Table of Contents

- Dedication

- Chapter One

- Chapter Two

- Chapter Three

- Chapter Four

- Chapter Five

- Chapter Six

- About the Author

There are more elusive things than water in this wasteland.

Now that a monstrous London machine has stolen the clouds from the sky, Asher Connor survives by selling his mercenary skills to transport water across York’s wasted moorland. Until his unit is attacked by a pack of Tamer-controlled wolves, and his ingenious mechanical arm fails.

He awakens, surprised to find he’s still alive—and dependent on a charming, attractive, utterly infuriating desert-dweller. The copper-eyed, untamed Gabriel is Asher’s only hope. At least until he reaches a technician who can repair his arm. Reluctant trust turns to desire in the wake of another Tamer attack, and the adrenaline rush locks them in a bond of wildfire lust.

Yet despite Gabriel's deceptively relaxed attitude, he is dangerously focused. When they get to London, Asher manages to work out only part of the reason. His lover is connected to some kind of underground movement that’s got something big in the works. So big, even quick-with-a-comeback Gabriel is maddeningly tight-lipped.

When betrayal brings the plan crashing down, Asher is plunged into a battle that wasn’t his to fight—and if he doesn’t execute the final stage, Gabriel’s blood could be on his hands.

Warning: This title contains hot mansex, mild but manly swearing, jealousy possibly leading to yet more hot mansex, ancestral rituals, frightening flying machines, clockwork owls, inopportune admirers and the complicity of odd scientists.

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They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

Macon GA 31201

The Mercenary

Copyright © 2011 by Cornelia Grey

ISBN: 978-1-60928-120-5

Edited by Anne Scott

Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: March 2011

www.samhainpublishing.com

The Mercenary

Cornelia Grey

Dedication

To Steph Reid.

Chapter One

Life as a mercenary was something a man could get used to.

The water tank rolled slowly on, and Asher Connor trailed behind it, sheltering his eyes against the blazing sun. The scorching wastelands of the York territory stretched into the distance, swept by dry winds that carried too much sand and dirt. Asher lowered his head and spat. At times, he believed no amount of water would be enough to wash the dust out of his throat.

It took an alarmingly short time to grow accustomed to it. He did not remember what it felt like to have the gears in his arm work smoothly, free of the stone grains which clung to the oiled junctures, sneaking in each and every fissure. Every night Asher cursed as he tried to pry the dirt from the rapidly deteriorating brass mechanism. It would not do to dismantle it in the middle of the desert. He could only hope that the painstaking cleaning would keep it functional until he set foot in a decent-sized city, where he may find a Technician.

But then again, it was part of the deal. Two water tanks, four hundred miles to go, twenty sovereigns—all in exchange for one’s time, one’s strength and one’s gun. And, sometimes—one’s limbs. The clump of brass bolted to Asher’s scapula felt familiar, by now. The muscles in his back had grown stronger, and the limb had become less of a straining weight, threatening to rip his ragged flesh to shreds for good, and more of an actual, functional arm. As long as it didn’t claim one’s life—it was a passable existence.

Except, of course—sometimes it went wrong.

Asher was woken by screams and gunshots to find huge, claw-equipped shadows pouring out of the night. He scrambled to his feet and trained his gun at the whirling darkness, blinded by a splatter of somebody’s blood landing across his face. It was fast, dirty and brutal—his comrades were screaming and Asher screamed too, trying to aim, bringing down one, two of the broad shapes of the enemies.

His gun clicked empty as he found himself staring straight in the eyeballs of a snarling gray wolf, its bloodied teeth gleaming. A golden rod poked out from behind its head. Asher cursed, throwing his gun down. He jumped, hand stretched toward the rod, as the wolf lurched forward—and all Asher could do was raise his unnatural limb to try and shelter his chest from the impact. The world shifted and tumbled and flickered out of focus, and he was barely left the time to think, What a lousy death.

Then again—it was part of the deal.

The first thought that swam through Asher’s head, emerging from a pool of heavy darkness residing somewhere in his nape, was that too many things hurt. The consideration that he was seemingly still alive came floating upward a few, long seconds later; relief was later still.

Opening his eyes was, at the present moment, just beyond the realm of possibilities.

“Damn. This place is a shambles,” a voice muttered, some five yards to his side. Asher did not react. Slowly, he relaxed his muscles. Pretending to be one of the corpses was always wise.

It appeared he did not succeed—the steps drew near, until the tip of a boot nudged his thigh, then kicked him square in the chest. Whatever dust and debris had accumulated in his lungs was set free, and Asher broke in a dry, ragged cough, his bronchi spasming in painful contractions. He curled on his side, grasping blindly in search of a weapon, his eyes plastered with mucus and soil. He could hear the stranger take a step back, laughing.

“Hey. It seems we have a survivor—calm down, man. I’m not interested in taking your life.”

The convulsing cough finally subsided. Asher brought a hand to his face, wiping dirt from his eyelids. He hazarded a blink, then another—the shape of a slim man delineated against the sunlight. As his sight regained depth and perspective, he could see a horse standing in patient wait a few steps farther back. The man’s torso and head were loosely wrapped in a ragged red cloth, protecting him from the sun. His face was hidden in faint shadow. Asher could make out the white flash of a smile.

“Congratulations. You’re alive,” the man said. Asher repressed a groan and promptly decided he disliked the guy. He struggled to prop himself up on one elbow, and his body did not respond quite right—something was off with his brass arm. He tried to bend it at the elbow, testing the way the mechanical hand braced on the soil. The clogs whined and clunked, moving in irregular jerks. His balance was precarious at best but his bones and muscles, though sore, appeared to be intact.

The water tanks, Asher noticed without surprise, were gone. The stranger turned his back to him and wandered off, shifting expertly through the bodies and shredded equipment that littered the ground. He paused to prod at a prone figure, then bent to retrieve something from it—Asher was quick to catch the leather flask that was thrown his way. He ripped the top off with his teeth and wasted no time in pouring the lukewarm liquid down his throat. It tasted like mud, but gods, it felt good. He downed half of it before he could pry the leather from his lips, gasping. His head felt clearer, water seeping through his body like the most expensive medicine. He raised his eyes to the stranger, who had slung across his shoulder a rifle and somebody’s satchels, and was now waiting with his arms crossed, a crooked grin on his lips.

“I am headed northwest, toward Windermere,” he said. “If you can get up and walk, you are free to follow me. Otherwise, all I can do for you is hand you this rifle and bid you good fortune.”

Asher ogled him with carefully contained suspicion. Brown locks fell over large, copper-colored eyes, which glinted, amused in the sunlight. He wore leather vambraces and an intricate belt fastened across his abdomen. He was young, likely younger than Asher. No wise man would extend such an invitation to a stranded mercenary. His movements were smooth and sure: Asher could read in his body the elastic strength that came from nerves and reflexes rather than rough muscle mass.

Asher considered his own pained body, whose injuries and aches he was slowly and systematically cataloguing, and decided he might as well take advantage of this small favor fate had offered him.

He hauled himself to his feet. The artificial joint in his shoulder pulled viciously at his tired muscles and his head was pounding, but he could hold his balance. He tested with caution his legs, his back. He expanded his lungs, careful for telltale pains which would indicate fractured ribs. There were none. Dried blood encrusted his face, and the brass limb hung at a sinister angle. Repairing it would be hell, but it seemed no essential parts were missing, at least. Asher scanned the ground for his weapon and settled on stealing a shotgun from the clenched hand of one of his ex-comrades. He had to break the man’s fingers to free it. He tipped his head in silent acknowledgement and thrust the weapon in his harness.

When he stepped forward, his foot collided with a metallic object. Asher recognized the golden device he’d seen wedged in the wolf’s neck. It was the mark borne by the animals belonging to the Tamers, the moorlands people. They had learned to control the will of living creatures from a distance, through a device that, it was said, could deflect orders through the air, making them bounce from one golden receiver to another. They could control animals with it, turning them into slaves who would carry out their deeds as brainless puppets. It seemed Asher had, after all, succeeded in ripping the device off before being struck down. He had no doubt that was the reason he was still breathing.

When he raised his eyes, the stranger was staring at him with his head cocked to the side. He had seen the device. His amusement had faded to a friendly spark in his serious gaze.

“Well.” His voice uncurled in slow bass volutes through the dry air. “Isn’t this your lucky day.”

“You’re quite the character, stranger. I was not expecting promises of undying faith and devotion till your debt be repaid, but at least a thank-you. A nod. An acknowledgement of my existence. Hell, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re deaf, or stupid. Maybe both…”

Asher uttered a noncommittal grunt. The man had been babbling since they’d left the ruins of the camp, his cheerful tone sinking sharp talons in Asher’s throbbing head. He was not fond of chatter on his best days—at the present moment, the kid was lucky he felt way too exhausted to bother punching his mouth shut. So he kept ignoring the one-sided conversation, busy twisting the junctures of his unnatural arm to test their condition. The damage was consistent: the elbow would not bend more than forty-five degrees, the wrist was too limp. The arm would begin the movements Asher commanded it, yet would abort them midway in a convulsive jerk or else remain altogether stuck. Major damage must have occurred in the organic polymer sensorial threads that connected to Asher’s nervous system. A fair price to pay in exchange for one’s life, yet an utter pain in the ass nonetheless.

Asher groaned and abandoned his attempts. He could feel the stranger’s eyes, careful and limpid, weighing his posture.

“My town still has a Technician. His equipment is limited, of course, and he is perhaps…slightly unorthodox, but I reckon he may be able to help with that arm of yours,” the kid said. Asher could not quite repress a swell of relief. He doubted he’d be able to safely make his way back to the capital one-armed. Despite his threatening stance, there were always fools wishing to try their luck.

They progressed slowly. Asher dragged his left leg as discreetly as possible, determined not to lag behind. The stranger had dismounted and was now quietly walking beside his horse, his steps light and just a fraction too unhurried. Asher pretended not to notice, and the stranger did not remark on it. The horse proceeded meekly, seeming pleased with the slow pace. Its legs were hidden up to above the knee by thin brass plates, carefully joined so as to cover as much skin as possible without hindering the animal’s movements—a precaution against the many creatures which would sprout out of the sand, attracted by movement and blood, to bite blindly at the biggest living thing in sight. Asher had seen many a man gain nasty gashes on their calves for their carelessness, and even more horses shot down because of an ignorant owner.

“My name is Gabriel,” the stranger said, suddenly. When Asher glanced in his direction, the man was still staring peacefully at the sand that stretched before them and did not seem to expect a reply. “We may be able to find you a horse soon enough,” he added, letting his head drop back to stare intently at the sky. “I doubt we’ll be the only ones seeking shelter.”

“Shelter? What are you—” Asher, despite himself, cast a quick look upward. The sun shone bright and cool—rust-colored soil particles hovered in the distance, ragged and utterly inconsistent. He shook his head, unconvinced. “How do you know it’s coming?”

The stranger, apparently satisfied with his observations, tucked his hand under his red shawl and brought out a rounded metallic object, roughly the size of his palm.

“This told me.” He snapped the device open. It unfolded neatly in two hemispheres, joined by arches of metallic thread. Immediately, spheres of different size and color—made of different minerals—began to slide slowly across the threads, wobbling backward and then hitching forward again, until each reached its unfathomable disposition and settled in a vibrating stasis. Asher snorted.

“Abracadabra crap,” he sneered. He did not trust the bizarre inventions that the Technicians scattered in the moors generated. They were just palliative toys for the thrumming desperation of people who had lost too much, and had reverted to superstition to try and shelter their minds from the onslaught of it.

The stranger just stared at him above the quivering spheres, before carefully folding back the mechanism. “Maybe. Yet I tell you a storm will come in one hour and a half. I will head to a shelter, and I invite you to follow my lead. Of course,” he added, the mischievous glint spiking up again in his eyes, “you are free to proceed alone, if you choose.”

Asher squinted against the sunlight to try to stare the man down. If the grin on the other’s lips was any indicator, he doubted he was very successful.

“I may as well indulge you,” he said, eventually. His voice sounded a little deeper than usual. “Some rest will be welcome, in any case.”

The stranger, wisely enough, did not reply. If Asher ignored the smug grin curling the man’s lips, he could almost convince himself he had no reason to be pissed off. At all.

Asher let his gaze rake across the darkened landscape that spread beyond the thick, dusty pane of the window. Soil and gravel pelted restlessly against the glass. They’d been lucky. They had reached the abandoned farmhouse minutes before the storm unleashed, thanks to Gabriel’s directions.

When he turned around, the stranger was staring at him, expectantly.

“It appears you were right,” Asher said. There was nothing wrong with admitting it, it was all in doing so with dignity. It did not prove anything in favor of the mysterious instrument. Such storms were frequent on the moors, the dried soil snatched up and hurled wildly by the strong magnetic winds that crisscrossed unseen and unpredictable on the island. Any guess stood good chances of proving exact. “I still maintain that your instrument is nothing more than a plaything for the superstitious.”

Gabriel shrugged, the hint of a smile gleaming in the shadow of the room. “You are free to believe whatever you want. I mean, despite the fact that the abracadabra crap has just saved your life.”

Asher leaned his good arm on the wooden windowsill and glared at the whirling debris, making a point of not turning around. He listened to the soft sounds of folding fabric, the warm creaking of leather. A dull thump suggested to him that the stranger had settled down for a more comfortable wait.

“You may as well stop staring. We will not be able to leave until tomorrow’s sunrise, at best.” Gabriel’s voice sounded vaguely amused as it unfolded in the dusty room. Asher wondered if it was supposed to be that irritating.

He debated briefly with himself before casting a sideways glance at his companion. “I’d rather keep watch. As you so brilliantly pointed out, we won’t be the only ones heading for a refuge.”

Gabriel sat cross-legged, leaning against the thick stone wall. He’d brought his hair over his shoulder and was almost done rebraiding it. “I am counting on that. We must hasten our steps, and you’ll need a horse if you plan to keep up.” He tied the end of his braid with a leather string, tightening it securely with his teeth.

“You are free to proceed alone,” Asher commented, wincing at the hint of petulance he heard in his tone. The stranger had the nerve to roll his eyes at him, before shooting him another radiant smile.

“I am not about to abandon a man in these wastelands,” he said, his tone much warmer than his words. “Besides, I don’t entirely dislike you.”

Asher resisted the urge to clear his throat, and averted his eyes. And just what the hell was he supposed to do with that, he wondered, as Gabriel adjusted himself more comfortably against the wall, hands folded in his lap and braid resting thick on his chest. Silence settled with smooth ease, and Gabriel greeted it with a dim, knowing smile.

The faint, unmistakable sound of steps crept between the sloshing of gravel. Asher’s senses awakened at once. He raised his hand to alert his companion and waited, listening keenly. Gabriel tensed, every muscle taut, ready to jolt upright. He seemed to scan his own perceptions, and apparently found nothing, for he asked “What?” in hushed tones.

Asher did not reply, engrossed. That was when the horse felt it too. It shifted, uneasy, snorting in discomfort. In a moment Gabriel was on his feet, one hand placed soothingly on the horse’s muzzle, the other tucked under his cloak, no doubt resting on whatever weapon he carried. His eyes met Asher’s, cool and bright with the reflection of quick, calculating thoughts.

When the distressed whine of a horse filtered through the patter of gravel and stones outside, Asher crouched beside the window, out of sight, craning his neck to peek out. Gabriel mirrored his position on the other side, back against the wall, his eyes quick as they scanned the courtyard. Soon, the dark shapes of two horses appeared in the dust, swiftly followed by two smaller figures.

As the intruders approached a half-crumbled barn, perhaps intending to shelter the horses there, the crackling wind fell for a few instants, allowing Asher to see them with clarity. Their heads and limbs were tightly wrapped in bandages the color of soot. Large rounded goggles protruded from the wrappings, similar to the oversized eyeballs of a monstrous insect, their darkened lenses hiding the men’s eyes from sight. There were no holes at the height of nose or mouth. Both men wore around their necks thick golden pipes, bifurcated on their chests in devices which were smaller-scaled replicas of the one Asher had so fortuitously ripped off the wolf. The same device, twice as big, was securely fastened around the horses’ necks.

Gabriel moved, joining Asher’s side to look from a better angle.

“Tamers. I have fought them before,” Asher murmured, leaning forward until his nostrils filled with the warm, spiced scent of Gabriel’s hair. “They carry knives hidden under those vests, and magnetic hooks concealed between the bandages. If we leave them time, they will summon help through those—things around their necks.”

Gabriel cocked his head to the side, focusing his gaze on some unspecified detail. His hair brushed against Asher’s cheek.

“They won’t. Their devices can’t work in the storms,” he whispered back. “That’s why they have to stop. They cannot control their horses without those.”

Asher suppressed a surprised gesture. The Tamers’ power had other limits apart from the wasteland’s borders, then. They would be mute and perhaps deafened as well, acutely vulnerable, like nightly creatures abruptly exposed to the sunlight. And, as every frightened predator, they would be twice as ready to attack and twice as aggressive in their struggle.

“We will have to fight them,” Asher said, his fingers reaching to touch the butt of his gun.

Gabriel nodded, quietly. “Yes. We will.” He stepped back, and placed his hand on Asher’s elbow, leading him toward the door. “Come. When they cross the threshold, we’ll be waiting.”

It happened fast.

The half-unhinged door creaked loudly as it was pushed open and a soiled bandaged figure entered the room, the smoked goggle lenses capturing minute glitters of tarnished light. Asher, crouched behind a massive wooden crate, could see the contours of Gabriel’s shape melt in the shadows behind the wooden door, the merest glint revealing his eyes. The first figure stepped inside, scanning the doorways leading out of the hall, and a second, stouter man followed. They were short, their limbs thick and stocky—

—and Gabriel struck, arm shooting out to grab a handful of bandages and haul the man backward. Asher had the time to place one shot and launched himself at the first figure as it staggered, absorbing the impact of the bullet, hands already reaching through the wrappings for weapons. Asher lurched at the man and clasped his chest with the unreliable strength of his brass arm, aiming to crush ribs. A jerk in the mechanism alerted him of an untimely malfunction. The butt of his gun collided with the man’s skull, then smashed one of his lenses—Asher grunted as he felt the pressure of small hooked weights lodging themselves in his side, stopped by the thick leather vest that wrapped his abdomen. He thrust the barrel of his weapon between the bandages on the stranger’s chest and fired, the recoil shooting up his arm to viciously tear at his shoulder. An unmanly howl resounded in the room as the man clawed at him with thick fingers, one reddened eye rolling wildly behind the shattered goggles. At the edge of his vision, Asher could see a swipe of bright red as Gabriel moved swiftly, his cloak thrown to the side to reveal a gleaming blade clutched in his fist.

