The Tank: Chapter Fourteen, Part One

Notes: If this chapter had a different title, it might be something like "new enemies and old friends." Hint enough for you? ;)

Title: The Tank: Chapter Fourteen, Part One

***

Chapter Fourteen, Part One

 

Anton was, quite frankly, expecting to confront something of a fuss when he emerged onto the lawn where the tanks were firing from. The new viscount had given every indication of being on the verge of attack if he didn’t get the tanks immediately, and Lord Jourdain hadn’t looked like he was in the mood to suffer being threatened. Would there be fighting amongst the guests and the guards, screaming matches over jurisdiction, threats of future violence promised if conditions weren’t immediately met?

Instead, Anton stepped out beneath a rainbow-colored sky and wondered if, between this and Hrym’s strangely beautiful laboratory, he’d somehow walked into a dream. The tanks were firing, but whatever it was they were shooting wasn’t shells. How could it be, he chided himself as he slowly crossed the lawn to stand beside Dr. Grable’s chair. He didn’t see Camille, or Caroline, oddly enough—but then she never cared much for loud noises, and this was about as loud as it could get without being in the middle of a genuine firefight. Dr. Wictoryn was also there, standing behind the wheelchair with her arms crossed, looking highly displeased.

“This display is hardly conducive to healing,” she shouted to Dr. Grable over the noise. “I must insist you return to the infirmary at once!”

“I will be damned to the far corner of hell before I enter that whitewashed prison again!” he shouted back, clearly enjoying himself.

“It has sound-dampening glyphs on it, you won’t hear a thing there!”

“Exactly!”

“You ignorant, foolhardy, reckless son of a—”

“I’ll bring him back inside as soon as possible,” Anton said, stepping in before the good doctor lost her voice screaming at his mentor. “It’s quite important that we witness this, however.”

“Oh, is it?” she said scathingly. “More important than delivering his pain medication on time in a safe and sterile environment?”

 “I’m afraid it is. We’ll come along as soon as possible, though.”

She looked at him long and hard, then turned on her heel and stalked off, presumably to the nice, quiet infirmary where Anton would rather be himself, frankly.

“Well done, man,” Dr. Grable congratulated him. “You’ve a way of getting people to bend to your will that I simply don’t understand.”

“It’s called courtesy,” Anton replied. Dr. Grable pretended not to hear him.

“What do you think of all this?” he asked, pitching his voice low enough that it wouldn’t be heard by the other onlookers, not that that would be hard with all the noise. Cardinal Proulx and Monsieur Deschamps were both present, part of the larger group of the Viscount’s entourage and Lord Jourdain and his assistants. The tanks rolled back and forth on the grass twenty yards distant, pausing to adjust their guns and fire every twenty seconds or so, then rolling a bit farther before repeating the feat. For only three tanks, the cacophony was impressively regularly spaced.

“What are they firing?” Anton asked.

“Dummy rounds filled with flammable salts and colorful chalks. Basically nothing more than big fireworks, lad. It’s an interesting play on Jourdain’s part.”

Anton didn’t see it. “How so?”

“It’s a display both of strength and of weakness. Strength because it validates what the tanks should be able to do, which is fling big projectiles long distances with accuracy. Weakness because those projectiles haven’t actually been developed yet.”

Wait a minute. “I thought they were just modified cannons.”

“Heavily modified. Solid shot won’t work, not if the tank wants to be able to maintain its momentum over any sort of challenging terrain—it’s just too heavy, and the engines aren’t good enough to get over that challenge yet. All the new ones being built will do better, but even there, the shells have to be custom. It hasn’t been a priority for the Institute.” Dr. Grable’s smile held a hint of satisfaction. “And I believe I see why, now.”

“Do you think Lord Jourdain saw this coming?”

“If not this, then something like it.” Dr. Grable settled back into his chair, completely unbothered by the booms overhead. It probably didn’t really compare to the clamor of war, but it was beginning to get to Anton—he flinched every time another blast went off. “Humanity is always looking for an edge in conflict. These tanks are an excellent start, but until they’re ready to be put into the emperor’s service, with trained troops to operate them and loyal commanders to lead those troops, they’re almost as much of a danger as they could be a benefit. Delay makes many things possible.”

Right now, delay was giving Anton a headache. “Have you seen enough?” he asked.

