But dawn was breaking and there was so much work to do. She sighed and stood to climb the narrow stairs off the roof.
The Battersea Spark Monastery now lay within her power. This was the place where the electromancers practiced their craft. Here, much in the same way that bees worked in a hive, they harvested lightning and other forms of static electricity that they combined with their shadow magic to turn into spark: the blue liquid that powered the steam engines, which in turn ran the world.
She let out a cynical laugh. When she had arrived at the monastery she had expected discipline and devotion as she had seen in the monks of her childhood. A time when spark had been used for healing and light. That had been a time before the brothers had sold themselves into servitude to the Light. A time before the steam of huge engines covered the earth. But the industrial revolution had come, and now she found nothing but laziness and repose while machines did all the work. These little men had become complacent. They were so shut up in their own little world that they were utterly oblivious to their importance. But that was all changing, thanks to her.
Emilian was waiting for her downstairs with a dry set of robes. The peacock feather in his hat bobbed as he inclined his head when she stepped out of the shadows.
“Everything all right, madame?” Emilian was not one for airs and graces and his “madame” had a touch of impertinence about it.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Her voice held a deep throaty resonance that men found irresistible. All men except Emilian.
“How was last night’s catch?”
“I think your ladyship will like what we brought you.” Emilian flashed her a satisfied smile as if he was harboring a special surprise for her.
“And why would that be, pray tell?”
“Big fish. I think you will be pleased.”
“Is that so?”
Emilian nodded. “We prepared him, like you said we should if we found a special one.”
Clothilde was immediately intrigued. She smiled at Emilian. “Well, then we had better go see this big fish of yours.”
The monastery lay quiet in the early morning cold as she strode across the courtyard. The monks had been highly affronted by the Consortium’s directive. Even though the Consortium owned and financed the running of the monastery, the monks had protested at her taking command.
There was so much muttering and disquiet that she had to step in and take action. The abbot had been dispensed with quickly. She did not like the idea of mutilating a monk, but sometimes an example can be most persuasive. He had made an excellent test subject—the first of her special ones. Since then, the monks had obeyed her, but she could tell that they did not approve of her work. Some things never changed, she thought bitterly. Even as a child they had showered her with disapproval. Now they just stared at her in cold condemnation, which made her hate them even more. She wished she could feed them all into the machine, but the pleasure of seeing them transformed was forbidden, along with the other pleasures she craved each day. It had been so long since she had held a man utterly and completely in her thrall. The need for power and seduction made her ache inside.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. It was most unfortunate that she needed the electromancers to produce the spark she needed for her work. Life would be so much simpler without them.
A single novice held the door for her as she swept inside. His hands trembled as he took her damp outer wool cloak from her.
“Bring the special one to my laboratory when you have herded the others into their pens,” she said over her shoulder to Emilian.
Clothilde wrinkled her nose as she walked along one of the narrow corridors that led off the main hall. Acrid spark magic seemed to ooze out of the very walls of this building. It made everything smell like the metal and burn of electricity. The pure energy that bonded high up in the clouds and struck the earth as lightning flowed through her. She found the crude thaumaturgic amalgamation of static electricity and the power of the shadow that the electromancers made these days and which humans called spark, distasteful.
In the middle of the monastery was a cavernous space the monks called the spark turbine hall. It was in this hall that the Consortium’s machinery had been installed. A wide conveyor belt ran along half the length of the hall and into a huge machine. The machine was connected to giant spark tanks that supplied it with energy. The whole system was operated from the console in the mezzanine level that overlooked the hall.
She noticed a few bloodstains on the brass pipes and the India rubber of the conveyor belt and she curled her lip in disgust. Those lazy little men were slipping in their cleaning duties, it seemed. She flicked her long hair over her shoulder and walked on, resolving that there would be words about the matter later.
She strode though the hall and up a flight of stairs to the control room from where she could watch the processing.
Behind the machine was an array of blue-black metal and shiny brass pipes that ran from the machine to the lighting collection chimneys. This hall was the place where the electromancers took static electricity and combined it with power from the Shadow Realm to make the spark that fuelled the steam engines of the world.
Whoever held control of one of these machines, held control over the world. The world she would command someday, but right now, it was wise to keep her plans to herself. Access to privately financed and unlimited reserves of spark and steam was most convenient. And she was going to need vast amounts of energy to complete the task she had in mind. But she was not worried, for this was the first step in her plans. She would not need to bend her head to the Consortium for too much longer.
Clothilde reveled in the frisson of power that surged through her as she flicked on the switches. The machine hummed to life, emitting a crackle of blue sparks that ran from the metal pipes and into the machine in the middle of the floor.
The dials on the machine started dancing and great puffs of steam rose up from its diabolical pistons. Clothilde waited a few moments until all the dials on the console were at the right level before she gave the sign. It was time to begin.
