Showing posts with label steampunk thriller. Show all posts
Showing posts with label steampunk thriller. Show all posts

Sunday, October 12, 2025

πŸ‘»πŸŽƒSunday's Steampunk SpinnerπŸŽƒπŸ‘»: The Emperor's Bone Palace by Hailey Turner



Summary:
Infernal War Saga #2
Every heart is meant to break.

THE NAMELESS. As a warden, Soren’s duty is to guard against the dead, but he was never trained to guard against his heart. Drawn into a web of Solarian politics, Soren finds himself at the center of a storm of his own making, unwilling to break free if it means losing the man he loves. But even the darkest secrets cannot remain hidden forever, and when lies come to light, the price he pays for his silence may very well be his undoing.

THE EMPEROR. When his claim to the Imperial throne is challenged by a traitorous House, Vanya Sa’Liandel must adhere to the ancient tradition of the Conclave to stay in power. Refusing to face his peers alone, Vanya will stand before the Houses of Solaria with Soren by his side, a decision that risks his heart when an unspeakable betrayal threatens everything he’s fought for.

THE REBEL. With her entire world upended, Caris Dhemlan is on the run, struggling to come to terms with the truth of her heritage. As the Clockwork Brigade is targeted by Daijal, she must fight to save the people she cares about. Every rebellion needs a figurehead, but Caris is determined not to become a martyr.

THE QUEEN. With a crown claimed, Eimarille Rourke sets her sights on Ashion and the continent beyond her country’s borders. Promised a world by a star god, Eimarille sets into motion the gears of war and launches the opening salvo of a battle whose repercussions will ripple across the whole of Maricol.

From the author who brought you the Soulbound series comes a queer steampunk-inspired epic fantasy.



Divergence
936 A.O.P.
One
VANYA
Some roads would always be lonelier than others, but they all had to be walked beneath the stars.

Emperor Vanya Sa’Liandel, of the House of Sa’Liandel, holder of the Imperial throne and ruler of Solaria, arrived back in the capital city of Calhames in the early hours before dawn three days after the rionetka attack in Oeiras. The trade talks with the Tovan Isles ambassador had been hastily concluded, and he’d returned by way of airship to a city he couldn’t assume was safe and a palace that didn’t feel like home—not without Raiah and Soren by his side.

Stalking through the low-lit corridors of the Imperial palace, Vanya made his way toward his private office in the family wing. The praetoria legionnaires guarding the antechamber to it made Vanya want to flinch, but an emperor never took a step back. Besides, the ones guarding him were at least trustworthy.

Captain Javier Molina, in charge of the praetoria legionnaires who’d escorted Vanya to Oeiras, planted his feet before the antechamber doors, fists on his hips. “Step forward.”

The praetoria legionnaires standing at attention on either side of the entrance obeyed immediately, saluting the captain before bowing to the Imperial degree at Vanya’s presence. The ones surrounding Vanya kept their hands on their pistols, eyeing their fellow soldiers. If the pair on guard duty were uneasy at the distrust being shown them, they didn’t acknowledge it.

“Strip off your shirts and jackets,” Javier ordered.

One of the praetoria legionnaires seemed taken aback by the order. She hesitated a couple of seconds before obeying. In that time, Vanya noticed the way the praetoria legionnaires around him tightened their grips on their pistols. No weapon was unholstered, but the sentiment of being willing to shoot was there.

The pair stripped, baring their chests to Javier’s critical eye. Their skin was unmarked, carrying no vivisection scars, and the praetoria legionnaires around Vanya relaxed ever so slightly at the proof they weren’t facing off against rionetkas.

Javier nodded sharply. “You may dress.”

While the two hastily redonned their uniforms, Vanya swept past everyone into the antechamber and headed for his private office. “Work with Alida to clear my household, the praetoria legionnaires on duty, and the staff.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Such an undertaking could not be done quietly. Whatever spies from other Houses might be in the palace would be put on notice, but it couldn’t be helped. Everyone who stayed within the palace walls would be required to prove they weren’t a rionetka before sunrise. All the rest would arrive at a security check Javier would oversee until the higher-ranking praetoria legionnaire officers could be cleared.

If any rionetkas were within the palace’s employ, Vanya hoped to ensnare them. It was why he hadn’t formally announced his return to Calhames. The flag indicating he was in residence would not be flown over the palace until after the sun broke the horizon.

Vanya turned on the gas lamps once he entered his office, illuminating the space. The windows overlooking a narrow arcade and private inner courtyard were closed against the heat the flagstones hadn’t yet given up during the night. Vanya went to crank them open, the panes folding outward to settle flat against the exterior wall.

He drew in a breath, smelling the blooming flowers spilling over the edges of the pots scattered across the tiled floor outside in the courtyard. The riot of plants had been picked out by his mother, Empress Zakariya Sa’Liandel, and Vanya’s staff carefully tended the flowers she no longer got to enjoy. Oeiras had smelled of the sea, but here, in the private wing of the Imperial palace, it smelled like home.

The sound of raised voices in the antechamber caught his attention. Vanya stepped away from the window, moving to seat himself behind his wide wooden desk. Everything was exactly how he’d left it before departing for Oeiras weeks ago. His records of the newly signed treaty with the Tovan Isles would be presented to the Senate at some point, but for now, it would be delivered to the care of his chief minister.