“I’ve seen plenty, but I have to stay, for the sake of putting on a show of my own.” Dr. Grable looked at Anton, probably reading entire volumes from the paleness of his face and the pinch of his mouth. “Why don’t you go see if you can wrangle that pain potion out of Dr. Wictoryn for me? It comes in liquid form, so you could bring it out like you were carrying an innocent cup of tea.”

“You want me to fetch you tea.”

“With a biscuit on the side, if you please.”

It wasn’t quite a dignified request, but another crack went off and Anton decided he’d rather lose some dignity than his composure, not to mention his hearing. He walked back into the Institute and headed straight for the infirmary. When he got there, though, there was no one in the main room. He checked the doctor’s office—also empty.

There was, however, an open door to the right of her desk that led directly into a set of wide, dimly lit stairs. Anton stepped up to it, acutely aware that he was trespassing but just as disturbed by what he saw. If the clinic was muted with sound-deadening glyphs, then whatever was down that staircase had to be louder than the Devil himself, if the number of glyphs painted across the interior of the door were anything to go by. Equations for diminishing strong scents were there as well, glyphs that pulsed with magical suffusion. What the hell was down there?

Another crack trickled in through the open infirmary door, and Anton, slowly filling up with dread, began to step down the stairs. He’d only ever seen glyphs like those once before, on a tour of the Tower of London when he was a boy. It wasn’t used as a prison these days, of course, but the keepers of the place maintained all the old magic for the sake of history, and Anton vividly remembered the glyphs on each of the tower’s interior doors: for silence, for deadening scent, for dimming the mind, for diminishing hunger. It was magic that turned prisoners into thoughtless, desireless bodies, only people because they were still drawing breath.

Anton reached the bottom of the stairs, where the miniscule natural light gave way to a freshly-lit row of torches. He followed them down a short, stone-walled hall, then cautiously poked his head around the corner at the end of it, toward where the voices were. What he saw was both anticlimactic and devastating at the same time.

Dr. Wictoryn was tending to a man sitting on a bed. He had a collar around his neck, unattached to anything, but Anton could tell there was magic in it. He looked comfortable enough—the room was clean, he was fully clothed, and there was a rough toilet in one corner and a stand covered in books beside the bed. As prisons went, it was quite nice. That was not the surprise.

The surprise—and it shouldn’t have been, Anton felt that to his bones—was that the man being tended to was Gerard Montgomery, lately of the University of Zurich, who had tried and almost succeeded in murdering Anton a year ago.

It was an even greater surprise when he looked up, saw Anton, and grinned with caustic recognition. “Look what the maelstrom has dragged to the bottom of the sea with us, good doctor! Seiber, old chap, get in here.”

Oh, hell and damnation.

Coming Soon: The Art of Possession

And now, just because I can--The Art of Possession will be re-released soon on Amazon! Do you want to hunt across the globe for stolen treasure with a disgraced archeologist and a wary Black Ops soldier? Darlins, this is the book for you :)

Preorder here: Art of Possession

When a treasure-hunting black ops soldier and a disgraced, reckless archeologist team up in search of a priceless artifact, they might get more than they bargained for.

Ever since leaving the Green Berets to work in private security, Alex Tucker has longed for some excitement—and he’s about to get his wish.

Archeologist Malcolm Armstrong needs the chance to prove he isn’t a fraud. Along with Alex, he’s hired to track down and authenticate a valuable scepter, in a hunt that turns deadlier than either of them imagined as they search dangerous locations across three continents and try to stay ahead of the factions who want the treasure for themselves—and Malcolm and Alex dead.

Just as they realize the feelings between them transcend convenience and the thrill of the chase, a rival reemerges, threatening everything.

The Tank: Chapter Ten, Part Two

Notes: A new post, a new character, and a very strange bit of history. What the heck is going on at this Institute? PS, Happy New Year's Eve, darlins!

Title: The Tank: Chapter Ten, Part Two

***

Chapter Ten, Part Two

Once Anton was within five feet of the door, it snapped shut. Damn it! A closed door was as good as a locked one, or so he’d been told. And yet…the curiosity was there, inside whoever was behind this door. The interest was present, he just had to make himself affable enough to put up with in exchange for news.

