Gears of a Mad God: A Steampunk Lovecraft Adventure

Gears of a Mad God:

  A Steampunk Lovecraft Adventure

  By Brent Nichols

  Copyright 2012 Brent Nichols

  This is a work of fiction. Not real. Totally made up. Any resemblance to real people, situations, murderous cults or eldritch deities is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – Grim Tidings

  Chapter 2 – Dragon Alley

  Chapter 3 – A Disappearance

  Chapter 4 – Striking Back

  Chapter 5 – Flight

  Chapter 6 – A Midnight Caller

  Chapter 7 – The Decision

  Chapter 8 – Tick Tock

  Chapter 9 – Daylight

  Chapter 1 – Grim Tidings

  It was ironic, Colleen Garman reflected, how often a clockmaker could lose track of the time.

  She was up to her elbows in brass gears and grease, thoroughly enjoying herself, when the grandfather clock in the corner began to chime. In moments half a dozen more clocks joined in, and she straightened, suppressing an unladylike curse. Six o'clock! Roland would be picking her up at seven, it would take half an hour to get home, she needed half an hour to scrub the smell of grease from her skin, and then there was her hair-!

  She left her tools sticking out of the clock cabinet, not the way her father had taught her at all, but this was an emergency. Then she raced around the workshop, turning down gas lights and making sure the windows were shut. She pulled a jacket on over her coveralls and paused in the doorway, looking over her domain.

  Everything was squared away, aside from a few wrenches. Dad would be proud.

  If she'd known how long it would be before she saw her workshop again, she would have stayed longer. Instead she turned away and locked the door.

  The evening shadows were long, and at first she didn't notice the tall man in the long, dark coat striding across the lawn. Her workshop was one bay in a long block of warehouses, so she didn't pay any attention to him. He was undoubtedly on his way to see one of her neighbors.

  She jogged across the grass, and he saw her, and veered toward her. Something in his face disturbed her, a look of dark intensity, and she jogged faster, heading for the lights of Spadina Street a block away. The warehouse district got short shrift when it came to streetlights, a fact that usually didn't bother her, but tonight she was nervous.

  Feet thudded on the grass and she looked over her shoulder. The man was running after her, and Colleen broke into a run as well. She dashed up Treadwell Street, a growing anger fighting with her fear. What right did some clown have to chase her, to make her run? Of course, she was late, after all. She decided that was reason enough to keep going. If she turned and taught this man a lesson, she'd miss her date with Roland completely.

  He was gaining on her as she reached the intersection with Spadina. It was a much busier street, with shoppers strolling between stores and businessmen leaving their offices. She was thinking about stopping, turning to face the guy, when she saw a streetcar just ahead of her. She decided to run for it instead, and picked up the pace.

  The man behind her sped up as well. He was no more than a dozen feet behind her when her stretching hand caught the rail on the back of the streetcar and she pulled herself on board.

  She stood panting, staring back at him, ready to hammer on his fingers if he grabbed the railing. But he was too far back. He was quite determined, the long black coat flapping around his legs as he sprinted, but he quickly fell behind.

  Colleen stared into his face. It was an ordinary face at first glance, long and thin, a clean-shaven man somewhere between youth and middle age. But there was a disturbing intensity to his features. As the streetcar pulled away from him there was no frustration in his face, no disappointment. Just a grim focus as he stared after her.

  Colleen shivered and hoped she'd seen the last of him. The next time she worked late, she decided, she'd tuck one of her larger wrenches into her pocket. If he came after her again he'd get the surprise of his life.

  Home for Colleen was a rattletrap row house on a steep hill with a view of Lake Ontario. With her parents gone the dark house often depressed her, but tonight she was too distracted to be troubled. She trotted up the front steps, then paused to pluck an envelope from the mailbox at her front door.

  Inside, she turned on the lights and tore the envelope open. She was distracted, thinking of Roland, thinking of how she could be ready in time, but the words on the page hit her like a blow. It was a telegraph form, the message succinct, blunt, and brutal.

  Very sorry your uncle Roderick passed this AM in Victoria.