The man in Asher’s hold struggled, and he brought his mechanical hand to seize his throat, clutching tightly. The artifact did not fail him. His adversary’s grip weakened within seconds, a harsh wheezing sound coming from his crushed windpipe. The man crumpled, a bloodied foam gurgling slowly from his mouth, and Asher carelessly threw him aside—just in time to see Gabriel’s opponent fall to the ground in a gush of blood, his throat neatly sliced open by Gabriel’s dagger. Gabriel stood, chest heaving, his face and arms splattered crimson with foreign blood. A gash crossed his biceps where one of the hooks had found hold; he stared back at Asher, his eyes blown wide, the hunger of the hunt apparently not yet satisfied.

“You’re good, stranger,” he said, voice strained. He did not move to wipe the blood off his face, did not lower the knife. A somewhat manic grin ghosted his lips, mirrored in his wild eyes. Asher found himself smirking back.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” he replied. Abruptly, the strength of the blood bond they now shared lodged itself in his chest—the brotherhood of killers, the only attachment he’d known in far too many years—and he added, “Call me Asher.”

“Asher,” Gabriel repeated, breathless still. Asher could not suppress the shiver that raked his body, ensnared by the way his name sounded on those full lips. Gabriel looked at him with near-scorching intensity, distant thunderbolts rumbling deep behind his irises. His eyes had darkened to a deep shade of auburn. And then—then he said:

“Fuck me.”

Asher’s mouth went dry. He hesitated, suddenly all too aware of his own body—the heightened awareness that came only from the thrill of a fight, the rush of a kill—blistering energy thrumming in his veins, the heady rush of adrenaline-like stoked embers at the core of his brain. “More could come,” he rasped, his voice suddenly rough. His throat felt tight.

Gabriel’s eyes gleamed dangerously in his blood-spattered face. “Shut up,” he all but growled, an untamed grin curling his lips upward in the most infuriating, enticing of ways. He fixed his eyes on Asher’s as he discarded his cloak and shrugged out of his harness. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned his tattered waistcoat and crumpled it in his hand, throwing it to the floor. He was left in a thin button shirt—its sleeves rolled up to reveal the soft crook of his elbows, the hint of strong biceps.

“Fuck me,” he repeated, his mouth a slow sin. His face was sharp and beautiful, pale skin a stark contrast with the dark bloodstains, his eyes smoldering embers staring at Asher from under his tousled locks, provocative, near damn intoxicating—

And Asher was yanking off his own coat, unfastening the thick leather protections that covered his chest. He stripped to a rough cotton shirt that stretched over his muscles, a sleeve ripped to reveal the brass gleam of his arm, a threatening confession in the half-darkness of the room. He grabbed Gabriel’s wrist, gracelessly dragging him close—their mouths clashed together, tongues exploring each other, teeth bared to sink in chapped lips, hot and messy and filthy of all the promises Gabriel’s half-lidded eyes seemed to bear. Asher’s fingers caught in thin fabric as they searched for warm skin—he ripped his hand free and impatiently slid it down the small of Gabriel’s back, past the loose edge of his trousers. His middle and index fingers tucked with ease in the warm crevice between Gabriel’s buttocks, thumb pressing a dimple in the soft flesh of a cheek. Gabriel licked Asher’s lips open and moaned in his mouth, wet and demanding, his taste a cinnamon wildfire seeping into Asher’s bloodstream, sizzling up his nerves to claim his brain, reaching down to his groin—

Gabriel groaned, half in pain, half in fervent lust—a hint of manic laughter twinkling in his eyes as he landed heavily on the crate, his arms not quite fast enough to prevent his chest from smacking against the hard wood. He braced himself with one arm and fumbled one handed with the fastening of his trousers as Asher held him down. The cold weight of the brass arm anchored him firmly as Asher all but wrenched his own garments open. Gabriel’s flesh was firm under his hand, sharp hipbone pressing against his palm as he traced his side, pushing obstructive fabric out of the way before finding a hold—his tanned knuckles a stark contrast where he grasped Gabriel’s fair skin.

Spit was all he had, hard to gather through the sudden dryness of his throat, and it wasn’t quite enough—Gabriel was tight, far too tight where he clenched around his fingers. Yet he moaned, using the leverage of his arms to push himself back, inciting Asher’s movements with small, ragged sounds that told him don’t you dare stop, laced in wordless threats. Asher wasn’t sure he’d manage to in any case, the warm body spread beneath him a much greater temptation than he could resist. He guided himself, slow burning hunger mounting with each of Gabriel’s pleas—it was three attempts before he felt Gabriel’s tight muscles yield to his flesh, allowing him inside. He stroked the soft skin of Gabriel’s hip with his thumb as he heard his ragged moan, the only comforting gesture he could muster, his brain burnt to near ashes by a breathtaking wave of need.

And it was the hot, heady clasp of flesh, muscles rippling and releasing in a stuttering rhythm that grew stronger at each beat, Gabriel’s pale skin vulnerable under his touch, Gabriel’s gasps and moans and strained murmurs. Asher could see the tension build in Gabriel’s shoulders, the taut muscles in his back, the ring of muscle obscenely stretched around his cock, and God—he leaned forward, hand braced on Gabriel’s nape, holding him down, his cold brass hand clutching Gabriel’s hip. It was too hard, he reckoned somewhere in the turmoil of his deep-sea thoughts, bound to leave bruises in its wake. And Gabriel, Gabriel, strong and demanding under his hands, writhing and pressing back against him, his muscles tense and vibrant with unrequited energy, sharp and breathless as he commanded, “Harder,” and “There,” and “Don’t stop, God—don’t stop.”

Then a limpid moment, as Gabriel’s head snapped back, his eyes closed, braid askew on his shoulder—Gabriel’s voice, crystalline for an instant through the scalding air as he rode his release on Asher’s cock, as he came undone with a ripe moan on his lips, a God shattered in luminous fragments—and Asher was lost, each shard seeping into his eyes and burning him utterly. He thrust deep into Gabriel, his whole body screaming for release, once more, once again, and he was lost, lost—

Chapter Two

An opaque sun grazed the soil, its dense reflection spreading with dusty ease through low stagnating clouds. Asher clicked his tongue, correcting his recently acquired horse from an interested stray toward a patch of thick heather. The animal huffed and walked back on track, its hooves loud as it stepped on the scattered rocks. It had taken a good hour to calm it down and rein it in after they’d removed the Tamer’s device from its neck. Gabriel had a real gift for dealing with animals. If it hadn’t been for him, Asher had the sneaking suspicion he’d still be chasing the horse around the farmhouse.

Reins loosely held in his good hand, Asher clumsily adjusted to the movements of the horse, the unfamiliar workmanship of the saddle poking him uncomfortably. His sore body struggled to acquaint itself with the unusual strain. His artificial arm hung limply from him as an aching weight, nailed into his flesh in bright burning hues; it would be a long ride.

Gabriel rode before him, red cloth haphazardly lowered onto his shoulders, his braid dangling on his back in a quiet bronze sheen. Asher had seen how he’d wiped the blood from his face with his cloak: the choice of its color made, suddenly, a new chilling kind of sense. Unthinking, Asher had reached to thumb away one stray crimson smudge that still stained Gabriel’s high cheekbone. Gabriel’s eyes had followed his movements with careful grace as Asher froze midmotion and pulled back too hastily.

Gabriel’s smile had bloomed slowly, and he’d said, “I’ll go check the horses,” his voice like a pat on the shoulder. By the time he’d returned, Asher had been seated, his back propped up against the cold walls. His exhausted body had taken control; his conscience had soon faded in a deep slumber, accompanied by the soft sounds of Gabriel settling for the night.

The following morning, conversation had been scarce. They rode quietly. Asher was grateful.

It would be significantly hard to make small talk, Asher mused, when all he seemed to be able to focus on was how the very fine arse shifting on the saddle a few steps in front of him had been under his hands a mere few hours before. It was near impossible to focus when he couldn’t seem to eradicate from his mind the image of rounded, naked flesh, streaked with a pale line of come—his come, that trickled along a muscular thigh. He pictured the bruises that were no doubt blooming where he’d clutched Gabriel’s hips too hard, pale skin darkening in a palpable, although temporary, mark of his possession.

Gabriel’s lithe body was suddenly too far away for Asher’s liking. Unable to avert his eyes, he found himself wondering if Gabriel’s flesh was still stained by him. If, perhaps, his semen still lingered in a cooling line on Gabriel’s tender skin… Fervent warmth crept through his nerves at the thought, and he shook his head.

It would be a long ride, indeed.

Windermere was a skeleton town. Thirst had gnawed at its flesh, decimating livestock and citizens alike. It had dehydrated the city’s body until a mere thin layer of skin remained to cover its bones. Asher listened as Gabriel almost casually recounted how the town crawled on as an old, famished beggar, with aching slowness and painful uncertainty.

It was a familiar scenario. After the moorlands had dried out, whole flocks of sheep had died of thirst. Those that by some fortunate coincidence had not, had slowly starved as grass crumbled to yellow dust. Asher could remember those days, when the hills were littered with carcasses mummified by the cold wind, when the people abandoned their farmhouses in a bitter exodus toward the South, the capital. They said there was water there. People would believe many things as long as they bore the promise of solace for their dry throats. Asher, little more than a boy, had chosen the sure food and water promised by his trade. He had strong arms, and travelling seemed a better option than being rejected at London’s gates to perish on the road to the sea.

He heard stories, from other mercenaries, from the merchants they crossed paths with in the wastelands. Before long, one horrifying tale had begun to emerge in the underground community, trickling from mouth to mouth, spreading across the land like a dark gangrene. The tale of a monstrous machine that had the power to steal the clouds from the sky, casting a deadly dry spell on the country—a sinister apparatus hidden in the heart of the capital, where rain seemed to never cease, where sunshine was seldom seen anymore…

Asher followed his companion through the empty streets of Windermere’s outskirts. A layer of impalpable black dust coated the empty barns, the silent cottages. The horses’ hooves smudged uncertain stains on the uneven road. Asher could not see any other trace of human activity. As they neared the core of the town, lonely bleats began to float through the air. The dust seemed thinner, less omnipresent. At the corner of a stout building whose rough bluish tint could still be seen under the dark smudges, Gabriel stopped the horse and shouted a call. A distant bellow answered, and it was not long before the sound of trotting horses announced the arrival of two young men, their heads wrapped in the same red cloth Gabriel owned, their hands heavy with firearms.

“Brothers,” Gabriel greeted, touching his forehead with the tips of his fingers. He dismounted with ease. One of the men joined him, and they clasped each other’s shoulders in salutation. The guard remaining on horseback kept his eyes trained on Asher, considering with evident suspicion his arm and his attire. Asher was not surprised. Mercenaries were seldom heralds of pleasant events for the settlers, and he certainly looked less than friendly.

Gabriel exchanged looks with his fellows. “He is a friend,” he said, pointedly. “He’s in need of Corran’s craftsmanship. Go alert the council of my arrival, and tell them to begin the preparations without hesitating. I shall join you shortly.”

The men bowed their heads in acknowledgement. They lingered before turning their horses and setting toward the town centre, staring with an air of dark menace at Asher. He wondered whether he should pretend to be impressed. He settled on yawning in brazen boredom as he stared lazily back and had just the presence of mind to withhold an amused smile. He could tell from their expression that they were not happy with his reaction, and could not bring himself to care for their chipped egos. He could also tell, from the grin Gabriel shot him, that he could read his thoughts quite clearly. He allowed himself to grin back, rewarded by Gabriel’s affectionate laugh.

“You should not attract their hostility,” he said in gentle reproach, his eyes still glittering with laughter. “They dislike you enough as it is.”

Asher smirked. “I am rather used to people not liking me. I think I’ll survive.”

“I’m not worried about your feelings.” Gabriel patted his horse’s muzzle before swiftly climbing back onto the saddle. “It would be a shame to die as boring a death as catching a knife in the back after surviving all sorts of perils in the desert.”

It was such a foolish hypothesis that Asher did not consider it worth more than an outraged snort. If it had the effect of making Gabriel laugh again—it was a pleasant bonus.

They rode in silence for a few yards. Faces began to appear, pale and drawn, behind small windows. A boy peeked round the corner of a house, hooted, and ran across the road to disappear in a dirty alley. Asher surveyed the place, memorizing the streets, taking in the low limestone houses that seemed crushed by some ungodly weight, the soft sounds of men carrying on with their lives. At the corner of his vision, he could see Gabriel’s expression grow serious, all mirth fleeing his features. He did not turn to openly stare.

“It was unwise of you to show me your hometown,” he said eventually, his voice low. “There are animals. You obviously have water. I could come back in six months, in a year, with a handful of men and take over the place. It would be easy.” He omitted the fact that he wouldn’t do that. Someone ought to teach the kid prudence. It was not wise to rescue stranded mercenaries and just lead them to a place that still had much to lose, much that would be worth stealing. And that was but one among the several unwise things to do with stranded mercenaries. Another would be, for instance—

Asher shook his head, clearing the heated pictures that already fluttered to cloud his judgment. He trained his eyes on the tattered skyline, uneven bricks and dust against a pale gray sky. Still, he could perceive the weight of Gabriel’s gaze on his face.

When Gabriel spoke, it was easy to hear the hint of a smile in his voice. “You could try,” he said, light and good natured. “You would find a few unpleasant surprises waiting—not that you’d live to ponder the fact. Come on, stranger.” He leaned forward on his stirrups to pat his hand on Asher’s metallic shoulder, as if the man had not just threatened to ransack his hometown. “Let’s see if Corran can do something for your piece. I’ll lead you to the lab.”

The Technician’s lair was a rickety hangar, awkwardly crouched in the hollow that had once been filled by a lake. As the grayish gravel crunched under his boots, Asher squinted toward a dim reflection in the distance, the telltale sharp flash of sun on metal. A wooden barrier had been erected to shelter something from sight, the planks solidly bound together by thick, polished brass bands. Armed guards hovered at irregular intervals, trying to be inconspicuous, yet all too evident to Asher’s careful gaze. He understood now how the town had managed to survive—the lake, though shrunk in size, must still exist. He wondered why no such information had ever infiltrated the network of rumors of the land. Water was worth much more than gold, and many a man would be tempted to sell the city’s secret to an unscrupulous patron.

Unless of course, Asher considered, no one possessing such information was allowed to leave. He forced his gaze toward the entrance of the hangar, and was very careful to keep his expression unchanged. Gabriel had preceded him and was pushing the thick wooden door open, blissfully unaware. Asher lowered his eyelids for a long instant and repressed a sigh.

A thick stench of smoke hit him, plastering itself to his face and nostrils as a hot wet blanket, as soon as he crossed the threshold. Wooden walls were bent at unstable-looking angles, almost entirely covered by a variety of rags and mechanical waste. The corrugated roof hung precariously a good ten feet from the ground. Asher could see a second level, its floor supported by an awkward crisscross of iron bars and pipes. A thick tin ladder was bolted to heavy brass hinges that kept it anchored in place. Unlikely instruments dangled from hooks and chains, gleaming metal reflexes almost drowned by rust and tarnish. Oversized forceps, long thin iron picks, hooks, beveled blades—Asher raised one eyebrow as he surveyed the array. It did not inspire any confidence.

“Hey,” he said, his good hand planted on his hip. “Are you sure this will help?”

Gabriel just smirked. “You ought to trust my judgment on this. Corran is—well. You’ll see.”

He whistled loudly. Within seconds, a harsh voice shouted unintelligible abuse, and soon the ladder creaked as a figure climbed clumsily down. The shadows were dimly lit by the fire of a blacksmith’s brazier, burning lazily. Smaller flames fluttered on tables and in corners, each pinpointing the position of a sinister instrument or a warm suspicious concoction. The same light outlined the shape of a stout dwarf, his broad shoulders and naked arms thick with powerful muscles. He stepped forward, his eyes unreadable behind protruding glasses that sprouted forward in intricacies of brass, switches and differently sized lenses. His face was contorted in a hostile grimace as he fidgeted with the device, adjusting the combination of the spectacles. When he finally set his gaze on Gabriel, his features distended in crooked welcome, lips parting in a toothless grin.

“By Jove, lad,” he said, his voice thick and smoky. “Glad to see you made it. Barely on time, are we? The council must have shat in their pants, must’ve. You know what a big deal it is for them.”

Gabriel’s laugh shone even brighter in the gloomy shed. “I think you may well be right, Corran. I’m afraid my visit will have to be quite hasty—I’d better report to them before someone pops a vein. Here.” He placed his hand on Asher’s shoulder. “Meet Asher. I picked him up stranded on the moors. As you can see—”

But Corran’s eyes had already been captivated by the gleaming mechanism hanging from Asher’s shoulder. Deaf to Gabriel’s words, he trotted to Asher’s side and leaned to study the arm closely, adjusting his spectacles, his attention completely ensnared.

“Interestin’. Very interestin’,” he muttered. Without waiting for permission, he grabbed the forearm and tested the elbow juncture, examining its responses. Asher stiffened. He did not like being manhandled. It was only Gabriel’s touch—a brief squeeze on his shoulder, warm and soothing—that kept him from abruptly pulling back.

“That’s badly battered up, it is,” Corran said eventually, stepping back and crossing his arms on his broad chest. “Do you have any function left? Yes? Interestin’. Fine piece of machinery you got—the capital’s scientists, yes? I thought so. But be assured, that elbow won’t hold for much longer. I’d bet my arse there’s also damage to the organic wires, I’d bet.”

“Do you reckon you might be able to fix it?”

“Course I do, my lad. I won’t be able to work no miracles, you understan’, but something can be done. Leave it to ol’ Corran,” he said, grabbing a dirty rag from the worktable and wiping his hands, an expectant twinkle in his eyes.

Gabriel smiled. “Thanks, man. I’ll leave him in your capable hands, then. I believe the council are…quite eager to see me. Is that fine with you?” he added, turning toward Asher, who just nodded. “I will try and come around later.”

Corran snorted a crooked laugh. “You do that. Don’t let ’em bust your arse too bad.”

“I shall surely do my best, sir,” Gabriel replied, bowing jokingly before he clasped arms with the Technician in a friendly gesture. He tipped his head at Asher and walked out, braid swinging slow as a restless floating memory. He did not look back, and the door closed behind him with a heavy clunk. Asher forcibly ignored the foolish tug of loss that fluttered inside his chest, squashing it like a moth.