Vanya reached for the framed tintype photograph of Raiah, her laughing face smiling up at him. He wondered where she was, if she and Soren had made it safely to Karnak yet. His televox hadn’t rung since Soren had driven out of Oeiras with Raiah in his care. The worry had not and would not leave him, not until he held his daughter in his arms again and Soren was back by his side.

“I find it insulting to strip in public when not in a bathhouse, Your Imperial Majesty,” Imperial General Chu Hua said irritably as she appeared in the doorway to his office.

Vanya set the tintype photograph aside. “There is a reason for that precaution.”

Chu Hua bowed to the Imperial degree, her uniform back in place after being required to prove she wasn’t a rionetka before allowed into his presence. Vanya eyed her, wondering about her loyalty after all that had happened in the last few days.

The crimson and white effiyeh she wore was edged in three gold lines, the mark of her high rank as the Imperial general. She’d spent the majority of her career rising through the ranks of the praetoria, the personal guard of the Imperial throne. She held no allegiance to any major or minor House. Her loyalty was to the Imperial throne and whoever sat upon it. The issue of the rionetkas was one she would find most distressing.

“You did not announce your return,” Chu Hua said as she straightened up.

Vanya waved her inside. “For good reason. The assassination attempt while I was in Oeiras wasn’t typical.”

Chu Hua raised an eyebrow, the faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening a little. Her hair was still nearly all black, but her age could be seen in the weathered lines gracing her face and the scattered strands of silver in her hair. “I heard they breached your sleeping chambers.”

“They would have killed me if Soren was not with me at the time.”

Chu Hua made a soft, considering sound as she closed the door behind her before sitting. She was armed, with both a pistol and a wand, and while she was a magician, her skill with the aether did not lend itself to magic other than shielding. Vanya’s attention lingered on the weapons for a second before he pushed aside his unease. If she’d had vivisection scars, the praetoria legionnaires would not have let her pass.

“Who were the perpetrators?”

Vanya never looked away from her face. “Praetoria legionnaires.”

Chu Hua stiffened in her seat, something like anger flashing across her brown eyes. “That goes against the duty to the Imperial throne the praetoria legionnaires are expected to adhere to.”

“Duty can be overridden.”

“If it were bribes—”

“It wasn’t.” Vanya stood. “Come with me. I will show you.”

Chu Hua silently followed him out of the office and through the halls of the Imperial palace. More and more people were coming awake as Javier and Alida worked to confirm the absence—or presence—of rionetkas.

The praetoria legionnaires guarding him remained those who had been with him in Oeiras. They followed Vanya and Chu Hua from the low-lit hallways of the Imperial palace to the coolness of a summer night, dawn closing in from the east.

The pathways to the private star temple on the palace grounds used by the Imperial family were lit by gas lamps. Typically guarded year-round, every hour of the day, the number of praetoria legionnaires on duty at the star temple had doubled since his arrival home. With them were spiderlike automatons patrolling in nonstop circles.

The reason for the heightened security lay within its walls, watched over not by a star priest but by a Legion magician, whose clarion crystal–tipped wand never left their hand.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the praetoria legionnaire said, coming to attention at their arrival. “Imperial General.”

The trio of metal coffins taking up space near the star temple’s altar were locked, though not welded shut. Each coffin carried the corpse of a rionetka, the rest of the bodies having been burned in Oeiras. A much smaller box sat on top of the center coffin, carrying the remains of the clockwork metal hearts that had given corrupted life to the men and women who had once served Vanya and ultimately found a different master.

Vanya gestured at the coffin on the left. “Open it.”

The legionnaire kept her wand pointed at the coffin as she stepped forward, tracing the spell lines wrapped around the locks with her wand. Vanya could sense the flow of the aether through the clarion crystal, the element transmuted into magic. Her control was perfect, and the magical ties keeping the metal locks in place went dormant. The keys she carried on her hip undid the locks themselves, the sound of gears turning loud in the star temple.

It reminded Vanya of what lay below the tiled mosaic floor and the mechanism that kept the crypt sealed away from prying eyes. Tonight, they weren’t there to bury the dead, merely to bear witness.

Two other praetoria legionnaires on duty inside the star temple stepped forward to lift the lid off the coffin. A faint hint of decay drifted up from it. Vanya didn’t react, for he’d smelled worse things in his twenty-eight years of life.

Because of the way the Houses vied for power—through marriage, murder, and skirmishes along vasilyet borders—death was a way of life in Solaria and sanctioned by their guiding star. The Imperial family always traveled with a royal embalmer to ensure their bodies could be brought back to Calhames for proper mourning and, eventually, secret burial.

Vanya had instructed the embalmers to preserve the bodies of the rionetkas. They’d been stored in a massive ice box in Oeiras under heavy guard before being loaded onto the airship. They could not be stored anywhere else on the palace grounds. The dead had to be handled with care, and while Vanya doubted the rionetkas would rise as revenants, one could never be too careful.

Chu Hua stepped up to the coffin, nostrils flaring at the rancid smell. She gazed down at the mutilated body inside, expression unchanging. “Are these the kinds of scars you’re searching for? No one has been forthcoming on that bit.”

