Wolves and Daggers_A Steampunk Fairy Tale

by Melanie Karsak

  The man sighed. “Dropped off where?”

  “The shipyard,” I said, motioning over my shoulder.

  The man furrowed his brow. “Just walk.”

  I smirked. “Not quite what I had in mind,” I said.

  The captain eyed me suspiciously then waved for me to come aboard, his hand outstretched.

  “A rope down to a roof. I’ll be off your ship before you know it,” I said, handing him my bag of coin.

  “A roof?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head then went back to the wheelstand. I lingered behind him. The airship lifted up and out of port.

  “There,” I said, pointing to the hangar where I’d seen the pack earlier that day.

  The airship turned as if it was merely preparing to round the towers and set out on its course.

  The captain locked the wheelstand and motioned for me to follow him to the side of the ship. He yanked on a rope, ensuring it was safely secured to the deck, then handed the line to me.

  “Your getaway, mademoiselle,” he said with a grin.

  I nodded and went to the side of the ship.

  From this angle, I could see inside the hangar but would remain unseen. I tossed the rope over and looked down, ensuring that it fell close to an area with solid footing. The captain had marked the location well, putting me just at the corner and out of sight from anyone who happened to gaze up.

  I climbed up on the rail of the ship and grabbed the rope. I nodded to the captain and holding on tight, slipped down the rope to the building below, landing as softly as possible on the roof.

  Quinn would have loved this.

  Well, the old Quinn would have loved this. Now my partner was cut up and lying in bed looking ashen. And Agent Reid, who’d been a good colleague and fearsome vampire slayer, was dead. Who in the hell was this werewolf, Marlowe?

  Overhead, the propeller on the airship Elven Rue clicked on, and the ship turned south. The rope disappeared back onto the deck. As the ship turned, I eyed the captain who removed his cap, lifted it in farewell, then guided his airship back into the night.

  Moving quickly, I worked my way toward one of the windows that looked below. Lying on my stomach, I pulled out my spyglass and looked inside.

  Cyril and Fenton were standing just inside the hangar door having an argument. Cyril, who was at least two hands taller than Fenton, shoved his beta. Fenton lowered his head in submission and stepped back.

  Bloody wolves.

  I eyed Cyril closely. Ginger nightmare. He was much larger than Fenton or Lionheart. His raw force and tendency to use violence for any solution were what had kept him in power for many years.

  But it had also cost him.

  Rumor had it that Cyril’s last mate had run off with their son, fled to the Americas after Cyril had shown signs that he would be no easier on his own blood than he was on anyone else. It had been twenty years now. Despite his power, no she-wolf ever went willingly to him, including Alodie. More than once, Quinn and I had turned Cyril’s pack away from human brothels for fear of what might happen to the human girls when the wolves were done with them. It was sick business. I admired Lionheart’s ability to curb his urges, even if he did pick up on the scent of roses every now and then.

  I heard the sound of an auto pull up in front of the hangar. A moment later, another wolf opened a side door. It was Damien, a wolf from Conklin pack. He rushed across the room to Fenton. Once again, a sharp conversation erupted.

  I looked away from the pair and scanned the place for Marlowe. I found him in a corner with Professor Jamison. The professor’s long, silver hair trailed down her back. She looked disheveled and exhausted. Marlowe slid his finger across some lines on a scroll then directed the professor’s attention to the text.

  I sat back.

  The wolves already had long lives. If they became immune to silver, there would be no stopping them.

  We had to end this work before it was too late.

  I kept up my surveillance, waiting for Templar pack to arrive.

  The materials Professor Jamison and Master Winston had been working with were being boxed up while Marlowe nagged Cyril to the point of irritation. I watched as the lesser pack members headed back and forth across the yard toward the airship towers, pushing pallets of crates with them. Using my spyglass, I watched the wolves take the boxes to a ship and load them aboard. The wolves were planning to leave.

