The Machine (Blood and Destiny Book 1)

by E. C. Jarvis

  “Creepy guy?” His eyebrow rose again, and she felt an unexpectedly warm smile spreading across her face.

  “You don’t like my assessment?”

  “I’ve been called many things in my time. I can’t recall creepy guy ever being one of them.”

  “What do you expect? You stalked me all the way from Sherwater. You crept into the room while I was sleeping and tried to steal my Anthoni--uhh, my lock box, and you won’t tell me anything about you. Ergo, you’re a creep.” She tried not to look at his face while a sense of unease at her own playful cheekiness skulked into her subconscious.

  “I have answered several of your questions,” he said.

  “Oh. Well can I ask you some more?”

  “There’s nothing stopping you.”

  “Yes. Well, what do you want with Orother?”

  “I want to kill him.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “Because he pissed me off.”

  “Does that piece of paper in your pocket have something to do with it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Are you always this irritating?”

  “I could ask you the same question.” As they reached an impasse, Larissa shook her head. He was far too distracting and unproductive. She just needed time to think and plan ahead.

  “The fire’s running low,” she stated, not looking at him and hoping he got the hint.

  “Are you dismissing me?”

  “Yes.”

  “As you wish, Captain.”

  She beamed a huge grin as he stepped behind her, so quickly forgetting the utter despair she felt at the start of their meeting. A brief moment of silence was all it took for an idea to form in her mind, and she called back to him.

  “When you’re done, perhaps you could teach me how to improve my aim.”

  “Do you wish me to teach you?”

  “Yes, although not now. I don’t want to wake Cid.”

  “Is he your lover?”

  “Gods, no!”

  “So how did he come to be on this quest with you?”

  “Don’t be silly. He worked as the Professor’s engineer.”

  “Hmmm, makes sense. Well, I could start by showing you how to throw with a knife. It makes much less noise and the principle of aiming is the same, though the technique differs, of course.”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “As you wish.” With that he disappeared into the furnace room and the air on deck instantly felt colder without his presence.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The atmosphere in the room was antiseptic; the illuminated table, on which the captured Professor was securely bound, was the central focus. In his dilapidated state, he had been unable to fight when they’d found him in the room aboard the airship. He had barely registered the ship landing. His new prison could have been a hospital room, a laboratory, or even a morgue. From the vaulted ceiling, burning lights bathed him with ferocious intensity whereas the recesses of the room were dark with shadows. The Professor did not seem to mind the glare from the lamps, for he was lost, trapped within his subconscious mind in a world of days gone by. A moan or a whimper escaped him as his head slowly moved against the restraints binding him. Deep within his delirium he heard a soft voice speaking.

  . . .

  “You want to take me to dinner?” she said, her head cocked to one side.

  He watched her eyes widen and her pupils dilate, as though she were a wild rabbit facing a farmer with a shotgun. It made his fingers twitch with excitement that he could affect her so. This was certainly the girl he had been looking for, the one he had tracked to Greyfort’s clothing shop—Miss Larissa Markus. He’d visited the shop the day before under the guise of needing to purchase a new waistcoat. The girl had tried to hide the fact that she watched him in the shop, but he knew the look—one he had seen from many women. He found it all too easy to turn their heads. She would make an interesting conquest, a good sort of entertainment for the evening.

  “It is the least I could do after I caused you such distress.”

  “I’m fine, honestly. It’s...I just twisted my ankle. I should have been looking where I was going, anyway. It’s my fault, really.”

  “I do have a reservation at The Praze. It would be a pleasure to have company for a change. If you’re sure you wouldn’t like to join me for dinner, Miss?”

  “Markus, Larissa Markus.”

  “Well, Miss Markus, I’ll bid you a good evening.”

  He turned, adjusting his hat and sliding his cane to the ground, making a satisfying clack against the cobblestone. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the smoky shop window beside them and chided himself at the smugness of his expression. Even so, the expression wouldn’t fade, not when he knew all too well what was coming.

  “The Praze?” she asked in a squeak. He forced the smug grin away and switched to a vaguely passive expression as he turned back.

  “Have you ever been?”

  “No, never.”

  “They make a delightful lamb terrine...” He watched as her face turned a beautiful shade of pink. He managed to keep his passive expression even as his mind roved, wondering just how much of her delightfully pale body he could make blush that shade.

  “I like the sound of that,” she said.

  “So, you’ll join me?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mister?”

  “Professor.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Professor.” The blush on her cheeks turned a darker pink as she reached up and fiddled with the stone on the necklace. He chanced a smile, allowing himself the smug indulgence. While the Anthonium was the prize, why not go for the girl as well? The Machine was not yet ready for the Anthonium; he could afford to take his time and to feed his growing needs. He turned sideways and offered his arm, which she took with the softest touch, her shy eyes barely daring to look up at him.

  “I think it’s time to wake up now.” A discordant voice echoed in his ear, he watched Larissa closely; her lips did not move. The sound wavered around him as he felt the biting chill of the early evening air creeping through his thick cloak.

