Hour of Mischief by Aimee Hyndman

Author:Aimee Hyndman
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781620079416
Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

y mechanic lived on the outer rim of the middle ring in a ramshackle, tin house that sat in plain view of the slums. It was a large place for most outer ring dwellings, but small for someone who lived in the middle ring. Still, the rickety exterior only acted as a cover. That tin shack housed a factory of machinery and all sorts of amazing gadgets. I could spend all day browsing and never get bored.

“Not much of a house,” Itazura mused. “You know I could use some of my godly pull to get you a good mechanic.”

“This guy is a good mechanic,” I said, knocking on the door. Carved in the surface was the hammer of Artifex, the sign of the God of Craftsmen and all those who paid tribute to him. “Best there is in my opinion. And besides, I’ve got some pull of my own here. This mechanic gives me all my repairs absolutely free.”

“Did you threaten his family?”

“Ha, ha.”

I knocked again, and this time a familiar voice came from behind the door.

“Coming, coming. So sorry.”

The door opened to reveal the always oil-stained Grant Peterson. He held a greasy wrench in one hand and a blackened cloth in the other. His hair stuck up at odd angles as it usually did and his dark-skinned face was beaded with sweat from hours concentrating on his work. As soon as he saw me, a grin split his face.

“Janet! Nice to see you drop by. And who’s your friend?” He spied Itazura over my shoulder. “Oh, how rude of me. I should have let you inside first before asking prying questions. Come in. Come in.” He opened the door wider to allow us entrance.

“Asking my name is a prying question?” Itazura asked under his breath. I elbowed him in the side, hoping he would take that as a sign to shut up.

Then again, he didn’t even take the words “shut up” to mean shut up, but I could dream.

“It’s been ages since you’ve been by,” Grant said. “I’d been wondering when you were going to drop in for your next checkup.”

He led us through the mechanical labyrinth of his home. All about the kitchen and living room, strange gadgets whirred and jerked, all performing their own specialized task–washing, building, even cooking. I had to duck under the whirling arm of one malfunctioning device. Did Grant even notice it was broken? Maybe he did, but couldn’t be bothered to fix it. He wasn’t what I’d call an organized mechanic, but if any human came close to Artifex, it was definitely Grant.

Itazura looked around. “I suppose I know who this man favors.”

I snorted. “You think?”

Grant ushered us into his workshop, the nirvana of mechanics, which took up half of the small shack all by itself. He waved his hand at a lumpy, faded green couch shoved in the corner next to an old grandfather clock that always ran an hour too fast. “Go on, sit down.”

I obeyed but Itazura hovered next to the couch, still observing the workshop with a mixture of awe and greed.

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