Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Read online

  I could only shrug, stuffing my hands in my sloshy pants. “Eh, me neither. Inspiration's a weird thing. I stopped trying to figure it out years ago.”

  She let a faint smile out and folded the napkin into neat fourths. She was standing on the wings.

  “Cynthia,” she said.

  “Pretty name,” I replied. “Fitting for a bright-eyed girl.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I'll see ya, Abby.”

  The brass key was still in the lock. I twisted it and the weight of the doorknob turned in my hand as I re-entered the hall.

  “See you, Will.”

  “Yeah, that's all fine, Pocket. But what about the faerie juice?”

  “Can't a guy build up to a plot point with grace?”

  “See, this is why the fox boy didn't pay you any attention. You linger.”

  “I do not linger.”

  “Sure. Just get to the faerie juice or move along. You're losing me.”

  “Well, you can be happy then, Alan, because at that exact moment the old Frenchman moved into my path and pushed a round, glass bottle straight into my gut. Satisfied?”

  “I think you're just skipping ahead because I complained. You're far too reliant on your audience.”

  “Fine! As I was saying...”

  I coughed and moved my fingers to grip the glass. The old man was smiling ferociously. I prompted my feet to run.

  “Was my friend able to you assist you?” he asked.

  “I don't think I'm her type,” I said with a smile. “But she led me in the right direction.”

  “The room has one door. The only direction was out.”

  Best direction there is.

  “Fair enough,” I admitted, “What's in the bottle?”

  “Faerie juice.”

  “Yeah? Where'd you find faeries to juice?”

  He laughed. I cautiously took a few steps back. The Frenchman let go as I did, leaving the bottle in my hands. I attempted to give it back to him, but his implication was clear.

  “You want me to keep it?” I asked.

  “Of course!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it's your essence, obviously!”

  I shook the bottle and watched the liquid splash and swirl.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho!” cackled the man, raving like a lunatic. “Was there ever any doubt, my boy? Was there ever any doubt?”

  The Frenchman did a celebration dance on his skinny ankles and presented little, topped vials filled with commonplace items he had collected: acorns, ticket stubs, dried pieces of old cake, rainwater. These things, he proclaimed, were his essence, invaluable parts of himself.

  “And I'm a bottle of green juice, then?” I mumbled.

  “Oh-ho-ha!”

  “Are you completely sure this isn't somebody else's essence? It doesn't look much like me.”

  The Frenchman became suddenly quite rigid and spoke with a wounded and highly insulted air.

  “Sir! It has never been my place to question the judgment of the faeries, and I should dare not say it's yours! Are you refusing such a gift?”

  “But—“

  “Just take it,” called Abby from the other side of the door. “Humor the old fool. You'd look good with some green on you, anyway.”

  “Fine.”

  The old man's demeanor quickly returned to joy.

  “Ah! Excellent, excellent! Listen to the girl, wise head on her!” He grabbed my ear and lowered his voice. “Incidentally, boy, I've always suspected that one to be in league with the faeries. Hasn't said a word of confession to such, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if she was a sprite herself. Never can be too cer—Ho! Did she reveal anything of the nature to you while she entertained?”

  “No, nothing like that. And for the record, there wasn't any real enter—“

  “Ah well! Ah well! We'll both find our ways, shan't we?”

  So that was that. I was given a room for the night. Tried to convince myself that it was comfortable and that dozing in such a place was not dangerous in the least. When the rain cleared up in the morning, I set off. Never saw the old man again. As a matter of fact, out of sheer curiosity, I returned to the inn sometime later and found it deserted and boarded up. Oh, there was one other thing, one final question I asked the Frenchman before we parted ways.

  “So what do I do with my own essence?”

  “Whatever you wish!” he said. “Bear it as proudly as you would your family crest! Make it your beacon, your mark on this great world! Or if you get bored with it, you could always sell it.”

  The next day I got hungry and wrote up a price tag.