“Yes.” Vanya joined her by the coffin, peering down at the body with its sunken-in chest, vivisection lines cut through cold flesh. “We found clockwork metal hearts inside each of their chest cavities.”

She turned her head fractionally to look at him. “Similar to the one found in the assassin who attacked during your coronation a few years ago?”

Vanya nodded slowly. “I did not know what it meant then. I do now.”

He’d allowed Soren to carry that heart back to the Warden’s Island for further examination. The wardens hadn’t been able to decipher the spellwork on the metal clockwork heart back then. The self-destruct spell embedded in the metal meant the devices broke apart after a certain period of time once the host was dead, whether or not magic was involved. Vanya had hoped to retain them whole, but the pieces were in the box on top of the center coffin.

What Soren had uncovered back then in that assassin’s chest had been known by very few people in Solaria. Chu Hua was one of them, which was why Vanya was meeting with her here, at this hour, keeping secrets for just a little longer.

“Javier used mind magic to interrogate them before they died. Part of their memory was missing, and who they were was no longer a truth they lived. They called themselves rionetkas,” Vanya said.

Chu Hua made a moue of distaste. “Puppets.”

“Ones who were sent to kill me and take Raiah from Oeiras.”

“Did they succeed?”

For all that the broadsheets had reported on his survival, Raiah’s absence had been noted as well. Vanya stepped back from the coffin, nodding at the magician to close the lid and lock the dead away again. “My daughter is safe.”

“But she is not with you.” Chu Hua tipped her head to the side. “Neither is your warden.”

Chu Hua had no vivisection scars on her chest. She belonged to no House. Her loyalty was to the throne, but that meant her loyalty could change with whoever claimed that seat of power. Vanya trusted her with Solaria’s Imperial throne and his country’s security, but he did not trust her with his daughter.

They were not one and the same—yet.

“Any news from Bellingham?” Vanya asked, redirecting the conversation. He’d ordered her to send a platoon of praetoria legionnaires to the vasilyet governed by the House of Kimathi under the guise of field training. He hadn’t been informed of the results, too busy finalizing the trade talks and then trying to guard against the threat of rionetkas.

Chu Hua moved away from the coffins, clasping her hands behind her back as she turned to face him. “The House of Kimathi arrived in Calhames several days ago. As for the rest of it, do you wish to speak of such things here?”

Vanya had spent a lifetime learning how not to react to terrible news. He kept his displeasure about the House of Kimathi off his face out of habit. “Let us return to my office.”

They left the star temple behind, taking the path back to the palace proper, praetoria legionnaires always within arm’s reach. The palace was far more active now than it had been at his early arrival. He’d yet to receive an update from Javier or Alida, which made Vanya hope they would come up empty with their task of searching for rionetkas.

When they reached his office again, he discovered Alida waiting there, carrying a tray with a small plate of finger food and drinks. She inclined her head at his arrival. “I thought you might like some chai, Your Imperial Majesty. I oversaw the making of it myself.”

“Thank you,” Vanya said.

Alida set the tray on his desk and deftly poured two cups of chai before setting the teapot down and leaving, closing the door behind her. Vanya retook his seat and picked up the cup, breathing in deep the scent of spices. The drink would give him some energy for the long day ahead. What little sleep he’d had on the flight to Calhames would have to be enough when he faced the Senate and the Houses.

“What of the quarry?” he asked.

Chu Hua picked up her glass and sipped at the piping hot chai. “Burned, with nothing left except the remnants of foundations. Everything was ash. If there were survivors, which I highly doubt, they were no longer there. Odds favor the House of Kimathi taking custody of them if that were the case. I have tintype photographs for you. I will have an aide courier them over once the sun rises.”

Vanya frowned, thinking of what Soren had told him days ago in Oeiras. “The entire quarry was burned?”

“According to the report flown back to me, some areas of the ground appeared melted, like a lightning strike. We’ve no record of a weapon that can slag land like that save starfire.”

“The warden who stumbled across the quarry escaped being put into a death-defying machine by use of a bomb.”

Chu Hua tapped her fingers in a slow, steady rhythm against the armrest of her chair. “I know my weapons, Your Imperial Majesty. The pictures do not show the wreckage from a bombing, but perhaps the wardens have a weapon that could scar the land so. Their alchemy is far more advanced than any country’s on Maricol.”

Vanya was doubtful starfire was the cause of whatever had been done at the quarry. Soren was a warden, and the wardens took in no one whose name was written down in the royal genealogies. But no evidence meant a weaker argument. The bodies in the star temple would have to be enough, along with the tintype photographs. His mother had done enough with less information than he currently had. He could only hope to emulate her.

“Recall the platoon you sent into the House of Kimathi vasilyet. I want them checked over for vivisection scars, but do so quietly.”

Chu Hua inclined her head. “Identifying these rionetkas in the Legion ranks will take weeks. It will be impossible to keep secret why we are inspecting everyone, and the targets may slip away. We’ll make note of any defectors and investigate accordingly.”

“I plan to meet with the Senate about this threat. I need the reason behind our search to stay quiet until then. If we find any rionetkas, I want them taken alive if possible. The ones who attacked me had no choice in doing so. Finding out who is targeting our people for this depravity is a top priority.”

