.

  She barked a laugh at him.

  “Don’t fret, madam.” He eyed her gravely. “Remember, I am doing this for your pleasure.”

  “Pleasure. You make it sound like a mere whim.”

  “Were not for the whims of the rich, I’d be a pauper.”

  “It’s more than idle fancy!”

  “How so?”

  “I am not married, sir.”

  “I had noticed,” Gustav said.

  “Unmarried ladies are not greatly popular, you know. Even if they have chosen to be so. If I wish to live alone, I must—Oh, what would you understand about it? Having your whole life mapped out already. Having to fight for every scrap of independence.”

  “Perhaps more than you think.”

  Gustav was bent over the machine, adjusting a strap. Violet looked at his false fingers, noticed how delicate they were, how skilled the movements. As she watched, a calm came over her, like a draft of cold air after a thunderstorm. She dropped her arms. Her heart fluttered in her breast, like a bird trying to escape a calico cage. Violet removed her dress in silence, only the rustle of fabric disturbing the air in the studio. Outside, there were shouts in the street and the whistle of steamships passing, floating into the Upperspace where they would circle above the smog and bustle of the city.