  “Did you ever drink the stuff?”

  “Would you, Alan?”

  “No way.”

  “There you go.”

  “Huh. You meet all kinds in this city, Pocket. Still...I guess there's a bit of fun there. Mystery of the lunatics and all that.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So what did the fox boy say when you told him the story?”

  “He wasn't listening.”

  Kitt tugged at the scrap of paper that hung by a string tied around the fat neck of the bottle.

  “FAERIE JUICE – 5 PENCE,” he read aloud. “Huh. You're trying to sell this stuff?”

  “Yeah,” I dryly responded. “That's what I was just telling you.”

  “How much have you sold?”

  “Not a drop.”

  “That's too bad. Did you ever notice how it shines in the moonlight?”

  “Yeah, I think you mentioned that.”

  “Bottle's thick too. Pretty sturdy.”

  “I don't know. I guess.”

  “I mean, must be, right? Thrown out at us like that and not a crack in it. Bet it could take a few beatings.”

  “Sure, probably.”

  Kitt's eyes quickly acquired a shimmer that I, to be blunt, did not trust. I figured it was time to make an exit before he involved me in whatever thought was forming in…

  “Pocket, could you do me a huge favor?” he asked.

  Damn.

  “What did you have in mind?” I had no choice but to say.

  “I'd like to borrow this.”

  “Uh...it's five pence a cup.”

  “Not the juice. The bottle.”

  “Why?”

  “I've got a plan.”

  “For what?”

  “What do you care?”

  “It's my bottle.”

  “Trust me.”

  “No.”

  I'll skip the ten minutes of arguing that ensued and jump to the part where Kitt took off with my bottle despite my direct and notably vocal reservations.

  “I'll bring it right back, I swear!” Kitt said, running off down the street. “In an hour, tops! Just stay put here!”

  “Wait! Kitt!”

  And he was gone. The only sensible choice was to sit still, conserve my warmth, and trust that the thief would keep his word and return promptly with my belonging intact.

  Either that or...

  “Kitt!” I shouted, running headlong through the dreary streets. “I mean it! Come back!”

  The fox boy's shadow stayed consistently just out of reach as I began to get the impression that he was ignoring me. Fine, I decided. If he wanted to play it that way, I’d oblige.

  A block of flats soon appeared on the right. Kitt slid between them and into a side alley, leaving me alone with the stars and slush. I stopped for a moment and took a much needed breath as the thief melted quickly away into the shadows. All right, I told myself as I sucked in the air. You can't outrun the little fiend.

  So outthink him.

  My eyes skimmed over the immediate scenery until coming to focus on one towering structure in particular.

  Ah!

  I hurried to the building and ran up a side flight of exterior stairs that led to the second floor of rooms. Now, before I carry on, allow me to deviate from the scene just long enough to provide a little context, a litt
le background, so that you, dear audience, will hold a greater understanding of your humble narrator and his motivations behind what happened next, lest you misperceive him as…you know…an idiot.

  I’ve spent the majority of my adult life on the streets of London. As you’ve probably guessed, a life lived under my profession, if you can even call it such, is not one of great comfort or extravagance. After all, if corner storytellers were ranked amongst kings, I wouldn’t need to find a tender who’ll take anecdotes as payment for his wares.

  “Nice to know just how greatly you value our friendship, Pocket.”

  “Oh, come on, Alan. You know better than to think like that. You’re a rare breed.”

  “Hmph. Rare breed of dupe.”

  That’s not to say that I live a life of vagrancy, but I’ve come very close to it. My only saving grace, I’m afraid, is that I do not come from a low birth. Lowish, maybe. I’m certainly not among Britain’s elite, not by any long shot, but my family abroad are of enough standing and financial generosity that I’m able to maintain a little hole in the slums in which to rest my head. Anyhow, what I’m trying to get at is that a life spent out amongst New London’s colorful blend of lower citizenry, the beggars and the orphans and the ladies for sale, has left me privy to certain tricks of the cities. For instance, the burn bins.

