Illusion (Asylum for the Mechanically Insane Book 1)

by Sahara Kelly

  “You can buy anything these days,” answered his friend.

  Portia, who had just been bought, meekly followed them from the room and toward a door in the hallway. She realized it was a lift and her heart thudded as she managed to squeeze her small portmanteau into the little cabinet with the two men and herself.

  She stifled a gasp as they began to move down.

  This was even more than she could have expected. Even more than she could hope for. Now she had a fighting chance of learning something useful about Miranda’s fate.

  She resolutely ignored the slight warning coming from her concealed protection. A tingle stimulated her nerves, a tightening of the coils around her forearm.

  Yes, there was something down here…something unhealthy. Perhaps whatever it was had taken her sister.

  If so, that would be very bad. Because Portia had a strong feeling that this something wasn’t to be trifled with. It made her a little dizzy and her hands grew damp. It was something that was unquestionably wrong.

  Something evil.

  *~~*~~*

  At the same time that Portia was descending to her new job as a laboratory maid, Alwynne Harbury was tugging Lord Randall Harbury along an upstairs corridor.

  “Come along, Randall darling. You’re going to absolutely adore this. I couldn’t believe my eyes when Henderson showed me.”

  “It’ss hiss experiment, issn’t it?”

  The words were hushed, the s’s reptilian and sibilant, because Lord Harbury’s teeth were rotten, some cracked and shattered to points. He wore no mask in the privacy of his own quarters, and had long ago dispensed with the concealment in front of Alwynne.

  She was used to the stilted conversation, the drool that occasionally dampened his distorted mouth, and the terribly mutilated skin that stretched shiny and taut over the bones of his skull.

  Lord Harbury was, in many ways, a monster. Part human and part hideous beast, he kept to the shadows, preferring the anonymity of night and unlit rooms. There were rumors, of course. Where there were people, and those people might glimpse this horrid deformity—well there were rumors.

  Some said it was a war injury nobly earned. Others that a vat of acid had eaten away half of Lord Harbury’s head. Thrown, said even fewer, by a spurned lover.

  Nobody got it right.

  Lord Harbury had blown off half his head with one of his own experiments. The residual damage was, even now, eating away at what remained.

  Randall didn’t have a lot of time left. Alwynne knew it, his doctors knew it and she guessed that somewhere inside whatever working parts of his brain were left, Randall knew it himself.

  For the last year or so he’d been driven toward various impossible goals. At the moment, he was desperate to recreate his once-handsome visage and had given carte blanche to several scientists who swore they could do it. He’d offered a small fortune to the one who had suggested an ultimate cure—a transplant.

  Ridiculous of course, but Randall had been eager to allow the man space to prove what he could do with unlimited finances at his disposal.

  To Alwynne’s amazement, it had been accomplished.

  Henderson had proudly shown her the completed model. With a face she recognized. She’d managed to suppress her gasp of realization, though. Yes, it was that Fielding girl, without question. Even though the hair was different and the features a little more irregular.

  As an experiment in transplantation it was a raging success. As evidence for a heinous crime, it was everything the authorities could want.

  Therefore, it had to go.

  But how? How could she manage to destroy such an incriminating object as the actual face of a missing person?

  And how could she do it with Randall desperate to obtain exactly what it offered… the illusion of beauty, recreated on what could be a mere whim.

  Would he now institute a search for the most handsome young man and demand his face? She wouldn’t put it past him. Even now, as she drew him toward the door of the lift, she let the words of a silent prayer run through her head.

  Please take this creature, oh Lord. Smite him and remove him from the face of the earth so that he can do no more harm.

  Which happy event will make me a very, very rich widow.

  *~~*~~*

  Devon Harbury might not have even recognized his uncle. He’d been isolated for quite some time and the man he recalled, scarred and twisted certainly, was a far cry from the sub-human creature Randall Harbury was becoming.

  But he’d given up thoughts of revenge on both Alwynne and Randall. He’d sustained his anger for months, but eventually solitude and desperation had eroded his fury and left him in a bleak emotional void.

  The procedures he’d been forced to suffer had put the finishing touches on any consideration of his erstwhile family. Uncle Randall had moved in during Devon’s absence like silk over velvet, smoothly and silently.

  Devon’s return had been intercepted at the coast with a brand new mechanical carriage that had intrigued him past the point of cautiousness. Ten minutes into the journey, Devon knew he was being gassed.

  He woke up a prisoner in a laboratory beneath his own home. What better place to conceal him?

  He’d refused to cooperate, of course. But he’d never fully realized the power of psychical pressure or the effects of long-term torture. He’d sacrificed a finger, watched others die before his very eyes and realized he was under the same threat.

  He estimated that had taken them nearly a year to break him. But they had.

  And every time they came for him, took him to the lab, and restrained him to that table…well, he plunged deeper into that void.

  They had come for him tonight. If it even was night. He was never sure, so he guessed, assuming he’d be right at least half the time. Did it matter? Not at all. But it was some kind of basic human need, perhaps. The need to know if it was light or dark. If it was safe or dangerous. If there was prey or the danger of predators.

  For Devon it was always night. Because there seemed to always be predators.