Vanya had his suspicions, and judging by the look Chu Hua leveled him from across the desk, she had the same. “Do you know what magic binds them? Is the spell traceable?”

He shook his head. “No. We’re still researching it.”

“Then it may be prudent to install some spell-detecting security devices here in the palace. They could prove useful in specific areas.” She glanced up at the ceiling before shrugging. “Here would be a good location, though I would counsel you not to inform anyone in your House or household that it is present if you agree to its placement. The less people know, the less chance of tampering.”

“How would it work?”

“The device’s range can be adjusted. The clarion crystals are cut in such a way so as to detect most types of spellwork. We typically set them for military spells, but we can adjust the parameters for a broader range.”

“If you think it’s worth doing, then make it happen. I’ll block out a time to meet with you tomorrow to set everything up in here.”

“At your will, Your Imperial Majesty.”

They finished their chai in silence before Chu Hua left, bowing her way out of the office. In her wake, Vanya sent a prayer to the Dawn Star, hoping she would hear him. “I cannot walk this road alone, Callisto. For the good of Solaria, guide me true.”



Welcome to Maricol, where the land will kill you, kinship turns the gears of war,
and burning the dead lest they come back to life is the only way to survive.

Sunday Steampunk Spinner



Hailey Turner
Hailey Turner is big city girl who spoils her cats rotten and has a demanding day job that she loves, but not as much as she loves writing. She’s been writing since she was a young child and enjoys reading almost as much as creating a new story. Hailey loves stories with lots of action, gritty relationships, and an eventual HEA that satisfies the heart.


iTUNES  /  AUDIOBOOK  /  BOOKBUB  /  LINKTREE
INSTAGRAM  /  AUDIBLE  /  TIKTOK  /  CHIRP
FB GROUP  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS
EMAIL: haileyturnerwriter@gmail.com



Saturday, April 12, 2025

Saturday's Series Spotlight: Magic & Steam by CS Poe Part 1



The Engineer #1
Summary:

1881—Special Agent Gillian Hamilton is a magic caster with the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam. He’s sent to Shallow Grave, Arizona, to arrest a madman engineer known as Tinkerer, who’s responsible for blowing up half of Baltimore. Gillian has handled some of the worst criminals in the Bureau’s history, so this assignment shouldn’t be a problem. But even he’s taken aback by a run-in with the country’s most infamous outlaw, Gunner the Deadly.

Gunner is also stalking Shallow Grave in search of Tinkerer, who will stop at nothing to take control of the town’s silver mines. Neither Gillian nor Gunner are willing to let Tinkerer hurt more innocent people, so they agree to a very temporary partnership.

If facing illegal magic, Gatling gun contraptions, and a wild engineer in America’s frontier wasn’t enough trouble for a city boy, Gillian must also come to terms with the reality that he’s rather fond of his partner. But even if they live through this adventure, Gillian fears there’s no chance for love between a special agent and outlaw.

Based on the short story, "Gunner the Deadly." Entirely revised, newly expanded, and Book One in the exciting new steampunk series, Magic & Steam.






The Gangster #2
Summary:
1881—Special Agent Gillian Hamilton, magic caster for the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam, has recovered from injuries obtained while in Shallow Grave, Arizona. Now back in New York City, Gillian makes an arrest on New Year’s Eve that leads to information on a gangster, known only as Tick Tock, who’s perfected utilizing elemental magic ammunition. This report complicates Gillian’s holiday plans, specifically those with infamous outlaw, Gunner the Deadly, who promised they’d ring in 1882 together.

The two men stand on the cusp of a romance that needs to be explored intimately and privately. But when Gillian’s residence is broken into by a magical mechanical man who tries to murder him on behalf of Tick Tock, he and Gunner must immediately investigate the city’s ruthless street gangs before the illegal magic becomes a threat that cannot be contained.

This might be their most wild adventure yet, but criminal undergrounds can’t compare to the dangers of the heart. Gillian must balance his career in law enforcement with his love for a vigilante, or lose both entirely.

The novel-length follow-up to The Engineer, in the exciting new steampunk series, Magic & Steam.




The Engineer #1
October 10, 1881
The trch, trch, trch of Gatling gun rotating cylinders had been my only warning before the gunfire began. Bullets pierced the sun-bleached faΓ§ade of the gambling hall behind me, and splintered wood rained down like an unexpected desert shower. I held on to my bowler, dove behind a nearby wagon, and scrambled up against the wheel. By way of defense, it offered little, but I desperately needed half a second to gather my bearings. I’d just entered Shallow Grave, Arizona, hadn’t even flashed my badge yet, and already I was being shot at.

I yanked my traveling goggles over my head and accidentally dropped them as another round of shooting began. Windows shattered, a woman’s scream echoed from a few storefronts to my right, and the scorched red earth around me billowed up in miniature dust storms where bullets became embedded in the packed clay.

I lifted the headband and over-ear receivers of my Personal Discussion Device from my neck and fitted them into place. I raised the handheld transducer, punched in a code on the brass buttons that would connect me to my director back in New York City, and waited for Loren Moore’s smooth tenor voice to answer.

But nothing happened.

I tried again.

Not even static.

