Tainted (The Soul Chronicles Book 1)

by Morgan L. Busse

  Ms. Stuart had left the gaslights off in the hallway, but Kat knew these halls well enough in the dark. She flew by paintings of previous Bloodmaynes: her grandfather, her great-grandfather. Men of scientific renown. Even the women in her family had contributed to science, paving the way until the Tower finally opened its doors to women.

  Then there was her mother.

  Kat rushed past that last picture, but she knew it by heart. Her mother leaning on a deep red settee with Cricket, the mechanical songbird she had created, perched on her shoulder. Her rich, dark hair pulled back, her skin perfect. A soft smile on her face, like she was content with the world.

  Shouts erupted behind her and Kat glanced back and slowed to a stop. Her heart pounded inside her ribcage. Should she go back? If something happened to Ms. Stuart—

  If you father finds out, you know what that would mean.

  You must live, Kathryn.

  Ms. Stuart would never forgive her if she turned back.

  But could she forgive herself if she didn’t?

  Kat turned and reached the end of the hall. She leaned against the doorway and panted. No, she would do as Ms. Stuart had instructed. She would leave and find Ms. Stuart’s nephew. She would find Stephen Grey.

  With that in mind, Kat scurried down the stairs to the kitchen. The shouting grew dim.

  She fought the urge to turn back and instead ran through the kitchen, the moonlight streaming in through one of the windows her only source of light.

  She reached the door and turned the knob just as a bang rang out across the house. A wave of dizziness rushed across her body. Ms. Stuart!

  Kat wrenched the door open and stumbled outside. The air was damp and cold, almost paralyzing her already shaking fingers. She fumbled with the cold metal of the gate latch, glancing back. No one. She couldn’t hear the shouts anymore either.

  The gate creaked open. She bit back the sob inside her throat and wiped her eyes. Fog filled the alleyway and the gas lamps on the corner created an ominous light.

  She reached the corner and paused, her breath coming in hot, wispy pants. She looked right, then left, her mind blank. All she could think about was Ms. Stuart and that shot.

  Kat, get a hold of yourself. You need to keep moving. She looked around again. But where do I go?

  She tried to remember the layout of World City, but nothing came to mind except images of Ms. Stuart back at the house. Did people know already? Was Ms. Stuart right? Would the police be after her because of the fire? Would her father come after her?

  Breathe, Kat, breathe. Right now, you need to get away.

  She held the carpetbag close to her chest. Left. Left would lead her to Samford Street. But she would need to take it slow and use the side streets. No proper woman would be out at this time at night, at least not without an escort. And she would need to find a place to change. She couldn’t arrive at Stephen’s office in her evening gown.

  The damp night air seeped into her dress and hair until dark curls formed around her face. Her teeth began to chatter, and she could barely feel her toes inside her shoes. She gripped the carpetbag with numb fingers and pushed onward. She would walk all night if she had to, and she probably would. Samford Street was quite a way away.

  A tear trickled down her cheek, leaving her skin cold and wet. Would Stephen Grey help her? What if he found out what she could do?

  Why, why did she have to be born this way?

  She blew her breath out her mouth and straightened her shoulders. This was no time for self-pity. She couldn’t change the past, or who she was. She could only change her future. And Ms. Stuart had provided a way. If Stephen Grey couldn’t help her, she would continue on her own until she found Dr. Latimer and a cure for whatever this was inside.

  Nothing would stop her. Nothing, except death.

  14

  Dr. Bloodmayne stood beside one of the marble pillars that circled the main room in the Capitol building. A dome of glass let in natural light two stories above. The early rays of dawn painted the white marble floor in a myriad of colors.

  Long, narrow windows bordered the octagonal room and opened to a garden full of lush greens and bright flowers outside. Here and there among the pillars, high back chairs and small tables provided semi-private meeting space for the various political lackeys serving in World City’s government.