“Excuse me,” he called out, carefully modulating his voice to keep from alarming the rest of the party as they headed down the hall, but loud enough to ensure it go through the door. “I just happened to notice you observing us. Are you presenting later on today?” He tried to inject a little warmth into his tone. “I’m afraid if you are, I’m already lost. Theoretical thaumaturgical symbology this complex is lost on me. I’m a very practical practitioner, at heart. Indeed, most of my work is done on behalf of the dead, so there’s little chance of hurting someone if I write the wrong symbol or use an incorrect blend of herbs.”

The door didn’t quite crack, but Anton could see the handle move. “The dead?” a voice called out from within. It was a faint voice, but enough to give him hope.

“Indeed.”

“What use do the dead have for thaumaturgy?”

“It’s a bit of a rare subspecialty. I’d love to talk with you about it.” Anton waited, patient, and watched the handle bob in its hold. Wiggle, wiggle…wiggle… “I’d love to hear more about what you do as well,” he tried, and—aha! The door opened.

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Anton assured the man—he was sure it was a man now, for all that he could barely see the person inside. That voice was too deep to belong to a lady.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you interested in my work?”

That was a good question. Because my mentor told me to spy on everyone here in whatever way I could, and this seems a good start. But he didn’t want to start a new acquaintanceship with lies, no matter how easy it might be. The truth was…

“I’ve led a rather sheltered life over the past few years,” Anton said, and in a way that was still true, despite the debacle with Montgomery and his ilk. “Almost everything I’ve done has been very…focused on one subject, and one subject only. I’m interested in learning more about what other people are working on, people who don’t expect me to interrogate them to determine a grade. You’re working in one of the most influential laboratories in the entire world, which means you must be an exceptional thaumaturge. That in and of itself is enough to intrigue me.” He tilted his head and smiled. “Please, don’t speak of anything you don’t wish to. I’m just interested in what you might want to share, that’s all.”

The door opened wide enough to admit Anton a moment later. He wasn’t admitted, though—the man within came out to meet him, closing the door behind himself. He was about Anton’s height, but skinnier—his robe hung off his collarbones like they were coat hangers, and his pale red hair had a look about it that spoke of not being washed in an inadvisably long time. His fingers seemed abnormally long, clutching the ends of his sleeves and tucking them in toward his center, which emphasized the hunch of his shoulders. He smelled of metal and smoke, in a completely different way than the engineering shop had, but it was still notable.

“I’m Anton Seiber, Master of Thaumaurgy from the University of Zurich.” Anton reached out his hand. The young man shook it carefully, as though he wasn’t really sure that was what you were supposed to do.

“I’m Hrym…um…Theobald.”

Did he not remember his own name? “Pleased to meet you, Hrym.”

“Do you really want to see my work?”

“I’d be delighted to, yes.”

“Will you tell me how you use thaumaturgy on corpses?”

“Absolutely.” None of it was classified, after all. Except, perhaps, for Anton’s latest spell…but that had no sort of value in a place like this, a place dedicated to war. Camille had been overconcerned, when he told Anton to be cautious.

“I can’t let you into my laboratory.” Anton felt disappointed, but Hrym went on, “I’ve got experiments on every flat surface, it’s impossible to move in there without knocking into one of them. Byron says I’ve got to be more judicious about how I work, but I just think I need a bigger room.”

Byron? Oh—Lord Atwood. They’re on a first-name basis? “That’s all right. What else can you show me?”

He led Anton over to the nearest window, looking out into the courtyard. “I did some of the work on that,” he said, pointing at the airship that was still floating peaceably in the center of the compound.

“Oh? Was it concerning propulsion, by any chance?” Hrym must be the colleague in charge of the colloquium later, although Anton was a bit surprised that he had the nerves for public speaking.

“No,” Hrym said, startling him. “Propulsion is the easy part. My bit came in figuring out how to keep the warring energies within the engine and propulsion spells from tearing the people who fly it. That much magic and technology working together is very difficult to balance.”

“Shielding,” Anton said, understanding and slightly awed all at once. “Mobile, changeable shielding depending on who enters the ship.”

“Mmhmm.”

That was certainly challenging symbology. It was the mobility of it that made it the work of an expert—the spells had to adjust to constantly varying loads of people and goods, while maintaining a balance between the other spells and keeping them from interfering with each other. “That’s fascinating.”

Hrym ducked his head. “Thank you.”