The Technician was staring at him with scientific impartiality, weighing his posture and expression—apparently busy evaluating whether to like him or not. It seemed he settled on the former, for his charred features stretched in an amicable grin, and he gestured toward a stout stool placed beside one of the tables. “Have a seat already, fellow. Let’s see what we can do with that contraption of yours.”

It turned out the organic wires connected to Asher’s shoulder, damaged by the clash with the beast and further exacerbated by the following struggles, had grown inflamed. A nasty infection had seized his flesh and burned like vitriol where the artificial limb joined his tired body. The Technician had obviously taken him in sympathy, for he offered Asher a tattered cot in one of the smaller rooms to rest and recover. The bed was small and creaked like a dying bird, tucked among heaps of rusty hooks—varying in size from an inch to an actual anchor, lodged in a corner—yet more than welcome after weeks spent sleeping on cloth and soil.

Asher floated in a pained vacuum for an undefined amount of hours. At times, he could perceive the sting of a needle, and he believed he could see Corran’s stout shape fiddle with long, thin instruments somewhere around his shoulder. Once, he thought he could make out Gabriel’s face, hovering among the cold gaslights, a tired smile on his lips.

“It’s going to stop hurting soon,” he said, his voice almost too distant for Asher to grasp. Cool fingers soothed his heated forehead, Gabriel’s hand resting lightly on his skin. “Sleep, stranger.” Asher tried to reach up and grasp Gabriel’s wrist, intending to prevent him from leaving. He wasn’t sure he managed.

The world refused to stop wobbling. Asher slept.

Returning to consciousness was akin to resurfacing from deep, opaque waters.

Asher heaved himself up, his aching body protesting the simple action of remaining seated. His throat was dry and an uncommon weakness entwined with his muscles like thin, invasive ivy. Yet his head was clear, and his blasted shoulder had, apparently, ceased its rebellion.

“Ah, fellow. I’m glad to see you awake at last.” Corran’s rough voice came from the doorway, where he stood carrying an armful of sharp-looking instruments.

Asher just nodded, trying to collect some moisture in his mouth. “Gabriel?” he croaked, his throat protesting from the long disuse. He thought he could see Corran’s features contort in a knowing smirk.

“He sends his regards. He is as fit as a fiddle, indeed, although quite busy. But come,” he said, cocking his head toward the laboratory. “If you can stand. There’s some food waiting, and I shall tell you more.”

Asher, still unstable on his legs, made his way to the workshop. He sat at one of the cluttered tables, skin warmed by the ever-roaring furnace, gratefully wolfing a large bowl of steamy soup as the dwarf busied himself around his arm. He’d already opened the biceps’ compartment to reach inside and repair the sensory fibers, he explained, and was now busy reconstructing the shattered gears in the elbow that had apparently absorbed most of the impact.

Asher put down his spoon, sated, and brushed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Corran,” he said, slowly, careful not to startle the man as he continued his delicate work. “If you don’t mind me inquiring…”

“Not at all,” Corran replied, his eyes never leaving his work, hands steady as they tweaked Asher’s elbow. “You’ve been out of sorts for over two days, so you have missed all the pandemonium. It’s lucky you came to your senses this fine morning—I trust you’ll be fit enough to assist, tonight.”

“What will happen tonight?” Asher asked, resting his good arm on the table.

“It’s the kismet ritual, you see. They’ve been tossing the place upside down to organize it. It must happen at a quarter of the rising moon, which you may be pleased to learn is tonight—and our boy was almost late for it. The council were rippin’ their hair out, they were.”

Asher frowned, trying to piece things together. “You mean—Gabriel. Gabriel must take part in the ritual.”

“My fellow, Gabriel is all the ritual is about.” Corran discarded a fractured bolt and rummaged through his scraps to retrieve a new one. “He’ll perform the rite, and he’ll receive the blessings of the council afterward. It’s bound to attract good fortune, you see—for him, and of course the whole rigmarole down in the capital. Hogwash, if you ask me,” he added, with a heavy sigh. “But that’s just how it works, ’round here.”

Asher did not ask. It would not do to indispose the man nosing too much in the town’s business. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly was going on behind those guarded walls, what plans these ragged people could possibly have toward the capital—what secrets and untold stories lay behind Gabriel’s clear eyes.

“There. It’s almost finished,” Corran muttered, poking inside Asher’s arm with his instrument. “It should be functional—for a while. Machinery this complex, you’ll have to travel down to the City if you want it fixed properly. My resources, as you can see…” he gestured vaguely toward his cluttered workspace, “…they are quite limited.”

“Thank you,” Asher said. “Do you reckon it will hold for as long as it will take to get there?”

Corran huffed. “Of course it will,” he said, proudly inflating his chest. “You underestimate my exceptional craftsmanship. Besides.” He turned to retrieve a tiny wielding torch. “You can always hitch a lift from Gabriel. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

Asher tried very hard to keep a straight face. A few hours? For all his ability, Corran was a strange little fellow indeed. Asher did not comment. He liked the man, and offending him was the last thing he desired.

He cleared his throat and circumspectly began: “But tell me, Corran. What’s Gabriel—ouch.” He broke off as Corran accidentally hit a sensitive fiber. “This ritual. What’s Gabriel supposed to do?”

“Ah, our boy. Strapping young lad he is, don’t you think?” Corran said, and Asher could swear the hint of a smirk was back on the man’s lips. “There is no point in me telling you more. You will see for yourself tonight, if you wish. The ritual happens in front of the community. Outsiders are not welcome, but do not worry. I’ll take you with me, and be sure, no one will give you any grief.”

The townsfolk had already filled the broad warehouse, chatting and whispering, when Asher and Corran made their entrance. The crowd parted around them, suspicious eyes trained on Asher’s muscular figure. He could see dark glares sent in his general direction by a small group of men wrapped in red shawls. It was easy to recognize among them the guards that had confronted him and Gabriel upon their arrival in town. He kept his head straight, ignoring them. As Corran had predicted, no one dared to approach them or utter a word as they made their way to a quiet corner—a mere few feet from the large arena of pressed soil that occupied the centre of the building.

A narrow wooden stage was placed directly across it. Six figures sat there in a semicircle. The men’s bodies were thin and hunched, cloaked in dark blue cloths, and their eyes were hidden by thick brass goggles mounted on wide leather straps, poking out from beneath their hoods. White and gray mixed in their unkempt beards, and clawlike hands rested heavily on sharp knees.

“That’s Windermere’s council,” Corran informed him, mild mistrust clearly etched on his face. “They just about had a fit at Gabriel’s delay. I have a sneaky feeling they don’t like you, either. Strangers aren’t very popular around here—especially ones as big as you.”

Asher did not comment, observing the men exchange unintelligible murmurs. A large brazier spread reddish light just below the stage, adding to the dusty light of the gas lamps bolted to the walls. The atmosphere was hot and dry. A hundred mouths devoured oxygen as the people resumed their conversations, their attention once more captured by the imminent events.

One of the council members stood, slowly, and raised one hand. “Brothers,” he called out, his deep voice easily heard over the crowd’s murmurs. “I thank you for your presence. May our thoughts and energy accompany this ceremony—may our desires reach the gods of fate and attract their benevolence. Let us all cry our will out, let us all be heard!”

Shouts filled the cramped environment as the crowd responded enthusiastically, stomping their feet and hooting loudly. The roars grew louder as the blue-cloaked man spread his arms, lifting his face to the old wooden ceiling, utterly solemn. Asher watched, skeptically raising one eyebrow at the display. He was not fond of this sort of superstition.

“Let us be heard! Let us welcome our champion, our brother. Behold!” the man cried, spurring the people on. The noise was deafening now, everyone caught up in hysterical excitement. A door slammed shut. The leader turned sideways, his welcoming arms spread toward the figure that had just stepped out. Asher’s eyes narrowed.

Silence fell over the room, everyone struck dumb as Gabriel made his way in the arena, clad only in a snug pair of trousers and boots. The well-defined planes of his chest were covered in claws of dark ink, sharp lines and curves climbing their way up his body, along his taut muscles. He stood facing the council, arms down his sides, the warm light of the flames ghosting over his skin.

“Brother Gabriel,” another of the elders said, stepping forward. His white beard was streaked in metallic gray, ornate by an assortment of bolts and brass scraps. “The community has gathered to bid you good fortune in your endeavor. May your efforts lead to success, and may your bravery bring relief to our strained land.” He paused as Gabriel bowed his head in respectful acceptance. Anticipation thrummed low and electric among the crowd. “You may begin.”

The man imperiously raised his hand. A small cluster of men, crouched at the far corner of the circle, began a low, deep rhythm on drums Asher had not noticed. Tension was heavy in the air as Gabriel kneeled to retrieve an elaborate torch, and brought its extremity to the glowing brazier that smoked below the council’s podium. He did not flinch as the pitched stub burst into flames.

Steadily, he swung his arm to the side, tracing an arc with the torch, his other hand extended. He turned, eyes hard as he scanned the crowd, as if daring an opponent to step forward. Utter silence accompanied his action, a hundred eyes widened as they followed his shape. Gabriel stepped backward, lowering himself in a careful defensive position—seconds dripped slowly, marked by lonely, distanced beats. It appeared everyone had stopped breathing; the air itself heaved, waiting.

The drums unleashed. A shuddering rhythm, each beat attacking the next with unrelenting hunger. In an instant, Gabriel transformed, muscles twisting and tensing as he chased the tempo. Again and again he split the heavy air with the burning weapon, a hunter fighting off invisible enemies, teeth gritted in a mute growl. His eyes flared with reflected flames, his braid a sharp whip behind him.

His wrist bent smoothly to guide the torch in luminous arches, floating lines, echoes of light barely visible before they dissolved in darkness. He danced, the primal drumbeats guiding his movements, effortlessly graceful as he glided and attacked—taut muscles responding readily to his every command, thrumming with palpable energy.

Corran tilted his head up, a satisfied grin on his lips. “He’s really something,” he whispered, wary of disturbing the ponderous thing—if only Asher had been able to understand what the hell it was—that seemed to have filled the warehouse, crushing thoughts and unwelcome noises.

Asher found himself swallowing, his eyes riveted to Gabriel, who swayed smoothly following the beats. “Indeed,” he murmured, voice thick. A suffocating warmth was spreading in his veins, calling his anatomy to life. His muscles tensed, a hot shiver trickling its way down his neck. God, Gabriel was—breathtaking.

The rhythm increased relentlessly, an insisting, maddening call. Gabriel’s movements gained speed, his strong arms swinging the burning torch in patterns Asher couldn’t understand. His skin gleamed golden in the firelight, a thin layer of sweat coating his chest, his taut back. And still the pace grew, the dance evolving in a frenzied battle, until Asher’s eyes burned with the leftovers of fiery runes—until the beat seemed to seep into his veins, controlling his heartbeat, forcing it to pulse harder and harder as Gabriel’s body tensed and released as a vision from the underworld itself—

Until, abruptly, it stopped.

The sudden silence echoed like the clangor of a dozen gongs. Gabriel was kneeling, panting—the torch crushed at his feet, dying embers sizzling in the soil.

“It is done,” the council leader called, standing proudly on the stage. He raised one hand, palm down, as if blessing Gabriel from a distance. “May fortune gaze benevolently upon you, brother. Your people honor you.”

The quiet was broken as the crowd exploded in a turmoil of shouts and piercing whistles, and rushed to surround Gabriel—patting his back and shoulders in ecstatic support. Corran stepped forward too, clasping arms with a smiling, flushed Gabriel.

Asher looked for one long moment, then turned on his heel and left.

The cool breeze was pleasant—it brushed across his face, cleansing his haggard thoughts. Asher leaned against the cracked wall of the warehouse, arms crossed as he observed the citizens slowly stream out, in pairs and clusters, dispersing toward their homes. The guards slowed as they walked past him, shooting him unfriendly looks, supposedly laced with threat. It was all Asher could do not to snort out loud.

Corran was one of the last to leave, stopping to amicably pat Asher’s knee. “I’ll retire, now, fellow. You can take your time,” he added with a knowing wink. “I believe some…air may be beneficial. I’ll leave the doors unlocked.”

Asher eyed the man as he walked briskly into the night. He could feel a smile tug at his lips. Corran was, by far, his favorite person in the blasted town.

“Hey, stranger. I’m glad to see you’re still alive,” a familiar voice called, laced with mild amusement.

All considered—second favorite, perhaps.

When he turned around, Gabriel stood a few steps from him—a crooked grin hovering on his lips, red cloth haphazardly wrapped around his torso. Asher could see Gabriel had not bothered to button his shirt. The pale skin of his abdomen seemed almost radiant in the darkness.

Asher huffed. “After surviving all sorts of peril in the desert, I wouldn’t die such a boring death.”

Gabriel’s laughter was limpid. “Of course. How forgetful of me.” He took one step forward, seamlessly moving into Asher’s personal space. “You saw the ritual.”

Asher remained very still. “I did. It was rather…” Impressive. Fascinating. Erotic. Bloody hot. “Interesting. Although I confess I’m not quite sure as to what it should achieve.” Apart from turning him on like hell, that was. Asher could feel his body responding to Gabriel’s proximity, his already throbbing instinct clawing at his brain, eroding his self-control.

“It’s just—tradition. A friendly pat on the back before they send you to the gallows, so to speak.” Gabriel shifted, deliberately getting closer. He smelled of exotic spices, of earth and fire. “Think of it as a good-luck ceremony.”

“So, basically, bullshit,” Asher commented, a little breathless.

Gabriel smiled. “Yeah.” Asher could not seem to stop staring at Gabriel’s lips. They were plump and inviting. A jolt shook his nerves as Gabriel licked them, slowly. “That doesn’t mean I’d ever do without.”

He leaned forward, his lips brushing Asher’s ear, making him suppress a shiver. His hands ached with the need to grasp Gabriel’s arms, drag him closer, until not an inch of space remained between them. Hunger roared in his head.

“Get some sleep, stranger,” Gabriel whispered, his breath hot on Asher’s skin. “We leave tomorrow at dawn.”

And, just like that, Asher found himself alone—desire humming in his veins and his hands painfully empty, Gabriel’s braid swinging slowly as he disappeared down the road.

A small crowd had gathered to bid them farewell in the desolated clearing behind Corran’s lair. Asher waited, keeping to the side, as Gabriel shook hands and exchanged friendly salutes with his fellows. He wondered if the population in this godforsaken place had nothing else to do than hang around observing other people’s business. The council members hovered nearby, a cluster of blue cloth that fluttered like a bad presage. Asher did not like them one bit.

Not far away, Corran fidgeted around a huge object bundled in thick blankets, occasionally patting it, a vaguely insane grin plastered on his face. With a sigh, Asher joined him, hands tucked in his pockets.

“Hey, man. What’s that thing?” he asked, tilting his head. Corran all but beamed at him.

“This, dear fellow, is the apple of me eye.” He lifted one finger, swiftly preventing Asher from inquiring further. “Be patient. You shall see soon enough. Now, where’s that miscreant? Lad!” he bellowed, planting his hands on his thick hips. Gabriel’s head turned in their direction. “Enough with the waffling. Get that skinny arse of yours down here—I haven’t got all day, ya know!”

Gabriel nodded, shooting them a quick smile, before he turned to greet one of the blue-cloaked men. They exchanged words in hushed tones, and Asher could see a somber shadow settle over Gabriel’s features. The elder handed him a broad satchel, the leather bulging around what seemed like a voluminous object. Gabriel accepted it solemnly and slung it over his shoulder, resting a protective hand over its contents. He tipped his head and stalked off.

In a few strides he was at Corran’s side, a smile carefully placed on his lips, although it did not quite reach his eyes. “There, old geezer. Is your rattletrap quite ready?”

“Indeed it is, lad. And speak respectfully of the products of my genius,” Corran rebuked, good-naturedly. He gripped the edge of the soiled blanket. “There it goes. Behold!”

The fabric flapped as he swiped it off with enthusiasm. Asher’s breath stuck in his throat.

A great brass machine gleamed under the morning sun. It was oblong, resting on three small wheels—two hollows in its body contained padded seats, each wide just enough to house a man. Long, thin metallic wings spread on either side of it, brass plates welded together and secured with bolts as big as thumbs. Asher swallowed.

“This—this is how we’re going to travel to the capital?” he croaked, an embarrassing squeak sneaking in his voice. Corran glowed with all the pride of a parent seeing his newborn’s face for the first time.

“You’re going to fly to London, dear fellow,” he said, delighted. “With this fine baby, it should take between four and six hours. Provided the wind is in your favor, of course.”

Asher looked at the thing with plain suspicion, a heavy sense of dread gnawing at the pit of his stomach. “Kid—are you certain you can—handle this?” he asked, vaguely aware of the shrill undertone his voice had suddenly taken.

Gabriel’s eyes glinted dangerously, a reckless grin blooming on his lips. “Just watch me, mistrustful man. You just watch me.”

The wind was slapping Asher’s face mercilessly as he gripped the brass edges of his compartment. He could barely feel his hands, frozen cold.

“Gabriel!” he shouted, too frightened to be ashamed of the sheer terror that laced his voice. “Are you sure you know what the hell you’re doing?”

“Of course,” Gabriel shouted back. His braid had escaped from his helmet and whirled with the harsh wind, whipping Asher’s head and face. “I’m a bloody master. Born to fly!” He tilted the thin brass yoke and the machine promptly rolled too many degrees to the left and plummeted, slicing the air like a drunken sparrow.

Asher closed his eyes, spitting out a mouthful of Gabriel’s hair, and swore he would not scream.

Chapter Three

“Honestly, stranger. There was no reason for you to scream that loud.”

“I was not screaming,” Asher grumbled. He had most certainly not been screaming, and Gabriel was nothing but a lying liar who lied. “I thought you’d said you could fly the blasted thing.”

“I do know how to fly it. It was the landing part that posed some—technical difficulties,” Gabriel replied, way too merrily. “Man, we have got to do this again!” he exclaimed, a fiendish grin still plastered to his face.

“Never in my life.” Asher grimaced. He bloody well meant it.