The double doors at the end of the hall opened and a group of people were ushered inside by her strongmen, each armed with a spark prod.
These were the dregs of humanity—drifters, prostitutes and vagrants. People taken off the streets after dark or harvested from prisons and workhouses for a small fee to their minders, who were only happy to be rid of a few more mouths to feed.
These were the members of society that no one cared about. The ones no one would miss once they were gone. These were the people who would change the world forever.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” She spoke into the speaking tube that made her voice boom across the cavernous room. “You have been selected for a very special task. Today your meaningless lives will be transformed into something useful. You should be grateful for this gift!”
The group of people before her looked around uncertainly, blinking in the bright lights that shone on them. Some of the women were crying and a few of the men who had not quite been subdued enough by the spark prods were still struggling with the shackles that held them.
Clothilde held out her arms. The resonant notes of her voice filled the room and everyone turned to look up at her. She felt their awe as they took in the sight of her shimmering white resplendence and she smiled as she watched her magic take control of those before her. It did not matter if you were male or female, because very few people were immune to the magnetic power of seduction that her kind could wield.
Electromancers entered from one of the side doors. Their grim faces contorted with anguish when she clenched her fist to tighten the spell that held them to her will. Their resentful acquiescence gave her even more pleasure. There would be no rebellion from these little men today. She would make sure of that.
“Brothers in lightning! We have work to do,” she said.
The electromancers turned to her and bowed. “We live to serve,” they said.
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“As do we all!” she answered. It was the mantra these men had used for centuries. Along with the low humming song they sang while they worked.
She gave the signal and in unison, the electromancers raised their arms in the air.
“I give you the lightning you need!” she said.
Outside, thunder rumbled and lightning cut through the sky, linking up with the fine metal rods posted across the roof like poisonous spines. The very air around the electromancers started crackling as they commenced with the ritual they called simply, “The Making.”
Giant bolts of lightning struck the roof of the monastery.
The monks started humming. It was a deep sound emanating from the back of their throats. Energy surged up through the metal pipes in the consul and into the gargantuan glass receptacles filled with blue spark that lined the roof of the building.
“Let the production begin!” Clothilde gave the signal.
The prisoners were now lined up in an orderly row. She pulled a lever and a row of what looked like black metal meat hooks started moving in a circular motion from an overhead trolley that fed into the machine. Her henchmen started attaching the straps and shackles that held the prisoners to the hooks. In some cases, where the prisoners were unshackled, they simply allowed the hook to catch on the flesh of shoulders and necks.
In a swift move, each startled individual was hoisted in the air. A hot iron branded each arm with a number before they were laid flat onto the conveyor belt, ready to be fed into the machine. The air filled with the smell of blood and burning skin.
A woman started screaming as the hook slipped into her shoulder.
Clothilde braced herself for the sheer panic that invariably rose up from the floor at this point in the proceedings. She was the Lady in White. A witch; a ghost. That most malignant of beings that haunted men in their dreams. She could control lightning and storms followed her wherever she went. Standing at crossroads, her kind had seduced and enslaved the unwary for centuries. Gorging themselves on the life force, leaving only husks. But she was different. For Clothilde was ambitious and merely taking one or two victims at a time was not enough for her. So she had used her intellect and her abilities. She had studied science and medicine. She had read about the art of seduction and how one should manipulate. She had become the most powerful of her kind.
She gave a satisfied smile. Physically these people were entirely under her control, yet it did not stop them from screaming as soon as they realized what was about to happen to them.
She wished she could find a way to shut them up, for at times the sounds of their anguish haunted her in her dreams.
She leaned over and pulled another lever and the giant piston in the middle of the machine started stamping up and down. Each time it came to rest on the chest of a person. In one swift move it extracted their still-beating heart and replaced it with a mechanical one. The hearts were deposited into glass jars filled with the liquid formula she had invented, then the machine sealed the jars and gently placed them on another conveyor belt that took the jars to her laboratory.
There the hearts would be kept in rows on shelves, neatly catalogued. They were essential for her control over the project.
On the other side of the machine, each soldier was fitted with a brass muzzle and chest plate riveted in place to cover the clockwork device that beat newly inside the bleeding chests. In the center of the chestplate was a keyhole. A universal key was inserted and wound the newly installed clockwork device before each soldier was deposited and left to wait in neat silent rows for her every command.
The entire factory huffed and hissed through a series of tubes and vents that would put any cathedral organ to shame. Clothilde watched until the every last one of the new recruits were complete before she turned off the machine. The factory fell silent before her.
“Take them to the holding stalls and see that they are fed,” she said to her strongmen. “Electromancers, you may commence the clean up. And make sure you polish every tiny bit. I don’t want to see streaks of blood on the machine. Do I make myself clear?”
