by Kim Knox
Frost frowned. “The plan? Being inside the house wasn’t a consideration at Station X.” Mason lifted an eyebrow. “Our base of operations.” He tugged at the hem of his waistcoat, straightening it, and his gaze hardened, the battle-formed man reappearing. “But...since we’re here.”
His boots clacked over the wooden floor. “We’ll have to see what’s down there. Who’s down there. Pandarus. One kardax—”
“More. All the females in the house will be kardax. Lady Barend. The housekeeper. The maids.”
Frost swore under his breath. “How many of them are there?”
“Six that I saw. Eight including Lady Barend and the housekeeper.”
He paused just beyond the narrow alcove that housed the door. “Nine kardax.” He frowned. “How many male servants?”
“Eight, not including the dinner guests.”
“And if they’re not koile, then the possibility of ten automata.”
For a quiet second, they held each other’s gaze. They could run. They both knew it. Escape and the bombardment would collapse the house and bury the cellar. But the kardax and the automata were victims. And the equipment could give Frost’s people leverage against their ruthless enemy.
The moment of understanding changed. Mason stilled, the space between them somehow devoid of air. He couldn’t breathe and duty, the fight, everything but the man in front of him was forgotten. He needed... Sweat slicked the base of his spine and his balls ached. He needed him.
How did Frost do it? He’d not said a word. They were facing their death in a hole in the ground...but the shining heat in Frost’s eyes, the promise of his mouth, of it devouring him forced Mason to think of Frost fiercely fucking him against the nearest wall.
“How...how did you know?” Mason wet his lips. “About me. About what, about who I like.”
Frost stepped forward and his lips teased, tasted. A hint of his breath and the brief tormenting touch of his tongue forced a groan from Mason. “I didn’t. But you’re mine now.” He looked at Mason’s forehead and brought the reminder of the devil burned into his brain. “Not theirs.” He thumb drew a line across Mason’s lower lip. “Ready?”
Mason’s heart thudded and his palms were slippery with sweat. But from Frost’s too-brief kiss, the voice in his head was quiet. “No plan yet?”
Frost turned the door handle and winced at the clunk of the lock mechanism. “As yet? No.” He stopped, his knuckles whitening around the handle, and his mouth moved with silent curse words. He closed his eyes. And threw the door back.
It broke from its metal hinges, the thick wood split and a muffled cry followed. The man behind the door fell. Williams, from the weight of his body hitting and bouncing down the stone steps, grit and dust pluming from the bared stone walls.
Thoughts fired through Mason’s brain, almost too fast for him to capture. The fall of dust. The stink of the air from the copper factories. Its deadly fumes... Deadly.
“The stone. Dirt.” Mason scrambled down the steps, leaping over Williams and aiming his gun at the curve of the ceiling. Energy scraped across the sandstone, and a wide swathe of grit fell across the automata taking apart the equipment, over the kardax rushing towards him, filling the air, coating his skin, tongue and lungs with the bitter grit.
Frost smashed a chunk of fallen rock against Williams’ temple, and the rising man slumped across the steps. “Dirt?”
“Theodora.” The gun shook with energy, rippling power up Mason’s arms. He braced himself against the wall. The crackle of lightning from the weapon cut through the thickening brown veil. He coughed against the clogging grit caught on his lips, his nose. “You pushed dirt into her skin.”
“It confused her.” A thick copper pipe ran up the length of the wall. Frost grabbed it, broke it away and swung it at the parlour maid. The clang of metal impacting her chest echoed across the room. And she went down, toppling back into the dry stink of mist. “Weakens them.”
“It’s not perfect...”
“But they’re not dead.” And he brained the housekeeper with his pipe.
Mason snorted. “Much.”
The walls shuddered, and chunks of the ceiling fell away. Nestor’s attack. They’d subdue the enemy and find themselves buried anyway. He lost sight of Frost to the heavy fall of dust, but his new senses picked out the heat of moving bodies, the sounds that surrounded them, the sharp cut of sweat and anger. Frost was a blur. The metal pipe he wielded bludgeoned into heads, backs, chests, and the kardax stumbled and fell.
A low rumble rippled through the wall at Mason’s back. Metal groaned and the thunk of masonry smashed against the floor. The bombardment and his attack weakened the structure of the cellar, of the whole house. He had to stop.
Mason loosened his grip on the weapon and the forks of energy died. He shoved the gun into the long inside pocket of his jacket, followed Frost’s example in breaking off a length of copper piping and plunged into smoky cloud of dust and grit. A shape loomed and Mason cracked the pipe across the neck and chest of the groom. The man lurched backwards, falling into the noxious cloud.
The fierce pulse of his blood swept Mason up, wild emotion gripping him and denying the fierce burn of the choking air in his lungs, against his skin. If it moved he attacked, staggering as the floor shifted under the onslaught of Nestor’s guns. He had to fight. It was why he’d been changed. Why the Ilarches had honoured him—
He met the hard strike of metal not changed flesh.
“Mason?” Frost’s tired, strained voice came out of the shifting cloud of grit. “They’re all down. Mason!”