“Send Gillian out West,” I said in a self-mocking tone. I attempted contact a final time, but it was in vain. “Milo Ferguson won’t stand a chance against him. Of course not. But the utter lack of basic amenities and technology?” More gunfire, and I winced before sliding down farther and trying to make myself as small a target as possible. “Gillian will love it.” I wrenched the band down to rest around my neck again, then rolled onto my belly to peer under the wagon.

There was a sudden crackle in the atmosphere—the snap of aether magic being activated. The sensation raised gooseflesh on my arms, and I recognized the spell for what it was.

Manufactured.

Illegal.

Not magic invoked by a caster like me, but by a physical weapon and someone with the wealth in which to afford its use.

And then three near-simultaneous shots fractured the air like seven years’ bad luck. No doubt that had come from a triple-barrel Waterbury pistol. But it didn’t line up with the intelligence the Bureau had on Milo Ferguson. Yes, he was wanted for his improper use of steam energy to power unregistered innovations, as well as his amassing of aether ammunition, but he hadn’t once owned a Waterbury pistol or Jordan rifle, the only two weapons capable of firing magic-laden bullets.

Ferguson was an engineer. And mad though he might be, he was gifted at any sort of construction that had a lethal edge to it. His inventions were what had recently taken out half of Baltimore. His self-designed, magic-compatible monstrosities of brass and copper and iron were why I had been directed by the Bureau and the President of the United States to haul ass to Arizona territory.

So the shots in retaliation to the Gatling gun hadn’t come from Ferguson. They’d come from yet another individual hell-bent on breaking the law. And me with only one pair of handcuffs and no idea where the town jail was located….

I watched from underneath the wagon as a pair of black-clad legs—presumably the Waterbury owner—ran by like the hounds from Hell were giving chase. The man skidded to an abrupt stop in the middle of the dirt road, turned, and another shiver of manufactured magic creeped along my arms seconds before the Waterbury shot another triple round at a target somewhere out of sight to my left.

I scrambled to my hands and knees and moved into a crouch. Peering around the edge of the wagon, I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the setting sun and saw, standing against a fiery desert backdrop, a cowboy straight out of a dime novel. He was tall, like he could steal the stars from the sky at night. Not a big man—lithe was the word—but imposing nonetheless in head-to-toe black attire, including a Stetson hat hanging from his neck. He remained in a shooting pose and cocked the hammer on his Waterbury. But as the ammunition came to life for a third time, gunfire erupted from my left again and sent the cowboy running for cover.

Specifically, my wagon.





The Gangster #2
December 31, 1881
“Stop!” I shouted as I gave chase to Fat Frank Fishback through the chaotic fray of Manhattan’s Lower East Side.

Fishback—who was, in actuality, all arms and legs—skidded and slipped on the frozen cobblestones, righted himself, and made a sharp left toward a dilapidated tenement listing hard to one side. He shoved a big-boned woman from the open doorway and disappeared into the unsound structure.

“Sonofa—” I raced in the same direction, moved past the startled woman, and called a curt apology over my shoulder as I barged unwelcomed and unannounced through someone else’s home.

The interior was dark, and despite the night of winter already upon us, no lamps had been powered on. Steam piping had been installed throughout the Five Points earlier in the year, but it was obvious these people were too poor even for steam energy to light their home. The odds of finding an illegal syphon installed somewhere on the property in order to suck the teat of the city’s steam grid were quite good. The installation in the slums had created a point of serious contention with government officials and the Old Money of New York City. Strongly worded letters had been published in the newspapers proclaiming it a waste of taxpayer dollars to light the streets of the wretched. As if these folks chose to live in squalor.

But despite the opposition, City Hall went forward with the investment. Funding had passed in January, and it became a matter of New York wishing to assert its dominance over other major metropolitans in the United States. The desire to proclaim itself superior to the likes of Boston or D.C. was a hell of a driving force. The mayor had used Grand Central Depot as his selling point—if tourists felt like they’d entered the city through the doors of a palace, then even the most unfortunate among us must have access to the latest advances in steam technology.

Access and means being two entirely different points, of course.

But I digress.

I wasn’t here to chastise a too-full tenement of occupants barely earning enough to keep bread on the dinner table. I was here for Fishback. Nothing more.

I dodged the shadow of a resident coming out of a room, his curses now joining with the woman’s—a symphony of fury and protests left unanswered in my wake. I raced along an extended narrow hall, shoved off the far wall in order to make the tight turn down a second dark passage, shot up a short flight of stairs, and finally caught sight of Fishback when he opened a door exiting onto a side alley, his rail-thin body briefly illuminated by the kaleidoscope of urban nightlights.

“Stop right now!” I hollered.

Fishback gave me a triumphant expression, stepped outside, and slammed the door shut.

I didn’t slow my run, merely held an arm out, palm forward, and dipped into the ever-present elemental magic that encompassed Earth. The stream of raw energy churned and whipped at my request for its power, filled my body, and then erupted in a gale of wind. The whoosh of bitterly cold air blew the door off one rusted hinge and left it sagging like a broken wing. I ran outside, onto a set of rickety wooden stairs, hoisted myself over the banister, and jumped to the alley below.

