Cogs in Time 2 (The Steamworks Series)

by SJ Davis

  I had never been a person who liked to touch others, personal space was quite a thing for me, but I hugged Margaret before she could turn away. “You have been like a sister to me. I want you to know, if something should happen to me, I have left the house and all my belongings to you.”

  Her arms encircled me and her hands fluttered like tiny birds against, “Don’t speak of such things!”

  I released her, and tried to force her to face me, but she turned and walked away. “Drink your tea, Odessa.”

  As the door closed quietly behind her, I shook my head.

  She is a true friend, child. Treasure her always. Magnus’s voice came to my head.

  “I will, I swear. Have I done the right thing, grandfather?”

  Only silence answered my question.

  *****

  The box sat on the table before me, the slip of paper and the pen at its side. I’d filled the small vial with Lucifer’s elixir and carefully loaded it in the chamber. All was ready as Jeanne Copperbelt walked into my parlor, a terrible scowl on her face.

  “Are you ready to proceed, Madame?” her clipped voice was like the sound of grinding steel.

  “Quite,” I returned her venom with my own. “Please sit, and we will not delay this task any further.”

  A knife. Hidden beneath the folds of her dress. She means to kill you, Odessa. Caution! The voices of my spirits hissed in unison, their words jumbling together.

  My eyes must have involuntarily darted to where she had hidden the weapon, because as she sat, Jeanne’s hand adjusted her skirts. As if I hadn’t noticed, I closed my eyes and pretended to meditate, though my spirits were already present, and there would be no real reason to commune with the dead on that night.

  After a few moments, I opened my eyes, and looked at the woman before me. I had seen her face, I knew her mind, and I was fully prepared to meet her soul. The fear shrank away from me, and I felt something akin to rage as I looked at the false widow. Though I wanted to call her a murderer and condemn her for the atrocities she had committed for selfish love, I did not.

  Instead, I pushed the slip of parchment and the quill to her. “The spirits are with us, and we are ready. First, you must write your name on this paper.”

  Picking up the pen, she scrunched her nose and looked around. “There’s no ink well.”

  I shook my head and handed her the same small knife I had used when I had summoned Lucifer. “No, you are the ink well.”

  I had expected her to look horrified, had almost wanted her too, but she took it calmly. “Very well then, if that’s what must be done to finish this.”

  With a quick stroke of the knife, she cut her left palm and cupped it, allowing the blood to pool for a second before she dipped the tip of the pen into the crimson liquid. In a scrawling script, she signed her name to the paper and looked at me expectantly.

  “Is that all?”

  I carefully pushed the box forward. “No. Not quite. You must open the lid and place the paper in the drawer that will be revealed. The spirits wish to know you, by sight and by blood. Your gift to them, your handwritten name, will forge a bond with your soul by transporting what you most desire into their realm. By doing this, they will retrieve for you the answers you seek, and from then on, be at your disposal.”

  Jeanne’s eyes lit up, and I could see her calculating the possibilities of what I offered. “And I can control them? They won’t haunt me?”

  I laughed aloud, amused by the display of caution from a woman who had not worried about the twelve murdered people and if they would haunt her. “No. You see how it is hard for even me to draw them to me. For them to come to you, they will have to be called. I can teach you.”

  “For a price, I presume?” her voice was filled with greed.

  “No. Not at all. I only mean to keep them happy, so that they will continue to do my bidding.” I would have said anything at all to get her to open that box. Inside, I wanted to scream at her to shut up and do as she was told. So great was my impatience, that I nudged the box again.

  “Very well, then. I shall do this.” With trembling hands she opened the lid, and I held my breath.

  A fine mist shot outward as the top lifted and the tiny gears turned. Even as she wiped her eyes and gasped in surprise, Jeanne slipped the paper within the small drawer. I sighed with relief, knowing that there was nothing that could stop the things that would come next.

