by Adam Bennett
The workshops were closed. In the dim grape-light, Kello only saw the counters of Serina’s workshop, the silhouettes of her plants and an ethereal reflection of herself in the windowpane.
…tock.
Kello felt the rain fall on her face again, and trickle down her back. It dripped from the leaves and travelled the length of her inner parts before pooling at her feet—but she could not see it. She did not want to fail here, in the dark.
She did not want to fail at all, but her feet refused to move, and her wrists refused to knock. She tried clicking her fingers, but they rang a tinny echo and nothing more.
Tick…
She tried again, this time wondering what using magic felt like, and how Master Pennifold brought it up from his mind and out into the air. She liked the threads he made, and spells he wove. They were like fireworks with maps and tapestries burning inside. Copper shine was her favourite in the mornings, and the rainbows she saw under the umbrellas made her want to stop and stare forever. There were stars above the clouds, tiny and distant, and she saw herself travelling between them, carrying her tiny leafy friend.
Clink!
Light sparked from her copper fingers, and it danced between the creaking joints of her knuckles and wrist. She felt warmth where she always wished it would be, beneath the rusty wash of metal, between her chest plate and the metronome of her clockwork heart.
…tock.
If she had cheeks, she knew, she’d feel warmth there too. Instead the light shimmered across the golden scars on her porcelain face and illuminated the pain-stricken detail of her painted eyes.
Tick...
What wonder.
…tock.
What joy.
Tick…
For magic to find her.
…tock.
Tick…
The light vanished.
Kello stood in the darkness, staring up into the beads of grape-green light. Rain fell and washed the dirt from her gold and porcelain face. Insects landed and crawled across her copper body, and rodents sniffed around her.
Silence followed, and stillness. Owls disturbed the moments, or drunkards from the opulent bars nearby. They sang and picked grapes from the vines. When they grinned, their white teeth shone, and they laughed so loud it spooked a resident fox.
The calm returned, and the night bled into the morning. At dawn, birds woke and sang and whistled but startled from the willow trees that hung from the willows as Master Pennifold raced around the corner.
“I knew it.” He grabbed Kello and pulled her chest plate open. It tore into his fingers, and he cursed as he wiped sweat from his bleeding brow. “You stupid machine!”
Kello did not move.
He pulled the clock from her chest and wrenched it open, but there was no seed inside. Master Pennifold swore and spat, and shoved the mechanical heart back into place.
“Where is it? Where’s the seed? Where’s the key?” He shook her, but all her joints refused to bend to his will—or his strings. He checked the small of her back, but the key was gone. He checked the floor, kicked up cobbles stones and used his strings to reach for fallen bronze, finding nothing but stray coins.
***
“Emery?” Serina stood at the entrance to the street. “What’s happening?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I work here,” Serina said slowly. “What’s wrong with her?”
“It’s too late now, I’ll have to make another one.” He waved dismissively. “Just like you wanted. But just in case, you can keep it. It’s just like you. A thief.”
Serina did not argue, instead she watched him wander up the street, occasionally stopping to search for something between the cobblestones. She pressed her hand against the chest plate again and searched for the gap in Kello’s back to wind her—but now there was no keyhole to be found. She tried using small spells instead, but the strings resisted, and cogs and coils shuddered out groans.
Sighing, Serina tried again. She used little magics known only to her, and big spells from books within her desk. Fellows from her workshop came and went, offering ideas and warm drinks as the day grew livelier, and life continued.
In small, quiet moments, Serina cried and felt the golden scars that lined the copper doll’s face, and she attempted to bring Kello’s fingers to her own. The doll was a statue; still, silent and cold.
“Please wake up,” she whispered. “I have so many things to show you. I found a flower you’d like. I potted it for you. If you wind, I’ll show you. We’ll go inside, and I’ll let you see the whole shop, I promise.”
Serina tried again, and a single cog moved.
…tock.
Tick…
…
…
Tick-dum.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
Cœur du Dieu Mécanique was first published in WITCHES VS WIZARDS: A Fantasy Anthology along with 17 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.
The Captain’s Dinner
Shawn M. Klimek
Lieutenant Renard surveyed the haggard faces of his fellow crewmen, gathered around him in the starship galley.
“That last fight took a lot out of all of us,” he said, prompting weary murmurs and nods. “We lost our beloved captain. But if we stick to his daring plan, most should survive long enough to reach the colony on Vance Epsilon."
Petty Officer Daniels raised a hand. “Will there be another fight tomorrow?”
Someone groaned.
“No need for that yet,” said Renard. “There are fewer of us, now, and the captain was a large man... He should last us several meals.”
The Captain’s Dinner was first published in FLASH FICTION ADDICTION: 101 Short Short Stories along with 100 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.
Mandy Villanova Loves Her Work
Mel Lee Newmin
Mandy couldn’t believe it. The most prolific serial killer in American history was the father of a little girl? Damn! That was the last thing she’d expected. Mandy felt the breath rush from her lungs. Talk about the FBI screwing up a profile.