  He almost smiled as they led him to that familiar table and sat him down on it. He’d given up fighting it since the bruises were getting more painful with the loss of muscle mass he’d experienced after his enforced imprisonment.

  He wasn’t willing to have his ankles pulled and secured to either side, nor was he thrilled when his clothing was removed and he lay naked with his arms out to his sides and secured as well. He was a horizontal crucifixion, a brutal replication of a holy moment.

  He felt desecrated—and a desecration.

  He wondered if he was going insane like the others. Then they strapped the device to his genitals and turned it on.

  His scream deafened him, but then the psychical heat rose and the darkness consumed him in a cloud of oblivion from the most savage hell imaginable.

  His was one of several bodies stretched and offered on the altar of science that night.

  The laboratory staff was used to them and paid them no attention at all, remaining fixated on the wall of indicators, levers, dials and knobs. It was all brass with abundant glass-enclosed meters measuring strange things that only made sense to those who had created it.

  Around the room were ripples of piping, some cast iron, others the warm tones of terracotta pottery. There were several levels circling the space, each transporting something nebulous and undefined to the casual observer. No sound of water rushing through them, or the harsh rattle of anything solid. They simply existed and kept their contents a mystery.

  The maid who cautiously stepped into the laboratory with a mechanical cleaner, and the long handle associated with it, came to a halt, her mouth wide open as she gazed around her.

  “It’s all right. They’re not hurt. Just volunteering.” One of the white-clad staff approached with a comforting smile. “You’re new, so I understand your surprise.” He waved his hand around. “I hope you’re not offended by the sight of the male body.”

  “U
m, I suppose I’ll get used to it.”

  “Since you’re here to clean, I’ll let you get to work. Just wanted to make sure you know they’re quite all right.”

  “Thank you, sir. That is most reassuring.” She blinked. “I have to clean the pipes, I’ve been told. Please sir, what is in them? Is it dangerous?”

  “Not at all.” The man straightened the lapels of his white coat, emphasizing his importance. “Although you wouldn’t understand.”

  “No?”

  “Certainly not.” He huffed and stuck his thumbs in his vest pockets. “It’s energy, girl. Psychical energy. These volunteers have a special gift. They can create large amounts of this energy, when they’re—uh—in a certain state.”

  “I see.” She tried not to stare at the obvious aroused male members encased within glass tubes and connected to strange devices in the wall next to each man.

  He laughed. “Can’t miss ‘em, can you? But they are producing the energy we need.”

  “For what?”

  “Nosy little thing, aren’t you? As if you’d comprehend any of this. Go on now. Do what you came to do.” He turned away with a snort.

  Portia Fielding, in her guise as Mary Jones, began her work, carefully sweeping the mechanical cleaner through the dust motes beneath the pipes, then dusting the pipes themselves and repeating the motion. All the while her eyes absorbed everything she could possibly see.

  She’d been put into the lift, told to go to the seventh level, pick up the equipment she needed from there, and clean. Then she could return to the first level and go to the room assigned to her and another maid. All very abrupt and efficient. Portia had obeyed without question, apprehensive but eager to learn if there was anything in this place that might constitute a clue to Miranda’s whereabouts.

  Everything was exactly as described, the laboratory directly across from the elevator and the cleaning supplies neatly arranged in a small niche right outside.

  There were a dozen tables here, and seven of them held naked men. They were apparently unconscious and their body parts were encased but clearly aroused. Their skin was flushed, but the one she “accidentally” brushed against was cool to her touch.

  It was an anomaly. Something she always searched for, since it often pointed the way to the answers people sought. Or so she had read. She filed away the skin temperature difference into her personal anomaly file and moved on, making sure to clean as much of the floor as she could reach without touching anything important. It was tiled with black and white marble, a checkerboard design that was both traditional and yet serviceable.

  She was done with it before too long, and immediately kicked herself for not taking longer. However, she still had several shelves and desks to dust, so she moved down the room, aware of a low hum that she hadn’t heard before, and increased activity from the lighted indicators resting beside each man.

  One in particular was flashing quite rapidly and the device encasing his genitals was larger than the others. His chest rose and fell more rapidly and his hair tumbled into a small pile of shaggy locks on one side of his head.

  Portia frowned and moved closer, actively sweeping and dusting and looking as busy as she possibly could.

  It was a good thing she had her hands occupied when she got a good look at his face. And it was a good thing the hum was getting louder, since it muffled her gasp of shock. She knew who she was looking at.

  It was the late lamented Devon Harbury.

  He was very much alive.

  Chapter 7

  No one would have guessed from their appearance, that Dr. Henderson and his assistant Miss Warren had indulged some baser desires such a short time before.

  Emily had ensured that her appearance was correct, her hair was tidy and not a trace of passion remained. She stood meekly to one side as the laboratory door swung open to admit their benefactors, Lord and Lady Harbury.

  She had often seen Her Ladyship in the gardens, out in her mechanical carriage, or even alighting from a small airship she’d commissioned for a recent trip.