  I had already started to strategize how I might take on the entire pack—and probably die in the process, a prospect that was not too appealing—when the palms of my hands got that strange tingly feeling. Aside from the werewolves below, the yard was fairly deserted. Only the occasional drunken airship crewman passed by. Regardless, something was coming. Standing, I looked back across the skyline toward Tinker’s Tower. It was nearly midnight. The moonlight shimmered down on the rooftops, giving everything a sheen of blue.

  In the far-off distance, I heard a howl.

  And then another.

  I cast a glance inside. The wolves below stilled, then Fenton started rounding up the humans.

  “Put out the lamps,” Cyril called. “Get the alchemists on the airship.”

  “Red Capes?” Damien asked.

  Cyril craned his neck to breath in the air. “No,” he said with a low and mean growl.

  I looked back across the yard. Shadows shifted, yet I could see nothing, not even the telltale red eyes of werewolves.

  Working quickly, I dug into my bag and grabbed the night optic array. Pulling it on, I looked below. I closed my right eye, looking through the optic with my left. Cyril’s wolves moved to guard the doors. I saw them shift and change into werewolf form. But in the back, Marlowe, Fenton, and the humans were preparing to make an escape.

  From the darkness somewhere around the yard, I heard a low, dark howl.

  The sound chilled me to the bone. While the sound was not human, I knew it was Lionheart.

  A series of howls answered in reply.

  “Christ, boss. What’s happening?” I heard Damien ask.

  “Templars,” Cyril said. I could hear the sneer in his voice.

  The murmuring voices of the wolves below became silent.

  “We should retreat,” Damien said.

  The sound of the smack was audible. “Say that again, and I’ll kill you myself.”

  “Cyril,” someone called.

  The boss moved toward the front of the hangar.

  “Christ,” Damien said again.

  I moved to the front of the building to see what had caught the wolves’ attention then gasped when I saw. I pushed up my night optic for just a moment.

  There, in the yard before the hangar, stood the Knights Templar. Not a pack of werewolves or a gang of men. Something in between. Two dozen armed soldiers wearing the white capes with the red cross of the Templars stood ready for battle, their leader at the front. All of them armed, not just with long claws, fangs, and muscle, but with helmets, swords, and shields. Their gold-colored armor had been smelted to fit their physique in shifted form. The moonlight glinted off their armor. They were a magnificent sight to behold.

  “Screw them. Open fire,” Cyril called.

  The front door slid open so Cyril’s werewolves could attack.

  Lionheart, who’d been standing at the front of his men, motioned to the knights and in a blur of swirling white and red capes, the Knights Templar swarmed the hangar.

  I slipped on my night array lens once more then turned and ran back to the open window. I grabbed a chain attached to a lever and slipped inside.

  Fenton and Marlow rushed the alchemists out the back door.

  I cast a glance back at Lionheart and the Templars. I didn’t want to leave the werewolf. Everything depended on him defeating Cyril. Everything. But if I didn’t go after Marlowe now, and the werewolf got away, I’d end up chasing him all across the realm.

  Looking back one more time, I spied Lionheart amongst the fray.

  He paused, no
dded to me, and then turned once more, his blade glimmering in the moonlight.

  I turned and raced to the back of the hangar. I knew where Fenton and Marlowe were headed. I just needed to get there in time and figure out how I was going to kill a werewolf mage and a beta all at once.

  Chapter 17: Alpha and Omega

  Pumping my legs hard, I raced back to the airship towers. In the distance, I heard that someone had raised the alarm and was calling for the Bow Street boys. I shook my head. Complications. Always, complications.

  When I got to the towers, I saw that Marlowe and the others had already boarded the lift to take them up to the second level. I turned and raced up the steps, eyeing the airship the wolves had been packing up.

  Dammit. They were already pulling up the anchor. The balloon of the airship filled with hot air, making the balloon glow with orange light. The ship made ready for departure. Fenton and the others hurried down the ramp. When Professor Jamison struggled, Fenton clocked her on the back of her head with his pistol then threw her over his shoulder.