They had crash-landed a few miles north of the City, nearby the crumbling hangar Corran had recommended in order not to attract attention. Gabriel had aimed for the narrow landing strip. The maneuver had turned out to be imprecise at best as the machine plunged at a decidedly excessive speed. Asher had screwed his eyes shut as Gabriel gripped the yoke, riding out the bumps and jerks of the creaking vehicle. They had skidded along the uneven strip, a nasty crack indicating that the wheels had given out before the brass body screeched loudly as it clashed against the soil. Friction had quickly brought them to a jarring halt.

When Asher had managed to crawl out of his seat, he’d let himself plop on the ground, not quite trusting his shaky legs to hold him up. The machine was half-crumpled, its lower part ravaged by stones and gravel. One wing was kept hanging by mere bolts, forcibly ripped off as it scraped against the ground. Asher’s heart was beating wildly. It had taken him a good few minutes before he was able to speak. Gabriel, on the other hand, was hyper with adrenaline, all but bouncing around him, apparently very pleased with the experience.

Insulting Gabriel had been, indeed, Asher’s priority upon regaining his breath.

The handful of miles separating them from the capital resulted in a march of a good three hours and a half. Asher walked slowly, trailing after a still-overexcited Gabriel and doing his best to ignore the kid’s attempts at a conversation.

As they headed southwest, the cold pale blue sky of the moors had been engulfed by cramped clusters of ashen clouds. The territories surrounding London were a span of marshes and patches of wild unkempt vegetation. Clouds infested the sky, dark and bulgy, converging in a broad spiral toward the City. Rare shards of sunlight managed to filter through the thick layer.

Asher remembered clearly. Sunshine had been forsaken by these lands years before. Fields had rotted and decayed into foul morass, and were now the undisputed kingdom of lichens and moss. Faintly glowing fungi littered the landscape in luminous freckles, tracing irregular, nonsensical patterns, as if mapping the steps of an insane lamplighter.

As they neared the borders of the capital, Asher spotted the irregular forms of incoming caravans—bands of armed men and stout horses surrounding the same water tanks he’d so many times guarded. A thin flow of convoys trickled constantly toward the City from all over the land, bringing the meager provisions of meat and dried-up, pathetically thin vegetables that the thirsted villages could spare. They would leave again within few days, loaded with the precious water and surrounded by armed men—mercenaries mostly—to defend themselves from the wretched ones who had changed into criminals because of their burning throats.

The protection, as Asher had learned, was not always enough.

Gabriel shifted his sack from one shoulder to the other and spread his free arm, embracing the depressing landscape. “Look at the bright side, stranger. We haven’t lost any irreplaceable body part, and we’re only a few miles from the City. That’s what I’d call a success.”

It was all Asher could do to repress a groan. Apparently, the kid still had the power to annoy him. “You don’t say.”

“You really shouldn’t be so negative,” Gabriel replied, grinning. Asher rolled his eyes.

“Just so you know, I’m not talking to you. Possibly ever again.”

The Apparatus rose over the City as a monstrous, lopsided spider of brass and rusted iron. Its core sprouted upward in a thick spire that towered over the golden and glass agglomerate of the Inner Circle’s buildings.

Eight long legs, the circumference of which could be measured by five large men with their arms spread, awkwardly bent at graceless bulbous joints. They wedged into the ground, biting through the large cobblestones paving the streets, to envelop the sharp-angled construction which was the site of the Academy of Scientific and Empirical Research, and housed the headquarters of the Water Vendors Guild. Around, old piles of debris rested undisturbed, useless scraps of metal and contorted pipes—the remains of the immense construction site where, over the span of four decades, the titanic machine had painstakingly been brought into existence.

It appeared in sight long before the majestic city walls did—titanic conglomerates of brass and stone, thick towers rising at regular intervals to house telescopes and armed sentinels. As they approached the northwestern entrance—a broad archway supported by two gigantic pillars, illuminated day and night by swarms of gaslights—Asher and Gabriel melted into the thin flow of travelers and merchants that similarly made their way toward the City. They walked in silence, carefully surveying the drawn faces they passed, the skinny, tired horses, the rickety wagons.

A bunch of brawny guards hovered close to the portal, eyeing malevolently the approaching multitude, heavy rifles resting threateningly in their arms. At random, they would stop travelers whose attire they didn’t like, and question them, or requisition items at their discretion. Asher observed quite a few people proceed in their journey relieved of food and assorted trinkets, no doubt soon to become gallant tokens for wilting love interests, or be sold somewhere in the recesses of the City’s underground market.

He was not surprised when, as they neared the broad threshold, a stout sentinel barred their way, a less than friendly grimace on his rough face.

“Gentlemen,” he began, a ferocious gleam in his eyes, apparently quite pleased with his irony. Asher stared back, not amused.

The man’s shaven head was marred by a metallic plaque, bolted over his left hemisphere. A long bone wedge dangled from his earlobe, curving forward to rest on his shoulders. Bright red ink patterns emerged from his dirtied collar, draped along his neck to end in a crimson claw across his face.

His gaze traced Gabriel’s form with interest, his eyes wide with concupiscence. “What brings a pretty boy like you in town?” he asked, lips curving in a satisfied grin. Asher could see Gabriel’s eyes grow cold.

“I came to have a taste of the friendliness of its fine citizens,” he replied, sharply. The guard did not seem fazed.

“’Tis a lonely place, ya know.” He flexed his muscular arms in a pleased display. “You may like to keep me company tonight. I can assure you you’d enjoy it. You’d enjoy it a lot.”

Gabriel’s lips curled up in cruel scorn. “Why, be still my beating heart. I trust you will forgive me if I decline your generous offer, much as my heart aches in doing so.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “You got a quick mouth there, haven’t you.” He leered, leaning to loom over Gabriel’s shorter frame. “I would like to see if it can be put to a better use. Perhaps we ought to keep ya in custody for the night—search you for dangerous items. Thoroughly.”

Gabriel’s hand tightened around his satchel’s strap even as he bared his teeth, his lips drawing back in a sneer. Asher could tell how he was likely about to shred the brute to pieces with one of his cutting remarks. He found himself instinctively taking a step forward, shoulders set straight, an intimidating look on his face.

“That’s not a bright idea, man,” he said, darkly. The guard’s gaze snapped to him with evident annoyance.

“And who the hell are you, mister?” he growled. “Me an’ sweet cheeks here are havin’ a private conversation.”

Asher hardened his gaze. “The conversation is over,” he said. And he’s mine, he added mutely, adjusting his stance to convey the belligerent possessiveness he could feel boiling in his blood.

The sentinel stared at him, uncertain. Forces shifted between their locked gazes, sizzling—readjusting the status quo, solid ice lodged deep in Asher’s eyes. He felt Gabriel squirm tensely behind him, unnerved by his sudden role of mute prey. Asher understood. He would have been annoyed too.

The guard was first to lower his eyes. “Welcome to London,” he said, stepping aside, deflated. Asher strode past him without a second glance.

They crossed the gate and walked in silence, Asher a few steps behind, following Gabriel’s lead. As they crossed a narrow alleyway, Gabriel stopped. He hesitated a moment before turning to face Asher, gaze clouded with mild reproach.

“I don’t need a watchdog,” he said, low. Asher placed his hand on Gabriel’s arm, looking back at him with equal seriousness.

“I know.”

Gabriel’s expression softened. “All right.” He did not shy away from Asher’s touch, and Asher felt stupidly grateful. “Let’s go, then.”

The sun had been banned from shining over the capital more than ten years before. A thin layer of water glossed the cobblestones, coated the finely crafted windows. The wooden carriages of passing merchants and the heavy brass vehicles of the Water Vendors Guild’s members, huffing with steam, gleamed in the dampness. Moss had spread, undisturbed, permeating every interstice, every crevice. It covered the pavement in fine gray-green fur, padding the slow steps of wanderers, the sharp clopping of guards’ boots.

The Apparatus’s spire sank in the gunmetal gray clumps of clouds that converged above London in thick coils. Scattered at regular intervals along the rounded border of the Inner Circle, tiny dark figures wrapped in oilcloth cloaks operated the Guild’s pumps, at every hour of the day or night. Restlessly, the devices sucked the clouds down in broad, thin arcs. The grayish intangible tentacles enveloped the heart of the City in an immense nebulous cage, the gold of the Inner Circle shining dimly behind it as a small, voiceless songbird.

Asher and Gabriel navigated the streets in no hurry, their menacing stance granting them undisturbed passage. Bystanders glanced in their direction and automatically classified them as unsuitable victims. They reached Whitechapel before sunset, and Gabriel led them to the door of a tall, narrow building, seamlessly crammed between the dark houses that flanked the road.

“Corran’s cousin,” he explained as he rang the loud brass doorbell. “He’s a scientist too. I trust you will find him…quite interesting.”

The door swung open without a sound, perfectly oiled hinges turning smoothly. From behind Gabriel, Asher could glimpse a short, large shape against the warm light of the lamps burning in the hall.

“Gabriel,” a voice exclaimed, delighted. “It’s always such a pleasure to see you. Don’t hesitate, son, come in.”

Gabriel moved forward, bending to greet the man. “Egistus,” he replied, warmly. “I am glad to find you in good shape. Thank you for your hospitality. You are too kind.” He stepped inside, gesturing for Asher to follow.

As Asher made his way past the threshold, he saw an old man, impeccably dressed, gentle eyes twinkling behind his rounded glasses. He sat on a finely crafted brass chair mounted on two large wheels; a third smaller one jutted out at the front, balancing the vehicle. The man’s legs, clothed in tidy black trousers, rested limply—his feet strapped to a wide brass footrest. His eyes were fixed on the satchel slung across Gabriel’s body.

“Is this…” he murmured, almost reverently reaching to place his palm against the worn leather. Gabriel nodded.

“It is indeed. Corran finished it over a month ago,” he whispered back. “The council had to bestow all sorts of blessings unto it before allowing me to leave.”

Egistus snorted. “I’m sure they did. Superstitious fools…”

Asher had a vague feeling he was not supposed to be listening to any of it. He cleared his throat loudly, and the scientist’s eyes snapped to him.

“And you would be, young man?”

“Asher Connor. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” Asher tipped his head in salute. The man laughed heartily and grabbed Asher’s hand in both his small ones, shaking it energetically.

“Now, Asher, there’s no need to be formal. Call me Egistus.” He swiftly turned his chair around, gesturing toward the inside of the house. “I have prepared some tea as soon as I was alerted of your approach. You young men must be starving! Please, follow me and shut the door behind you, if you don’t mind.”

He led them to a long, narrow room, almost entirely occupied by a large table cluttered with all sorts of articulate instruments and intricate glass tubes. Mismatched padded chairs were scattered at random, covered in a thin layer of dust. Asher was surprised to find three cups of steaming tea neatly arranged on a cleared corner of the desk, along with a basket of freshly baked cookies.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Egistus reached to retrieve one of the cups and balanced the saucer on his knees. “I trust your journey was pleasant, yes?”

“It was indeed,” Gabriel replied, comfortably sprawled in one of the armchairs. “Although my friend did not find travelling by air an especially enjoyable experience. I fear his screams seriously strained my hearing.” Asher grunted in disapproval.

“For the last time, I was not—” He was cut short by a golden flash, as an object plummeted through the open window toward him. In an instant, he’d unsheathed his gun and stepped forward, instinctively shielding Gabriel and the scientist.

“Please, don’t be alarmed,” the latter said, his chair wheezing softly as he moved. He motioned for Asher to lower his weapon and extended his hand. The little spherical object landed obediently on his wrist, cocking a tiny head to the side. “My friends, let me introduce you to Athena. She’s been my faithful companion for several years, now. It was she who informed me of your imminent arrival.”

Asher bent to observe closer. A little mechanical owl stared back at him with surprisingly bright eyes. It was carved in thin brass, its wings and claws attached to its rounded body by minuscule, delicate hinges. Asher whistled in admiration.

“It’s nice to see you again, little one,” Gabriel said, reaching to brush his fingers on the owl’s head. Athena closed her eyes and hooted softly, pleased. She fluttered from the scientist’s arm to settle on Gabriel’s shoulder and folded her wings, peaceful.

“It appears the feeling is mutual.” Egistus smiled fondly. “But enough with the pleasantries. You must be tired. Allow me to show you your lodgings. Room is scarce, I’m afraid, but I hope you will find them suitable.”

He led them to a narrow brass cabin, mounted between four slender shafts. He deftly maneuvered his chair inside, and enough space was left for Gabriel and Asher to squeeze in alongside him. The door locked with a soft click, and the cabin hissed as it moved upward.

“Quite impressive technology,” Asher commented. Mechanical skills, apparently, ran in the family’s blood.

“You flatter me. These are merely toys, I assure you,” Egistus said, modestly, as they reached the upper floor. He unlocked the door and gestured for Gabriel and Asher to exit. “Here, have a look at your room—the far right door, if you please. I hope you will not mind sharing.”

Unsurprisingly, Asher considered, he did not mind at all.

A fine rain began to fall that night and carried steadily on for the following days. Asher spent most of his time in Egistus’s impeccable laboratory, listening to the man describe in detail the procedures he performed on his arm. Gabriel would share tea with them in the morning and then disappear, busy with mysterious errands that kept him out until the evening. He would usually return in time for supper and the three would dine at the small table in Egistus’s cramped kitchen. For all his technical skills, it appeared cooking was not one of the man’s strong points. Every night, Asher and Gabriel would stare suspiciously at the undefined concoctions in their bowls, and subtly wait for the other to take the first bite.

Gabriel’s mysterious satchel had disappeared for a couple of days, presumably in Egistus’s hands, and was now securely installed at the bottom of Gabriel’s bed. Athena, supposedly obeying the scientist’s orders, spent most of the day peacefully perched on the bloody thing. Asher could not ignore the way Gabriel looked at the bundle, a strange blend of pride and trepidation in his eyes, like it was his newborn. Snooping was not an option—the goddamn bird was always there, staring at Asher with its tiny rounded eyes. Asher had been tempted to just ask but had dropped the thought. It was none of his business, anyway.

On the fourth afternoon, Egistus proudly announced that the replacement organic wires were finally ready, and set out for the long and delicate task to connect them to Asher’s nervous system. As he worked, a bored Asher observed the scarce passersby that scuttled behind the windows. Inactivity was not for him, and he found himself growing more restless each day.

“Something puzzles me,” he said, eventually. “When he explained that I should come to London if I wanted my arm fixed—Corran never mentioned you. If I’m not indiscreet…”

Egistus’s lips curled in a grimace. “Our interactions have been…not at their friendliest during the past few years. I keep insisting for him to join me in the city—but he just will not listen, stubborn man that he is. I believe it foolish to choose one’s home based on emotive attachment, rather than on more practical matters. I assume his laboratory is still little more than a carpenter’s workshop…?”

Asher cleared his throat. “It is certainly not in the…best of conditions,” he admitted, carefully. Egistus sighed.

“Which is to say an utter wreck, as per usual.” He shook his head, sadly. “What a waste. That devilish man has talent. He did an admirable job on your piece, I must say. It pains me to see him squander his gift in such a godforsaken place.”

Asher did not reply. He believed he could understand Corran’s motivation. The City was a dark, misty place. Some people were not cut out to spend their life cramped in soggy streets, squashed down between the too-tall buildings. Some people would choose any disadvantage that promised the vastness of borderless landscapes. A life of struggle and thirst was a fair price to breathe free air.

Asher could understand that.

The following day, Asher woke to find a fully dressed, smiling Gabriel crouched on his bed.

“Say, stranger,” he said, all too awake for whatever stupid hour it was. “You’re going to wilt and die if you don’t get out of here. Why don’t you come with me today?”

Asher blinked a few times before grunting an assent. As he sat up, rubbing his face, Gabriel all but bounced to the door. “Brilliant. Get dressed and meet me downstairs in like, fifty seconds!”

And with that he was gone. Asher groaned and dropped back onto the mattress.

He was, to say the least, not a morning person.

When Asher managed to drag himself downstairs, he found Egistus in the cramped garage beside the main door, strapping himself to a large, stout vehicle mounted on five thick wheels. Gabriel hummed appreciatively.

“Wonderful contraption you’ve got there,” he commented, hands resting on his hips. “What are you up to?”

Egistus shot the both of them a bright smile. “I’m off to retrieve Corran’s flying machine, friends. I cannot wait to see what that devilish man has been able to create. I assume it will be in need of repair—am I wrong?”

Gabriel cleared his throat, pointedly avoiding the man’s gaze. Asher could not repress a laugh. “I’m afraid you are quite right, old man,” he said, warmly. Egistus nodded and pointed at the robust winch attached to his vehicle.

“I thought as much. But do not worry—this little jewel can carry impressive loads.” He adjusted a pair of broad aviator goggles on his face. “I will see you tonight. Behave!”

Asher and Gabriel observed in stunned silence as the machine sputtered to life and set off at an alarming speed, a thick plume of steam trailing behind it. It skidded along the road in an uneven line, stopping and restarting in abrupt jerks, and barely avoided a street lamp.

“Hey.” Asher prodded Gabriel’s ribs with one elbow. “You think he’s going to make it back alive?”

Gabriel cringed. “I don’t know, stranger. I really don’t know.”

The market stretched along Whitechapel road, ragged and decrepit like an old cat lying on damp cobblestones. Strange artifacts and piles of odd junk cluttered the wonky tables. Merchants sat wrapped in tattered oilcloth cloaks, attentively ogling the flow of customers and dodgy onlookers. Thin smoke rose at intervals from wooden pipes or dying braziers. Fortunetellers stood in dark corners, wrapped in cheap colorful shawls, beckoning possible clients with mysterious murmurs and the jingle of makeshift rattles.

Men, ogres and odd creatures filled the street, walking under the ragged tents that covered the stalls. Someone was playing an exotic melody on an out-of-tune violin—it floated in the air like warm molasses, echoes of foreign suns. Asher walked quietly, his hand discreetly resting on the gun under his gray cloak. He followed Gabriel past a group of dwarves crouched around a low table, whistling and arguing over a game of dices. Three drunken mercenaries stumbled by, shouting a crude song about complying maids.

Gabriel turned into a tight alley and headed for a glass door surmounted by a rotten green sign. Two dusty gas lamps illuminated a tall, muscular creature crouched beside the entrance.

“Fergus,” greeted Gabriel. “How are things this fine morning?”

The individual uttered a laugh. “Shit, brother Gabe, as usual,” he said, in an odd crackling voice. Asher had to repress a jolt of surprise at the four eyes that blinked up at him from the creature’s greenish face. “Your friends are already waiting. Have a pint to my health, willya?”

“Will do. Have one yourself, when you knock off.” Gabriel threw a few coins at the creature, who tipped his head before resuming his silent guard.

