Steam & Sorcery

Mayfair, London, February 1851

“We live in an age where people can travel on ships that fly through the air.” The sharp rap of an umbrella point on the wooden floor of the carriage punctuated the sentence. “Where a machine can calculate the distance between the stars in less time than it takes you to tie your cravat. I fail to comprehend why, in such an otherwise enlightened era, your ridiculously hidebound Order of the Round Table should refuse to admit female Knights.”

“You answered your own question, aunt, when you said the words ‘ridiculously hidebound.’” Sir Merrick Hadrian smiled across the coach at his aunt Dorothy, the woman who had more or less raised him since his mother’s death when he was six, despite the fact that she was only eight years his senior. This argument was as old and comfortable as his favorite walking boots. “I am in complete agreement with you that the Order of the Round Table is a stodgy and backward organization, so arguing with me is pointless.”

“Then do something about it.” There was another thump from the umbrella.

“I am merely a foot soldier, aunt. I assure you, my opinion is well known among my superiors.” And it was one of the reasons Merrick hadn’t advanced into the inner circle of the Knights’ leadership. Not that he minded. He was still young and hale enough to prefer fieldwork.

“Yes, but as those fuddy-duddies die off and retire, you will gain power. I want you to promise me you’ll work to open the doors. Mathematics, the sciences, engineering—all these professions are slowly proving that women can and do make valid contributions. Law and medicine cannot be far behind.”

Merrick idly wondered if Dorothy had a shrine in her room to Ada, Lady Lovelace, whose work with Lord Babbage on his analytical engine had both changed the world technologically, and proven beyond doubt that women were the intellectual equals of men.

“You know very well, nephew, I was born with just as much innate ability as some of those striplings we met at the MacKays’ ball last evening.”

“In deductive reasoning, as well as in magickal power.” It was easy to agree with her as she was right. Sir William MacKay was Merrick’s friend and mentor, but Merrick hadn’t been at all impressed by Sir William’s latest recruits to the Order. “Hell, probably even in swordplay.”

Dorothy grinned back at him, her brown eyes, a mirror image of his own, lighting in affection. “Good lad.” She patted him on the cheek as if he wasn’t thirty-five years old, just as the carriage rolled to a halt in front of her favorite ladies’ lending library.

Merrick leapt out of the coach to help her down. Not that she needed it, of course, but manners were still manners, after all. The cold snap they’d been enduring had left small patches of ice on the road, and he made sure his footing was solid before he held out his hand for Dorothy to alight.

Once on the pavement, his aunt leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for the lift, dear. I’ll see you at four.”

Before Merrick could reply, he heard the sound of scurrying footsteps, then a little shriek just before someone slammed into his shoulder. He let go of his aunt and spun to catch the woman who slipped about in thin-soled boots. A strange jolt ran up from the point where his gloved hand clamped down on her arm, through a threadbare woolen coat.
Magick?

“Caroline, dear, are you all right?” Dorothy moved around Merrick to help right the younger woman. Since Dorothy was tall and sturdily built, the petite, bespectacled blonde was rather dwarfed between Merrick and his aunt.

“I’m fine, Miss Hadrian, thank you. I was just afraid I was running late.” Her breath misted as the girl gasped. “Mrs. Wemberly needed me to run some errands on the way here.”

“Thereby reducing your half-day by an hour or more. Wretched woman.” Dorothy shook her head. “There ought to be laws about that sort of thing.”

“It’s fine.” The voice was sweetly feminine and her face was young and pretty. Behind her silver-rimmed spectacles, her eyes were a vibrant green. The tendril of hair that had escaped from the ugly gray bonnet was fine and golden-blond. The faintest scent of lavender and rose petal soap wafted up from her smooth skin as she looked at him.

Merrick shook himself mentally. He had no business being attracted to one of Dorothy’s bluestocking friends. He wasn’t ready to settle down and marry, and this girl didn’t look like the kind for dalliance.

“Merrick, I’d like you to meet Miss Caroline Bristol. Caroline, this is my nephew, Sir Merrick Hadrian.” Dorothy’s introduction cut through his daze.