I landed on the balls of my feet, shoes barely scratching a whisper from the cobblestones as magic aided me safely to the ground. But the door’s now-unfortunate state had been what startled Fishback. He straightened from the bent-over position he’d been in and spun around to face me. His chest heaved as he fought for breath the winter air had stolen. Fishback’s gaze flicked to the door and staircase behind me, and then his face blanched. His eyes grew wide. Panicked. Like a cornered animal ready to bite and scratch and claw until one of us was dead.

I had no illusions about my person. A man just shy of thirty, brown hair mottled with gray, a height and build hardly bigger than most women’s, and no weapon on hand. So no, it wasn’t my appearance that scared Fishback, a gangster known for squeezing the life out of coppers with his bare hands.

It was the technicality that I was not a copper. Special Agent Gillian Hamilton, active caster with the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam, thank you very much. And it was my magic that had put the fear of God into Fishback.

“Fishback—” I started.

He turned on one heel and ran for the mouth of the alley.

“I said stop,” I yelled. I tugged the brim of my bowler down and started running again. “Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam, Fishback. You’re under—”

A glass bottle whizzed in front of me from the tenement on the left. I stumbled back a step to avoid being knocked out and turned my face away as it shattered against the outer wall of the building I’d just exited. Above me, the thrower shouted from an open window in a gravelly voice, “Magic pig in the alley!”

I broke into another sprint before a second bottle could hit its mark and slammed into the congested traffic of Baxter Street. All around me were unsupervised packs of children, stray dogs, wagons coming and going in either direction, and pushcarts everywhere, laws be damned, hawking the last of their oysters, knishes, and pickles before crowds dispersed for the evening. There were steam pipes crisscrossing building facades, rattling and pinging as residents powered on lamps and radiators. More metal tubing ran along the gutters of the streets, supplying steam energy to the yellow, red, and green streetlamps.

The voice from the window was still crying, “Magic pig! Right there.”

There’d been such volatile magic employed throughout the Great Rebellion that by the end of the war, Congress had enacted the Caster Regulation Act of 1865. On the surface, it aimed to bring the magic community out of hiding and make our intrinsic abilities legal to perform without fear of violence or jail time. But the finer details of the law required that every scholar—those who studied raw magic and documented the manmade spells—architect—the ones who fabricated the spells—and caster—those who performed the magic, such as myself—undergo mandatory documentation with the federal government. Keen and critical oversight of magic usage would protect soldiers and civilians alike from what happened during the war.

That’s how the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam was founded.

I’d come forward when I was eighteen and applied to the regulation, but due to my atypical caster level, the Bureau jumped to offer me a job, a badge, and perhaps most importantly, respect. For the last decade, I had been doing my damnedest to represent the magic community, to educate citizens and eradicate detrimental old wives’ tales, all while upholding law and order in the city.

It was, to say the least, an ongoing campaign.

I dodged between two pushcarts and stepped onto the road, only to be abruptly cut off as three men moved to stand in front of me. Fishback disappeared into the throng of people.

“Step aside,” I ordered, pulling back the open lapels of my coats to show my badge.

They were all taller than me. Bulkier than me. With the sort of wicked smiles seen on men who used their fists to demand respect. The one on the left had his arms crossed over his barrel chest, with the stub of a smoking cigar clenched between his teeth. On the right was a man with a handlebar mustache and a badly set nose from a long-ago fight. In the middle was Tommy McCarthy, a known member of the Whyo gang that ran this neighborhood. He wore mechanical fighting gloves, the cogs spinning and pressure gauges releasing steam as he flexed his fingers.

“Look what we got here, boys,” McCarthy said. He smiled widely, showing off a broken canine. “A copper on our streets.”

“I’m not here for you, McCarthy.”

“Know who I am, do you?” The steam whistled as he made a fist with one glove. “Scared, ain’t ya?”

“No.”

McCarthy blinked almost comically, glanced at Cigar Stub and Broken Nose, then tried to regain his footing by saying, “You ought to be.”

“You’re interfering with official matters pertaining to the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam, and I will arrest you if you don’t—”

“Arrest me?” McCarthy echoed with a bark of a laugh. “You ain’t even tall enough to suck my cock,” he replied, reaching down with one mechanical hand to cup himself through his trousers.

“I have no tolerance for your crude behavior. Step aside.”

Broken Nose pushed back the folds of his coat and unholstered a Waterbury pistol. He pointed the three-barreled weapon at my head and cocked the hammer. “How about I put a few bullets through your brain instead?”

As the aether was galvanized, manufactured magic snapped and crackled in the air around me. A strong jolt shot up my spine and I shook it off. It was merely a physical response to the illegal spell reaching out to interact with my own magic. But seeing that Waterbury—

An unkillable, deadeye marksman.

His finger pulling the trigger.

And blowing Milo Ferguson’s head off.

Those same fingers had held my chin just hours before while he whispered words that were seared into my bones like a cattle brand: It’ll remind me of you—

No.

Thunder rumbled from overhead.



New York City, 1880s—the epicenter of steam technology, magic, and murder. Special Agent Gillian Hamilton and infamous outlaw Gunner the Deadly exist on opposite sides of the law, but a series of misadventures involving the country’s worst criminals brings the two into an unlikely partnership.