  “Burn bins?”

  “You know, Alan. Those covered, roundish bins on the streets.”

  “Those rubber-coated things the King had manufactured? Is that what those are?”

  “I’ll explain.”

  “Please do.”

  Garbage incinerators. Smallish, portable ones, maybe the size of half a man. One of the cornerstones of Alexander’s rebirth of England, after all, was a return to purity. Wellness. Cleanliness. So when his engineers brought about a cleaner way of burning our rubbish he dotted the city with them. From what I hear, they’re actually rather ingenious little devices, essentially miniature gas-powered furnaces with a butcher's scale wired into the bottom of them. When the bin fills up, the scale sinks and triggers the furnace, burning the refuge into more fuel to power the device. Pretty clever, eh? Self-regulating. Anyhow, one day, a few equally-clever bums figured out that you can deactivate the whole thing with one clean smack against the back of the bin, rattling the parts out of their natural order. So say you discard something, let's say something still fairly edible, it doesn't burn up. Just sits there. And word spread. Before long, many who call the streets home started doing this, bashing the bins and then lying in wait for some unsuspecting bloke to toss a free meal down the hole. “The People’s Banquets,” they call them.

  “All right, granted, that is a resourceful trick, but what does any of this have to do with you and that cutpurse?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m getting back to that, Alan.”

  Forgive me for digressing, but my point is simply that I've learned a few things in my travels, and as I found myself giving chase on that cold night, I decided to put what I’ve learned into action. The possibility that the pickpocket I was after might himself know a few tricks didn’t cross my mind in that heated moment. What had caught my eye about the building I was now ascending was its state of repair. Many of Old London’s preexisting edifices, as I’m sure you know, survived the periodic burnings and general corrosion of the debilitating Black Period, and when the city was rebuilt, several of these buildings were reinforced with thick metal plates at key structure points, plates that were attached with very large bolts that dug deep into the stone. Big bolts leave big boltheads, most the size of a fist, and it wasn't long before flocks of street urchins began using the boltheads as makeshift handles, climbing their way all over the city.

  Children are undeniably resourceful.

  I moved from the outside stairwell to a balcony on the second floor. There I carefully hopped a railing, steadied my feet upon two thick boltheads, and wrapped my palms over a higher pair just within reach. Then, gripping the rusty knobs tightly, I began to climb, cautiously but quickly to the top. I couldn’t help but smile a little. This corner of London was a bit crowded, and I knew that it would take Kitt a considerable amount of time to weave through the tight and cluttered alleyways that snaked between buildings. Obviously, in doing so, he had hoped to slow me down long enough that I’d lose his trail, but I couldn’t imagine that he’d expect me to start hopping roofs for a shortcut.

  “Hey Pocket,” Kitt said, sitting crosslegged on the next roof over, my pilfered bottle resting in his lap.

  Or maybe he would.

  I stopped climbing and gritted my teeth before casting my eyes his way.

  “How?” I muttered dumbly. “How did you get up there?”

  “Oh, you know. Tricks. Don't wanna boast, but I'm pretty good at working these streets.”

  “I...can see that.”

  “Thanks. Listen, Pocket. Do you know why only children climb boltheads?”

  “Is this a riddle?”

  “No.”

  With a nasty, scraping sound, I felt my foot scuff and slip off of the bolt under my boot.

  “Damn it!” I swore, quickly shifting my weight.

  “It's a size issue,” Kitt politely pointed out. “These bolts, they get a little smaller the higher you climb. Biggest ones are at the base. It's a subtle thing. See, children are small. No problem. Their little feet keep on climbing. But take a man of your...how old are you, Pocket?”

  My other foot began to slide. “Twenty-seven.”

  “Take a twenty-seven-year-old like you, your feet are going to be considerably bigger, so it presents a potential problem.”

  “What?!?”