Breathing hard, his thoughts tangled, Mason regripped the pipe in sweaty fingers. There. He had to strike again. The burn of need exposing the darkness of his thoughts, offering an escape for the devil squatting in his skull. Metal creaked under his suddenly fierce grip. Death to his enemy. Death to the betrayer.
With a raw cry breaking free, he lashed out, metal clanging against metal. Frost swore and with a roar barrelled him back to the crumbling wall. Wrenching the pipe from his tight grip, Frost threw it across the room to bounce and clatter across the tiles.
“Mine.” The man’s hot breath seared his dirt-coated lips. “Remember?”
Mason closed his eyes and fought the insanity in his brain. He let the fierce strength of Frost roll over him. The tight grip of his hand under his jaw. The full press of their bodies. The stirring of his dick. And the need to have him. Right there. His caught breath escaped and the push of Pandarus’s presence faded to nothing. “I remember.”
“Good.” Frost fell back against the wall and pulled one of the slivers of copper the kardax used. He ran his fingers over the smooth, shining surface and then lifted the ektaxis to his mouth. “This is Achilles. Cease the bombardment. We have secured the house. Repeat. Cease your bombardment.”
“Achilles?” Nestor’s rich, rounded voice was almost lost under another boom of impacting fire. “You’re in the house?”
“Yes, sir!” Frost had to shout over the partial collapse of the ceiling in the far corner of the cellar. Wood, stone and plaster crashed into the thick tiling, and a cloud of brown-white dust rolled towards them. “We have live prisoners and...the apparatus.”
Nestor was silent. Mason could hear the sudden quickening of his breath and the creak as a leather gloved hand curled into a tight fist. “Intact?”
“Intact,” Frost agreed.
Nestor gave the terse order to cease fire and the sudden silence drummed in Mason’s ears. “We’re coming in.”
“Very good, sir. We’ll be waiting. Achilles out.” Frost tucked the slim device into his waistcoat and slid down the floor. “Now we sit.”
Mason joined him, belatedly pulling out the gun from his jacket and dropping it on the floor between his knees. He stared at the crackle of energy crawling through the c
asing. “It’s over?”
“We won today. Tomorrow? I can’t say. Our victories are rare.”
Stone and brick dust seared his skin and burned in his eyes. He ignored it. “So...what happens now?” He glanced at Frost, willing the race of his heart to slow. This close, he was sure it’d be heard.
Frost’s mouth twitched and it did nothing to ease the sudden fire in Mason’s blood. “You work for me now.”
“In what capacity?” He wet his lips, tasting stone and plaster, and Frost’s hint of a smile deepened. “Sir.”
Frost’s chest lifted and damn it if that reaction didn’t get his dick hard. “My very well-recompensed manservant. Is that good enough?”
Mason leaned, the lure of Frost’s mouth drawing him in. The man was covered in grit and dust and blood, but he didn’t care. He wanted to taste him. Find more than the brief kisses that had tormented him since they’d first met. “It sounds to be a very agreeable position.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Frost threaded his fingers through the mess of Mason’s hair, his mouth so close they shared each ragged, eager breath. The first brush of his lips broke a groan from Mason. The slow, tortuous slide of Frost’s tongue against his upper lip whipped fierce need into his flesh. He fisted the front of his waistcoat. He wanted to grab the man, throw him down on the floor and take him.
Frost bit his bottom lip and Mason swore. His balls ached. His whole body was tight. Frost was killing him with every slow second. “We don’t have time—”
“Perfection should never be rushed.”
The words burned against Mason’s lips, and he fought the ache to yank Frost to him. It was killing him, the luxury of pleasure, of a slow tasting and the aching build of finding so much more than an almost chaste kiss—
The splintered crash of the heavy front door broke them apart. Frost swore. “Should’ve gone with your plan.”
Mason pushed himself to his feet and offered Frost his hand. “You should always trust the word of your valet.” He paused, enjoying the strength and heat of Frost’s hand in his. “Sir.”
9. The Aftermath
“The immediate area is secure, Commander Nestor. The prisoners are contained within an Armstrong-Swan cage. Most are still unconscious. We will continue to cover them with grit as Agent Achilles has recommended.” The small uniformed man paused and looked at the gravelled drive before he lifted his gaze again. His gloved hands flexed around the metal board he held to his chest. “We’ve swept the house, the stables and the secured area. As yet there is no sign of Pandarus, nor the kardax, Lady Cadwallader and Theodora Cadwallader.”
Frost stiffened and Mason kept his face a steady mask. The air had been too thick in the cellar to know whether Sir Randolph and his wife had escaped in the wildness of the fighting, or if they’d never been there at all. They did know that Sir Randolph had taken the body of his daughter from her room. And vanished.
“Permission to join the search parties, Commander Nestor.” Frost was already turning away to follow the narrow path running along the side of the crumbling house.
“Permission denied, Achilles.”
Frost tensed. “With all due respect, Commander—”
“There’s an airship scheduled from Station X in two hours. You will get cleaned up.” Nestor’s sharp blue gaze fixed on him and he stroked the smooth whiteness of his moustache. “You will also see the quartermaster about rations and respectable clothing. You’re to make yourself available to the scientists and engineers who are practically slavering at the mouth over this intact apparatus.”