The pub was almost empty. Gray light hovered like heavy memories, clouded by the smoke of cheap tobacco. Gabriel raised his hand at the large man seated behind the counter and headed for the tables at the back, where a bunch of people sat conversing loudly over large glasses of beer.

A cold silence fell as all eyes turned to Asher, examining him with ill-concealed suspicion. Asher did not mind. He’d stopped paying attention to people’s attitude toward him several years before. Looking threatening was part of the job.

“Asher, this bunch of cranky dogs are my mates. Pay no mind to their ugly faces, that’s just the way they are,” Gabriel said, playfully. “Brothers, this is Asher. Drop those looks and someone fetch him a beer. He’s here to help.” He glanced at Asher, hinting at him to play along.

A slim man stood, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. Under his ruffled blond hair, metallic blue eyes spoke clearly of his dislike toward the intruder. “Sure.” His lips curled in a grin that seemed to screech out loud. “Your friend is welcome to stay, Gabriel. Have a seat. We were just waiting for you.”

“Apologies for the delay. Asher, meet Owen—one of our finest scoundrels,” Gabriel said, apparently oblivious to the icy undercurrents passing between the two. Under his clear eyes, Asher reached to shake Owen’s hand, returning the man’s arrogant glare.

A scrawny bearded man passed him a beer with a welcoming nod as he and Gabriel took their seats. Asher nodded in acceptance and leaned back to observe.

Owen braced his arms on the table. “We have been talking, Gabriel,” he said. “There is discontent among the men. Things have been dragging on for a long time, and the men are tired. It is not my intention to question your judgment, but in all truth—”

“Owen,” Gabriel interrupted, his patient tone laced with mild frustration. Asher imagined it was not the first time such a discussion took place. “I’d prefer if you skipped the small talk. State your point.”

“We need to act sooner! It’s been too long. We cannot risk being discovered. The Apparatus—” Owen fell silent, glancing not-so-subtly in Asher’s direction. Gabriel clicked his tongue, irritated.

“What we cannot risk is the device malfunctioning. We will not blow the work of years because you can’t stand the pressure anymore.” He turned to scan the other men’s expressions. “Is there anyone else who feels like Owen? Please, feel free to speak up.”

Nervous glances were exchanged across the table. One or two hands twitched, hesitantly, yet no one uttered a word. Owen’s face darkened.

A broad redheaded man placed his big fist on the desk. “I agree with you, Gabriel,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. “Egistus knows what he’s doing, and it’s not up to us to tell him how he should do his job. If no one loses his shit and rattles us…” he cast a long, meaningful glance on his companions that explained quite clearly what he would do to said person, “…there is no threat to us.”

Approving murmurs rose from the majority of the men. A few nodded energetically. Gabriel relaxed in his seat, a friendly smile blossoming once again on his lips. “Thank you all for your hard work, brothers. The final piece is complete and here in London, and Egistus is almost done. Just a little longer, and we will be free to rest. Owen.” He turned to face the man. “I trust you understand my reasons?”

“Of course, Gabriel. Forgive my impatience—I’m sure you know how the need for action can cause a man’s blood to burn in his veins,” the blond said, the smile on his face so fake it made Asher’s lips curl in disgust. “I trust your judgment, as always. No hard feelings.”

Very deliberately, he leaned to put his arm around Gabriel’s shoulders, shooting Asher a smug grin. Asher’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. He ached with the desire to smash the smirk off the man’s face. He took a sip of beer, fingers clenching dangerously around the glass. It tasted like sawdust.

“Never mind, my friend.” Gabriel patted Owen’s hand in assurance. “Just bear with it a little more. Three weeks, and it will all be over.”

Owen’s eyes gleamed with a hunger that had nothing to do with—whatever the hell they were talking about. “Of course,” he repeated. “Anything for you.”

Asher’s mechanical hand tightened under the table. The need to hurt someone felt, suddenly, imperious.

Chapter Four

That night, as a surprisingly unharmed Egistus fiddled with Asher’s elbow juncture—instruments gleaming golden in the warm gas lamp’s light, the only noise in the room the light clatter of discarded bolts—Asher decided to give it a try.

“What is going on?” he asked, his voice low. “Gabriel. Could you… Egistus, what is he doing?”

Egistus’s hands stilled. When he looked up, his face was drawn in a serious expression. Asher’s stomach sank as his suspicions were confirmed. Whatever the hell the kid was meddling with—it wasn’t any good.

“I went out with Gabriel, today. You know, at the pub?” Asher prodded, unwilling to give up. “The men were saying…things. About a device, about…the Apparatus…” He trailed off, trying to gauge Egistus’s reaction.

The scientist appeared to be debating with himself. Then, carefully, he said, “It’s not my story to tell.” He fidgeted, twirling one screw between his skillful fingers. “Although I must say I would be—grateful, if you could—keep an eye on him. Just…just in case.”

Asher did not insist. He had not expected it to work, at any rate.

“Hey, hey. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, little one?”

Athena ruffled her tiny metallic feathers, humming in pleasure. Gabriel sat cross-legged on the floor, a gentle smile on his lips as he carefully polished the owl’s head with a cloth. From his bed, Asher overlooked the scene, repressing a fond smile of his own.

“So, the two of you are good friends,” he commented, resting comfortably on his elbow. Gabriel beamed at him.

“I’d say so. She’s surprisingly clever, you know. And she’s quite adorable. Yes, you are, buddy.” He stroked one fingertip along the owl’s small back. Athena lowered her little eyelids and made a soft sound, like the buzz of a minuscule engine.

“You big softie,” Asher teased, grinning. “Should I be jealous?”

Gabriel snorted in mock disdain. “Of course you shouldn’t. I can polish your head too, if you ask nicely.”

He patted Athena’s head one last time before gently shooing her off. She shook herself, blinking, then obediently fluttered out of the room. Gabriel closed the door behind her and slowly turned the lock. When he glanced at Asher from beneath his lashes, his eyes glinted with enticing promises.

“Come here,” Asher breathed. He extended his arm to grasp Gabriel’s wrist and guided him to lie on top of him. Gabriel smoothly followed his lead, his warm body a pleasant weight.

“I suspect she’s not the only one who likes me,” Gabriel murmured, reaching down to trace light fingers over the edge of Asher’s jaw. Asher’s chest sort of ached at the gesture, and he didn’t mind.

“I think not,” he said, just a little breathless, and pulled Gabriel down in a soft kiss.

“I will be off, then. You are most welcome to come, if you’d like.” Gabriel rested a hand on the doorframe. He was already wrapped in his red cloak, and his eyes gleamed dimly in the faint morning light.

Asher shook his head. “Egistus has me booked. He seems to be proceeding quite swiftly with the repairs.” He hesitated. “Gabriel…regarding your business, here in town…”

He could see Gabriel’s body go rigid. His expression was circumspect.

“The other day, at the inn. What you discussed—I am not sure I fully understand what it was all about. Yet it seemed—the ritual, and…that satchel of yours. I cannot help but think—” Asher shook his head, repressing a snarl. It was coming out all wrong. What the hell happened to his brain whenever Gabriel was around? “I do not mean to pry…”

“Then don’t,” Gabriel interrupted. Asher raised his hand in an impatient gesture.

“Just bloody listen, alright? I’m trying to say something here, kid.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Then by all means, let’s hear it, stranger,” he bit out, the familiar word sour like decayed wine. Asher’s hands tightened.

“I worry,” he gritted. The words seemed to burn on his tongue. “Whatever it is you’re doing—it seems dangerous. And—I don’t like that.”

Gabriel’s gaze grew cold. “And exactly what gave you the idea that your opinion may actually matter?” He threw down his satchel and stepped toward a bewildered Asher, his jaw set, hard. “Do you think I care? You are nothing. You matter nothing. My town, my people—that’s what matters. My mission.” His face hovered a mere few inches from Asher’s. The line of his lips was thin, his cheekbones pale with anger. “And the fact that I let you fuck me does not give you the right to interfere.”

Asher stiffened. “Of course. I apologize,” he replied, tightly. He nodded toward the open door. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Gabriel did not look at him as he yanked up his satchel and left, the door slamming behind him. Asher tried to convince himself he did not care.

The glass panes of the door rattled as Asher made his way into the pub. He shifted the ragged tent that blocked the entrance and surveyed the room, darkly. Gabriel’s red cloak almost shone in the half-darkness where he sat with his companions, laughing and drinking.

Asher ignored him and took a seat by the counter.

An incredibly large man approached him, wiping his hands with a soiled towel. “What can I give ya, man?” he said. Asher shot a quick glance at Gabriel and repressed a groan.

“Something strong.” He placed a handful of coins on the scratched wood. The man eyed him for one long moment, as if evaluating his condition. He turned around to retrieve a few bottles from the shelves and proceeded to mix their content in a large glass. Asher couldn’t even be bothered to be surprised when he saw a third smaller hand sprouting from the man’s chest. It replaced the bottle caps as the man worked.

“There. This should do.” He handed Asher the glass. With a thankful nod, Asher gulped down a large mouthful. It burned like bloody freaking hell, seeming to scorch his throat, and it was exactly what he needed.

He knew it would be a wise choice to trust the man’s judgment. Innkeepers seemed to always know.

The man stared at him amicably. “You wanna talk about it?”

Asher grimaced. The sour aftertaste of whiskey and hot spices lingered in his mouth. “Not really,” he said, resting his arms on the counter. The innkeeper took a deep breath, discarding the cloth in a corner, and leaned his two bigger hands on the desk.

“I’m old an’ bored, man. Mindin’ other folks’ business is about as interestin’ as it gets in here.” He surveyed the room with well-trained eyes. “It’s Gabriel, innit? Saw you guys all close and lovey-dovey the other day.”

“It’s not,” Asher protested automatically. If the man’s snort was any indicator, it didn’t sound quite believable.

“Lemme guess. Trouble in paradise, ay? Blondie meddlin’ in, causing some trouble? I seen the way he looks at the kid.” His fingers drummed lightly on the counter. “That why you’re all upset, yeah?”

“I’m not,” Asher mumbled, halfheartedly casting another glance backward. There he was, the blond bastard, leaning to put his arm around Gabriel’s shoulder and smiling like the wretched leech he was.

The innkeeper smiled a crooked, toothless grin. “Course. That’s why you plan to smash your brains with all the alcohol you can fit in that stomach o’ yours, innit?”

Asher grunted and did not comment. That was exactly his plan, and it sounded more appealing by the second.

“That’s right,” he said, downing the rest of his drink. He pushed the empty glass toward the innkeeper, wiping at his mouth. “So, if you don’t mind pouring another one…”

“Shush. Careful, man—trouble on the way,” the man whispered, straightening his back. Before Asher had the time to inquire, he felt someone come up behind him, way too close for his liking.

“See who’s there! What a pleasant surprise,” a familiar voice said. When Asher turned, mocking blue eyes were staring at him.

“Owen,” he stated coldly, and it was all he could do not to growl. The blond shot him a bright, self-satisfied grin; Asher could see Gabriel standing a few steps behind, shifting uncomfortably.

“I was sure I saw you—it would have been terribly impolite to leave without paying our regards,” Owen continued, his voice honeyed. Asher did not comment. His gaze fixed on Gabriel, who looked sheepishly at the floor.

“How very nice of you,” he gritted. Gabriel still ignored him.

“I hope you’ll forgive us if we don’t linger, but me and Gabriel have some…private business to attend to.” A slow, all-too-smug grin stretched on the bastard’s face. Asher felt the urge to wipe it off with a good smack. Or two.

“Of course. I know that business with Gabriel can turn out to be very…interesting.” He could see Gabriel’s cheeks flush red as he raised his gaze, angered.

Owen, very deliberately, reached down to clasp Gabriel’s hand. “I’m confident it will be,” he said, his tone revealing just how much he was enjoying it.

“It sure will,” Gabriel purred, staring defiantly at Asher. Asher wanted to smash something.

“Well, forgive our interruption. I see you are in good company,” Owen chirped, sarcasm now dripping from his words. “I will see you around.”

You can count on it, you useless son of a bitch, Asher thought. But all he did was nod curtly and turn back toward the counter, forcing himself to ignore the murmurs the two exchanged as they left.

The innkeeper stared at him with clear sympathy.

“Here. ’Tis on the house, man.” He placed a freshly filled glass in front of Asher. Asher took a deep breath and managed a frank “thank you” before taking a sip.

“Never ya’ mind. We’ve all been there, mate.” The man raised one hand in a beckoning gesture. “I’ll tell ya what you need. Mina—meet my friend here. He’s in need of company, if you’re free, sweetie.”

A short, curvy woman slid soundlessly onto the seat beside Asher. Her eyes were circled with too much kohl and twinkled with interest under her black fringe.

“Of course I am,” she said, drawling her words slightly. “I’m always free to help a man in need. Especially one so…intriguing.” Her small hand reached to trace the strong muscles of Asher’s arm. He stared at her, considering. The infernal drink and a sour rage flowed in his blood, making his whole body burn.

“Thank you, man,” he said, rummaging in his pockets for a generous tip to leave on the counter. He pushed his chair back and stood.

It was easy, following the woman to a small crammed room just above the pub. It was easy to remove her clothes and touch her as he lay on top of her, sliding effortlessly between her plump thighs. When she tried to kiss him, Asher turned his head. She did not insist.

She was warm and slick and pliant, rounded curves filling Asher’s hands, her moans and wails resounding distantly in his ears. It was easy, all so very easy, and not what he wanted at all.

He stumbled home hours later, reeking of cheap alcohol and sweat and sex, clothes askew. As he pulled the door closed behind him, he could see Gabriel’s shape, sitting on the edge of the bed, delineated in faint gray light.

“You’re alive,” Gabriel commented, flatly. He would not look at Asher.

Asher squashed down the pang of guilt that tweaked his chest. He was very careful to keep his voice neutral as he said, “I was busy.”

Silence ached like an open wound. When Gabriel’s eyes rose to meet his, they were cold. “I can see that.”

Without another word he shrugged out of his shirt and lay under the blankets, face turned toward the wall. Asher stumbled into bed and fell into an agitated sleep.

They ignored each other.

Gabriel would get up as the cold light of dawn began to seep in their room—he would dress quietly and leave within minutes, the door clicking softly behind him. And each morning Asher would pretend to still be asleep. He would lie carefully motionless, eyes closed, and force himself to ignore the rustle of Gabriel’s clothes—the merciless memory of Gabriel’s naked skin under his hands.

Trying to get back to sleep was futile. All too soon after Gabriel’s departure he would haul himself upright—he’d sit on the edge of the scrawny bed, floor cold under his bare feet, and grimace as he kneaded his aching shoulder. He would stare at the ragged wallpaper in front of him in mild, irrational anger, and consider exactly how much he hated the bloody City.

As he sat quietly in Egistus’s laboratory, he would try and distract himself, staring malevolently at the hundreds of eccentric instruments that littered the room. The laboratory was as different as it could get from Corran’s witch lair. Lines of delicate utensils gleamed a polished silver under their glass lids, stored in velvet padded cases. Everything was clean and impeccable. The only concession to chaos were clusters of papers scattered on every available surface, covered in indecipherable scribbles and fantastic diagrams.

The click of the lock would announce Gabriel’s return. He would poke into the room and exchange a few friendly words with Egistus. Asher would not look at him, and Gabriel would not address him in return.

Tension vibrated like an overstretched string whenever they happened to be in the same room. Gabriel began to return home late, long after dinnertime. Asher and Egistus ate alone in the small kitchen. The scientist valiantly tried to keep up a friendly conversation, but Asher’s mood remained dark. The absence of Gabriel’s carefree banter and jokes hovered like clumps of thick cotton, numbing the atmosphere.

By the time Asher made his way upstairs, Gabriel would be tucked under his blankets, pointedly ignoring him. Asher would undress and lie down in his cold bed, and resist the urge to punch the wall, frustration screaming inside him.

Until, one night, Asher decided he’d had enough.

He strode into the pub, sparing a friendly gesture toward the innkeeper. Gabriel was seated at his usual table, surrounded by his fellows. Asher’s eyes fixed on Owen’s relaxed shape—the man had his arm around Gabriel’s waist and was smiling in satisfied possessiveness. Asher bit back a snarl and walked forward.

“Gentlemen.” Without waiting for any invitation, he leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. Gabriel looked at him, uncertain. Owen shot him a scornful grin, tightening his hold on Gabriel.

“I hope you don’t mind my interruption,” Asher said, his voice dangerously low. “I need to exchange a few words with Gabriel. In private.”

Owen chuckled. “I’m sure you do,” he said, contemptuous. “However, as you can see, we’re kind of busy right now. So, if you wouldn’t mind…” He waved his arm dismissively. It was all Asher needed.

His brass hand shot to grasp the blond’s wrist, gripping it so hard he heard the bones pop loudly. “I wouldn’t meddle, if I were you,” he growled. The temptation to grip just a fraction harder was almost irresistible.

“Enough,” Gabriel snapped. He pushed himself between the two and grabbed Asher’s arm. “Let go,” he said. And then, louder, “Let go!” as Asher ignored him, busy staring down a whimpering Owen.

Gabriel’s hand fisted in the collar of his shirt. “Asher, let go at once.”

Asher’s gaze flickered to Gabriel’s face. He was pale with anger. Slowly, eyes never leaving Gabriel’s, Asher opened his fingers. Owen fell back onto the chair, clutching his abused arm, face drawn in pain.

“You asshole,” he whimpered. “Did you see that? Did you see what he just did?”

Asher’s teeth were already bared as he crackled his fist, ready to give the blond another round when Gabriel said, sharply, “Shut up, Owen.” He turned toward Asher, his eyes narrowed. “You. In the backroom, now.”

“That is really not necessary,” Asher said, the thrill of the fight dancing wildly in his nerves. Gabriel glared at him.

“I say it is,” he replied, coldly. “I don’t know what your problem is, but you’re damn well going to explain.”

They’d barely made it past the threshold when Asher grabbed Gabriel’s arms and forcefully pushed him back against the door. Gabriel hissed.

“What the—”

“Shut up.” Asher clutched Gabriel’s wrists, forcefully containing his struggles. “You know damn well what is my problem.”

When Gabriel opened his mouth to protest, Asher was swift to take advantage. He bit at Gabriel’s lip before demanding deeper access—Gabriel shook his head, pushing at Asher’s chest, his resistance growing weaker by the second. Asher insisted, tongue seeking Gabriel’s to twine sensuously with it, pinning Gabriel’s down with his weight. “Come on,” he whispered between kisses, tongue brushing against Gabriel’s smooth lips, eliciting a groan from him. “Give in to me.”