  “What the hell—”

  She tried to question what had sprayed her, I could see it in her eyes, but her face went slack as the words stopped short. My spirits pressed around me, trembling in fear, and even I felt the pull of whatever it was that pulled at the woman’s soul.

  A silvery mist rose up from her still parted lips, twisting and screeching in agony as it was sucked away from the body. The room vibrated with the sound of its tormented scream, and the walls shook as it fought against the power within the tiny wooden box. I couldn’t stop the tears from coming as I watched. I had built that instrument of torture with my own two hands.

  The lights blew out from the force of the wind that whipped through the room and the press of the spirits around me became smothering. I am not sure if they were trying to protect me or if they clung to me with such desperation in hopes that I could protect them. Whichever it was, I forced them away so that I might slam the lid shut on the box before we all lost our souls.

  The loud snap of the lid shook the ground as if an earthquake was attempting to rip my home from its foundation, and I fell to the ground. My arms covered my head as all my treasured belongings rained down around me, smashing and crashing in disarray, until it stopped. Quickly and without warning, it ended as quickly as it had begun.

  I crawled up from the floor, using the chair to aid my trembling legs. To my surprise, Jeanne sat unmoving, but still very much alive. You could see in her eyes that there was something missing, an emptiness, a vacancy.

  “Margaret!” I screamed out for my friend, my voice cracking from the strain. “Margaret!”

  She hadn’t been far, because the door opened almost immediately. Coming to a sudden stop, she looked around the room. Shock and fear covered her pretty face.

  “Odessa! Are you okay? I heard the noise, but…” her words trailed away as she rounded the table to assist me and saw Mrs. Copperbelt’s face.

  “We have to get her out of here. I don’t know what will happen to her body. I don’t even know for sure what happened to her soul. But we got to get her out of here.” Every word came on a separate breath as I struggled to speak.

  “It is okay. I’ll call Henry. Henry will come, and he will take her home. Henry won’t tell anyone. He’s a good boy. He won’t say a word to a soul.” Margaret stroked my hair as she talked, strong even when I was weak.

  June 7, 1867

  The Office of Jeremiah Allendale; Attorney at Law, Wren City

  My hands shook and my mouth was as dry as a desert. They’d sent a letter. Surely if I was being investigated for the death of Jeanne Copperbelt, they wouldn’t have sent a letter. Most certainly a police officer, and not a handsome young man in a suit, would have knocked on my door. Even more so, I didn’t believe they’d be offering me tea and sandwiches as I waited in the little office.

  “Ms. Simmons?” a booming male voice made me jump and my tea cup clattered loudly against the saucer as I attempted to stand. “Please, remain seated. You’ve been through so much. You should rest as much as possible.”

  Confused, I asked, “Excuse me? I don’t think I understand.”

  His dark brows furrowed, as he extended his hand to me in greeting. “Jeremiah Allendale, Ms. Simmons, and I was referring to the terrible loss of your dear friend’s the Copperbelts. Both so young to have been lost so tragically in such a short time.”

  I was astonished. He’d called the troubled couple my good friends, but I knew neither of them before Jeanne had come to my house to ask for my services. “Truly tragic, my good sir,” I agreed. “But, if I may a
sk, what is all this about.”

  “Jeanne Copperbelt was a wealthy woman, Ms. Simmons. As I’m sure you are aware.”

  As he shuffled some papers and paused, I tried to force a gulp of tea past the lump in my throat and nodded.

  “At the time of her husband’s death, she inherited quite a bit of money. Luckily for us, his will was recovered in the safe at their home alongside hers, because she had yet to tend to the financial matters due to her grief.” He handed me too documents, filled with legal language that I did not quite understand, and as I looked them over, Mr. Allendale continued. “By default, all of their joint and separate assets fell into Ms. Copperbelt’s possession, and now that she has passed on, it all belongs to you.”

  I dropped the cup, warm tea splashing the cream colored rug and the hem of my dark blue skirts. Lucifer spoke the truth. The devil did not lie, my mind screamed. For he had sworn that night when he first came to me and told me of the will, that I would stand to inherit all the riches my mind could handle, if I served him well.

