London Darkness- Infernal Inventions Read online

  London Darkness: Infernal Inventions

  Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Stocking

  Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  London Darkness: Infernal Inventions is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited By: Ashley Amidon

  “Clock w/ Hand” By: Jennie Nelson

  “Into the Mist” By: Steve King – http://www.steampunkthings.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 1

  A dark shroud hung over a manor in the center of the city. The sun was setting over the horizon, flooding the entire city in darkness. There were no stars, no moon, only black.

  A man sat behind a large wooden desk. Two gas lanterns stood on either side and illuminated a stack of papers, a silver revolver, and a curved-bladed dagger with a coiled snake engraved on the hilt. The man frantically scribbled on a piece of paper with an elegant, brightly-colored quill pen.

  He wore black and gray striped trousers, a crimson shirt, and a black waistcoat. His face was covered by a shining golden mask molded in a perpetual, maniacal stare.

  There was a knock at the heavy metal door opposite him. “Enter,” he commanded. His voice was powerful and strong.

  The door swung open and a small, skinny man entered. He wore loose-fitting plain clothes, and his white ceramic mask was chipped and cracked. “Has the mechanical feline been planted in the League Headquarters?” the golden-masked man asked.

  “It’s in the final stages of development and should be shipped in the next few days,” the skinny man answered. His voice was weak and shaky.

  “Excellent,” Caiden said. “Its primary command is set to corrupt one of the inventors, and murders will follow.”

  “A vile and evil plan, sir,” the skinny man answered.

  Caiden smiled behind his mask. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, no sir.”

  “Then be gone,” Caiden snapped as he pounded his fists on his desk.

  The skinny man jumped and scrambled out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Caiden laughed and continued scribbling on the paper. Soon, he thought. Soon the League will fall. And the city will be mine.

  Chapter 2

  Ryker sat behind his iron desk in the corner of his laboratory. The smell of sulfur burned his nostrils, but he loved it. He leaned back and the old chair gave a loud squeak. He laced his fingers behind his head and groaned; his muscles stretching as he looked at the revolver in front of him.

  He smiled and picked it up. The handle fit perfectly in his hand. It had carved grooves in the front for extra comfort and engraved along the side of the silver barrel in swirling script read the name “Celia.”

  The tick of a clock sounded quietly in his head. He looked at his left palm. Staring back at him was the face of a pocket watch embedded into his hand. The second hand jerked forward as time progressed.

  The black stitching around the edge of the clock was rough, but held firm. He’d been obsessed with time, even as a child. The idea of time occurring and passing, how, as soon as time passed, it was frozen in place, forever to be logged in the history books. Whether someone made time worth their while was up to them, and Ryker wasn’t a person to waste too much time.

  But at this particular moment, Ryker was content to sit as his desk. He looked out the dirty window. The clock tower next to his lab chimed loudly as the massive hands struck midnight. He smiled, “Happy birthday to me.”

  Ryker stood. He opened his desk drawer and removed a small knife. He looked at the blade for a moment, and then etched a notch into the wall, crossing four other notches. There were twenty-five notches in all.

  He returned the knife to the drawer and stared out the window at the streets below. A prostitute waited on the corner as an elegant, black steam-automobile slowed to a stop. A plume of black smoke erupted from a pipe over the front engine. She leaned in the passenger window and spoke the clever words to persuade yet another client to enjoy a night with her.

  Ryker took a moment to observe her slender body, and smirked as she opened the door and climbed in. He could only imagine what excuse the poor fellow would use when his wife walked into their home, only to hear the screams of his husband pleasuring another woman. Or was the prostitute pleasuring him? Perhaps she got pleasure out of knowing she wrecked another marriage. Why else would one choose to be a harlot?

  He looked into the sky. A massive dark-green blimp with a spring-propelled fan on the back slowly sailed through the darkness.

  The blimp was controlled by a man in a large steel gondola. Ryker watched as the man pulled a lever that directed the fan. A large spotlight was mounted on the front of the gondola. The pilot, also the head of the City Watch, scanned the streets with the light, looking for any sort of crime.

  Ryker looked at his reflection in the window. His red eyes gleamed brightly. He buttoned the top button of his black waistcoat, adjusted his red and black striped tie, and then looked back down upon the streets of London.

  The tap of boot heels downstairs rang up to the second floor of the lab. Ryker raised an eyebrow and glanced at his palm-watch. Wendell isn’t supposed to be here for another hour, he thought. He felt the cool touch of his pistol as his hand slid over it. He always loved the sound it made as it slid out of the holster.

  He neared the top of the stairs and looked down them. A shadow slithered up the wall at the bottom of the stairs as it drew closer, and then stopped.

  Ryker slowly stepped down the stairs. He held up his pistol and kept his back against the wall, being careful to make as little noise as possible.

  The intruder grumbled, revealing a hoarse, male voice. It sounded familiar, but was too quiet to recognize.