A low moan was torn from Gabriel’s lips as he fisted his hands in Asher’s shirt and abruptly dragged him closer, attacking his mouth with fierceness before shoving hard at his chest. They parted, panting, heated gazes trailing over each other’s features—Gabriel’s hair was mussed, his braid askew, and he looked delectably flushed. Asher bared his teeth, a surge of hunger rising to his brain. He lowered his mouth to nip at Gabriel’s ear, moving lower with a trail of small kisses.

“Asher…” Gabriel murmured, leaning his head back to grant Asher’s lips better access to the soft skin of his neck, his hands losing their grip on Asher’s clothes. “What the fuck are you mad about?”

“I’m not,” Asher replied, a deep growl brewing in his throat. He bit down at the corner of Gabriel’s jaw, traced the tense muscles of his neck with his tongue. “The thought of someone else’s hands on you would make me mad. The thought of anyone else between your legs—” he clasped his hand in Gabriel’s hair, forcefully holding his head still, “—drives me fucking insane.”

Kissing Gabriel felt like breathing for the first time in goddamn days.

He clutched Gabriel’s nape and dragged him closer, his mechanical hand gripping Gabriel’s hip, tongue forcing its way into his mouth, and maybe it was too hard, but he didn’t care. Gabriel was warm and taut and real in his hold—his hands were now grasping Asher’s head, holding him still as they kissed, kissed, mouths exploring each other without a trace of decency, tongues slow, demanding. Gabriel bit at his lip, his bittersweet cinnamon taste a luminous revelation as he licked Asher’s tongue, hot and needy and bordering on filthy—and Asher thought his fucking head was going to explode.

“Kid,” he whispered, half a prayer, half a warning, not quite able to stop kissing the corner of Gabriel’s mouth, tracing his teeth on Gabriel’s bottom lip, claiming—he pinned Gabriel to the thick wood and pressed full body against him, one hand straying down the man’s side, slow, tracing the line of his hip before moving lower to cup his ass. Gabriel’s legs parted just enough to let him nestle in between. Asher’s breath about stopped when he found himself lodged between Gabriel’s thighs, and it was crazy and the wrong time and the wrong place and so very right.

Gabriel lifted his eyes to look at him, a vague pout on his mouth, red and plump and looking thoroughly edible. His pale cheekbones were tinted red and his hair fell haphazardly on his face, and he was staring at Asher—half-lidded eyes smoldering and bearing all sorts of dirty promises and, God, it should have been illegal to look so goddamn debauched.

Gabriel smiled one of those tiny smiles of his, infuriatingly smug—he leaned back against the door, craning his head to the side, the lean line of his neck a stark contrast against the dark wood. And Asher could do nothing but comply, lowering his head to once again trace his lips on the warm skin—he kissed Gabriel’s heartbeat, strong and rapid beneath the skin—he followed the steady pulse of Gabriel’s carotid with his tongue, biting lightly on the soft patch of skin just below his ear.

Asher all but ripped at Gabriel’s shirt, bending to press kisses to the heated skin he’d bared, map it with his tongue. He heard Gabriel moan shamelessly under his touch, the sound seeping in his veins and setting his blood alight like burning embers. He hitched Gabriel up and stumbled to the rickety table that occupied a corner, hands clumsily pulling at the laces of his trousers as Gabriel swiftly skimmed out of his own.

He bit back a snarl as he brought his hand down, fingers pressing against Gabriel’s opening to find him still pliant, still stretched by someone else—blinding jealousy roared in his head as he pushed him forcefully down, eyes ablaze with lust and anger and searing desire. “Bastard,” he growled, pinning Gabriel against the rough wood—and Gabriel fisted his hand in Asher’s hair and stared at him defiantly as he said, “You bastard,” before sealing his mouth with a fierce kiss.

And it was heady and hot and maddening as Asher pressed against Gabriel’s pliant flesh—as he sank into Gabriel’s body and pushed and held him, tight. Gabriel’s hands traced searing lines across his back before grasping his hips, urging him deeper, urging him to thrust harder, harder, please. Gabriel’s legs tightened around him as they kissed, frantic and breathless and wet—Gabriel looked up at him from beneath sweaty locks, his eyes half-lidded and burning with lust and need and plain desire—his mouth parted in a silent moan as Asher pushed back into him, again, again. He tasted the sweat in the hollow of Gabriel’s collarbone before he bit down hard, moments before Gabriel shuddered under him—and Asher’s muscles tensed and rippled and burned as his orgasm was torn from him, hard and luminous and just—

They did not notice. They could not see anything but each other, and so they did not notice the faint golden sparkle hidden in the highest dark corner of the room—where a tiny brass owl sat, politely covering its eyes with a little wing.

It was very late when Asher and Gabriel finally stumbled home. They stopped in the hall, exchanging small, lingering kisses, before Gabriel managed to step back. “I’ll see you upstairs,” he whispered, his voice rough, eyes twinkling with mischief. Asher watched as he walked off, a warm, pleasant ache in his muscles.

The light in the workshop was still on. Discreetly, Asher pushed the door open to find Egistus bent on some unbeknownst square mechanism.

“Oh. Welcome back, son. Please, do come in.” The man lifted his eyes from his task. He carefully put down his instrument before turning his chair to face Asher. “Is Gabriel home?”

“Yeah. He’s just gone upstairs.” Asher nodded. “If you would like me to fetch him…”

“No, no. There is no need,” Egistus said, hands peacefully folded in his lap. “I just wanted to make sure. That boy, I cannot help but worry about.”

He fell silent, his gaze examining Asher’s features with the kind attention of scientists. Asher was in too good a mood to feel uneasy at the scrutiny.

“I’m glad to see you two have…settled your issues,” Egistus commented eventually, a benevolent smile on his face. Asher cocked one eyebrow.

“Say, old man—how do you know?”

Egistus shrugged, already maneuvering his chair to turn back to the worktable. “I just do.”

Asher stared at him in mild suspicion; then he shrugged, a smile tugging at his mouth, and left.

Behind him, Egistus let a tiny, boyish grin bloom on his lips. “Allow me to congratulate you, Athena. Your spy skills have proved, once more, incomparable.”

Athena gurgled, pleased, and puffed out her little chest.

The night stretched, quiet, weighing on the room. The distant clatter of iron wheels on cobblestones seeped in through the half-closed window drapes. So did the warm light of the gas lamps scattered along the street. Sluggish, irregular light pooled in the folds of the sheets, followed the contours of still muscles. Asher could see it glint in copper reflections in the thick braid he cradled in his good hand, idly stroking it between his fingers. Soft breathing tinted the air. Asher lay on his back, his eyes tracing the lines of Gabriel’s body, naked and pale and taut beside him.

When he shifted his gaze, brown eyes were staring at him, glimmering with twin stolen sparks of street light.

“Hey,” Gabriel murmured, the curve of his lips an inviting suggestion etched in shadows. He rested on his stomach, arms folded under his cheek. Streaked with darkness, his face appeared thin. Asher resisted the urge to press his fingertips to it.

“Yeah,” he replied, little more than a breath. His good hand drew idle patterns on Gabriel’s hipbone; his brass limb rested stiffly at his side. It gleamed too, golden streaks stolen from the heavy luminescence that hovered in the air.

“I’m sorry. For—yelling at you,” Gabriel breathed. “The other day, when you… I know you didn’t mean to intrude. I shouldn’t have… It wasn’t you I was angry at.”

Asher just nodded.

Gabriel rubbed one hand over his face, wearily. “I may not have been…completely honest with you,” he said, his voice low. Light trembled on his eyelashes. “There may be things I—failed to mention.”

Asher waited, as silence stretched between them like molasses. He placed his hand on the small of Gabriel’s back, the smooth skin warm under his touch. Gabriel’s eyes were filled with unspoken words, but Asher could not seem to decipher any of them.

“You are allowed secrets,” he said, eventually. His voice sounded deep in the quietness of the night.

Gabriel lowered his gaze for the briefest instant. When he stared back at Asher, his eyes were deep stains under his shimmering locks, his lips curved upward, in a crooked grin. Asher thought it seemed too sad a smile to be sincere, but it may well have been a trick of the shadows.

“Yeah,” he breathed, gentle. He shifted, untangling his braid from Asher’s grip, moving away from his touch. He stood, the lines and planes of his bare body bathed in the lamplight as he bent to retrieve his shirt. Asher watched in silence as Gabriel shrugged the garment on and slipped into his own bed, glancing back one single time before closing his eyes. “Get some sleep,” he said, and that was it.

Asher let his gaze linger on Gabriel’s form, huddled in the blanket, now hidden in the shadow of the room’s corner. He could make out the tip of his braid, dangling from the edge of the thin mattress. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps, he should have insisted. Perhaps, Gabriel wanted to say something, wanted the release of a confession, yet needed to be pushed to do it.

The tricks of verbal communication had never been Asher’s area of expertise. As he lay in the cooling bed, his arms empty, he could not help but wish he knew the right words—if there were any.

Chapter Five

Asher was in a bad mood.

The constant dampness weighed on his head, his joints. He had woken late. The feeble sunlight had already spread in the cramped room, delineating every floating dust grain, every stray debris carried by the air. Gabriel’s bed was empty, his clothes gone. Asher, for all his mercenary skills, had not heard a single sound. The man could be damn near incorporeal when he wanted to. Or perhaps it was the infernal atmosphere of the City, clogging Asher’s brain and tampering with his senses like a sour wine.

He stood, rubbing a hand over his left shoulder, where the bolts pulled at the flesh. An impalpable wet sheen coated his neck, the heavy muscles of his bare chest. He flexed his back, cringing at the painful twang in his trapezius. The pain sizzled to his shoulder, sinking its sharp teeth deep under the skin, biting into the bone with the nails that held in place his unnatural limb. One armed, Asher hauled up his belt pouch and retrieved a glass capsule, sealed in the middle by a thick brass band, a long leather cap over one end. He ripped the cap off with his teeth and spat it on the floor, then jabbed the needle it had covered deep in his shoulder. Asher sucked in a sharp breath as the glass vial emptied with a soft hiss, and waited for the procaine to seep into his flesh. Relief spread slowly, a cold halo that enveloped the burning nerve endings, dampening the pain to a bothersome itch.

And only then—as his eyes traced with hazy single-mindedness the room, each detail inscribing itself in his brain, senses connected in unusual ways in the sinister focus induced by the chemicals—Asher was at last able to see.

Gabriel’s mysterious satchel was gone.

When Asher stumbled downstairs, barely avoiding knocking down the piles of papers that cluttered every corner, Egistus sat in silence at one of the desks. His hands rested unmoving on the wooden surface, a shattered Bunsen burner abandoned in front of his unfocused eyes. Asher stood in the doorway, a tight feeling in his chest.

“Where is he?” he asked slowly. When the scientist turned toward him, his features squashed in thick lines that had not been there before, a heavy weight seemed to sink in his chest.

Egistus shook his head, hesitant. “I—I really shouldn’t.”

“Enough!” Asher’s voice sounded too loud in the cramped room. He saw the old man cringe, shrinking away from him, yet could not bring himself to care. He stepped forward, eyes ablaze. “Enough with all the secrets. To hell with this crap. There is something—something going on, and I—damn it. I need to know, man.”

Egistus’s chair huffed as he turned to face Asher, hands nervously folded in his lap. His eyes were dark, and he looked somehow older. “Fine,” he exhaled. “I believe it is your right to know. There is—a device. A combination of explosives, wired together. It took us years to arrange it, and—it is not completed yet. I prepared each part, and he—they set it in place.”

Asher’s voice was flat. “Tell me. Tell me where it is.”

Egistus fidgeted, uneasy. “You know,” he said, finally. “You already know where.”

Asher’s breath caught in his throat. “The Apparatus,” he whispered. Egistus nodded, slow.

“Not just that. The bombs run around the whole wall of the Inner Circle. Underneath.” His hands were shaking. “Each is situated directly below one of the pumps. We were—Gabriel, he—he figured out how to move through the tunnels there. He managed to get directly beneath the machine.” He tightened his fists. “He found a way inside. The plan—we were supposed to wire the core of the building. Yes, inside the tower.” He cringed under Asher’s disbelieving gaze. “There was no time.”

Asher’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

Egistus swallowed. “Owen,” he said, slowly. “One of Gabriel’s fellows. He was captured tonight.” He shook his head. “I believe he was hoping to buy his life with the information. He was, however, mistaken.” He tipped his head toward Athena, who rested on a high shelf. “She reported to me at dawn. He was killed, but not before he could inform them of our plan. At that point, there was—you must understand. We did not have a choice.”

“A choice about what?” Asher growled.

Egistus’s jaw was set, hard. “They know, now. It will not be long before they deactivate the system. We can’t allow that. And the distance control—it wasn’t ready. I didn’t have the time.”

Ice seemed to seep in Asher’s veins. “What does that mean?”

“It means they must—” The scientist’s voice cracked. He took a deep breath. “The detonator must be activated manually. That’s what it means.”

“God damn it, man,” Asher exploded, his hand shooting out to grasp the scientist’s collar, somewhere beyond the point of caring. “Where is Gabriel? Tell me!”

Egistus swallowed, his throat moving against Asher’s knuckles. “The third terrace. That’s where we would have set the core of the device,” he rasped. “Right in the bowels of the machine. Maximum damage. There are parts that it will not be possible to reconstruct. There is no one, in there. The bastards believe no one would ever manage to get so far into their land.” He stared Asher straight in the eye, a sorrowful shadow marring his features. “He’s inside, son. Inside the Apparatus.”

A jolt shot through Asher’s body, as a slow, mounting nausea crawled inside his abdomen. He let go of the scientist, his legs suddenly unstable as the implications of the man’s words sank in. “You have sent him to his death,” he said, disbelieving.

“You must understand,” Egistus almost pleaded. His voice sounded very far away. “There was no more time. The distance control was not ready yet, it wasn’t ready—if only I’d had more time. Please, understand. It was the only way.”

Asher’s jaw tightened. “I must go.” It was absurd and useless and suicidal, and he did not give a fuck.

“They left over three hours ago,” Egistus said. Asher refrained from smashing something with his brass limb, perhaps the scientist’s face.

“Damn it. I’m never going to reach him in time.” Frustration bit at him with acid fangs. In time for what, he wasn’t quite sure. “I don’t even know where the goddamn passages are. Can’t you—can’t you fucking get me in there?”

Egistus turned toward him and, of all things, smiled. “Never you worry.”

Asher thought he could detect an insane sparkle of excitement in the scientist’s gaze.

“I believe I have a solution for that.” Egistus’s chair wheezed as he moved to the ragged curtain that obscured part of the laboratory, and ripped it off.

Asher’s eyes widened in mild terror. The flying machine gleamed, polished and once again whole—if a little patched up.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Asher rasped. And then, firmer: “No way.”

“Oh, yes. Indeed.” Egistus grinned. “You’re not afraid of flying, are you?”

Asher’s legs trembled as he stumbled out of the seat. He stared at it in disbelief, breath stuck in his throat. He was alive. Holy motherfucking hell, he was alive.

He’d all but crashed on one of the terraces that spiraled around the Apparatus body, at about two-thirds of its height. The nose of the machine had smashed one of the building’s big glass panels, and the vehicle smoked pathetically, crushed as a fucking tin. Asher tried to make an inventory of his numb body and hazarded the conclusion that he was unharmed. Some sort of fucking God must have taken him in sympathy.

Still catching his breath, he gingerly stepped through the shattered glass. The inside of the Apparatus was carved in sharp lines of dark iron; a narrow corridor stretched in front of him, dimly lit by small gas lamps situated at regular intervals.

It was too bad he had no idea which way he should go. In a corner of his brain, Asher considered that he hadn’t actually believed he would make it so far in one piece.

Rescue came in the form of a dull clunk, shortly followed by a louder one, that came from the far right end of the passage. Most men would determinedly head in the opposite direction. Asher, however, was the sort of person who would stride to meet danger halfway. He unsheathed his gun and set off toward the noise.

The corridor widened into a small rounded room, where two similar doors opened. As Asher walked silently, the clunk was heard again. It came from below. In a corner of the room, a large trapdoor interrupted the even tiling of the floor, with protruding thick hinges and a broad circular handle.

Asher clasped the iron wheel, which creaked ominously as he pressed against it with all his strength. He could feel the metal give under the grip of his brass hand. With a growl, he gritted his teeth and pushed. The mechanism moved slowly, unwinding with a loud, long screech. Asher breathed out, biceps aching as the wheel turned somewhat smoother, and he believed he could hear a muffled “What the fuck—” coming from below. Smoothly, now, he turned the handle until it stopped with a clunk. He lifted the trapdoor open, muscles tensing with the effort—and was greeted by familiar, wide brown irises, and the muzzle of a gun pointed right between his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, panting. Something that was tense and hard snapped in his chest, and his lungs seemed to expand more freely.

“Hey,” replied Gabriel, quite dazed. He was perched on a thin ladder, his face smudged with dirt. “It’s good to see you, stranger.” A gentle smile hovered, utterly incongruous, on his lips. Asher snorted.

“You too, kid. Someone’s got to get your ass out of here,” he said. “Here. Let me help.” He offered his arm for Gabriel to grab onto and all but hauled him up, before casting a look down the passage.

“Where are the others?”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “The guards. There was patrol all around the perimeter—they were blocking our entrance.” His hands clutched the strap of the large satchel he carried, slung across his body. “I dived in when I could. I don’t know if anyone—managed to escape.”

Asher was silent for one instant, his hand placed on Gabriel’s shoulder in mute solidarity.

But Gabriel shook his head, braid snapping, quick to rouse himself. “Let’s make it worth their while.”

Three doorways opened in front of them, yawning mouths revealing three rusted stairways, tightly wound in upward spirals. They did not inspire a single ounce of confidence.

“Which one?” Asher said, his voice low. He could feel Gabriel’s warmth across the few inches that divided them, yet no answer came. “Kid. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know—”

And that was when he realized that Gabriel was facing away from the tunnels, his eyes blown wide and fixed on something behind them.

“Crap,” he said, matter-of-factly. Asher, a heavy, bad feeling in his gut, turned around—and saw.

