Clockwork Menagerie: A Shadows of Asphodel Novella by Karen Kincy

Author:Karen Kincy [Kincy, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Romance, Fantasy.Historical, Steampunk, Glbt
ISBN: 9781620079539
Amazon: B011JR1IYY
Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press
Published: 2015-09-01T22:00:00+00:00

“Kakogo cherta?”

Startled awake, Konstantin stared down the wrong end of a pitchfork, brandished by a peasant with fierce black eyebrows.

Fang, lying along his leg, growled and bared her teeth. Guarding him?

The peasant jabbed the pitchfork in his direction. “Stoy!”

Konstantin stood, raised his hands over his head, and thought it best to say nothing, since speaking German would only incriminate him. He sidestepped toward the door, Fang slinking alongside, and escaped outside.

Sun on snow dazzled him; cold hammered his lungs.

He ran from the barn, spurred on by angry Russian shouts, and retreated into the forest. Gasping, he bent double and braced his hands on his knees. Fang loped after him, panting, her breath steaming the air. How on earth was she hot in the middle of winter? He eyed her plush white pelt with suspicious jealousy.

“You should go home.” He pointed at the barn. “Home.”

Fang tilted her head, her tongue hanging between her teeth. Maybe she wasn’t a guard dog; maybe she was a stray, like him.

“Aren’t we lucky?” Konstantin muttered.

Trudging along the railway, he spotted the unmistakable cables of telegraph lines, dipping to a train station. His hopes spiraled heavenward. These cables must lead directly to the nearest city: St. Petersburg. If he could hijack the telegraph transmitter, he could send a distress call to the hotel he shared with Himmel.

He hesitated outside the station, clenching and unclenching his hands. Now what? Panting, Fang sat at his heel.

“I can’t waltz inside,” he muttered. “If they saw a Viennese waltz, they would arrest me.”

Fang’s yawn turned into a high whine. She seemed bored by his pun.

“Wait here.” He held up his hand. “Stay.”

Fang lay down. Close enough. Konstantin straightened his clothes, raked his fingers through his hair, and pushed through the door.

Inside, a grizzled conductor in a blue uniform leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. A passenger slept on a bench, his luggage scattered beneath him. The telegraph operator hunched behind a counter, scribbling down an incoming telegram. No more than a boy, really, with blond peach fuzz instead of a proper beard. He looked like he should be delivering telegrams, not operating a piece of delicate equipment.

An idea hit Konstantin. Maybe he didn’t have to mug the telegraph operator.

He strolled over and spoke English with a deliberate American accent. “Hello, sir.”

Frowning, the operator replied in rapid-fire Russian.

“I speak no Russian,” Konstantin drawled. “Telegram?” He pantomimed writing, and received a pen and paper.

Holding his breath, he wrote down a message, also in English.

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