“Does your work apply to the tanks as well?”

“Not yet.” He changed the subject before Anton could dig deeper. “What use is thaumaturgy to the dead?”

“I learned to use it as a means of providing identification,” Anton said. “And occasionally helping to determine how a person has died.”

“In cases of murder, then?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Why do you want to know?” Anton asked, then backtracked a bit. “I mean, I’m certainly not averse to telling you, I’m just…surprised you want to know about it, I suppose. It’s rather basic thaumaturgy at heart, nothing like what you do.”

“It’s interesting,” Hrym said, and his ice-blue eyes were bright with that strange curiosity. “I’ve never seen a dead body, after all.”

Never…seen…what? “How have you avoided that fate?” Anton asked as lightly as he could.

“I’ve been here ever since I was a very small child. A few people have passed away over the years, but I’ve never seen their corpses myself. Most of us haven’t, I think.” He looked intrigued. “How long before dead people start to smell?”

It appeared that as sheltered as Anton had considered himself over the past few years, he had nothing on Hrym. What on earth was going on here?

Friendly Fire is Re-Releasing!

*drum roll*

Otherwise known as FINA-FRICKIN-LLY, it's the re-release of my m/m romantic suspense novel Friendy Fire, formerly out with Riptide Publishing. The book is up for pre-order now, for the holiday bargain price of $2.99, and will be released on Boxing Day, December 26th.

Thus begins the deluge, my darlins. Stay tuned for lots of old stuff coming back with a face-lift.

Friendly Fire on Amazon

Elliot McKenzie is the king of reinvention. Five years after losing his job and his lover and almost going to prison, his self-help program, Charmed Life, is more successful than he’d ever dreamed. He thinks he’s put his sordid past firmly behind him, until he starts receiving cryptic threats . . . and realizes it might not be as over as he’d hoped.

Security expert Lennox West has been lost since a deadly skirmish in Afghanistan led to his forced retirement from the Army. His PTSD makes helping his ex raise their daughter a challenge. When his ex’s sister asks him to set her boss up with a security system, Lennox isn’t expecting anyone like Elliot McKenzie—a man who captures his attention and makes him feel relaxed for the first time since leaving the service.

But Elliott is dangerously stubborn. Even as the threats against him escalate, he refuses to involve the police, and Lennox fears that stubbornness could kill him. A battle of wills ensues that brings them closer to each other than either man expected. But if the threats turn real, they might not live long enough to get their future together.

The Tank: Chapter Nine, Part Two

Notes: We have our central cast assembled, now let's meet some supporting characters. I think we're about at the halfway point on this story--it's going to be longer than the other ones in the series by quite a margin.

Title: The Tank: Chapter Nine, Part Two

***

Chapter Nine, Part Two

 

  

The tour was easily found—one of the innocuous, vaguely disapproving staff approached them as soon as they left Dr. Grable’s rooms and escorted them to the dining hall, where, they were coolly informed, “the rest of your party awaits.”

Anton understood that the insinuation had to do with them being inconvenient for everyone else, but he was willing to let it slide. Dr. Grable, however, was used to being attended to by a staff who kept their opinions to themselves, for fear of bringing his wrath and extra duties down on them. He wouldn’t take it at the university, and he wasn’t about to take it here. The dressing down was short and ferociously blunt, culminating with “—as I’ve just had my damn leg tended to by your in-house witch doctor, I believe I’ve more than enough reasons to force a little wait on my behalf, and I don’t care if you agree with me or not, man, try that attitude to my face again and you might find a frog staring back at you in a mirror one day.”

Their escort went silent after that, bowed a bit lower and kept more distance, and Dr. Grable looked up at Anton and murmured, “And now I’ll be roundly despised by the staff, who will have more sympathy for you if you take care to look a bit beleaguered.” Anton took that as a stage direction, and attempted to make himself appear more hangdog than he already felt as they entered the dining hall.

But this was…not a hall. This was an elegant oak table that seated perhaps twenty, not a place where the staff and soldiers and scientists and whoever else came to eat. The long, shining expanse of wood was covered with trays of thinly-sliced meat and cheese, bowls of fruit, platters of bread and jam and mounds of beautiful white butter carved into elegant shapes, silver pots of coffee and tea, juice and water with actual ice cubes sparkling in it. There was also a small stack of empty plates, indicating that the others in the room had, in fact, eaten.