A crowd of grayish men had gathered at the opposite end of the room. Slim and tall, they stared with frightening single-mindedness at the intruders. Asher could see the gleam of dozens of golden forks attached to their napes. He squashed down a surprised curse. God damn it, the Tamers had recreated their infernal device outside the wastelands. And they—

“They can control men,” Gabriel said slowly, torn between horror and a grotesque fascination.

Asher did not reply. In a remote corner of his mind, he wondered how he could possibly have missed their approaching. His ears still buzzed with the aftershocks of the crash, his hearing coated in a uniform layer of amorphous gray sound—still, he was better than that. He placed his hand on his gun, flexing his fingers, his nerves already vibrating with anticipation.

“This does not bode well for us,” Gabriel commented. Asher could not repress a snort.

“Why, thank you.” Grimly, he extracted his gun, carefully unlocking the safety. The figures still did not move, standing mutely as if waiting for something. “Save your breath, kid.”

The men stirred. Their eyes seemed to abruptly sparkle to life, their stance shifting to a threatening tension. Asher stared at them with intent. Gabriel pushed his satchel so as to shelter it with his body and leveled his weapon.

The men lurched forward.

Asher’s vision narrowed to the seemingly endless onslaught of enemies, attacking him from every side. He took one down, and another, and another, the world reduced to an inferno of bodies and gleaming blades and dark blood. He heard Gabriel’s curse as the kid’s gun clicked empty and he threw it to the side. In an instant, his daggers glinted as he ripped them out of his harness. Asher saw him descend upon one figure, lashing out with sure movements, then another, blades clashing against the men’s short knives.

Some god must have kept watch over them, for soon the enemies dwindled until only a spare group remained. A broken cry broke the air and Asher turned sharply, barely in time to catch Gabriel as he stumbled back and fell. Asher clutched him around the waist and held him up. He leveled his gun at the remaining figures and fired in rapid succession, bringing them down.

Asher lowered the weapon and caught his breath. Gabriel grasped weakly at his shirt as he tried to prop himself upright.

“Kid. Are you—fuck,” Asher hissed as Gabriel raised his head to look at him. His mouth was a thin line, brow drawn tight in effort. He was pressing a hand to his thigh, and his trousers were already soaked in dark blood. “Damn. Damn.”

Gabriel grimaced as he tried to step forward, and bit back a cry as his leg gave out beneath him, causing him to lose his balance. Asher was quick to tighten his hold, preventing him from falling.

“Well. This is unfortunate.” Gabriel’s forehead was beaded with sweat. He moaned as Asher lowered him to the ground, back propped up against a broad wooden crate.

“Is it deep? Let me,” Asher murmured, his hands carefully pressing on the wound, trying to assess the damage. “You can’t walk on this leg. Here, I’ll—I’ll find a way to stop the bleeding. Don’t be afraid.”

He wasn’t even sure of who he sought to reassure. His hands were shaking as he removed his belt and quickly wrapped it around Gabriel’s leg, fastening it as tight as possible just above the wound.

“Asher.” Gabriel’s voice was faint. He clutched Asher’s sleeve. Asher ignored him, pulling at the belt, making sure it held.

“I’ll carry you. You just have to stay awake long enough to connect the piece. You’ll be all right,” he said, his voice just a little unsteady. But Gabriel gripped his wrist, making his bones ache, hard enough to attract his attention.

“Asher,” Gabriel repeated. His eyes, though glazed, were wide in horror. “They’re moving.”

Asher’s gaze snapped to the side. The men were shifting, all of them, arms and legs twitching as they reached for purchase on the bloodstained floor. It was not possible, Asher thought frantically. There was no way they could have survived. Not all of them.

Gabriel’s shocked gasp was like a stab in the chest. “They are not breathing,” he whispered. Asher’s eyes widened.

They were not, he realized, a slow horror dawning on him. They were getting up, and they weren’t goddamn breathing. The Tamers’ device had a much more frightening power than he’d ever dared imagine. They were dead, God damn it, and yet they still moved—their limbs jerking at awkward angles, irregular movements dictated to bodies which no longer knew them. In the ghastly gaslights, the golden rods gleamed threateningly.

“Fuck.” Asher’s eyes were riveted to the abysmal sight of the dead rising to their feet before him. “We’re screwed,” he said, disbelieving, too baffled to even get annoyed. Their bomb seemed, all of a sudden, no more effective than the abracadabra crap he so loathed.

Gabriel’s hand clutched his shoulder, firm.

“You’ve got to go,” he breathed, urgent. When Asher lowered his gaze, shocked, he found Gabriel’s face was ashen, tense in pained lines. His eyes were feverish as he shrugged off his satchel and thrust it into Asher’s arms. “Take this,” he panted. “The middle stairway, then to the right. A vast room, circular. The—engine is there—the heart of the Apparatus. You must—” He bit back a snarl, his face growing ghastly pale.

Asher shook his head. A slow cloak of cold had seeped inside him. His organs felt carved in solid ice. “No,” he said, low. A throbbing desperation hovered at the edge of his sight, threatening to close in and blind him.

“Yes. Please, Asher—” Gabriel gritted out. He raised his arm and clasped Asher’s hand, hard. His eyes were ablaze. “You’ve got to do this. Please.”

Asher remained mute, a silent, helpless denial fluttering its icy wings inside his chest. Gabriel’s voice, when he spoke, was a ragged whisper. “We have no choice.”

So that was it. The realization spread inside him in a cold, quiet veil, obliterating the sizzling fear and urgency that thrummed in his veins. He’d suspected they would not leave that building alive. Now he knew for certain. His brain was, oddly, calm—a vast sense of insensate acceptance flooding his thoughts, drowning everything, leaving only a faint nausea in the pit of his stomach.

“All right.” His hand clutched the satchel’s strap. He wanted to touch Gabriel, yet he did not. If he had—he wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk away. “I’ll do it.”

Gabriel’s eyes were gentle as they traced Asher’s features. “Thank you,” he murmured, squeezing his hand. He stared at him for one long moment—slowly he leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on Asher’s lips. Asher closed his eyes, fighting back a dull desperation that weighed behind his eyelids. They kissed for a long, precious instant, a shard of possible eternity that was over all too soon.

Gabriel pulled back and blinked. In silence, Asher placed his gun in Gabriel’s hand, his own fingers hesitating for just an instant. When he spoke, a thick lump was lodged in his throat.

“Good luck,” he said. Goodbye, he would have wanted to say, and many more things—soft words and confessions and tokens of unforgivable weakness he had not yet had the chance to speak, and for which there was no longer place nor reason. Gabriel’s gaze was calm and understanding, and for a moment, Asher allowed himself to believe that, perhaps, he knew.

Gabriel’s hand tightened around his one last time, then slipped away. “Go, now,” he said, simply. Asher breathed, collecting himself. He got to his feet and set off, his boots resounding heavily on the gilded floor.

He couldn’t help but slow down to cast a glance back. Gabriel was leaning heavily against the crate, struggling to keep himself upright, legs uselessly sprawled on the ground. One of the bodies on the floor twitched, shortly followed by another. Articulations creaked. Gabriel lifted the gun, his arm unsteady. He had blood on his face.

Asher had to make violence on himself to turn his head and keep walking. He did not look back a second time.

The hall was immense, rounded brass walls disappearing in the distance. Asher stopped running, gun in mid-air as he surveyed the room, ensuring no one lay in ambush. It was deserted.

A narrow ledge ran along the walls, circling a vast precipice that disappeared downward, in the darkness. Titanic gears emerged from the bowels of the Apparatus, rising like monstrous clockwork giants; they turned slowly, their loud clunks echoing sinisterly in the vastness of the room. The heart of the machine. Asher felt a cold shiver run down his back.

Abruptly, his eyes were caught by a golden glimmer that rested to the side. A four-feet-tall replica of the Tamers’ rods gleamed in the harsh light, mounted on a large golden globe in the centre of the room. Asher could see sparkles flutter in irregular strands between its spread arms. The globe buzzed, an even low noise underlying the sharp sounds of the turning gears. In an instant, he was at the device’s side, irrational hope flaring in his brain as a faint idea pulsed to life. If he could destroy the thing, perhaps—perhaps the Tamers’ control on the guards would vanish. Perhaps the guards would go dead and bloody stay that way. Perhaps it would still be in time to save Gabriel.

He leaned forward, tightening his hands around the golden rod, and pulled. He gritted his teeth, brass arm whining pitifully as he strove to pull harder, harder, feeling the gold shift and begin to bend in his grasp. In the back of his brain, a thin voice cried at the uselessness of his actions—they would not get out of there at any rate, the bomb would soon sweep away device and guards and Asher and Gabriel alike—he ignored it. He pulled harder still, bright pain exploding in his shoulder where the bolts bit into the bone, nerves shouting at the abuse. It was useless, useless—and yet, he could not let go. Not when Gabriel’s life—at least, for a few more minutes…

He felt the gold give with a sharp jolt and yanked with all his strength, a roar building in his throat at the inhuman effort—and the device snapped in his hold, sending him tumbling backwards, a carnival of sparks spreading from the broken metal with one last shrieking hiss. As Asher got to his feet, panting, burning sweat coating his forehead and neck, the globe whizzed one last time and fell silent—the quiet resonating loudly in the enclosed space. He threw the useless rod to the ground and spat, wiping his face. Useless, perhaps. He did not care.

Regaining his breath, he stepped over to the cluster of foreign machinery assembled at the base of the gigantic gears that disappeared upward, brass dents as big as his head, turning slowly and steadily. The makeshift detonator, with its wires and brass props, was ridiculously small in the face of the giant Apparatus.

He opened Gabriel’s satchel and carefully retrieved a rectangular piece of machinery, with dangling wires and a rounded button on top. He turned it in his hands, examining it with care. It was easy to see that it would fit perfectly in the gaping hollow in the centre of the device. Asher reached forward, piece clutched firmly in his hands—and stopped midmotion when his eye was caught by a tiny golden ball that whirled in from a crevice in the roof. The object steered sharply to avoid crashing into one of the columns and skidded to a halt on the controls panel.

Asher looked in mild bewilderment as Athena’s polished eyes stared at him, calm and friendly.

She hooted, and he suppressed a smile, oddly grateful. “All right,” he murmured, his eyes softening. Not being alone seemed, suddenly, very important. “We’re going to do this together.”

The piece slotted snugly into the hollow, the rounded gleaming core now hidden from sight, lodged deep within the mechanism. Hands unreasonably steady, Asher worked to swiftly plug the electrodes in place, brass wires tensing smoothly as he connected them to the detonator. Athena fluttered around the panel, plugs held delicately in her small beak as she guided Asher in the more complex connections. As he attached the last cable, the mechanism rumbled softly and came crackling to life, cogs turning on their own as it clamped in place, a soft buzzing sound spreading in the heavy air. Asher wiped his brow with shaky fingers and stared at the central button, which pulsed of a dim ruby light.

He breathed deeply. His mind felt numbed, as if wrapped in cold cotton. Distantly, he wondered if Gabriel was still alive, and whether that still had any relevance. The memory of Gabriel’s skin, warm and taut under his hands, and Gabriel’s mouth—his irritating smirk curving his lips upward, the way his eyes seemed to sparkle—

Asher’s hands tightened. “No other choice,” he whispered, and reached forward.

That’s when Athena lowered onto his hand and pecked it with all her strength.

Asher hissed a curse, his arm snapping instinctively back. When he raised his gaze, dazzled—she stood in front of the switch, her tiny wings spread, her eyes steady and unreadable.

“What the hell,” he muttered, motioning for her to leave. “Move, stupid bird. What the devil are you—”

Athena hooted, her beak glinting as she once again aimed for his hand. She held his gaze, deliberately, wings still firmly spread.

“You know I’ve got to do this,” Asher said. It was ridiculous, having to explain himself to a clockwork toy. He would have to smash her if she didn’t—

Athena looked at him, then turned around and hopped near the switch. Delicately, she raised a claw and rested it on the glowing button. When she raised her patient eyes to meet Asher’s, he understood.

He stared back at her, uncertain. “Do you mean—” he murmured, slowly. His hand was bleeding, and the pain pulsed in his nerves, sharpening his clouded brain. “You’re—you’re going to do it.”

Solemnly, Athena tilted her little head and nodded.

For a long moment, Asher wondered whether he’d gone insane. He blinked, and still Athena looked at him, quiet and tiny and brave. Slowly, Asher nodded back.

“All right.” He reached down, hesitant, and brought unstable fingers to lightly stroke Athena’s little head; the owl closed its eyes and gurgled in pleasure. “Thank you, little one,” he murmured, not ashamed in the least at the warmth that crept through his words. He walked back to the door and lingered there. Athena did not move, a small gleaming bundle in the vastness of the room—her claws carefully resting on the button, bright eyes gentle on Asher’s features. Reluctantly, he broke eye contact and stepped into the corridor.

Asher did not look back. He ran.

Chapter Six

“Gabriel—Gabriel, please. We’ve got to leave.” Asher kneeled at the side of a seemingly unconscious Gabriel. He’d had to kick aside no fewer than three inert bodies that still crushed the kid. The horde of ghastly guardians lay unmoving in repulsive heaps, where they had collapsed when Asher had disrupted the fulcrum of their unnatural life. He scanned Gabriel’s body with attentive eyes, taking in the scratches and blooming bruises on his face, the nasty gash just below his collarbone.

His frozen heartbeat seemed to only resume its beating when he saw Gabriel’s chest rise and fall, in shallow yet regular breaths.

He reached to prop his head up, swallowing a curse at the waxen paleness of his skin. He swatted lightly at Gabriel’s cheeks, calling for him to wake up. There was no time to ensure movement would not exacerbate hidden wounds. He would have to hope Gabriel’s body was strong enough to take it. Blowing up with the place was a much surer death. He’d take his risks.

Gabriel’s eyelids fluttered. “What…” he mumbled, his voice hoarse. His eyes were hazy as they tried to focus on Asher’s face. “The bomb.” He tried to jerk himself upright, his words muddied. “Asher. You’ve got to—Asher…”

“It’s all right,” he interrupted, urgent. He brought his brass arm around Gabriel’s back, holding him steady, good hand reaching to brush bloodied locks out of the man’s face. “It will go off soon—Athena. It’s all right.”

Gabriel did not seem to fully understand, yet Asher could feel him relax under his touch.

“We’ve got to get out of here. Hold tight.”

Gabriel was groggy, his movements uncertain. His leg still bled, however meagerly, and wouldn’t function properly. Asher hauled him forcibly up, passing one of Gabriel’s arms around his shoulder to take most of the weight on himself. They staggered past the bodies that cluttered the floor, stumbled awkwardly down the tight steps of the stairwell.

“I really hope you have a plan,” Gabriel said, a valiant hint of humor in his thin voice. Asher snorted a laugh. It looked like they were past the threshold of sanity, yet it did not bother him. Somewhere in his sizzling brain, the warm thought that at least he’d get to die with Gabriel glowed dimly. It made things, somehow, easier.

“You bet I do, kid.” He grunted, guiding Gabriel’s step past the shattered window panes, careful of the contorted metal frames poking at dangerous angles. The flying machine waited like a crumpled albatross, one wing craned at an uncertain angle, the nose crushed by the impact. Asher had no idea whether it would be able to fly, and even less sustain a second crash landing. He did not have a choice.

“You can’t fly that.” Gabriel struggled to lift his head. His eyes seemed to be shifting in and out of focus. Asher didn’t know how much time they had left, but it couldn’t be much.

“I can,” he said, keeping a silent or at least, I hope so to himself, as he lifted Gabriel to lower him in the passenger seat. He left him fumbling with the leather security fastenings and hauled himself into the driver’s place. The controls appeared in order, the glass of warning lights shattered and a few handles bent. He gripped the ignition lever and lifted it. It moved smoothly. He pressed the activating combinations of buttons, holding his breath as the gears shifted noisily.

The engine sputtered, mechanics clunking and wheezing in an alarming way. “Come on—come on,” Asher growled, holding hard on to the controls as he pumped the start lever. The machine roared and coughed to an uncertain life. Asher had no idea if it would hold their weight in its wretched condition or if the engine would sustain the strain. It appeared he would have to appeal to all his scant reserves of luck and trust in Egistus’s skill.

The damaged wing whined pitifully as he angled the machine for takeoff. When he cast a glance backwards, Gabriel was half-slumped against the side, frightfully pale.

Asher muttered a heartfelt curse and pushed the yoke forward.

The machine was bumping, halfway between a jerky glide and a freefall toward certain death, when the Apparatus exploded in a bout of sharp orange flames. The blow of hot air upset the fragile equilibrium of the aircraft, and Asher gritted his teeth as he held on to the yoke with all his strength, fighting to keep the blasted thing from spinning out of control. As debris shot past them and smashed into the brass body like ragged bullets, the detonations went off at regular intervals along the thick walls of the Inner Circle—one after the other, spreading like wildfire in a quickening chain of unstoppable destruction.

The violent gush of hot air propelled the aircraft upward, and it hiccupped past the walls before its nose pointed resolutely down.

The fire still roared in the destroyed heart of the city, spreading hot winds that floated down the streets, carrying ghostly fluttering embers. A parade of sleepy sparkles surrounded Asher as he walked along the dark alleys, carrying a barely conscious Gabriel on his back.

He could feel the first traces of a light rain fall on his face. The clouds were scattering and dissolving, no longer tied by the Apparatus’s power. The rain would prevent the fire from spreading uncontrolled to the rest of the city, but it would be too late to salvage the immense system of the Apparatus, already mercilessly shredded to pieces by the raging flames. The machine had died, folding over itself like a burning moth. With some luck, its creators may have followed its fate, unable to escape from the mayhem.

Gabriel’s arms tightened softly around Asher’s neck, and Asher craned his head to the side. He could feel Gabriel’s lashes flutter against his skin, Gabriel’s body stirring as he returned to consciousness.

“Welcome back,” Asher murmured, affectionately.

Gabriel snorted. “Put me down,” he said, barely more than a breath. Asher did not object. They were far enough from the mounting commotion around the shattered Inner Circle, and he doubted he’d be able to carry on for much longer.

The alleyway widened to the side in a cramped courtyard. Asher gingerly guided Gabriel down, careful of his wounded leg. He dropped to the ground with a grunt, back resting against a stone wall, bent legs spread to allow Gabriel to nest between them. Carefully, Asher encircled him with his arms, coaxing him to lean against his chest. Faint orange light emerged from behind the grim buildings surrounding the yard, illuminating the anthracite sky.