  At the moment, the room was empty except for councilman William Sterling, who stood against another marble pillar a couple of feet away, his arms folded. Sterling was a few years older than Bloodmayne and from one of the oldest and richest families in World City.

  Sterling’s icy stare bore down on him. Dr. Bloodmayne ignored the aristocrat and watched a shadow pass across the floor as an airship traversed the sky overhead.

  Both men looked up when a brass-colored automaton came rolling in through the double doors, carrying a tray of teaware between a set of clamp-like fingers. The automaton was made from three different sized brass globes, the bottom globe the largest and by which it moved by rolling. The other two served as the midsection and the head. Two oversized green lenses gazed around the room.

  Dr. Bloomayne stiffened and took a step back, his mouth dry. The automaton had a whimsical look to it, similar to the life-like contraptions his wife had invented before . . .

  The automaton couldn’t possibly be hers, could it?

  No, he’d had all of her inventions destroyed except Cricket. He couldn’t part with her bird, although he kept it in the dining room back home, one of the rooms he rarely used after Helen died.

  The automation rolled toward one of the tables with a series of clicks and whirrs. It gently placed the tray down and started pouring cups of tea.

  Dr. Bloodmayne turned away from the automaton and watched the door. Seconds later John Ashdown, head councilman, came in trailed by three men dressed in black. Ashdown stood a head taller than most men and wore a robe the color of amaranthine over his dress clothes. His black hair was pulled back in a tie, revealing long, jagged scars along his jaw, just below his neatly trimmed beard. He gave both Sterling and Bloodmayne a firm nod.

  Dr. Bloodmayne crossed his arms and scowled at the men behind Ashdown. They were the ones who had broken into his home last night. He clenched his teeth. Ashdown was a fool. He should have known better than to send those thugs to retrieve Kathryn. Between them they had less tact than an airship sailor on leave. Now Bloodmayne had a dead housekeeper on his hands, and his daughter was missing.

  One of the men glanced in his direction and flinched. Good. They should fear him. If he had his way, they would be hauled to the Tower and strapped to a table inside his private laboratory. He would probably get more use out of them that way. Unfortunately, they were not his to use.

  “Gentlemen.” Ashdown gestured for Bloodmayne and Sterling to sit, which they did, albeit as far from each other as they could manage at the small table. Ashdown continued, “I apologize for the early hour of this meeting, but, as you both know, circumstances have arisen that need to be addressed as soon as possible.”

  Dr. Bloodmayne let out a quiet cough, though his anger ratcheted up a notch. “Perhaps this little talk should have occurred last night when I informed you of what happened at the gala. Before you sent your goons after my daughter.”

  Ashdown frowned. “I did what I thought was best at the time. Your daughter is a danger to society.”

  “She was the one link we had to discovering the power of matter. If you hadn’t sent those fools to break down my door, I could have reasoned with her.” His fists clenched. “Instead, you bumbled into my home, shot my housekeeper, and terrified my daughter, who has now vanished!”

  Sterling rounded on him. “And what about my son, Blaylock? Your daughter burned him! Even if he lives, he will be scarred for life!”

  Dr. Bloodmayne sniffed and sat back. “Come now, Sterling. Blaylock is not yo
ur heir, so don’t act so heartbroken over the boy. He was slated to become one of my apprentices. I will still take him. I might even be able to heal some of the burnt tissue. He can live at the Tower, and you never need to bring him out into society again.”

  Sterling worked his jaw. “He could have been much more if your daughter hadn’t lit him on fire.”

  Dr. Bloodmayne sneered. “We both know your son is a cad and a scoundrel. I know you’ve hushed things up. The parlor maid on your country estate . . . the third-floor cleaning girl at the Tower . . . You’re far better off having him locked away where he can cause no further embarrassment. Leave Blaylock to me, Sterling.”

  Sterling blanched and glanced at Ashdown. “I will think about it,” he muttered. “But that doesn’t negate what your daughter did.”