  At that moment, my eyes fell to the signature at the bottom of Jeanne Copperbelt’s last living will and testament. Her name had been signed in red ink, the same color as blood.

  September 22, 1927

  The Home of Odessa Olivia Simmonds, Wren City

  Over the years, Lucifer came to me many times, and I fed him the souls of those who had betrayed him, through the use of that tiny black box. I built our fortune and our family on the riches that I gained from its terrible power, and now you must destroy it.

  I wish you well, my children. For I know your greed and your own vicious little hearts will want to open it, just to peer inside. Or maybe you want to strike a deal with the devil, and use it for your own means. I implore you, take heed to the lesson that the others did not.

  If you make a deal with Beelzebub, and you fail, it will be you that pays the final price.

  Ghost in the Machine

  *An Excerpt from the Full Length Novel Releasing December 2014*

  SJ Davis

  Chapter One

  ~ Strange Hands of Time ~

  London, April 1865

  Bodhi rubbed his chin as if the scruff along his jaw line was a full-grown beard. He paced around the quiet clock shop, from one table to the next, searching for the correctly sized instrument to link the image magnifier to his goggles. The storefront boasted huge windows, pointed at the top like a church’s, with iron railings along the bottom half. Five tables lined the back wall, all strewn with brass tacks, glass tubes, metal scraps, tools, cogs and oils. Each table held lamps with magnifying attachments. Dirty aprons hung from a hook by the front door, and the hardwood floor was scratched, exposed down to the grain, from age and overuse.

  The front door shook in its frame as someone rapped loudly. It swung open as a filthy messenger boy came dashing in, covered in sweat and muck. His unwashed and wind-blown hair sprung about in wild angles, and he appeared much too undersized to have made the clamorous battering sound on the door, but the boy’s speed made up for his strength.

  Bodhi dropped his tool belt on the steel worktable to greet the young boy. “Are you quite all right?” he asked the young boy with concern. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, the Prime Minister has a job request for you. His grandfather clock, at 10 Downing Street, is completely out of order. He needs you to make a house call most urgently, if you please.”

  “I usually do all my repair work here, in the store. All of my supplies and tools are here.”

  “He will compensate you according to your inconvenience, sir. Here, I have a note.”

  Bodhi held up his hands, showing his black and oily palms. “Just a moment, let me wipe off the grease.”

  The boy nodded, bending over to catch his breath, as Bodhi jogged to the back. The back of his store was dimly lit, but housed a small and serviceable kitchen and washroom area. The washbasin was wiped clean, but was still smeared with smudged grime along its sides, the smell of coal, carbon, and dust lingered in the room.

  Bodhi remembered Prime Minister Ratcliffe, vaguely, from his childhood. Bodhi’s foster father was a peer of Lord Ratcliffe’s, and his foster sister, Josephine, had occasionally played with Ratcliffe’s daughter, Lady Caroline. His childhood felt a like someone else’s life, far away from his present life in his store, with his gadgets and inventions.

  Bodhi removed his black goggles and work coat and returned to the boy. He towered over the messenger, his height blocking out all light from the back window. He wore a grey work vest, with small side pockets for tools. The sides of his heavy canvas trouser legs were covered in multiple utility pockets, where various sized wrenches and screwdrivers peeked out.

  “Thank you for bringing the note. Please excuse the dust and grime, but it is a place of work, of course.” The boy raced to the door and flung it open. “Wait!” called Bodhi. “Why wasn’t the note simply sent via the Royal Mail?”

  “I was told it was to be directly handed to you, in person, and to no one else. That’s all I know, sir.”

  “Well done then, lad,” said Bodhi as he dug for a coin, his pockets jiggled with loose metal parts. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you,” said the boy as he caught a coin.

