Illusion (Asylum for the Mechanically Insane Book 1)

by Sahara Kelly

  There was one final thing she needed, and it was with great care that she crept through the darkened house late that night. Papa’s study was empty now, the lingering scent of his pipe rich on the air, the embers in the fireplace glowing enough to give her light. Even though it was midsummer, Papa always liked a bit of a fire in the evening.

  She made sure that she placed her note to him in the center of his desk. He needed to know she was heading to London to follow a clue about her sister, and that she’d be staying with her aunt.

  Since her Papa and her aunt didn’t get on, and seldom spoke, that would be an adequate cover for what she hoped would be a quick trip.

  There was one other chore.

  His safe was hidden, but that had never been a problem for her, since she often retrieved items for him at his request. Now she opened it silently and reached for a small velvet box in the back. Papa wouldn’t even notice that it had gone.

  She tucked it into her shawl, wrapped it tightly and tiptoed back to her room. Once there, she sighed with relief and opened the lid.

  A strange sight lay there, its dull gold curves gleaming, its bronze connections barely discernable in the low light. It was called a Jallai, according to her father.

  Portia removed it, clicked two tiny levers and watched as it fell open.

  Carefully she rested her right forearm along the central seam and eased the two halves back together. It still fit her slim arm perfectly, the locks clicking shut cleanly, the portions meeting and melding as if it had been made just for her.

  It hadn’t, of course, since this particular creation had been made halfway around the world in the Far East, by Oriental scientists of incredible vision and brilliance.

  They’d worked tiny jewels into the piece so that at first glance it appeared to be a kind of long bracelet, or what would have been a bracer in medieval times. It was delicate, attractive and feminine.

  It was also deadly.

  Portia stroked it with affection, knowing it would take all night to build up a protective charge. It used the electrical currents coursing through her body and diverted some of their energy into tiny areas littering the enameled brass. When ready, when fully charged, all Portia had to do was aim it and flex her muscle in the way Papa had shown her.

  The resultant beam would exterminate anything in front of it.

  Including a human being.

  *~~*~~*

  Inspector James Burke crossed his legs at the ankles and stared into the fire. Lord Southfield had arranged for him to use a small cottage during his enquiries, and though it was a bit cramped for a man of his inches, it was satisfactory. Plus the decanter in the parlor contained a particularly fine whiskey, a glass of which he was presently enjoying.

  Although it was summer, the rain had set in with a vengeance and turned the air cold after sunset, so he’d put a match to the fire without a second thought. A piece of the goose pie left for him by the temporary housekeeper, a goodly sized chunk of cheese and some plums…and now the liquor warming his belly much as the fire warmed his toes.

  Yes, this was a challenging matter, but if he had to face it, he couldn’t ask for better accommodations.

  He also liked being alone to think. He found solitude conducive to mental focus and enjoyed wandering down the paths opened by his investigation. He made notes, of course, but relied more on his brain than his handwriting.

  At this moment his brain was telling him that something was “off” at Harbury Hall, but damned if he knew what it was.

  Lady Harbury was a prime piece, a diamond of the first water as they used to say. Graceful to her eyebrows, she had welcomed him with charm and elegance, the perfect lady of the manor. He’d wager there was a lot more going on beneath her flawlessly cut grey gown than a desire to be a decorative figurehead.

  Rumors abounded when it came to the Harburys, but it was all hearsay or guesswork, as near as he could tell. But experience had taught him that the smoke of gossip often arose from the fire of facts. The knack of it was to sort through that smoke and grab an ember or two.

  He’d strolled the area where Miss Fielding had apparently been seen during the events prior to her disappearance. Sadly, the flagstones had yielded nothing, no useful clue like a dropped fan or a torn piece of fabric. He had a good eye and knew he’d have found something like that. But there had been nothing to find.

  What he had discovered was a possible anomaly.