And in an alternate universe fraught with peril, with escalating danger, with baggage lingering from the Great Rebellion, and personal turmoil cutting all the way to the bone, Gillian and Gunner can trust their safety and their hearts to no one but each other.

Saturday Series Spotlight

Sunday Steampunk Spinner



CS Poe

C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.

She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.

C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.

Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.


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Sunday, October 20, 2024

πŸ‘»πŸŽƒSunday's Steampunk SpinnerπŸŽƒπŸ‘»: The Prince's Poisoned Vow by Hailey Turner



Summary:
Infernal War Saga #1
Every country is built on revolution.

THE WARDEN. Soren is a nameless, stateless man, tasked with keeping watch over Maricol’s borders. He isn’t meant for politics, only dealing with the dead. His past was buried in the poison fields, but after a fateful encounter with a prince, Soren comes to realize he can’t keep what magic burns inside him hidden forever.

THE PRINCE. Vanya Sa’Liandel was the spare who survived the Houses’ murderous games to become the Imperial crown prince of Solaria. He has a duty to his country, but he’ll owe his life to the wardens. Payment of any kind is costly, especially when he’s at risk of losing his heart to the man who saved his life.

THE COG. Caris Dhemlan hears the siren song of clarion crystals better than anyone in Ashion. That skill for inventing has enriched her bloodline, but it’s who she can become that will ultimately entangle her with the Clockwork Brigade.

THE PRINCESS. Eimarille Rourke should have been raised to be queen of one country; instead, she is prisoner of another. Guided by a star god, Eimarille bides her time in a gilded cage, spinning a political web to gain a throne and start a war the world isn’t ready for.

From the author who brought you the Soulbound series comes a queer steampunk-inspired epic fantasy.



Inferno
916 A.O.P.
One
BLAINE
Lord Blaine Westergard was ten years old when he carried the living heart of Ashion out of its capital city.

He didn’t know it at the time, because the less people knew of such things, the better.

Warning sirens rang through Amari’s air, the capital city awake when it should be sleeping, but it was difficult to sleep when smoke choked the streets. The sound of a scuffle past the pile of refuse Blaine knelt behind grew louder, and he chanced a look over the rancid mess that provided little in the way of cover.

The two men grappling with each other in the alleyway blocked the only way out, their movements quick and brutal. What light reached them from the gas lamps on the street was barely enough for Blaine to see his father’s face. Mal Westergard, Duke of Westergard and captain of the Royal Guard, wasn’t in uniform, while the other man was, and Blaine was too young to understand what betrayal meant.

Something skidded over the ground and came to a stop near Blaine. His father’s pistol, with its brass gears painted military black, was within reach. He snatched it up with one hand, the pistol almost heavier than the infant he carried close to his chest.

As the son of a duke whose duty was defined by service, Blaine had been around weapons all his life. He knew how to chamber a bullet into the barrel of a pistol or load a rifle, listening as the gears clicked and locked into place for firing. He knew how to aim at a practice target or an animal while on the hunt and pull the trigger.

He did not learn how to kill a man until that night.

Blaine laid the swaddled infant on the dirty ground behind a broken crate, tucked safely out of sight, before facing where his father fought one of his own men in a losing battle. Blaine breathed in like his mother had taught him, gaze steady even as his heart beat wildly against his ribs, waiting to take the shot.

The soldier knocked his father against the alley wall, the glint of light on sharp metal all the prompting Blaine needed to pull the trigger with a hard press of his finger. He wasn’t braced correctly, and the recoil almost toppled him over. Regaining his balance, Blaine stared wide-eyed at the body sprawled at his father’s feet.

“Blaine,” his father said hoarsely, limping toward him.

“Father,” Blaine replied, his hands shaking, voice cracking with shock.

Mal gently pried the pistol from his hands, and Blaine screwed up his face, trying not to cry. Then his father pulled him into a tight hug, one big hand smoothing over the back of Blaine’s head. “Hush, now. You’re all right.”

His father hugged him for a second longer before gently pushing him away. As much as he wanted the comfort, Blaine knew they still weren’t safe. They hadn’t been safe since fleeing the palace, a place he wouldn’t have been if he hadn’t stowed away in his father’s motor carriage when Mal had been summoned by the queen’s steward.

And if he hadn’t done that, he would surely be dead.

“Where is she?” Mal asked.

Blaine sniffed hard before retrieving the baby, picking her up off the ground. She hadn’t cried when the pistol went off, the drop of sleeping draught administered by the star priest enough to keep her under before they’d been put into a motor carriage. His father had abandoned the vehicle by Hollows Bridge on the western side of the Serpentine River, the singular waterway that cut the capital in two. Blaine wondered if maybe they should’ve stayed in the vehicle after all.

“Hold her close for me. We’re almost there,” Mal said.

“Where are we going?” Blaine asked for what felt like the dozenth time that night.

His father didn’t answer, merely steered him around the man Blaine had killed, his footsteps uneven. Warm fingers touched Blaine’s jaw, keeping his face averted, and he tried not to think about what he left behind in that alleyway.

They weren’t the only ones on the cobblestone street when they emerged, curiosity and fear driving people out of their beds. Despite the gunshot, they weren’t looked at askance, because a limping man dressed in neat, dark clothing with two children in tow was less interesting than the ugly shine of fire that glowed against the sky.