  Dr. Bloodmayne dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “In the end, it doesn’t matter. You underestimate the value of my daughter. Comparatively, she is priceless. She is the embodiment of what we have been trying to do for years: unlock the power of the universe itself. And now”—he looked at Ashdown and the men beside him coldly—“she is gone.”

  Ashdown folded his arms. “Yes, things should have been handled differently. But what is done is done, and we need to figure out what to do next.”

  Dr. Bloodmayne breathed in through his nose and let the air out slowly. “You’re right. The most important thing now is finding Kathryn.”

  Ashdown nodded. “I suggest we put the World City investigators on this case.”

  He shook his head. “Not enough. I want the best looking for her. Men who will do anything to find their quarry. I suggest we put a warrant out for her and let the bounty hunters bring her in.”

  Sterling jerked up. “You would send bounty hunters after your own daughter?”

  “Set the amount high enough with a no-harm stipulation, and she will be found and brought back alive. And I need her alive. I need to find out how she set that fire—and any other abilities she possesses—and if we can replicate them. She is what we’ve been trying to create for years. She holds the key.”

  “Then bounty hunters it is.” Ashdown rubbed his lower jaw. “We might have to twist a couple of the facts from last night in order to secure a high priced warrant. Murder is the only crime that would allow for such a bounty.”

  Dr Bloodmayne nodded. “We can compensate the families involved and maybe urge them to send their sons out to the country. Or maybe to the frontlines. Then we spread word that the young men died.”

  “Yes, that would work. I will have the bounty hunters coordinate with the investigators. Between the two groups we should be able to locate Miss Bloodmayne and bring her back for your examination. ”

  Dr. Bloodmayne bowed his head. “Thank you, head councilman. That is all I want: my daughter back unharmed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have research to attend to.” He straightened, ignoring the brass automaton that sat beside the still steaming teacups. “And if you have no more need for the gentlemen behind you, I will be happy to employ them myself. I need graves dug and fresh corpses brought to my labs.”

  The three men shifted from foot to foot, and none of them looked toward Dr. Bloodmayne.

  Ashdown waved his hand. “They are yours. Do with them as you please.”

  Dr. Bloodmayne smiled. “I will.”

  15

  With the barest hints of sunlight trickling through the window, Stephen peered into the mirror that hung above the small table inside his bedroom. A haggard man with bloodshot eyes and a stubble-covered jaw and chin stared back. He rubbed his face and turned away.

  He could handle late night hunts and information gathering, but not parties. Especially not ones with women who reminded him of Vanessa. Dancing with that young woman from the academy—Miss Bloodmayne—had brought back old nightmares.

  Stephen shook his head. Never again.

  He crossed the room, bypassing his bed—already made—and pulled his clothes from the wardrobe, dressed, and finished his personal hygiene.

  Another glance in the mirror minutes later confirmed the broken man from last night was gone, replaced with the cold, hard bounty hunter he had become. This man he liked better. This man could not be hurt.

  He pulled on his leather duster and hat, pulling the brim over his forehead, and left his flat.

  The narrow streets of World City were already bustling with life as the sun made its way into the sky. Smoke drifted through the alleyways. Women hung laundry from second-story windows, and children ran along the streets. Men left their flats, most of them dressed in the dull gray uniforms of the factories.

  A few people glanced at him and nodded. He nodded back, tipping his hat to a couple of the ladies. These were his people, the working class. Those high up in World City cared little for the men and women they used in their industries and sweat factories, and the police took their cue from the men holding the public purse strings. So it fell to men like him to keep them safe.

  After twenty minutes, he reached Samford Street and went right. A three-story brick building occupied the length of the block. Long, narrow windows framed in white lined the upper stories, while the first floor offered only a single door halfway down the otherwise unbroken length of red brick.

  Stephen approached the door and stepped inside.

  Gaslights hummed along the hallway and voices echoed from the offices that lined either side. A faint scent of mildew and smoke hung in the air, and the wooden floor was worn smooth down the middle.