  There was a very distinctive set of wheel tracks in the grass near the terrace. He’d followed them to a gravel path and lost them, but upon inquiry had located the gardener’s shed. More of a barn than a shed, there were several barrows within. All had the newest pneumatic wheels.

  The gardener, who had been quite ready to chat, informed the Inspector that he was thrilled with them because they didn’t harm the grounds any more than they had to, unlike the old wooden wheels his father and grandfather had dealt with.

  During the lecture on the evolution of the wheelbarrow, James had been unobtrusively checking the examples and not one had anything that would have made a track similar to the one he’d seen.

  It was strange, and tickled the back of his neck. He never ignored that tickle. A few moments ago, he’d noted it down, put a star next to it, and now he was considering the possibilities.

  Unfortunately, he had very little to go on. A set of grooved tracks not made by a wheelbarrow, and although he could see them clearly in his mind, he hadn’t sketched them, since it had come on to rain while he was with the gardener. By the time he returned to the terrace, the grass was wet and all the tracks vanished.

  It was still an anomaly though. And he had a soft spot for anomalies. They were interesting, ephemeral sometimes, like this one. It had been there, now it was gone. Some lingered long enough to be analyzed, while others hid until the very last moment.

  He stretched his arms and clasped his hands behind his head, watching the flames dance around the logs in the fireplace.

  It was early days yet. Perhaps this young woman would reappear with a tale of friends, parties or some young lad to whom she was now either engaged or married. Or perhaps a telegraph would arrive by messenger, sent over one of the new communication systems from faraway lands. Miss Fielding announces her marriage to a sub-lieutenant on a well-known airship, upon which she was recently whisked away to Manipur for a native wedding.

  It had happened before.

  For some reason, this time in this place, James didn’t expect that to happen. He finally admitted to himself that he’d sensed something wrong at Harbury Hall. Setting aside the delightful manners of his hostess, the efficient and expected arrogance of the butler, not to mention the elegance of the building, there was an atmosphere …whatever it was he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  His gaze focused on the flames as he made himself the promise he always made when faced with an uncertain outcome.

  He would learn the truth. He would find out what happened. And he would make sure that justice was served. It just might take a little longer this time around.

  *~~*~~*

  Something was in the air.

  Devon sensed it psychically first, just before what he thought of as “dawn”. His instincts flared with the awareness of tension, apprehension and a dash of excitement as the sensations flittered across those around him, in concert with the brightening of the illumination in the hallways.

  Not his fellow inmates, of course. Their feelings had been dulled over time and he’d learned to push them aside. It was as if he looked at layers of color with his mind and they were the grayish brown one low in his psychic spectrum.

  The emotions he was picking up came from the staff—and there were more of them than usual, which fact probably increased his awareness.

  He tried to continue the experiment he’d started, and slowly urged his mind into a relaxed state. In the past, this had helped with the pain and also the healing. He was getting better at it all the time and now it only took a few moments’ cont
emplation for him to drift into somewhere calm, clear and almost silent.

  The intensity of response lay in the areas of increased heartbeats, greater perspiration and pounding pulses. He could almost see swelling veins and hear the thundering of the arteries as they pushed more vital fluids rapidly around the bodies of the doctors and assistants on Level Six.

  Yes, something was definitely up.

  A clatter disturbed him and he grunted as his mind and body reunited. With widening eyes he watched an orderly come into the cell, bearing not only a full sized plate of what might possibly be fresh fruit, but also a bucket of water. And—oh praise the gods—it steamed.

  “Here.” The orderly set everything down. “Eat and cleanse yourself. Fresh clothes are coming too.”

  Devon cleared his throat. “Why?”

  “Do you care?”

  “I suppose not. But after all this time…”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t ask questions. Neither should you.” He glanced at the fruit. “Eat that orange. Got stuff in it that’s good for you.”

  Immediately Devon vowed not to touch it. The flare of discomfort darting from the man told Devon the orange was not palatable. Most probably drugged with something.