“How’s your leg?” he asked, hand idly caressing Gabriel’s mussed hair. The tourniquet was holding, the bleeding of the kid’s leg appeared to have stopped. Asher’s own shoulder throbbed with sharp pain, and his head buzzed loudly. They would need a physician soon enough, but they could rest a moment.

“Hurts.” Gabriel grimaced as he shifted in Asher’s hold. He rested his head on Asher’s good shoulder and looked at him with quiet, gleaming eyes. “Is it done?”

Asher allowed himself a tiny, worn-out smile. He nodded. “It’s done.”

Gabriel leaned against him, a reassuring warm weight. His gaze followed the slow fluttering of a fragment of ember that went off with a soft hiss as it landed on damp cobblestones.

“Good,” he exhaled. His eyes slid closed, and Asher felt him grow heavier in his arms. “Thank you.” He placed his hand on the cold brass of Asher’s arm.

Asher did not reply. He tipped his head forward, enough to brush a kiss on Gabriel’s head. Then he leaned back, resting his head against the cool bricks of the wall, and breathed, deep. His body ached with utter exhaustion. Asher rested, for the first time in months allowing himself something akin to peace, soothed by the regular, comforting sound of Gabriel’s breathing.

“Hey, kid,” Asher whispered, his fingers brushing away the dirtied locks from Gabriel’s forehead. His face was smudged with dirt and blooming bruises. A trickle of blood had dried on his skin, a rusty tear from his temple to his chin. “I’m…glad you survived.”

“You kiddin’?” Gabriel slurred. He stirred in Asher’s hold. “Wouldn’t do—such a boring death.”

“Yeah,” Asher replied, just a little breathless as something warm and heavy and pleasant curled in his chest. “You’re way too good for that.”

Cool raindrops pattered their faces. Gabriel’s smile stretched like a tired sunbeam on his lips.

“You too, stranger.”

About the Author

Cornelia Grey is a student currently halfway through her creative writing degree, with a penchant for fine arts and the blues. Born and raised in the hills of Northern Italy, where she collected her share of poetry and narrative prizes, she is now based in London.

She writes in a variety of genres, such as surrealist poetry, screenplays, children’s stories, steampunk, m/m romance and theatre scripts—after six years of performing, she’s very much enjoying being on the other side of the script. When she’s at home, she likes to curl up with a book and the classic cup of tea, and leaves nuts in the garden for the squirrel that comes around from time to time.

You can visit her blog at http://corneliagrey.livejournal.com or http://corneliagrey.blogspot.com.

For love’s sake, he started a war. For peace, he could lose it all.

Lover of Ghosts

© 2010 Emily Veinglory

Ballot’s Keep, Book 2

Three armies are converging on the isolated town of Ballot’s Keep, and a harsh, icy winter is just around the corner. Xeras and his infant dragon are heading out of town, but not to escape. It was his meddling that caused all this trouble for his lover, Carly, and for the town. And it’s his job to set it right. Or, as his companion ghost likes to remind him, get killed trying.

Carly, the duke of Ballot’s Keep, would like nothing better than to protect his troubled, magic-tainted lover. But what dragon magic has wrought, dragon magic must repair—and Xeras insists on facing the consequences of his actions. Alone.

The fate of thousands of innocent people rides on Xeras’s talent for causing trouble—only this time, in turning their enemies against each other. But his need for secrecy could be too much of a betrayal for Carly to forgive…

Warning: Perhaps not as much hot gay lovin’ as you might be hoping for because Xeras is busy saving the town. Oh, there are also several murders, light cussing, heavy petting and some very bad puns. You have been warned.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Lover of Ghosts:

Carly reached out and all but scooped Xeras into the room. There was no light inside beyond the hearth fire at the end of the room opposite the bed. The duke wore just a robe tied tight at his waist. He was a big, broad man with an honest face and ruddy hair, curling on his head and coarse in his beard, which Xeras secretly disliked. Sometimes he wondered if he disliked it simply to have something to dislike in a man who was otherwise quite unreasonably patient and virtuous, not to mention attractive.

“I was wondering where you had got to.” Carly closed the door with a shudder and reflexively went to let Drinia out as she scratched at the door that led into the rest of the house. She trotted off, apparently with her own ideas about where to spend the night. “It seems we are alone,” he said.

“After a fashion.”

“Apart from each other,” Carly chided. “Which is more or less my point. And besides, if love makes two people one, wouldn’t that make us alone?”

Xeras smiled wanly but turned away from Carly’s touch. Drin stayed quiet but he was still there, he was always there. Being a ghost and haunting Xeras, there was nowhere else he could be, even if he wanted to.

Xeras felt Drin not saying anything in response to that thought. No doubt he was trying to be discreet. Drin approved of the match with Carly. The ghost saw sensible Carly as someone who might keep Xeras out of trouble and supply him with life’s sundry necessities now that Drin was not longer part of the corporeal world. But somehow Xeras felt Drin would still be hurt if theirs proved to be a truly deep and romantic love, rather than a relationship that swarmed with ambiguities and secrets.

Xeras’s hands were numb as he pulled his cloak tight around him, but it was as if the cold he carried with him defeated the warmth of the chamber. Carly was not so easily dissuaded; he took Xeras gently by the shoulder and led him to the bed. Xeras looked aside but allowed himself to be guided to sit on the edge of the pallet. Carly stood before him, unfolding the length of the cloak thrown over Xeras’s shoulder. His touch was careful, solicitous, and his hand were always most undeniably warm.

“It may seem a strange complaint,” Carly mused. “But it disturbs me how polite you have been of late, and how biddable. That is not the Xeras I know…and love.”

You see?

Xeras closed his eyes. Drin had indeed been arguing that Carly’s interest was not some passing fancy—that somehow he truly did like Xeras despite his spiky ways, or even because of them.

“Is it such a painful proposition?” Carly pressed. He pushed Xeras’s cloak back off his shoulders, revealing the frayed and gape-necked tunic beneath. It had been black once and now sunk in to an indiscriminate, dejected brown.

Why do you do this to the poor man? Tell him you love him too. Lie if you must, but at least be kind.

It was not that he did not love Carly. It was not even that he did not want to say it, but with Drin there listening he could not. How could you say that to one man, when the last one you said it to stood invisibly in the room? When the last man you loved died horribly because of it?

So you continue to torture me by destroying your own happiness.

It’s what I do best, Drin. Xeras tried not to let Drin feel his other thoughts, that Drin’s haunting distractions would probably always make it impossible to form new relationships with people who were still alive.

Xeras glanced up, belatedly, and saw how Carly’s smile had faded. But the duke pressed on, glossing over Xeras’s lack of response. He was a strong and foursquare man, but his touch was light, untying Xeras’s belt and lifting his tunic up and over his head. Yet another person who seemed to recognize that despite looking like a full-grown man, inside he was little more than a child.

Every place Carly touched Xeras, true warmth blossomed and endured. But Xeras clasped his arm down over the line of faint bruise-rosettes and tiny scabs left by Drinia’s nursing. Barely evident by touch, and probably invisible in the near darkness, but just one more thing he had no desire to divulge or discuss in the absence of any possible solution. The duke had troubles enough with war and winter both on his doorstep.

“Love is a strange thing,” Carly said, apparently giving up entirely on Xeras participating in the conversation. “It makes me feel…light and invincible and full of optimism.” He continued to undress Xeras is if he were nothing more than a large doll from which any great degree of cooperation was not to be expected.

Look at him, at least. How can you be so indifferent to this man and what he offers you?

Because, amongst so many other things, if he fell into the complacency of new love, Drin would leave him. The ghost would feel his task complete. Xeras’s happiness and future somehow secured, he would move on to whatever lay beyond. The exact nature of that fate seemed unclear even to Drin—perhaps it was simple oblivion. And for all that was probably the proper thing to happen, Xeras wasn’t ready to give him up. He let Carly settle him into the bed, folding the covers over them both, lying side by side, untouching.

“Maybe it doesn’t have that effect on you,” Carly said quietly. “Maybe it does and you just haven’t found it yet. It would be nice to think the world gave every lover that same love in return. But I know that isn’t always true.”

Xeras could feel Drin seething. The ghost was angry at him—but angry, disappointed or even despairing he would stay. The question was, how much would Carly put up with? He was already being tolerant beyond all reason. Xeras was caught. He did not want the love of the living to cost him the companionship of Drin’s ghost, but he feared what would happen if he was left only with the love of the dead.

In the darkness Xeras stirred. He turned towards Carly’s warmth and reached out under the heavy blankets. Carly was lying on his back. Xeras’s hand curled over his broad forearm. What Xeras could not say in words he offered in gestures, brushing his lips over Carly’s shoulder. He reached out and laid his palm lightly on Carly’s chest, just at the base of his rib cage, sliding down to his abdomen.

Xeras felt anxious tension trembling in his own hands. Carly was not moving in response to his touch. In the darkness Xeras closed his eyes, grimacing. He was used to his own morose nature, but there was no need to sink into maudlin fits of tears at the least provocation. He felt wetness beading in his eyes and tried, angrily, to push those feeling away. He had indulged them far too much already. Even he was sick of himself.

But Carly finally sighed and reached his arm out and around, gathering Xeras up against his body.

“You’re so cold,” Carly said, tucking the blankets up around them both.

Xeras rested his head against Carly’s shoulder. The first time he had done that, it had felt like coming home. But he knew he was cold in a far broader sense of the word. He was like Drinia, sucking the warmth out of Carly and giving nothing back. Carly, for some inexplicable reason, allowed it, but that did not make it right or fair, and unlike a mindless little beast, Xeras had it within his power to give more…or break free. His need was after all his need, not any obligation on Carly, let alone this entire town.

Xeras moved his hand back up across Carly’s chest, just idly considering the solid bulk of his form and the generous warmth that radiated from it, more like a hearthstone than a man. Muscles ran under his skin in smooth forms, like some deity had sculpted them. With his eyes still closed, Xeras got control of himself again, feeling the soft grain of Carly’s sparse chest hair swirling out from the center of his chest, brushing over his nipple and contemplatively tracing down the gentle ripple of his muscular rib cage.

With a soft moan Carly rolled towards him, all but pinning him down with a full, warm kiss. All his life Xeras had fought so hard to stand up, to be his own person. His father Harus was a member of Triton’s ruling counsel, and no one ever seemed to see Xeras as more than a misbred disappointment who would always be an unwanted drain and disappointment, not a fit heir and continuation of his esteemed lineage.

But in Carly’s arms, he felt subsumed and overwhelmed, and caught in the moment, he didn’t care at all. Carly’s substantial body felt like a safe harbor, a place he could consider being only himself, no matter how frail and flawed that self might be—and if possessing no great strength, at least constituting a light burden. Xeras pressed against Carly like a vine against the tree, molding to that greater strength. Carly’s hardening cock pressed against his thigh. He ached for it, kissing Carly hungrily and pulling him in. Sliding one leg around Carly, he urged his lover on.

In the darkness he felt a furtive whisper, not even a real sound just a feeling…the feeling of being watched. Drin was always somehow there. Xeras tried to drive it from his mind, digging his fingers into Carly’s broad back. Carly was slow to respond, being by nature a deliberate, gentle man. But he kindled, pressing Xeras down, his lips becoming gentle bites. His cock was hard now and insistent. Xeras raised his knees, Carly hesitated again. Xeras hissed in irritation, wanting Carly inside him to drive the constant worrying out.

“You’re like mountain weather, Xeras. You have a sudden way about you.”

“I can only hope it is part of my charm,” Xeras whispered. “Else I have none at all.”

Carly exhaled in a muted semblance of a laugh, and he pressed forward, into Xeras, in a completion that felt, for that one long fleeting moment, like they truly united into one—and no other person was present, or existed at all.

When this deal breaks, Heaven will fall.

Angel 1089

© 2010 C.C. Bridges

Heaven Corp, Book 1

Catching two demon burglars is routine for Gabriel 1089, who’s one cog in an army of cybernetically modified humans protecting the sky city of Heaven. Until two turns into a twenty-demon ambush. When he wakes up, he’s missing his network-enabled halo—and one of his metal wings.

The down-level junk dealer tending Gabe’s wounds has hands that spark nerve endings he never knew he possessed. But for an angel cut off from Heaven, an attic in Old Trent feels more like a trap than a sanctuary.

Demons on his doorstep are nothing new for Jeff Werth. Ever since they saved his daughter’s legs, they’ve been calling in their marker. In exchange for his services—nursing Gabe back to health so they can use him as a pawn in their war with Heaven—they’ll consider the debt paid in full. Except having a powerless angel at his mercy feeds a rising desire that has him rethinking the deal.

Then the de-haloed Gabe begins having dreams that become visions…then memories. Until he’s not sure whose side he’s on. Heaven, or the simple family man who healed his broken wings…and made his heart whole.

Warning: The sexual awakening of an angel, some wing porn, abuse of heavenly clichés and a dog who steals the show.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Angel 1089:

In some ways he was almost childlike, naïve about everything. But Jeff knew Gabriel 1089 was dangerous, a soldier for Heaven Corp, with his wings literally clipped. His bare chest rippled with muscles, not an ounce of fat on his narrow frame as if he were meant to soar the skies like a bird of prey. Jeff wanted to run his hands along those chiseled muscles, feel if they were flesh or made of stone. It had been too long since he’d indulged in touching another man like that, and Jeff hadn’t expected to find himself missing it.

“I like to think the whole junkyard is my workshop,” Jeff said. “But this is where I work on special projects.”

“Like me?” Gabriel finally turned his full gaze on Jeff, those pale eyes startling when focused so intently.

Jeff coughed to cover his reaction, surprised at the thread of desire coiling in his gut. “I think I found you some oil.” He showed Gabriel the clear glass jar.

Gabriel took a whiff of the oil, blinking in response. “Oh. It smells sweet.”

“It’s not your typical junkyard oil,” Jeff agreed. “This should be fine for your cybernetics.”

Gabriel frowned, crossing his arms in front of his bare chest. “You say that like they’re not me. My wings.” He closed his eyes at the slip.

How much did it hurt to lose a limb? Jeff had a flash of Kayla in his arms, blood everywhere, body mangled. He swallowed, not having to imagine the agony at all. “I’m sorry.”

“How do you want me?”

Jeff shook his head at the sudden change of topic. “What?”

“Well, I can’t reach myself.” Gabriel smiled.

Normally Jeff might think that expression coy or flirtatious, but he wasn’t sure about Gabriel. He didn’t know if angels could even engage in such things. All Jeff knew was that they were minions of Heaven Corp, often without wills of their own. The demons had to make their deals around the angels, who could not be bribed like normal humans. But that didn’t answer the question.

“Um, maybe if you lean over my chair,” Jeff offered, “so I can reach everywhere?” His face burned as he stepped into innuendo without meaning to. Yes, the angel was beautiful. They were made to be. But Jeff couldn’t even think about this sudden surprising attraction. Even if angels were able to bend that way, he could hardly start flirting with Gabriel, not when Jeff was keeping secrets to hold Gabriel here.

Gabriel didn’t seem to notice Jeff’s discomfort. He moved into position, kneeling on the seat of Jeff’s comfy chair, crossing his arms over the back and resting his chin on them. His golden wing stretched out, unfurling to its full length.

Jeff couldn’t help but be struck by the beauty of such a fascinating piece of machinery, the interlocking feathers that looked almost more like the scales of a fish, and the way they folded, in and over. He picked up a clean shop rag and dabbed it in the jar of oil. “Should I start any place in particular?”

“At the top, please.”

He buffed at the metal, beginning where it met Gabriel’s pale skin, molded to his shoulder blade like he’d been born with them. It made the stub and wires sticking out of the other shoulder a monstrosity. Jeff had to do something about that. But right now he just concentrated on the way the dull metal began to gleam once oiled.

“Oh.” Gabriel’s back arched.

“Did I hurt you?” Jeff lifted the rag away.

“N-no.” Gabriel seemed to need to catch his breath, panting slightly after he spoke.

Jeff stroked his fingers down a set of feathers, delighting in how it caused Gabriel to shiver. He pulled back at the sound the angel made deep in his throat. Touching the angel like this wasn’t for his benefit, no matter how hard he got at Gabriel’s unintentional sensuality.

“It just feels…intense,” Gabriel choked out.

Jeff was glad Gabriel faced away from him, not sure he would have been able to hide his reaction to this intimate touch otherwise. “How…” He almost choked on the word. “How did it feel when the other angels did this?”

“They didn’t. There is an oil spray system in our showers.” One of Gabriel’s hands lifted as if to mimic a motion.

Jeff pictured a row of angels, all nude and looking remarkably like Gabriel, standing together as they were oiled down, wings gleaming.

“Do you think it’s possible,” Gabriel started, voice thick, “to send a message past the demons?”

The sweet smell of the oil turned rancid as Jeff lied. “No, the demons rule Old Trent. No one can afford to cross them.” Especially Jeff.

Gabriel hunched over. His shoulders humped and his wing dragged, as if it were too heavy to lift. Jeff wished he could help the angel, send him home and out of their lives, keep Gabriel and Kayla safe from whatever Luca planned. Luca had toppled other powerful demons to gain his place, taking virtually all of Old Trent as his territory. He hadn’t been nice or polite about the takeover. Jeff had never seen a demon so ruthless, killing those who stood in his way and leaving the mangled bodies for all to see, both with their own eyes and in flickering holograms around the city.

He added another dollop of oil, almost done, but not wanting to sever this connection with Gabriel.

“What does your name mean?” he asked, wanting Gabriel to talk about himself, but not dwell on what he had lost.

Gabriel let out a laugh. “I’m named Gabriel because I’m an archangel class, one thousand series. Eighty-nine because I was the eighty-ninth made in that line.”

“How many are there?”

“Too few now. They’ve moved on to the five thousand series and the seraph class.”

Jeff wanted to know more, wanted to ask what made each series different, how people had been modified, changed into something other. But it would be wrong to satisfy his mechanical curiosity when all he could give Gabriel in return were lies.

Just as wrong as his enjoyment of Gabriel beneath his fingertips. Jeff swallowed the guilt and wiped off his hands.

“There,” he said. “I think I’ve got it all now.”

Gabriel gave a roll of his shoulder and the wing responded, twisting and sliding into itself until the wing took up no more room than a shirt tucked up against the angel’s back.

“That’s handy.” Jeff’s mind was already whirling with thoughts, comparing the design to the demonic wings, how one could be modified for the better.

“Everything fits now.” Gabriel stood. “Thank you.”

If only everything else could be fixed as easily.