  He was sure he had spoken a coherent sentence, but all that actually emerged was a muffled mixture of consonants. The exterior of The Praze, the most exclusive restaurant in all Sallarium City, came into view ahead and then melted away into a white haze. As he turned to face Larissa, she dissipated into mist. Slowly, the surrounding city was replaced with nothing more than a feeling—a deep rooted fear mixed with dread as reality was rebuilt, block by block, brick by painful brick.

  . . .

  “Professor? I said it’s time to wake up now.” The thickly accented voice assaulted his senses, destroying the sweet dream and he opened his eyes. He immediately squeezed them shut again as his vision was greeted by a stark light, so bright it made his head throb.

  He tested his arms and legs. Nothing moved. Slowly, he tried to open his eyes again, squinting until his vision adjusted. He lifted his head; it moved barely an inch upward as something prevented him from lifting further. He was laid out flat, pinned down at the shoulders, wrists, thighs, and ankles by thick metal braces.

  He was dressed now, mercifully, in a white shirt and although he couldn’t see further down he could feel a thin pair of trousers on his legs. His feet were bare.

  “Ahh, there you are. It took longer than I’d anticipated to bring him round. Make a note to adjust the dosage next time.”

  The Professor could only utter a muffled groan.

  “Now, not to worry. I don’t need you to speak just yet. All you have to do for now is listen. Listen and understand.”

  Doctor Orother came into view, a dark outline against the backdrop of white light. He leaned over the table upon which the Professor was bound, his brown eyes so dark they looked as though there were no iris at all, just pure pupil. His mouth curved up into a permanently wicked grin.

  “I apologize, dear Maximillian, for my original methodology. You must understand that I was keen t
o begin extracting information from you, and due to the necessity for travel, I had to resort to a somewhat primeval approach. Now, here we are.”

  Orother stretched out his arm and removed the bright light source, a series of pure-white gas lamps surrounded by mirrors which angled the light into one large domed mirror. This was aimed directly at the Professor’s head. Once the light moved, he could make out his surroundings, at least immediately above and to the side. He was still unable to turn or lift his head to any great effect.

  This new prison was cut from rock, the ceiling and walls consisting of rough, angled stone. The room was rather large; one end was littered with an array of medical cabinets and haphazardly positioned instruments hung upon a pole. The other end had a small gap in the rock by way of an exit, beside which stood a male dressed in a dark red robe and holding a clipboard in one arm. He furiously scribbled some notes, an empty syringe clutched between his teeth.

  As far back as his restricted position would allow him to see, the Professor could make out some form of device—a large metal plaque riveted to the top with the letters M.E.C.U. stamped into place, and at the front of which a series of pipes protruded towards him. He furrowed his brow and felt an unnatural pulling on the skin of his head. Looking up, he caught his reflection in the metal side of the mirror and he saw the pipes of the device actually penetrated his skull. A glob of bile settled in the back of his throat.

  “Unfortunately, as you disposed of my engineer, I have had to make some adjustments to my original plan. I was angry with you at first for causing such trouble. Luckily for us both, a solution is working its way towards us at this precise moment. Therefore, all I have to do is wait and prepare. All you have to do is...obey.”

  “Obey,” the Professor found himself repeating aloud, the word sounding unnatural. His voice fell flat within the cave.

  “It will take some time. I hope to have you suitably compliant within a few days. Much longer than that and you’ll start to deteriorate beyond usefulness. The initial insertion and first connection to the Cleric’s device was successful.”

  Orother stretched out his arm and patted the device. He reached up to the back of his own skull to pull out a single pipe from his head. The Professor spat up the glob of bile, and as it dribbled down his chin more threatened to follow.

  “Really, Professor, I hadn’t pegged you as being squeamish. You had better get used to it. I have connected you to the finest device I’ve ever commissioned; it’s called the Memory Extraction and Conversion Unit. It has proven quite useful over the years, though the mortality rate for my subjects has been unacceptably high. It’s taken a lot of work and quite a volume of failures to bring it up to scratch, where I’d risk using it on such a prized specimen as yourself. Though I would have hoped to hit upon a more useful memory in the first instance. Sadly, the Cleric and I haven’t yet gotten it down to an exact science, at least not as exact as I’d like. Still, one can’t appreciate success without experiencing failure. I’m sure you must have had a few failures with that machine of yours over the years?”

  “Machine.”

  “Yes, good. Very good. Focus on that and we may complete this process much more quickly. I shall be pleased if that is the case. In the end, with the training I’m going to give you, you will wish for nothing more than to please me.”

  A feeling of dread settled in the Professor’s stomach. He remembered hearing the reason the Counsel of Medics struck off Doctor Orother—for his unethical experiments upon the brains of beggars and harlots, whom he enticed away from a life of desperation and into his laboratory.

  At once he knew there was no further chance for escape. He was trapped and doomed to become a puppet, and all because the Doctor wanted that damned Machine. His pride and joy, his life’s work, had now become a noose around his neck.

  As the Doctor repositioned the mirror, bathing him in that harsh and painful light, he knew he could not give in without a fight. He had to try and forget the Machine, to think about something, anything else.