  Marlowe cursed loudly at him.

  I arrived at the last step, turning the corner just in time to see the crew pull up the last lead rope.

  Hell’s bells. I was too late.

  If I shot out the balloon, the ship would crash, killing the very people I was trying to rescue. I eyed the platform. Jumping onto the ship that had been docked just behind the werewolves’ craft, I raced to the bow of that airship. I pulled out my silver dagger, sliced a supporting rope, and then swung from that airship to the werewolves’ craft.

  My stomach rocked as I swung haphazardly through the air between the ships. There was far too much space between me and the earth below. Pushed by the force of my acceleration, I swung over the back of the airship, dropping onto the deck before the rope lost its forward velocity.

  But my landing was not subtle. I hit the deck hard.

  “Little Red,” one of the werewolves yelled then turned toward me.

  Taking aim, I shot.

  Having taken them by surprise, the werewolves, who were still in human form—so not to alert the airship guards, I supposed—were slow to react. All the better for me. I was able to get off three shots before I heard the door to the captain’s cabin open.

  Fenton and Marlowe emerged.

  Fenton moved to lunge at me, but Marlowe raised his hand, stopping Fenton.

  “Kit Marlowe,” I said. “Her Majesty asked me to remind you that you were sent into exile. Your sentence has not been commuted nor revoked. If you would kindly re-exile yourself—and I can assist you if you will not—then all this drama can come to an end.”

  The old werewolf laughed. “Tell Her Majesty I am disinclined to agree. As for you,” he said, then whispered something softly, making a strange arcane figure in the air, “I think I’m quite done with bravado.”

  A strange feeling washed over me, and quite against my will, I felt myself moving toward the side of the ship as if pushed by a gust. I gasped. The mage had cast a spell on me. Pulling away with all my might, I sought to resist the spell.

  The mage frowned then whispered again, once more drawing the invisible arcane symbol.

  I tried to lift my arm, trying to get my weapon on the monster so I could get off a shot, but my arm felt so heavy. It felt as if it was being pressed down by a dozen men. Yet slowly, inch by inch, I lifted my gun.

  “What is this?” Marlowe said through gritted teeth. “What are you doing?” This time, he spoke aloud, shouting his spell in Latin.

  I resisted once more, but could not break out of the spell as I felt myself slowly sliding toward the open plank. If I didn’t break free, I would be thrown to my death.

  Fenton laughed, “Goodbye, Little Red.”

  “No,” I whispered. “No!” I resisted with all my might. I closed my eyes. No. In that single moment, I felt something powerful flutter alive inside me. The power was something larger than me, greater than me, but soft, gentle, no lighter than a butterfly. But this deep power, delicate as it might have been, was made of sturdy silver.

  I stopped cold.

  “No,” Marlowe said, glaring at me. “It cannot be.”

  A split second later, a strange sound distracted me. I heard wings and the squeaking sound of bats. A massive swarm of bats covered the deck of the airship. In that single moment, two of the remaining wolves screamed and fell over the side of the vessel. Moving in a torrent, the bats swirled then disappeared, leaving behind Agent Rose and Constantine.

  Fenton growled in frustration. Seeing the hopelessness of the situation, the coward grabbed a rope, then swung off, leaving Marlowe alone.

  Marlowe glared at Constantine then started casting another incantation.

  “Constantine,” Agent Rose warned, but she didn’t need to say anything. With strength that impressed and frightened me, the vampire flew across the deck of the ship, picked up the mage, then sank his fangs deep into the werewolf’s neck.

  The werewolf’s spell died in his throat. To my horror, I watched as the vampire sucked the wolf’s blood, the werewolf’s body shrinking in his hands like he’d been left to dry in the sun.

  Pulling myself away from the terrible sight, I raced to the side of the ship and watched as Fenton disappeared back into the night.

  “Hell’s bells,” I swore then turned and looked around for another rope.

  At that same moment, I realized the ship was descending. Quickly.

  I scanned around. No captain. No balloonman.