  Stephen followed the hallway to the back of the building and up the wide staircase to the second floor. Three doors down to the left was a door with words painted in white: Stephen Grey, Fugitive Recovery Agent.

  He grinned at the words as he opened the door. Jerod, his assistant and case manager, had insisted on the title. He said ‘bounty hunter’ conveyed a darker picture, but it came down to the same thing: catching criminals for cash.

  Jerod sat behind his desk, a pile of papers already waiting for his attention. His tawny hair hung across his forehead, and his glasses had begun a slow descent down his long nose. His eyes darted back and forth, intent on whatever he was reading.

  “Mornin’, Jerod.”

  Jerod looked up and pushed on the bridge of his glasses. “Good morning, Stephen.” He rolled up the newspaper and frowned. “Rough evening?”

  “You could say that.” Stephen fished out a small tin from his coat pocket. “Peppermint?”

  Jerod raised one eyebrow. “No, thank you.”

  Stephen popped off the lid and took out one of the small, round white candies. His eye caught the newspaper at the edge of the desk. “Mind if I look at today’s Herald?”

  Jerod waved at him, then gathered up his documents and began reading again.

  Stephen grabbed the newspaper and headed toward his office. All he wanted to do was sit back and read for the rest of the morning. He pushed open the door to his office.

  Jerod shouted behind him. “Wait, you have a client!”

  Stephen paused inside his doorway.

  A woman sat on the edge of the couch against the left wall. He could hardly see her in the dim light seeping in through the window behind his desk.

  His heart stopped. Vanessa.

  She looked at him, her face veiled in shadows. No, not Vanessa. Still, a bitter taste filled his mouth.

  Jerod came to the doorway. “Miss Bloodmayne arrived early this morning. She was waiting at the door when I arrived.”

  Bloodmayne? He did a double take at the woman on his couch. Kathryn Bloodmayne? The woman from the gala last night?

  “She said it was urgent.” Jerod lowered his voice. “She appeared frazzled, and kept looking over her shoulder. I couldn’t leave her out in the hallway.”

  Stephen nodded, his brain still frozen.

  “Well, then. I’ll leave you two be.” Je
rod backed away and Stephen heard his chair scrape across the wooden floor as he returned to his desk.

  He could see her face now: those porcelain features, her rich, dark hair piled on her head, though on closer inspection, a bit disheveled. And deep, beautiful eyes.

  A feeling stirred inside his chest.

  Stephen clamped down on the sentiment and scowled. He walked past Kathryn without looking at her. He didn’t want her drama. He just wanted to read his newspaper and hide in his office. He dropped the paper on his desk. “Why are you here?”

  Her chin rose a fraction. “I was told you could help me. But perhaps I was mistaken.” She reached for the carpetbag that sat beside the couch.

  Blazes! Why’d he do that? “Wait, Miss Bloodmayne—”

  She paused, her hand on the carpetbag. “What, Mr. Grey?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I apologize.”

  “You seem to do a lot of that.”

  Not before last night. He stared out the window beyond his desk, at the thickening clouds and the cityscape of brick buildings, smokestacks, and airships traveling through the hazy morning air.

  This was not how he wanted to spend today, with a woman who reminded him of Vanessa.

  His gut clenched, almost taking his breath away. He closed his eyes. She’s not Vanessa; she’s just another client. The sooner you do business with her, the sooner she will leave and you can go on with your life. He took a deep breath and nodded. I can do this.

  “I’m sorry about that.” He faced her and straightened his jacket. “I had a tough job this week, and it’s left me out of sorts.” That was partially true. Bringing Victor in hadn’t been easy.

  She tilted her head. “A job?”

  He paused. “You do know what I do, right?”

  “You find people.”

  Stephen smirked. “Something like that. So, Miss Bloodmayne, what brings you to my office? Hard night after the gala? Have a beau you need me to chase down?”