  The woman was even more beautiful up close. Her skin was perfection, her body completely and absolutely that of a woman in full bloom, and there was some kind of ethereal glow that drew the eye of everyone in her vicinity. Emily was no exception and it was with a little sigh of sorrow that she watched Lady Harbury move on down the laboratory toward an obviously entranced Dr. Henderson.

  Which left Emily staring at the Lord of the Manor.

  He’d left off his customary mask, and it was very hard to restrain the gasp of horror triggered by the ruined countenance.

  She was more than familiar with the structure of the human face. But seeing the underlying musculature visible without its covering of skin, so warped and twisted…well, it was the stuff of nightmares. His mouth drooped on that side, giving him a sinister air, which—coupled with the lidless eye—made Emily shudder in spite of her resolve.

  There was no reason for her apprehension, she knew. Whatever the rumors were, it was well known that Lady Harbury kept him on his best behavior, and she was there right now. Nothing untoward would take place.

  So why were the little hairs on the back of Emily’s neck lifting with the rush of fear-induced chemicals through her body? Why did she suddenly feel the need to run away, very fast and to somewhere very far from him?

  His distorted gaze met hers, and she summoned every ounce of composure she had left to drop into a curtsey. Once she lowered her head and broke eye contact, it was a little easier, but even then her palms were damp and her heart thudding beneath her proper attire. This man was wrong, not human, reeking of darkness and evil.

  For once, Emily forgot about her plans and her agenda, and simply reacted to the presence of great horror. Greater than taking a life, greater than dissecting a human body. This horror had no definition, no description and no limitations. Fighting the urge to flee, she stood her ground, but her fists clenched tight until the pain of her nails digging into her palms distracted her from the crushing sense of dread.

  Thankfully Lord Harbury finally moved forward to join his wife. Emily didn’t envy Dr. Henderson having to explain his project to that…that creature.

  Lord Harbury doubtless had no idea how he was viewed by his staff, and most likely didn’t care. His wife, however, was more cognizant of the potential threat and took steps to avert disaster.

  “Doctor, you are kindness itself to permit my husband and myself access to your laboratory.”

  Beaming, Dr. Henderson took her hand and bowed low. “You honor us, my lady.”

  “Do show my husband what you have accomplished. It is nothing short of miraculous.”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Ma’am, my Lord.” He bowed again to Lord Harbury who had shuffled to his wife’s side. “But we are quite pleased with our progress.”

  Obviously unaffected by the monstrousness of Harbury’s face, Dr. Henderson turned and strode to a shrouded figure standing at the end of the laboratory, beneath two quite bright lights.

  Alwynne, always fascinated by science, followed. She guessed her husband would join her because she had trained him to do so. Not in his more lucid moments, of course. But when influenced by the potions provided to her by her pet physicians, Randall was malleable and obedient. She stayed with him, making sure his public appearances elicited little more than sympathy for “that poor Lord Harbury with his injured face.”

  When the drugs wore off, however, the beast behind the face was released. That only took place in private.

  For now, she took her husband’s hand and watched as Dr. Henderson began his somewhat florid presentation.

  “We did our best to perfect the process, sir, my lady.” He gestured to the bank of equipment behind them. “Thanks to your contributions, we were able to isolate the various chemicals involved in successful transplantation of flesh and from that point, we could proceed apace.” He smiled in a satisfied manner. “The most difficult, of course, was the face, with all its ass
ociated connections.”

  He moved to the figure and touched the covering affectionately. “We worked hard, day and night, experimenting, discarding, re-evaluating and revisiting our data. It was exhausting.” He looked exhausted.

  “I’m sure it was, Doctor. But scientific progress often requires much of those who aspire to assist it. Might we see your results?” Alwynne’s request was polite but firm.

  Looking a little miffed at being interrupted mid-soliloquy, Henderson could do nothing but acquiesce.

  He shifted his hand to a small tasseled rope at one side. “It is my pleasure to present our final results.” He took a dramatic breath. “My Lord, my lady…Galatea.”

  He tugged dramatically and the shrouding fell to the ground, revealing a female form.

  A slight twist of a valve and tiny tubes filled, sending energy to the body and a shimmer of movement to the skin. It was as if she was awakening, muscles slowly flexing, lungs filling with air.

  It was none of those, of course, but the energy rippled into the man-made armature, making it tremble. As more and more fuel kindled the systems, Galatea moved slightly, hesitantly, and then took a step. Her movements were delicate and graceful, her nudity seeming all the more sensual now that she was truly aping a human woman.

  Her eyes opened and she stared around her, a tiny enigmatic smile curving the corners of her perfect mouth. The psychical energies merged with the physical. And the result was astounding.

  Alwynne was thrilled once more. The face, that of young innocent beauty, was still exquisite, each feature smooth and natural. The rest of the body was equally magnificent, and although she knew it was constructed of mundane materials, it was still an incredible achievement.

  She smiled. “Doctor, you have indeed accomplished the impossible.”

  Henderson beamed. “You are very kind, Lady Alwynne.”

  “Want.”

  The sputtered syllable came from the ruined mouth of Randall Harbury. “Want face.”

  Drool dripped slowly down the man’s chin. Or what was left of it on that side. “Want new face.” He turned to Alwynne, squeezing her hand hard enough to leave a bruise.