  “Clemeny, the ship,” Agent Rose said.

  “The tinkers are inside,” I said, pointing to the captain’s cabin.

  Understanding, she nodded. “Go. Go. We’ve got this.”

  Grabbing the rope, I turned and jumped off the airship. I slipped down the rope to the ground. Slipping on my night optic, I caught sight of Fenton as the werewolf turned and ran away from the airship towers back into the city.

  Gritting my teeth, I turned and raced behind him.

  He wouldn’t get away that easy.

  Chapter 18: An Eye for an Eye

  I could hear the sound of my boots hitting the cobblestone, the beating of my heart, and the telltale grunt of the werewolf racing ahead of me. If I let Fenton get away, I was failing everyone. I was failing to avenge Quinn and Agent Reid, endangering Lionheart, and putting the Society at risk. There was no way Marlowe could have survived Constantine’s terrible revenge. But letting Fenton get away meant war between the packs. As vexing as Lionheart was, I now understood his true nature. He was a knight. That had never changed. He had acted because his monarch had told him to.

  Fenton howled loudly then scurried up the side of a building. I raced behind him, scampering up a ladder and onto a rooftop.

  Now we were on familiar ground.

  He hung from a church steeple and glared back at me, his eyes fiery red.

  I pulled my pistol, steadied my breath, and forced my heart to be silent as I trained my weapon on the figure silhouetted against the moonlight.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Taking aim, I pulled the trigger.

  Too late.

  He turned and raced off across the rooftops.

  “Hell’s bells,” I swore through gritted teeth then took off after him. My heart pounded in my chest as I leaped from the rooftop across the alley. When I landed, the tiles under my footfall broke and went crashing down to the cobblestones below.

  Ahead of me, the wolf barked, a sound that almost sounded like a laugh. The beast looked back over his shoulder at me, his eyes glimmering red as rubies in the moonlight.

  I gritted my teeth, realizing then that the werewolf was moving with purpose. But to where? We raced past Tinker’s Tower then into the city and up the Strand.

  Fenton jumped to the street below.

  A horse whinnied loudly, and a moment later, a woman screamed.

  I rushed across the roof, balancing on a loading beam above the door of the tannery, then grabbed a rope and dro
pped onto the street.

  And then, because apparently, I was some kind of idiot, I raced in the direction of the monster and the screams rather than away from them.

  Grand-mère would have called me a fool.

  Grand-mère.

  The wolf looked back at me, his teeth bared but a wickedly gleeful expression on his face.

  Oh no. No, no, no.

  Wolves had keen hearing and a sense of smell that was without compare. Had Fenton trailed me? Did the packs know where my grand-mère lived?

  Of course, they did.

  Of course.

  We raced down the Strand, past the theatres, St Mary-le-Strand, and then toward Saint Clement Danes.

  There was no doubt in my mind where Fenton was headed. There was only one person in this world I truly cared about save Quinn, only one bargaining chip a werewolf could hold over my head, and the werewolf was headed on a straight course toward her.

  But this was my neighborhood.

  I turned, slipping down a side alley. I turned right then left, rushing down a narrow passageway, through a stable, and into a side alley that would exit onto the street outside my grand-mère’s building.

  I burst out of the alley and onto the street just as Fenton turned the corner.

  Pulling both my pistols, I took aim at the monster.

  “Stop,” I said commandingly.

  The wolf slid to a stop then eyed the windows of the building. He could make the jump, crash through the window, and grab my grand-mère if he wanted. I flicked an eye upward and caught sight of her silhouette through the curtain. He could do that, but not before I shot him first. It was dark, but the optic I wore outlined the monster perfectly.

  I could feel him watching me. I could feel him waiting to see what I was going to do.

  “Come on now, Fenton. No need to make it personal. Let’s go back to headquarters and have a chat.”

  “Not going to happen, Little Red,” he said, his voice was raspy. “You let me go. Now. Or I’ll rip out dear granny’s throat.”