  Bodhi looked at the outside of the note, addressed and written in a seemingly foreign hand. Each letter ran together in lines and dashes unlike the normative British cursive, yet was still readable. The wax seal crumbled to the floor revealing the dark blue penmanship of its contents: The Office of the Prime Minister requests your services regarding the servicing of a Grandfather clock at 10 Downing Street. Please make arrangements for repair at your convenience.

  Bodhi rubbed his brow as he rested uncomfortably against the table. He tried to remain calm, but his nervousness bled through. He picked up his teacup, halfway filled with now lukewarm orange pekoe, nearly dropping it back to the saucer with a loud clatter. Why would the Prime Minister request his services? Bodhi’s business was less than a year old, and how did Lord Ratcliffe become aware of him? No matter, business was business he decided, making a note on his calendar to visit the Prime Minister’s residence in the morning.

  He organized his scuffed leather utility bag, filling it with cogs, levers, pull strings, chains, lubricants, and brass gears. The far table held a vast array of instruments and dials, all organized according to size and function. A padded chair, wingback with broken side arms, was pushed against the wall, between the cluttered tables. Two battery-powered lighting devices were clamped on either side of the chair backs. Wires snaked from the metal base of the lights, each attached to a pedal for power.

  Bodhi dusted his hands and pulled a brass lever, flipping a switch into the on position. The rushing sound of steam hissed and powered the lights as he pushed on the pedal at the base of the chair. After a few seconds of hissing, the released steam caused a brief high-pitched whine and the room became brightly illuminated.

  A side room to the left of the back housed Bodhi’s reconditioned airship project. Polished brass beams curved around the room like the ribs inside a giant. A worn spiral staircase leaned against the wall, splintered but waiting to be refinishing. Behind the stairs, a heavy navy jacket hung, complete with high collar, roped arms, with thin scarlet stripes running down the sides. The hull of a cockpit area peaked from beneath a tarp cover, while a dashboard with navigation and weapon management controls sat on a table surrounded by two burgundy leather seats. Red, green, and yellow light switches decorated the walnut control panel.

  Charts and dials scattered across the floor, alongside rolled up sketches of engine plans and steam works. A small rusted propeller held open the door, behind which hung a brown leather cap, completed by green tinted goggles.

  The bell of the front door interrupted his tinkering. “Just a moment,” he yelled from the back.

  “It’s me,” answered Josephine. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes, I’m in the back room. I’ll make some fresh tea.”


  Bodhi greeted Josephine with a familial kiss on the cheek as she crossed his path in the doorway. She pulled her skirts into her as she walked around the rusted propeller. “Bodhi,” she called back to him, “when will this airship of yours be complete? It’s unbearable to walk around all this junk. And I’m certain it’s hazardous.”

  “Soon,” said Bodhi from across the back hall. “No one sees this but me, so it’s hardly bothersome.”

  “I see it. Do I not count?”

  “No, you do not, actually.” He chuckled a quick laugh, a rare sound in his shop. “And all of these items are perfectly organized and in order. They are neither junk nor hazardous, my dear.”

  Bodhi re-entered holding a silver plated tray of tea. A poppy colored tea cozy insulated the teapot, while two mismatched teacups balanced on either side of the tiny tray.

  “Bodhi, I shall bring you some proper coordinating china. These are remnants, cast-offs from the old house.”

  “They work quite well, and I am most attached to them. But thank you.”

  “They are chipped, unstable, and uncoordinated.”

  “They hold my tea quite well. I see no need to replace them.”

  “Bodhi,” she said firmly. “Just because you are a bachelor—”

  “Lovely of you to visit, Josephine,” he said, cutting her off. “How are your students?” He stood to pour her tea, putting in two cubes of sugar, as she always preferred. He glanced down where she sat, in the light of the window.

  “Good God, Josephine. Were you attacked? What happened?” he said before she could answer his first question. Never had he seen such colors on her skin before. Her right cheek, from her ear down through her jaw, was imperceptibly swollen and a mixture of black, blue and yellow was smeared over the slightly distended area where her neck met her jaw. The contusion appeared painful, and he leaned in to assess the damage.