  “See? You didn’t even notice, did you? It’s all right. No one really considers size when they try what you're trying because the bolts at the bottom look so thick and sturdy and tight.”

  As if on cue, I felt myself slip. I panicked and grabbed at the metal paneling itself for support. There was a crack between two nearby panels and I jammed my fingers inside, clutching the metal.

  “Kitt! Could you—“

  “Wait, are you going to say something comical right now? Something like, 'if you aren’t terribly too busy at the moment for a little—‘”

  “Just help me off of here before I fall! And trust me, if the drop doesn’t kill me, I will kill you!”

  “Oh. So you're not going to say anything witty?”

  “Kitt!”

  “It’s just that you said you were a bard.”

  I started to tilt backward. To my surprise, the metal plating in my grasp started to bend. It apparently wasn't as thick as I had assumed. “Kitt! Now!”

  “Okay, okay. You see that clothesline below?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there's one hanging just over the second floor. Push yourself off of the wall and snatch the line on your way down.”

  “Are you an idiot?!? I can’t catch that! And even if I did, it'd never hold my weight! I'd be better off hanging on here!”

  “Trust me.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me.”

  My situation was becoming increasingly wobbly. I had little choice.

  “I promise,” Kitt said.

  “All right.” I took a deep breath and held it in my lungs. Then, as instructed, I pressed my heels to the wall, pushed away from the metal, and dropped quickly through the air. The clothesline. I reached out and miraculously snagged it with my right palm. I bounced for a moment, then quickly grabbed on and held tight with both hands, my knuckles clenched. Slowly, my body stopped bobbing and I allowed myself to exhale. I couldn't believe it. The little thief was right.

  “Kitt!” I announced, dangling in the air. “I…I’ve got it!”

  “Well done, Pocket! Great catch!”

  “Thank you. I think....I think I can start working my way…wait…Kitt, this is only twine, isn’t—“

  Snap. The strings broke under my weight and I fell one story into the cold snow. A sickly chill invaded my senses as I collapsed upon the
wet cushioning and rolled upon my back.

  A few moments later, Kitt was hovering over me with a satisfied smile.

  “You're welcome,” he said.

  And a few moments after that, my hands were at his throat.

  “What—hey! Let go! What are you doing?!?” he shouted through a panicked fit of coughs.

  “'Trust me,' you said!”

  “You survived the fall without getting the wind knocked out of you! That wouldn't have happened if you hadn't bobbed a moment on the clothesline!”

  “You knew it was going to break?!? And you didn't tell me?!?”

  “I figured if I did, you wouldn't listen to me!”

  “Of course I wouldn’t!”

  “Then…I…” he gagged. “I accept your apology. Pocket—cough—could you please let go of my throat?”

  I obliged. I think because he said “please.” Manners are in a steep decline.

  “Where's my bottle?” I asked, sitting up rigidly.

  “Right here, right here.” He held it up, playing with the shine of the moon once more.

  “Fine. Give it to me.”

  “You said I could borrow it.”

  “I said, upon my funeral, you could borrow it.”

  “Oh,” Kitt said, scratching his hair under his cap. “I thought you were joking.”

  “Well, I wasn't.”

  “Oh.”

  “Right.”

  “Can I borrow it anyway?”

  I was tired of arguing, so I sighed. Then I realized that I was just as tired of sighing.

  “How long would you need it?” I asked, succumbing to exhaustion.

  “Just a moment, Pocket. We're already here.”

  Ignoring every piece of logic and better judgment that filled my rattled form, I picked myself up and dragged my feet to the end of the building. Behind it was a clearing, and beyond that, the largest timepiece I have ever seen.

  “So what, Pocket, you let the fox get a grab on your bottle again?”

  “Afraid so. Heh, listen to me, Alan. I'm trying to paint myself here as protagonist, but it seems that this story's quickly forming with me as its fool.”

  “There are worse roles than the fool. God knows that this life’s in dire need of comedy.”