  Ryker reached the bottom step. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then swung out into the room. He aimed his pistol at the intruder, looking directly down the sights. A headshot would be perfect. Right between the eyes, he thought. His finger itched. He was ready to squeeze the trigger and blast the surprisingly-short intruder to the other side of the room.

  “What in the blazes are you doing?” a voice called out frantically. The figure dove to the floor and covered his head.

  Ryker lowered his pistol and smiled. “You’re early, Wendell,” he said as he approached the gnome. He grabbed him by the back of the shirt and lifted him to his feet.

  Wendell brushed off his black jacket. “I just thought I’d surprise you,” he said. “I brought you a birthday present.” He shoved his hands deep into several pockets before removing a small package about the size and shape of an ey
eball, wrapped in black and gold paper.

  “What is it?” Ryker asked as he snatched it out of Wendell’s open palm.

  “Like I’d tell you,” Wendell answered with a smile. Ryker studied the package for a moment. “Just open it,” Wendell snapped excitedly.

  Ryker ripped the paper from the package and carelessly tossed it behind him. He held the present up. “A mechanical eye,” he said contently.

  “For those specs you’ve been working on,” Wendell said. “Capable of both X-ray and thermal vision, just like you wanted.”

  “Thanks, old friend,” Ryker said. He messed up Wendell’s spiky black hair and began walking up the stairs. “Come on. We’ll share a birthday drink and finish those glasses.”

  Wendell rubbed his hands together and smiled as he followed Ryker up the wooden stairs. “I’ve got another surprise for you,” he said. “But that will come later.”

  Ryker grinned and shook his head. Another “lady of the night,” as Wendell liked to call them. Ryker opened a metal cupboard and removed a dark-brown glass bottle labeled “Scotch,” and grabbed two small glasses. He filled each glass halfway, gave one to Wendell, and they clinked them together. They chugged the amber liquid and it burned Ryker’s throat on the way down. He exhaled contently and set the glass on his desk.

  His experimental glasses were kept locked in a small, bomb-proof safe mounted on his wall. Even if his laboratory came crumbling down, no one would be able to access his latest experiment.

  He spun the safe dial around. 16, 29, 54, he thought. He loved how smoothly the dial turned, and how it clicked quietly as it passed each notch. He turned the handle and swung open the door, revealing a pair of steel glasses. There was only one lens, and a band of rubber an inch thick that attached to both sides of the frame. He took out the specks and set them on his desk, along with the mechanical eye.

  Wendell poured himself another glass of scotch and sat on the desk next to the glasses while Ryker grabbed his soldering tool, along with a few others.

  Within moments, the mechanical eye was installed in the open space on the glasses, and Ryker had them on his head.

  Wendell shook his head and smirked. “You always were a whizz with mechanics.”

  Ryker pressed a small button on the side of the frame and the mechanical eye spun open. The center of the eye glowed red and Ryker could see the temperature of everything in the room. The hotter the item, the redder it was, the colder, the bluer. The room was more red than blue. He noted that his main power generator was a tad warmer than he cared for. He pushed the button again. The mechanical eye closed and opened, revealing a green light this time. Ryker smiled as he looked into the contents of his desk drawers. He flicked his eyes to Wendell and observed his bones, his smile widening to a grin.

  “Just what is so funny?” Wendell asked. He put his hands on his hips, which only made Ryker laugh. “Alright, alright, you’ve have your fun. Your next present should be here any—”

  Someone pounded on the door downstairs. “Minute,” he finished with a smile. His short legs carried him downstairs, and within moments a beautiful women returned. The giggles of another woman could be heard on the first floor with Wendell.

  Ryker pulled off his glasses and stared at the woman in front of him. Her black corset hugged her body, and was laced up the front, revealing a straight line of tanned flesh from the center of her waist up to her neck. She walked forward and her short black skirt flowed swiftly around her waist and upper-thigh. Her tall black boots tapped loudly against the wooden floor as she pressed her chest to Ryker and kissed him. Her lips were… familiar. “It’s been a while, Celia,” he said softly with a half-smile.

  She pressed a soft finger to his lips. “It’s been too long,” she answered slyly. Her voice was smooth and quiet. She pushed him back so he sat on his desk and climbed on top of him. His flesh crawled as she unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and kissed down his chest. She leaned back and she skillfully, almost too skillfully, unbuckled his belt.

  The loud cries of pleasure resonated from downstairs, followed by the cries of Celia as she expertly performed her craft of lust upon Ryker.

  Upon finishing, their exhales of pleasure and content hung in the air for a moment, and then dissipated. Celia climbed off the desk and waited for Ryker to get dressed. As she watched him, she looked at a black cog tattoo on the bottom side of his right forearm. “Tell me again, what does your tattoo mean?” she asked. She approached him and slid her fingers across the smooth black ink.