For several minutes Mandy stared blindly at the father and daughter playing on the far side of the park before she shook herself back to reality. She forced her eyes away from the vision of a dark haired man pushing his pigtailed ten-year-old on the swings and turned her attention to the file resting on the picnic table in front of her. While her left hand kept the various photos and documents from blowing away, her right flipped slowly through them.
Her quarry’s handsome face was documented in both full colour and black-and-white. The file contained telephoto close ups of that stunning visage, beautiful enough to grace the cover of GQ, as well as full body shots of his tall, muscular frame at a distance. Jonny, as she’d begun to call him, was an exceptional example of the male form. She knew he worked out at a gym every afternoon because she’d followed him for weeks, watching and waiting, studying, assuring herself she had the right man. Now Mandy understood why he only visited Bruno’s Gym on weekday afternoons. Because that was when his daughter was in school.
Although Mandy had memorized every word in the file, she nevertheless read through the material again, wondering where in all her careful research she’d gone so wrong. How she could have missed Jonny had a child.
The file was a meticulous portrait of a man she’d followed for a year. It contained articles gleaned from newspapers, copies of hospital and county records, plus reams of notes written in her neat Palmer script. And, of course, numerous photographs. Some had been culled from public records, but most she’d taken herself as she built a case implicating Jonny Jensen as a serial killer. She’d documented every moment of his life in that file. Because Mandy Villanova always did her homework. She had never made a single mistake in her illustrious career. She wasn’t going to make one now.
Worried about her obvious blunder, Mandy reread her notes with meticulous care.
Jonathan Albert Jensen had been born in 1988 in Ludington, Michigan to an average pair of middle class parents. He’d performed well but not spectacularly in school. Unlike most of those rare teens who eventually mutated into killers, Jonny had been well liked and popular. He’d cut a swathe through the local girls, using his devastatingly good looks and preternatural charm to land any woman he desired. He then went on to trade school where he studied carpentry. That career put him on the road, sending him from town to town like a gypsy in search of work.
And victims.
Mandy licked her lips as she considered the list of murders possibly committed by the man playing with his daughter in Central Park. None of the killings had been pinned on Jonny. Perhaps because he moved so often or because he was such a good looking, affable man that no one could believe a vicious serial killer lurked under the pretty façade. Or perhaps no one as brilliant as Mandy had put together the string of coincidences which told her Jonny Jensen was her man.
In 2010, seventeen women had been murdered in Kansas City, Missouri by person or persons unknown while Jonny was in town doing millwork for a new hotel. Twenty women and four gay men were each found butchered in Viola, Tennessee during the winter of 2011 at the same time Jonny was in nearby Morrison to install cabinets in an apartment complex. While the unknown predator had ravaged across the northwest, suspected in the deaths of eight prostitutes in Oregon, three hikers Utah, and possibly forty homeless people around Las Vegas, Jonny had been on a western tour of his own, working for a forestry company out of Tacoma, then a home builder in Provo and finally a commercial construction company in, yes, Sin City.
The western reign of terror had ended in Albuquerque where ten women were found in pieces in the desert. Then the killings had stopped. Or rather, they moved east again. Only a month ago a new body had turned up on Long Island. Like all the other killings, the FBI blamed this one on a single suspect. They’d dubbed him the Blind Man because he marked every victim the same way, cutting their eyes out of their heads. According to the FBI profiler, the killer was suspected of eating the eyes.
Mandy snorted as she read the profiler’s report. Perpetrator removes victims’ eyes in an attempt to blind them so that they cannot describe their murderer, even in death. What a crock! Mandy took a swallow of lemonade while she tried to keep from laughing. She read on.
Jonny wasn’t stupid. He never made mistakes. Never left fingerprints, strands of hair, a single witness to any of his crimes. He was the perfect murderer, his beautiful face and mesmerising dark eyes hiding the cruel monster hidden within.
Monster. Mandy twitched as the word came to mind. Monster was the nickname someone down at the bureau had given her. She supposed it was because she was a relentless monster on the prowl for her own next victim. A supreme hunter of human beings. She despised the name. It made her seem inhuman somehow.
She returned her gaze to the distant pair.
Does your daughter know what you do for fun, daddy?
Mandy studied the little girl as her laughter echoed across the park. She was not as perfect as her father. She was chubby and her face was too round. Her hair wasn’t his stunning black but rather a mousy brown. Must have gotten her looks from her mother. Poor kid.
Mandy wondered who her mother was. In all her research, she’d never come across evidence that Jonny had married or held any sort of long term relationship with a woman. Mandy supposed a long term relationship wasn’t required to have a kid. Maybe the girl was the result of a one night stand. Some relationship Mandy had failed to uncover. That burned. Mandy was a perfectionist. She seldom failed to discover every last nuance of the men she stalked and eventually nailed. She’d developed a reputation for careful attention to detail. Hell, even the FBI, that bastion of male misogyny, held her in high regard for how she handled her crime scenes.
Mandy sighed. However that little girl had come about, she threw a kink in Mandy’s plans. Mandy didn’t want to confront Jonny with his little girl around. Whether Jonny turned out to be the man she sought or not wouldn’t matter. She was going to ruin that girl’s life. Mandy didn’t want to do so in a public park.