  But the steaming hot water? That was a luxury in which he happily indulged, stripping off his tattered garments and using them as an impromptu washcloth.

  It was something akin to heaven to feel warm water on his flesh once more, and although he regretted not having his favorite sandalwood soap, he made do.

  True to his word, the man returned with fresh clothing, loose trousers that actually had no holes in them, and a rough shirt that could have belonged to a farmer at one time. It was roomy, freshly washed and felt like the highest quality velvet next to his skin, compared to what he’d been getting used to.

  At the back of his mind lurked the ongoing question. Why? He settled himself to the fruit and asked again what could necessitate staff agitation, clean inmates and fresh clothing?

  The logical answer was a visitor. Someone who didn’t know of the horrors of this floor and most likely wouldn’t see them.

  But who? Who on earth would even want to come down here, let alone be allowed to? It was a mystery to Devon, but as he carefully consumed every tiny scrap of the last juicy plum, he decided that since he could do nothing about it, he would just have to wait.

  All would be revealed if he were patient.

  And he had learned all too well how to be a patient man.

  *~~*~~*

  Emily’s hands were trembling a little as she gently pushed Galatea’s hair back from her forehead and checked the tiny metal knitting bugs. They were working…at last Galatea’s face would become an integral part of the entire system. The eyeballs had been inserted, the eyebrows shaped and the nose adjusted slightly.

  She smoothed the curls into place, tidying a few strands, and then stepped away a little to survey the overall appearance.

  “Incredible, Emily. You have done well.” Dr. Henderson moved to stand beside her. “The seam is already lessening and it’s been—what—less than twelve hours?”

  “Yes.” She nodded.

  “In another twenty-four, you won’t be able to see where the flesh was joined. We’ll have our Galatea ready to go.” He turned to Emily. “You should be very proud.”

  Emily lowered her gaze and peeped through her lashes. “Oh no, Doctor. I was just your assistant. This is all your work. I’m simply proud to have been able to contribute.”

  The Doctor moved closer, gathered her skirts and slipped his hand beneath them, fondling her thighs and the curve of her naked bottom. “Nonetheless, my dear, you’ve contributed a great deal and made this project one of the most successful…” he found her tender labia and slid his fingers between them into her wet sex…”and fulfilling.”

  Emily gave a moan suitable to the occasion. “You have honored me, Doctor. With your confidence…” she shuddered as he worked two fingers into her and wiggled them…”and your attention to detail.”

  He chuckled, turned her and reached for his breeches. “Somehow, Emily, fucking you in front of Galatea is a hugely exciting and arousing pastime.”

  Emily glanced over her shoulder at the swollen cock protruding toward her naked arse, and lifted her skirts even higher as she bent forward in anticipation. “I can tell.”

  She took every inch of him, letting him pound enthusiastically into her willing body. It was pleasurable, and if she had to fake an orgasm or two, well that was a fair price to pay for the advantages she was gleaning and the attachment she was building to the good Doctor.

  Adding to her delight? The sudden flare and increase in the lab lighting.

  Oh good. They’ve fired up the furnace.

  She smiled.

  Galatea remained immobile as they took their pleasure in front of her sightless eyes. Her face—now firmly affixed to the skull—smoothed itself and tightened over the underlying structure, the neural connections finding new places to intertwine with flesh. The lids filled as the aqueous and vitreous humors of the eyeballs expanded, meshing with the surrounding tissue, and the nostrils settled around the perfectly carved man-made cartilage.

  She was complete, a human facsimile with an unearthly beauty that had once belonged to someone else. A perfect blend of science and engineering, topped with the perfection of a human visage. The only thing she lacked was a mind of her own or the emotions necessary to make her fully “human”.

  But given what was taking place in front of her spectacularly nude body, perhaps that was a good thing.

  Chapter 6

  “Yes, ma’am. I understand.” Portia dipped her head respectfully. “I haven’t got any family, so I’d be happy to be part of this one.”