  Colleen stared at the rectangle of paper for a long minute, then walked to the nearest chair and flopped herself down. She kept staring at the sheet in her hand, but she was no longer seeing it. Uncle Rod was dead?

  By the time Roland arrived she was packing. She told him about Roderick in distracted bursts as she darted back and forth across her bedroom, gathering her possessions. She took no more than she could fit in a suitcase. A steamer trunk was more traditional, but it would be a nightmare to move, and Colleen liked to be mobile.

  Roland listened silently, only sympathy on his face. He was dressed for the night of dancing he had promised her, and he looked devastatingly handsome in a brown suit that showed off his height and his broad shoulders. Colleen looked at him and felt a pang of regret for their missed evening, and a rush of affection for him. She had ruined his evening completely, and his only thought was how he could help.

  He carried her suitcase down to the front door, went to the corner drugstore to phone for a taxi, then came back and looked her up and down. "I hope you're not travelling in that," he said.

  Colleen looked down at herself. She was still in her coveralls, hardly suitable attire for a young lady in public. She frowned in irritation. Skirts were frankly a pain, and she would be travelling for at least a week. Well, there was nothing to be done. She thought about packing her dirty coveralls just in case, but it hardly seemed likely she'd wear them.

  She changed quickly, pulling on a blue dress and grabbing a bonnet, and ran back downstairs. "I'll come with you to the train station," Roland said as the taxi pulled up. "I could even go with you to Victoria."

  "Don't be silly," Colleen told him. "You haven't packed. And you don't want to pay for a taxi to come all the way back from the station. I'll be fine."

  "I don't know," he said, and she smiled at the concern on his face. She stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "Thanks for understanding," she said. "You're very sweet. I'll see you as soon as I get back."

  He insisted on carrying her suitcase to the taxi. He opened the back door for her, then took her hand, his face serious. "We need to have a talk when you get back."

  Colleen nodded and climbed into the taxi. She watched him through the back window as the car pulled away. She had a feeling he was planning to propose to her, and the thought put a flutter of excitement in her stomach, but they had a few issues to work out first. Roland had some fairly narrow views about how a proper young woman ought to behave, and they didn't involve wearing coveralls and working with hand tools.

  But she'd been shaken by the news of Uncle Rod's death. He was her last living relative. She was truly alone now. Marrying Roland, being part of a family again, coming home to a house full of light and life and love, would be hard to resist.

  She lugged her suitcase into the station, found a ticket window, and bought a return ticket to Vancouver, wincing at the price. She wouldn't have long to wait. Her train was leaving in less than te
n minutes.

  She was on the stairs, the suitcase bumping her legs with every step, when some instinct made her turn. A man was sauntering across the lobby behind her, and he lifted a newspaper to hide his face as she turned, but he was a moment too slow. Colleen felt her stomach turn to ice. She knew that thin face, that dark coat, those burning eyes.

  It couldn't be a coincidence. He was following her. But why?

  Not for any good purpose, she was sure.

  She kept moving, down the staircase, her eyes scanning the station. She was safe enough for the moment, but what if he boarded the same train she did? She had a sudden vision of going to sleep at night, wondering what he might do as she slept. Or she might confront him, teach him some manners, and maybe get herself thrown off the train.

  A group of sailors stood at the bottom of the stairs, half a dozen rough-looking young men talking and laughing loudly, and Colleen instinctively edged away from them. Then one man's words caught her attention.

  "I'm telling you, it's been stolen."

  "You lost it," the man beside him said. "Check your pockets again."

  "I don't have that many pockets," the first sailor retorted. "I'm telling you, someone nicked my wallet."

  Colleen stepped closer and said, "I think it was him."

  "Huh? What?" The sailors stared at her, and Colleen, her heart thumping, let go of her suitcase with one hand so she could point up the stairs. "That guy in the black coat, with the newspaper. I think he took your wallet."

  The sailors looked where she pointed and Colleen quickly moved away before they could ask any awkward questions. She hurried to her platform, not turning her head when she heard raised voices behind her, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. She allowed herself a small smile as she handed her suitcase to a porter and boarded her train.