Aetheric Elements: The Rise of a Steampunk Reality
Page 17
It crept further into the shadows, watching and waiting. Hidden from the sight of any passerby, it stalked the prey. It had chosen well this time and knew the Master would be pleased. The quarry was barely more than a child, but enough of a woman that she would fit the needs of the man that commanded the monster. She left the warehouse with the other workers and moved at a brisk pace, her plain woolen dress and long coat swishing as she walked. Her hair was hidden by a bonnet but yellow curls peeked out. She carried a bundle of brown paper tied with twine under one arm as if it were precious and watched for anyone coming close to her with the caution that a lone woman has at night. The foot traffic thinned as people went into the entryways of apartments in the district. She lived in rooms above a tavern with her mother and four sisters.
It had followed her every night for the past week and watched her and her family from its position crouched in the shadows of the second story veranda outside their rooms. The girl smelled of sweat and must from the bolts of cloth in the factory.
She crossed the street, stopping for a moment to let a horse drawn trolley pass in front of her. Darting past stacks of crates in the unseasonably warm February night, it kept its quarry in sight. The gas lamps of New Sylians flickered, casting orange and yellow light, making the gloom jump and dance to their fiery beat. A fog settled as the night deepened, making the shadows bleed grey and roll like the ocean surf when someone passed nearby.
Two more blocks and she would be home, safe in the stinking crowds of drunken men, hidden from its ability to smell her in the haze of smoke of a parlor. The cacophonous noise of the player piano and rowdy calls at the burlesque dancers was enough to keep it away; combined with the other elements of humankind it could no more enter that place than the Master could enter the dark portal.
It leapt with cat-like grace atop a wagon full of boxes covered with a tarp and sprang across the street onto a green and white striped awning that extended over the sidewalk. It saw the girl behind it and, moving forward, it dropped silently into an alley ahead of her.
As she passed the alleyway, Alisa turned to see a fine dressed gentleman leaning heavily against the wall. His coat had been torn and his face showed marks where he had been beaten. He stumbled and almost fell.
“Help me,” he moaned.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I had just returned from seeing all the electric lights at the World Cotton Centennial when three men approached me. They beat me and took it all. My walking stick, my top hat, my wallet, but they missed my watch. You can have it if you help me into that tavern where I can call for a constable,” he said in a southern Gallix accent. He held out a gold pocket watch that was missing a chain and she moved forward. He put an arm around her to steady himself and they both flew backwards into the fog-laden darkness of the side street. Her muffled scream was never heard over the noise of the revelry from inside the building.