“Sir—”
“Walk with me, Achilles.” He directed his narrowed gaze to Mason. “You too.” He nodded to the man still gripping his board. “Thank you, Eurybates. Carry on.”
Eurybates gave a smart salute, about turned and strode back into the creaking house.
Nestor, his hands clasped behind his broad back, led them onto the narrow beaten path that skirted the house and led out into a small wooded park. Men patrolled in pairs, variations of the Martian pelekys weapon moulded into rifles and slung over their shoulders. The bright colours of their crackling inner power ran unease down Mason’s spine. How else had the mysterious men of Station X used their stolen Martian knowledge?
Nestor stopped beneath the bare branches of a thick beech tree. He squinted to the perimeter his men enforced and the silvered scarring on his jaw stood out against his tightened skin. “You are an asset I am not willing to squander, Achilles.”
Frost caught his fingers in his dusty hair. “Nestor...”
The older man shook his head. “I know you felt the girl was an obligation. That there was something of an...understanding from long ago. Commendable of you to honour it. But she’s a casualty of this war now.” He slapped a heavy hand on Frost’s shoulder and squeezed his meaty fingers. The man didn’t seem to notice. “Chasing after her won’t help her now, lad.”
“Pandarus can’t be allowed to escape.” Frost bit out the words. “He’ll just fashion himself a new face, a new life.” He glared into the grey-white of the late afternoon sky. “He could be on a ‘ship to the Continent now. Heading out to Egypt.”
“No, he’s still here. Still in or near Liverpool.” Mason lifted his chin, surprise at his audacity to interrupt his betters flaring briefly. The transfiguration had changed him to a great degree. Nestor and Frost were both looking at him, but with expectation, not censure. He reclasped his hands behind his back. “Sir Randolph—Pandarus—said at dinner that though the situation here—the dirt, the sickness, the bad air—hindered his work, he had to be here to carry on with plans. The second city of the empire. Its second heart.” Mason’s mouth twitched. “He’s still somewhere in this city.”
Frost nodded. “He makes a good point, Nestor. Permission—”
“Denied.” The word was a rumble. “That brain of yours knows how their infernal machinery works. You must return to your previous role. So...you’re at the disposal of our scientists.” He frowned. “No more arguments.” He patted Frost’s arm. “We’ll get him, Achilles. We will, have no worry.”
Nestor stared at the house, a dark shell in the gloom of the afternoon. “And good work here today, gentlemen.” He clapped Mason on the arm. “Patroclus. Good name for you. Suits you.” He nodded to them both. “Clothes and food. That’s an order. Teucer will be waiting on you.”
Frost laughed softly as Nestor strode back across the grass, Eurybates finding him again with yet another report. “Patroclus. I often wonder if the kardax who gouged his jaw left something under the skin.” He blew out a slow breath and rubbed his hands together, but his eyes were sly. “Taking up your new situation will have to meet with a little delay.”
“Understood, sir.”
Frost grinned at him and Mason’s newly fashioned heart tightened, but with it came a shadow.
“You didn’t tell the commander.” Mason winced. “About what’s in my head. The risk of it.”
Frost started to walk up the slight slope towards the aeolipile gun carriages and the row of pale tents erected to the rear of the house. “You have information locked in your head. It could be useful.”
“Why aren’t you turning me in?”
Frost stopped. His breath steamed in the air, and the grey light edged his perfect features. There was a seriousness to his expression. “I lost Theodora today.” He wiped his hand across his face, smudging the ingrained dirt. “And I took your life from you. You’re my responsibility.”
He moved closer and his hand briefly squeezed Mason’s shoulder, his thumb leaving a slow caress. The hot shine was back in his eyes and Mason pushed down the familiar need to groan. “And you and I, Mason, we have a lot of unfinished business.” Frost schooled his features and resumed his walk towards the tents. “Time to strip, I think, Patroclus.” He glanced back. “I
may need that steady hand of yours again.”
Patroclus, companion and beloved of Achilles.
Mason smiled to himself as he followed Frost. Yes, he rather liked that.
* * * * *
In the mood for more science fiction?
Check out these other releases from Kim Knox,
available now!
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It’s 2050, and humans are an endangered species. Lieutenant Robert Sutton has survived the collapse of civilization by luck, his wits, and a chance mutation that makes him immune to the nano-virus that has wiped out millions. Now, his compound of survivors is surrounded by the infected, who are driven by the need to spread the contagion through sex. It is only a matter of time before they attack. So when Sutton is assigned to interrogate a prisoner who claims to have overcome the infection, he immediately suspects a trap...
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Paul Cross works for the Corporation, but he’s been plotting their downfall since they took his brother and replaced him with an imposter. Vyn agrees to help Paul, but their alliance shatters the barriers she’s put up to protect herself, tempting her to give in to desire. Just as Vyn starts to trust Paul and believe he wants her, scars and all, the Corporation prepares for its final move. Can Vyn trust Paul completely, or has he been using her all along?