He took the lady’s hand and bowed politely. “Delighted, Miss Bristol.”

“Likewise, Sir Merrick.” She bobbed in a brief hint of a curtsey.

“Well, we must get inside or the reading circle will begin without us.” Dorothy beamed at the younger woman. “Merrick, I think we can give Miss Bristol a ride home at four, don’t you? Those boots of hers look soaked through.”

“Of course, aunt.” He took both ladies’ arms, escorted them up the marble steps to the library, and then he tipped his hat and waited until they’d gone in before climbing back into his carriage.

As his coachman drove along the rutted London road Merrick couldn’t stop thinking about the young woman he’d just met. Had the jolt he felt been mere attraction? Or had there been genuine magick at work? He wasn’t sure which idea was more disturbing.

Wapping, London, two months later

The pungent reek of rotting food, polluted water and human waste filled Merrick’s flared nostrils as his black-clad form slipped through the murky darkness. Though keen senses were part of his birthright as a Knight, and had saved his life on more than one occasion, he spared a moment to regret that the rising fog only served to intensify the stench.

The Wapping alleyway boasted none of the gas lamps of his Mayfair neighborhood, and even the gleaming three-quarters moon failed to penetrate the damp, sooty night in this part of London. His vision was restricted to little more than an arm’s length in the close confines of the alley, where morning sun probably never reached to disperse the chill night dew that clung to his clothes.

Still, Merrick soldiered on. The soft leather soles of his boots made no sound as he crept toward the corner where his informant had agreed to meet him. If it meant saving even one of the missing girls, then it was worth walking through this slum at midnight, even if he would have to burn every stitch of his clothing once he got home. Behind Mrs. Miller’s teashop, the note had said. Merrick fingered the coins in one pocket and the pistol in his other. Friend or foe, he was ready for whichever awaited him.

“Oy, guv.” The husky voice was female, and Merrick turned toward it, immediately overwhelmed by the fetid miasma of opium, disease and cheap perfume. “Care for a bit of fun, then?”

“Not just now thanks.” He flipped one of the smaller, silver coins from his pocket. “But you can have this just for getting out of this alley for the rest of the night.”

“Don’t ’ave t’ tell me twice.” With a movement that was surprisingly quick for an addict, the doxy snatched the coin and ran back the way Merrick had come.

He’d checked the front of the street first and knew the seedy teashop was just one more building down, next to the laundry the prostitute had been leaning against. Coal smoke and steam belched from the lower level of the laundry, rumbling with the clanks and groans of machinery. Merrick was momentarily surprised that such a poor neighborhood should boast automated washing and drying machines, but he didn’t allow himself to linger over the thought.

He couldn’t make out anyone waiting, but his ears twitched as he detected a faint shuffling sound. Rats, maybe, or perhaps vermin of the two-legged kind. Keeping close to the building so he couldn’t be surrounded, he crept slowly forward.

“That you, milord?” This time, the rough scratchy voice was male, but not familiar. The Cockney accent was thick, but not quite thick enough for a denizen of the East End.

“Depends on who’s asking.” Merrick eased forward a few more steps. Though a baronet wasn’t technically a lord, he wasn’t about to argue with his informant over his title.

“I ’eard ye might be willing to ’and over some money,” the voice said. “In exchange for some information.”

“I might.” Merrick slipped his pistol out of his pocket and took another step toward the voice, until he finally was able to make out a dark shadow leaning against the back door of the teashop.

“Well, then I
might
know somet’in’ about who’s taking these young girls.” The other man stood to his full height as Merrick approached, which was significantly less than Merrick’s six foot two inches. The more the man talked, the more the accent slipped. An upper servant or middle-class tradesman, most likely, who’d picked Wapping as a meeting ground to mask any clue as to his identity—or to avoid detection from those he was selling out.

“There’s money, if the information is sound.” Merrick trained his revolver on the man’s chest. “Do you know where the girls are?” At least ten shop girls had gone missing from this part of London in the past two weeks—maybe more.

“There’s a warehouse—” The man looked around somewhat frantically. “Did you hear that?”