Grudgingly, Mandy closed the file and sat basking in the sunlight while she watched Jonny help his daughter from the swing. He clutched her little hand as he led her from the playground. Mandy watched almost hungrily as the girl tugged him towards an ice cream cart. She was amazed by his gentleness as he lifted the girl to read the list of available flavours. Then he put her down, and taking her hand again, placed his order.
Good father. Never let her go. You never know what sort of predators are in a public park drooling to take your little girl.
Mandy’s eyes wandered around the park, wondering if any of the men she saw were such revolting freaks. Maybe that one, the balding one with the paunch wearing the greasy wife-beater shirt. Looked like the sort to desire little girls. Or that one over there. The tall, skinny guy with long blond hair in a ponytail. He looked like he could be a paedophile, not that Mandy would know. The paedophile patrol wasn’t her gig.
Her hand unconsciously touched the butt of the gun she kept holstered under her left arm, but she didn’t draw it. She couldn’t. Not here in a public park. Certainly not where Jonny might see her. Part of her skill in tracking down her targets was her strange ability to blend into her surroundings. She could sit just as she was now, in the midst of a park, staring intently at Jonny Jensen, and he’d never notice her.
No one ever noticed her. Not even her own parents.
Mandy stiffened. Jonny was on the move. He picked up his daughter and walked towards Fifth Avenue, his strides long, swinging and graceful. Mandy scrambled her files together, stuffed them in her messenger bag, and rose to follow. Not that she really needed to follow him. She knew exactly where Jonny lived. But she was curious about the girl.
To her dismay, Jonny swung the little girl onto his shoulders and picked up speed. Mandy knew he was a tall individual at six-foot-six, so when he put those long legs to work, he easily out walked her. She started trotting.
A passing man grabbed for her messenger bag. Although she carried nothing of value in it, Mandy refused to relinquish it. She whirled around and glared ferociously at the troll who dared interfere with her surveillance.
He was a beefy creature with tattoos covering both arms. Mandy recognised the tear beside his eye as a prison mark, telling the world he was a killer. He outweighed her by a hundred pounds.
Mandy, however, wasn’t afraid. She feared no man.
“Give me the damned bag, bitch!” he growled, wrenching the bag with both hands.
Mandy was whipped side to side but she hung on by crossing her arms over her chest. With a twist of her entire body, she jerked free. Mandy took two nimble steps away from him to put distance between them. She hastily swept her gaze around the area, but no one had noticed the scuffle.
She opened her jacket, revealing the pistol in its holster. She glared at her erstwhile attacker with frigid brown eyes.
The man backed up, hands up defensively. “I got no issues with you, lady. No issues at all,” he said, then turned and fled.
Mandy snorted as she walked away.
Her dark eyes swept the park but Jonny was gone. Mandy had no idea which of the many streets he might have taken, and with the midday crowds of Manhattan scurrying to complete lunch time errands, she had no chance of finding him. Coming to a stop on Fifth Avenue, she planted her fists on her hips and swore.
No sense crying about it. She knew where he lived.
Mandy decided she’d done enough surveillance. Ready or not, little girl or not, it was time to make her move. She considered the weight of the messenger bag still tugging on her shoulder. Having no more need of its contents, she decided to return it to her apartment, and then take down Jensen.
Mandy headed uptown, striding swiftly along the crowded sidewalks until she reached her building. With a nod, the doorman ushered her inside, knowing her well even though
she’d only rented her apartment for the past month. She bounded up the stairs to arrive at her third floor apartment and ambled inside.
The temporary space was practical simplicity. Mandy’s work sent her across the totality of North America, meaning she seldom stayed in one location for long. The space had come furnished with the basics, television and sofa in the living room, kitchen table and minimal appliances in the kitchen, a bed and dresser in the bedroom. Nothing else. Nor had Mandy added any personal touches. If anyone ever searched it they would find nothing to tell them who Mandy Villanova was. Because she wasn’t this apartment. She wasn’t even Mandy Villanova. She had the FBI to thank for the name.
Mandy dropped the messenger bag from her shoulder, removed the file and threw it onto the kitchen table where others were piled. Time to clean up her paperwork. She made a note to visit an office supply store for storage boxes so she could send her closed cases to the FBI. Doing so always put a grin on her face. Those damned male chauvinist pigs would curse like they always did when they received her boxes. Because once again, Mandy would prove herself smarter than them. They hated that.
Moving to her bedroom, Mandy went through her take-down checklist. Pistol in its holster under her arm. Backup weapon in a holster at her hip. A knife, just in case, in the cuff of her boot. Hair braided in a thick rope down her back to keep it out of the way. Clothing comfortable and nondescript. She gave herself a glance in the mirror, noting the drab face. A face that drifted through society unremarked and unnoticed. Much as she’d always detested that awful reflection all through her youth because men failed to notice her, now she cherished it. Because without it, Mandy wouldn’t have enjoyed her tremendous success. That face was her greatest weapon. No one ever saw Mandy Villanova coming.