  Ryker looked at the tattoo a moment. “It represents my love for the machine. My love for inventing and creating. It also represents life itself. After all, are we not all but cogs in a machine?”

  She smiled. “How very… profound,” she said wryly.

  Ryker playfully pushed her away and finished buttoning his black shirt and waistcoat. He walked over to the window and adjusted his tie, and styled his messy black hair in the reflection.

  Celia peered down the stairs. “Sounds like the party downstairs has ended, too,” she commented.

  “Will you be staying tonight?” Ryker asked.

  Celia smiled, but her eyes dropped. “You know I wish that I could,” she answered.

  Ryker sighed. “You always were so professional about your job,” he said with a smile. “I trust you’ve been paid?”

  “This one’s on me,” she said, winking. She approached him and kissed him one last time.

  Ryker watched as she walked away. Her slender, curved body swayed gently. When she disappeared down the stairs, Ryker poured himself another glass of scotch and leaned against the desk.

  “Leaving so soon?” Ryker heard Wendell ask. Celia’s response was barely audible. “Oh, alright then,” Wendell answered. “Well I hope you made his birthday special!”

  Ryker smiled and sipped at his scotch. He heard the giggles of the other woman downstairs, followed by footsteps, and then the door opening and slamming shut.

  Wendell rushed up the stairs and stood at the top, grinning.

  “Did you have a good time?” Ryker asked sarcastically.

  Wendell nodded and picked up the scotch to pour himself another glass. He held the near-empty bottle up to the light and chugged the rest.

  Chapter 3

  The crack of a gunshot rang out through the city. Ryker sat up, breathing heavily and sweating. He looked around frantically. The gunshot was close. Too close for his liking.

  He grabbed his revolver from his iron bedside stand, buttoned on a black shirt, and scrambled into his common room on the first floor of his lab. He ran out the front door and looked around. There were no passing steam-automobiles and no people, only darkness.

  Another crack echoed. It sounded to be about two blocks away. Ryker ran down the street, remaining vigilant of any Bobbies. Surely they wouldn’t approve of him running around with his gun out.

  He reached the corner of Fleet Street, two blocks from his lab, and saw a dark mass lying in the street about thirty feet from him. Ryker held his revolver tightly, his finger on the trigger. He slowly stepped forward. There were alleys on his left and right that could provide the perfect cover for any assailants looking for their next victim.

  As he approached the mass, he recognized it as a dead body—male. He wore a black suit, and his top hat lay several feet away from him. Ryker holstered his pistol and picked up the top hat. It had a red ribbon around the base. He looked at the dead body and began searching it. He found the man’s wallet, which he respectfully left in place, and a small communicator, about the size and shape of a woman’s wallet. It was constructed of steel, and had the insignia of the League of Inventors engraved on the front of it.

  He popped the communicator open, revealing a small grate for speaking into, and a large circle with a glass cover that provided an image of the person on the other end of the call. He pressed a small black button and a panel slid out from the side.

  The panel listed all the previous calls. However, they were all
serial numbers of the communication devices, so knowing who the calls were to or from was nearly impossible.

  Ryker slid the device into his back pocket and searched the body further.

  Another gunshot rang out and a bullet grazed Ryker’s arm. He grunted and looked back. A dark figure stood at the end of the street, reloading a flintlock pistol.

  Ryker drew his pistol and fired three rounds at the figure.

  The attacker clutched his arm, fired another round, and retreated into an alley.

  Ryker started to pursue him, but thought it better not to, lest he get led into a trap. He ran back to his lab and slammed the door behind him. He locked it and ran up the stairs where he looked out the window, just to make sure no one was coming after him. He leaned against his desk and exhaled. What the bloody-hell is going on?” he thought. Ryker looked down and realized he was still holding the top hat. He gave a half smile and set it on his desk.

  The communicator in his back pocket beeped, startling him. He grabbed his pistol and looked around the room, and then sighed and put his pistol away. The communicator beeped again and Ryker pulled it out of his pocket. A small red light at the top right of the communicator flashed. He flipped the device open and the screen flickered twice. An old, bearded face appeared in black and white on the screen. The picture was distorted a little, as if Ryker were looking at him through a fishbowl.

  The face looked quizzical. “Who the hell are you?” the man asked.

  “Who are you?” Ryker returned sharply. He looked at the wound on his arm and put a hand over it. It was beginning to ache.

  “Where is Creator Desmond?” the old man asked. His voice was shaky with old age.

  “I believe he’s dead,” Ryker answered.

  “Dead? That can’t be!” the man cried.

  “What’s so important about this guy?” Ryker asked. He glanced again at the bloody gash on his arm.

  “You can’t be serious?” the man gasped. “Well, I can’t go into too much detail, but he’s a very important inventor. This is bad news, very bad news.” His eyes flicked away from the screen. “I don’t know how Project Spear is going to continue,” he said quietly.