Merrick shook his head. All he’d sensed were rats. “There’s no one here.” He handed the man one gold sovereign. “There are more of those, if you keep talking.”

“He’s keeping them in a warehouse, a big one what’s supposed t’ be vacant, down by the docks.” The man spoke in a rush, still looking around. “Name on the door says ‘Benson and Sons.’ On Friday, they’re to sail. Budapest, or Calcutta, or some such place where men will pay a load of cash for an English miss.”

“Who’s
he?
” Merrick handed the man another sovereign. It didn’t sound right, but Friday was tomorrow. He didn’t have time to waste worrying about the unlikelihood of what his informant was saying. The poor existed in every country—no place he knew of needed to import its prostitutes.

“I can’t tell you that, milord. He’ll kill me as it is, he finds out—”

Before the man could continue speaking, two incorporeal shadows slipped out of the fog. The stench of death hit Merrick full in the nostrils as one of the shapes coalesced and yanked the smaller man from his side. Another figure solidified in front of Merrick, looming well above his taller-than-average height.

Vampyres!

There was no time for Merrick to call up a spell to hold back the monsters. The vile, bloodsucking fiends were among the few creatures able to sneak up on a Knight. They fed off the blood of humans, and rumor held that they could create more of their kind just with a bite. Thankfully, they generally avoided each other and there was rarely more than one in any given area. Tonight, though, proved the exception to the rule. Had there only been one, Merrick could have handled it easily enough, but two would be taxing his abilities. His stomach roiled against the stench, but he controlled it. Dropping his pistol, he yanked his sword-stick out of his belt and spun on the one attacking him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other, smaller creature rip out the informant’s throat with one swipe of its foul claws.

Damn, so much for further information from that source.

His swordstick wasn’t steel. At the click of a button on the handle, the case fell away, exposing a gleaming length of kiln-hardened ebony. The edge wasn’t sharp, but the point would pierce as well as the best epee. For some reason, organic materials like wood worked better on vampyres than metal, though Order scientists had never figured out why. Merrick used the side of the stake to parry a strike from the monster’s filthy talons, then stabbed into the creature’s chest. It kept moving, meaning he’d missed the heart, just as he saw the other vampyre lunge toward him.

“Shite!” Merrick was in trouble and he knew it. He kicked the first fiend in the chest, sending it reeling backward against a building, just in time for him to stab the shorter one in the throat. Foul black blood sprayed out, but it was just a flesh wound for one of the undead. Merrick struck again, this time piercing its chest, the tempered wood sliding easily between its ribs.

The bigger vampyre moved closer again, but just before it struck, another shape barreled out of the darkness and sent it flying across the alley. The thud of the creature striking the building on the far side of the alley rang in Merrick’s ears, along with the clatter of footsteps. He couldn’t see what had attacked, but right now he was damned glad it had.

“Good boy, George,” a lilting female voice called. “Hold.”

Merrick pulled his weapon from the smaller vampyre, and sent a hard kick right to the monster’s groin. Human or not, that always hurt. While the creature was caught off guard, another figure appeared behind it, slicing at its neck with what looked like an old cavalry saber, except that it glittered silver, even in the almost nonexistent light. More blood sprayed, and when the vampyre turned its head to see the new threat, Merrick skewered it again, this time finding its moldering black heart. The fiend collapsed in a heap, then began to slowly dissolve to ash.

It had been an old one, Merrick noted. Once they were destroyed, vampyres only decayed as much as their corpse would have if left to decompose naturally from the moment of death. A freshly turned revenant left a perfectly intact body. This one had been hunting for decades or more to disintegrate so completely.

He moved across the alley to the other one, just in time to see the glint of another silvery blade as it slashed down, severing the monster’s head from its neck. Thick, inky blood fountained before the head rolled across the alley, beginning to rot. This was a newer undead—it didn’t turn to dust, just dissolved into putrid, malodorous flesh.

“Be’eading kills them as well as a stick.” That same feminine voice spoke in the local cant, and Merrick realized this combatant was a young woman—probably not more than a girl. Merrick caught a glimpse of copper hair gleaming from under her cap as she straightened, her hand resting on the head of a large canine automaton.