Cursed Cogs by Angela Roquet

Author:Angela Roquet
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: dystopian steampunk romance, gaslamp romance, clockwork fantasy romance, time travel apocalypse, clockwork romance series, dystopian fantasy series, alternate history zombies
Publisher: Violent Siren Press
Published: 2021-01-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

December 13th, 1916 – 10:45 a.m.

Isla was relentless.

Dorian was impressed, but more than that, he was annoyed.

He dug a quarter out of his pocket and slid it across the counter to Poe, the barkeep who ran the place. The man was mostly bald and half a foot shorter than his wife, Annie, who pitched in whenever the joint got busy. He had to stand on a crate to reach the top shelf behind the bar. But what he lacked in height, he made up for in girth.

Dorian had once watched him carry two casks up from the cellar by himself. At the same time. One over each shoulder. It was enough to make any meathead think twice about crossing him.

“The usual,” Dorian requested as Poe picked up the coin.

“And for your lady friend?” he asked.

“Sure.” Isla elbowed Dorian in the ribs as she joined him at the counter. “Let’s have the usual.”

He closed his eyes and groaned. “You shouldn’t be here. I’m warning you. This is a rough crowd.”

Poe snorted out a sound that crossed somewhere between offended and amused. But he fetched two glass mugs and set to work filling them.

Isla sniffed, unimpressed by the handful of patrons scattered throughout the room. She made a softer, more delighted sound as Pendulum, the tavern cat, hopped onto the bar.

“Look at you,” Isla cooed, stroking the little beast’s tabby coat and scratching her beneath the chin. One hind leg was enclosed in a bronze sleeve with flexible, cogged joints. The ungrateful mouser growled upon seeing Dorian as if he hadn’t risked getting his eyes clawed out to keep her on all fours.

“Penny likes you,” Poe said, sliding the mugs of ale across the counter.

“Was she hurt in the Break?” Isla asked, noticing the clockwork cast.

“Just before. Some dandy in a motorcar ran over her back leg,” Poe explained. “But Mr. Verne took good care of our little puss.”

“Then I’s took care of his puss.” A thick arm wrapped around Dorian’s neck and lifted him up onto his toes. He flinched, anticipating the meaty knuckles that scuffed his jaw, teetering between playful and painful.

“That you did,” Dorian agreed stiffly, patting the man’s arm in surrender.

“Who’s your gal, Doris?” Connor Kipling asked, dropping Dorian back onto his feet as his attention migrated to Isla. Of all Poe’s regulars at the Greasy Gear, Kipling was the most obnoxious. The man had a permanent sneer, and a jaw so sharp it was a wonder he didn’t slice the sleeve off his jacket anytime he wiped the foam from the cleft in his chin.

Kipling chugged what was left of his ale in a single go, his eyes never leaving Isla. Then he set his mug down hard on the bartop. The noise drew a hiss from Pendulum. The cat’s fur stood on end, and she bolted from the counter, taking shelter under a table in the corner.

“This is Isla Huxley—” Dorian began.

“Le Guin,” she corrected, shooting him a sideways glare.

“Isla Le Guin,” he relented. “She’s an old friend of mine.

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