Lord Jourdain stood quietly talking with Cardinal Proulx over matched cups of coffee by the largest windows. Caroline was sitting in a little gaggle of women at a side table, both high-ranking servants from the look of things, their stern miens softened by her engaging manner and the pretty picture she made in her sky-blue dress. She looked over at Anton as he and Dr. Grable entered, but had the sense only to briefly smile rather than being more engaging. Monsieur Deschamps paced by the fireplace, looking from one little nexus of conversation to the other as though he knew how odd it was for him to be isolated so, but couldn’t do anything about it.

Camille was nowhere to be seen. That bothered Anton more than he wanted to admit.

Lord Jourdain was the first to break off and join them, his new robes nearly indistinguishable from what he wore to greet them yesterday, grey-streaked hair pulled back in a neat tail. “Gentlemen, welcome. I trust you both slept well?”

“The sleeping went well enough, but your doctor is an unstoppable force when she has something on her mind,” Dr. Grable said with a grunt, waving Anton toward the nearest teapot. He served himself, stretching for the cup with a grimace but scowling warningly when Anton moved to assist him.

“Yes, Dr. Wictoryn is quite excellent at her work, isn’t she?”

Dr. Grable inclined his head. “She is indeed, sir.”

“I’m pleased you think well of her capabilities. Her preferred focus is research, of course, this being a research institute, but one of the caveats of the position of a medical researcher was that she be on hand to deal with any injuries that crop up among the staff or guests.”

“I’ve no complaints.”

That would be a first if it were true, Anton muttered in his own head.

“While you two gentlemen help yourself to breakfast, allow me to begin my explanations of the grounds and those areas permissible for visitors to frequent.” Lord Jourdain looked around the room. “You might have noticed that the Institute is built like a keyhole, with three substantial buildings linked in a U-shape and a gate and guard towers closing that U up. We are currently in the central building, which is dedicated to administrative matters, including the feeding and housing of our guests and staff. The building to the north,” he waved to the side with his left hand, “is where our thaumaturges do the majority of their work. The central hall is open to you, as well as the meeting rooms and learning laboratories, but if you encounter a locked door, you must not try to force it. Intrusion into private research matters of the Empire will result in a swift reckoning.

“The south building,” he continued as if he hadn’t just promised a long drop and a quick stop to anyone who stuck their nose where it didn’t belong, “is dedicated to our engineers, where the laboratories are much larger and less individualistic. You may view them from a walkway accessible on the second floor, but if they are covered, you are not to look further. You are not under any circumstances allowed to be on the ground floor in those laboratories unless accompanied by myself or another qualified engineer. This is for your own safety, and disregarding this rule could result in a very painful accident.” He folded his hands together and looked around the room. “Are there any questions at this juncture?”

“This is all so exciting!” Caroline said, clasping her hands together and batting her eyelashes a bit. “If I may ask, do you have any women thaumaturges or engineers on staff?”

“Several of each, Lady Cuthbert.”

“How delightful! I would so like to meet them. The thought of bringing word of France’s great social progress in acknowledging all that women have to offer back to England absolutely thrills me.”

Lord Jourdain smiled indulgently, and Anton almost reeled from how smoothly Caroline had just stitched herself into the fabric of the place. Lord, if she were actually a diplomat she would be unstoppable. “That can certainly be arranged, my lady. Anything else?”

“Yes.” Cardinal Proulx was fingering his cross. “What of the late Vicomte Voclain? When are his services to be held?”

“His brother has been contacted and is on his way,” Lord Jourdain said. “It is a journey of several days, and he is insisting that his brother be interred on their ancestral grounds.” His voice went a bit flatter. “Among other things. Undoubtedly he’ll wish to speak with you, to ensure that the last rites were performed as well as could be expected under the circumstances.”

“Of course, of course.” The cardinal inclined his head. “I would be very pleased to meet with the new vicomte.”

“He will be, won’t he?” Lord Jourdain’s eyes sharpened a bit, but nothing else about him indicated undue interest in the incoming Voclain. “Is there anything else?” He looked around the room. Anton did his best to hold still under the scrutiny, while Monsieur Deschamps was fidgeting so hard he was his own odd little orchestra.

“In that case, I ask that you please follow me to the Engineering wing of the Institute.”