  As he closed his eyes, one picture entered his mind and the smallest smile touched the corner of his lips. Those beautiful, blond curls, tipping across pale shoulders and tickling the corset top. The shy smile and flushed cheeks. Eyes full of hope and wonder, and a mind sharper than anyone had ever given her credit for, even herself. Yes, she would do nicely. He vowed then to think of nothing else. Perhaps if he were lucky, Miss Larissa Markus would be the one to save him. If he were not lucky, at least she would be a beautiful memory to die to.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Imago sat upright atop a barrel, staring across the ship, his tail flicking side to side. The cat had claimed it as his favorite spot over the last few days. The ship was silent save for the constant humming from the rotors until the quiet was pierced by a short whoosh, followed by a dull thud. On another barrel opposite Imago, the protruding handle of a throwing knife wobbled side to side for a moment and then stopped.

  “Relax your elbow,” Holt called, though he trained his attention on the rudder as he steered the ship away from a town that had appeared on the horizon. A great mushroom cloud of smog billowed into the air above it like an aura. Larissa stared at the barrel; the knife hit the center of the black dot Holt had painted on as a target. She wrinkled her nose and poked her tongue out at the back of his head as she retrieved the knife.

  “Being juvenile won’t improve your aim,” he stated flatly.

  “I hit the target dead on,” she muttered under her breath, and made a mental note that this man seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.

  “You did hit it, though it is stationary and large. The real skill comes from hitting a small and fast-moving target, and you won’t achieve that if you don’t relax your elbow.”

  “Fine. I bet I could still surprise you if I had a moving target to practise on.”

  “You could use the cat.”

  “What is it with people and my cat? He’s the perfect companion, he never judges, criticizes, or complains, and he’s much better company than you.”

  “If you say so.”

  Larissa lobbed the knife again and it smacked into the barrel side on, ricocheting across the ship deck and sticking into the bottom of Imago’s barrel. The cat gave Larissa one long stare, jumped down, and headed into the cabin.

  “Well, at least he’s silent about his criticisms,” she conceded.

  “You should never throw or shoot in anger or desperation. Your state of mind affects your aim as much as a gust of wind or a misaligned sight.”

  “If I have to shoot or throw a knife at someone, it will be because I’m angry or desperate. I can’t just turn off my emotions. We’re not all born unaffected automatons, you know.”

  “All it takes is training.”

  “So you’ve had this training?”

  “I have.”

  She gritted her teeth.

  Cid seems like a fine conversationalist compared to this guy.

  His inability to openly communicate was almost as annoying as his bulging muscular body. He had removed his over-cloak and stood in the cold air with the short-sleeved black shirt showing his bare arms. Every time he moved an arm, she surreptitiously watched the muscles flex, and when his head turned she could see the thick tendons of his neck working beneath the skin. It was an irritating, frustrating, and incredibly sensual sight. She cursed her aching libido for choosing to act up now.

  “Hmm, where would a person get that kind of training? Were you in the army?”

  “I was,” Holt said.

  “Not anymore?”

  “Evidently not.”

  “Did you skip the training on basic communication?”

  “I am well-versed in Tacit Code and Field Hand Signals.”

  “I meant conversation. Two or more humans speaking to each other. The sharing of information, thoughts, and opinions with others.” She collected the knife and walked up to the other side of the wheel to stare up at him.

  “I have never ha
d a need to be well-versed in that form of communication,” he said.

  “Perhaps I can teach you how to hold a conversation in return for your lessons on how to kill people.”

  “What would be the point in learning that?”

  “Well, to start with, it will prevent me from throwing this knife at your head. Your inability to talk is frustrating.”

  “If you threw that knife at me, you would not be successful.” His stare grew dark, simultaneously goading and threatening. The hairs on the back of Larissa’s neck pricked up and she felt a tingling shiver run down her spine.

  Without pause to consider the madness of her intentions, she took a few steps back. The challenge given, she had wordlessly accepted. She positioned her feet into the correct stance, allowing her body to relax with a long exhale; her arm reached back, elbow relaxed. He watched her closely, examining her preparation, probably already thinking up criticism, she suspected.

  Larissa frowned and looked out across the horizon, her eyes darting side to side as she tried to pinpoint her focus on one spot. From the corner of her vision she saw his head turn to follow her gaze, to see what it was that had caught her attention. Once she saw he had taken the bait, she took her chance.

  Her focus snapped back and with one smooth flick of the wrist the knife released from her hand and turned over and over in the air, flying straight and true towards her target. The instant she let go she regretted it, for the briefest moment thinking her simplistic subterfuge would succeed. He turned, stumbling backwards, the blade disappearing from sight along with him as he fell.

  The oddest sound emerged from Larissa, a sort of terrified squeal enclosed in an intake of air. She ran around the wheel and fell to the ground beside Holt, who lay sprawled on his side. She leaned over him, certain to see a gushing head wound and the knife protruding from his temple, but it wasn’t there. Holt turned and rose, too fast for her to react.