  The older woman beamed. “That’s the ticket. We’re needing a young, strong back, and though I have to say you’re a bit on the thin side, I think you’ll do.” She shrugged. “Besides, you’re our only applicant so far and we can’t go on much longer without a ‘tweeny.”

  Portia tried of a look of enthusiasm. She didn’t want to be a ‘tweeny—a servant who wasn’t really much of anything, but answered to her higher-ups. A maid ‘tween the floors. “Sounds lovely, Mrs. Dottle.”

  “Very good then. We’ll just…” The woman stopped, frowned, and then sniffed. “You smell that?”

  Portia already did. “Yes.” She glanced around and quickly rose, reaching for the inkwell on the housekeeper’s desk. “Don’t move a muscle. It’s gas.”

  The woman froze, her eyes wide as Portia scanned the surrounding baseboard. “Here it is.” She hurried over and found the source, a faint hissing revealing the nozzle with a cracked cap.

  Without a second thought, Portia rammed the inkwell over the leak and then backtracked on her knees, finally finding the valve controlling the flow. She shut it off just as the door burst open and two gentlemen rushed in. They were clad in white laboratory coats and aghast expressions.

  “Mrs. Dottle,” gasped one of them, while the other helped Portia open the windows. “Are you all right? We just traced a gas leak into this room.”

  The housekeeper looked stunned but managed a nod. “Thank heavens this young woman was here. She shut it all down within seconds of my noticing the smell.”

  Portia moved back into the center of the room, wondering if she’d made a bad mistake.

  “I’ll be darned. She plugged it and cut off the flow. Neat as a pin.” The taller of the two men pointed at her makeshift solution.

  The other man stared at her. “You capped the broken nozzle and shut the valve down.” He eyed her simple clothing and cropped hair. “How did someone like you know how to do that?”

  She bobbed a quick curtsey. “My neighbor, sir, when I was a little tyke. He was a gentleman who liked all the science things. I used to watch him while he worked and he talked to me and I cleaned up a bit for him now and again.” She tried to look confused. “Not that I understood it, sir. But he liked to talk, so I list
ened and this kinda thing happened to him a couple of times. I s’pose something must’ve stuck in me head.”

  She slipped into a slight burr, keeping her gaze lowered. At least she’d probably secured the tweeny position.

  “Hmm.” One man moved close and whispered to Mrs. Dottle. The woman frowned but nodded.

  “Your name is Mary Jones?”

  “Yes, sir.” Portia answered his question.

  “Would you be interested in working in the laboratories rather than as a housemaid, Jones?”

  Portia’s heart leaped, but she bit back her automatic—and enthusiastic—response. “Well, sir, it sounds like it would be right up me alley, so to speak. But Mrs. Dottle says I could be a ‘tweeny…”

  “Oh, never mind.” The woman waved her hand. “We can struggle along, I suppose. If Mr. Rieger thinks you’ll do, then that takes priority.” She sighed. “Pity though. You’d have been quite good, I reckon.”

  Portia turned what she hoped were wide and grateful eyes on Mr. Rieger. “Is that it, then, sir? I’m hired?”

  “Yes, gel. You’re hired. You’ll still be a maid, you understand? But it will be a pleasure to have one who knows what not to clean. And what not to touch as well.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Come along then. We shall see to a room for you along with the other maid, and then put you to work.”

  Portia did a little inner jig, and then remembered her role. “Oh, excuse me sir, but you didn’t mention anything about pay…” She tried for a blush of embarrassment.

  “Yes, silly girl. You’ll get paid. Whatever they pay upstairs, we usually double that.”

  “What?” Portia forgot herself for a moment.

  Fortunately Mr. Rieger laughed, as did his companion. “They always get that look, George.”

  Portia gulped. “Well in that case, I certainly accept, sir. And sir.” She bowed to them both.

  “They always do,” said one man to the other.