“We live to serve,” they mumbled.
“As do I,” she said wearily.
She wanted to retire to her rooms for a rest, but there was work to do. There was a new recruit awaiting her attention.
CHAPTER 9
They come in the night when the fog is at its thickest. They shuffle along softly in broken shoes while the city sleeps. For the most part, they are silent. The only thing that can be heard as they pass is the ticking of their insides and, to those who know how to listen, the soft insistent hum that comes from the hunger that drives them.
These creatures have a new type of hunger, unlike anything seen or created in the world of Shadow. The stench of the strange new power that oozes from them causes the very barrier between the two realms to shiver. For these are amalgamations of science and magic that should not be.
And yet, the new creatures come, bringing death to those who encounter them on their way. They are abominations, who carry within them the very essence of greed and destruction that will ultimately bring the world, as we know it, to an end.
And far in the distance, the Clockmaker sits back and watches with glee. He does not care for the horror and misery he has created. To him these creatures are his children. And as he gazed upon them, he saw that they were good.
Elle snorted rather inelegantly and sat up in her seat. She rubbed her eyes and listened to the discordant thrum of the ship’s engines in the background. The left engine sounded dangerously out of tune, which was most worrying, given that they were high up in the sky and thousands of miles from anywhere.
Around her, the Iron Phoenix creaked and groaned as if it was almost too much effort to stay afloat. She had once been magnificent, but years of neglect had turned her rickety. Not for the first time, Elle tutted at Captain Dashwood’s slovenly ways.
“It’s a good thing I rescued you from that oaf when I did. Just look at what he’s done to you.” Elle always spoke to her ships as if they were alive.
The only thing of beauty the Phoenix still possessed was her iron figurehead. She had the body of a shapely, bare-chested woman and the head of a fierce bird. The spirit of the phoenix sat proudly at the prow, her long, wings spread open, trailing down the side of the ship behind her, as if she was about to take flight.
Elle rolled her neck to release the tension that had accumulated there from sleeping in a strange position. She and Ducky had been flying for almost three days now, taking turns in shifts at the helm, but somehow the way wasn’t getting any shorter.
Elle was thoroughly bored and restless. With all this time and silence to do nothing but think, a dark sense of unease had settled over her. And every time she closed her eyes those awful things haunted her dreams. They were even gnawing at her when she was awake.
“Ah, you’re up,” Ducky said, coming up from the galley below.
“Ducky, how could you let me fall asleep at the helm? That’s so irresponsible of you.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. I had her well under control,” he said. “And besides, you looked like you could do with a jolly good nap.”
He sat down in the worn leather seat next to her and opened the tin of Mrs. Hinges’ excellent biscuits he had found.
“What’s wrong, Bells? You are not the kind of girl who goes wandering around with dark shadows under her eyes.”
Elle smiled at his use of her nickname. He used to call her ‘ells Bells or later simply Bells for short. “It’s nothing,” Elle rubbed her face and looked away. Ducky had a way of being utterly on point. There was no hiding the truth when he was around.
“That new husband of yours had better be treating you well. Or else me and the boys will give him a jolly good thumping.”
“It’s not that,” she said in a soft voice.
“Well, something has spooked your horses up into the hedges. I’ve been watching you for three days now and in all the years I’ve kn
own you, I’ve never seen you this out of sorts. Come on, out with it.” Ducky put the biscuits down, sat back in his seat and pulled out a cigarette.
Smoking inside the ship was a habit Elle disapproved of most strenuously and she gave him a look of displeasure. But Ducky simply ignored her and carried on tapping the end of the cigarette against the tin, as he waited for an answer.
“I haven’t been sleeping well lately,” she admitted.
“And why is that?”
“I’ve been having these strange dreams. I can’t really explain them, but they feel so real. It’s like I’m watching things happen.”
“Hmm,” he said. He stood up and opened one of the small windows and lit his cigarette. He took a long satisfied draw and blew the smoke out into the freezing night air.
Elle shivered. “Each time I close my eyes, the dream comes. Each time, it’s the same thing, but in different aspects.” She kept quiet about her fear that the dreams might be real.
“Sounds like you should lay off the after-dinner brandies, my dear,” Ducky said.
“No, it’s not like that. I know it’s a message and I am supposed to do something about it, but I don’t know what. I’m telling you, Ducky: when I’m dreaming I feel like I am there.” She wondered briefly if she should confide in him, tell him the truth about her newfound abilities, but she decided against it. Ducky was a pragmatic man on whom the nuances of the Shadow were largely lost. He would not understand. Even the fact that she had demonstrated to Dashwood that she had no shadow had passed largely over Ducky’s head.
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