Two turns later found them hurrying along the Western Promenade that followed the length of the Serpentine River. The crowd of people in their nightclothes was growing along the riverside, every face turned east and the horror unfolding there.

A deadly, bright orange glow haloed the night sky above where Amari’s civic and royal centers were located. Windblown smoke made Blaine’s eyes water, stinging his nose. When he glanced in the direction it came from, he saw several small, two-person ornithopters skimming low over burning buildings. The aeronauts aimed hoses attached to water tanks at the fire below in a desperate attempt to contain it.

The fire crews must have been called up, but Blaine hadn’t seen any of their larger trucks with the water tanks pass them by. The only thing out in force, it seemed, were the peacekeepers who had followed them from the palace.

“This way!” a voice cried out.

His father’s hand tightened on Blaine’s thin shoulder, urging him on. “Hurry, Blaine.”

He didn’t know why the peacekeepers were after them when his father outranked them all as captain of the Royal Guard, a position that reported to the queen herself. The Westergard bloodline might not be royalty, but they were nobility and had dedicated generations to the preservation of the throne. It had been their singular duty ever since the civil war that had split Ashion in two, and an armistice kept the border in place.

Blaine was too numb to realize that fleeing through the dark like criminals while the city burned was how his bloodline kept their oath.

Pistols going off set the small crowd of observers shrieking and running away in a panic. Someone screamed in pain, and Blaine looked back, seeing the peacekeepers a block behind them and gaining through the panicking crowd.

“Don’t look back,” his father said, steering him around a corner with a steady hand.

The building that loomed before them was a grand thing at six stories tall, with a curved metal roof and a multitude of arched windows lining its walls. Situated alongside the waterfront, the airship hangar was one of a select group allowed within the city’s borders.

Blaine knew where all the hangars designated for private and diplomatic use were in Amari, having been fascinated with airships since he was a small child after being gifted a windup toy of one by the queen herself. His governess used to take him on motor carriage rides to each location when he was younger, imparting history lessons with every trip. Which was how Blaine knew this hangar belonged to the E’ridian embassy and that the people inside had no obligation to allow them entry.

“Open up!” his father cried, pounding his fist against the smaller side door.

Blaine huddled close, staring back the way they’d come, knowing it wouldn’t take but seconds more for the peacekeepers to arrive. Then the click of a lock being undone reached his ears, and the door opened.

Blaine let out a soft gasp when he saw the pistol held level with his father’s face. The E’ridian’s dark eyes never looked away. “Who calls?”

“I’m here by order of the North Star,” Mal said, one hand gripping Blaine’s shoulder tightly. “Please, there isn’t much time.”

“We were told to expect only you.”

“I couldn’t leave my son behind.”

The pistol tilted up, and the safety was clicked back on. The E’ridian gestured for them to enter the hangar. The steel-lined brass door was yanked shut behind them and locked with a heavy dead bolt.

Footsteps pounded past the hangar’s entrance moments later, muffled shouts reaching his ears. Blaine didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he had to draw in air, lest he choke. He stared at the E’ridian who had saved them, the man dressed in the flight leathers and fur-lined jacket of a people who preferred the sky to the land, poisoned or otherwise, that everyone else walked on.

Dark eyes flicked from one to the other before coming to rest on the baby Blaine carried. “This way.”

The hangar was half-lit and empty of people on the ground. They were led to the airship anchored to its dry dock by heavy ropes. The airship was on the small side, painted so dark a blue as to be almost black, with no other identifying marks on its hull. Its balloon was proportionate to the airship’s size, the make of the entire thing having all the hallmarks of E’ridian engineers, for they were the most skilled when it came to the mechanics of flying.

The airship was mostly enclosed save for a small section of the deck at the prow, which was open to the elements. A pair of E’ridians stood at the railing, looking down at them. Blaine blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, they’d been joined by a woman whose tanned face and braided black hair were drawn on the pages of scripture.

“You there,” the star god said.

Blaine knew his constellations, and he knew his prayers. He knew the Dusk Star watched over E’ridia the same way the North Star watched over Ashion. Nilsine was the goddess of the wind, carrying her blessing on the breeze to give her children flight. She was at once benevolent and wrathful, both the calm before the storm and the apex of it. She was a star fallen from the sky, but Blaine was too numb to make a wish.

As with all stories of the star gods, hers was an abstract tale Blaine had learned at the star temple during the Fourteen Month calendar’s main holidays, his parents never one to attend the weekly congregations. For a boy of ten, raised in a cosmopolitan city where the Inventor’s Guild held more clout than the Star Order, fun was had in science, not prayer.

Blaine didn’t know it yet, but he’d learn how to pray anew after that night.

Someone tossed a rope ladder over the railing, its knotted ends hitting the floor with a soft thump. The star god descended with sure hands, jumping the last few feet to solid ground.

As she turned to look at them, Blaine noticed her leather trousers were open along both sides at her hips and thighs, closing nearer to her knees. The purposefully parted seams showed off the gold lines and starbursts of the Eagle constellation tattoo on her right thigh, one of six designs found on every Star Order prayer book Blaine had ever opened.

“You’re late,” Nilsine said.

Mal’s voice cracked a little when he spoke, bowing deeply. “The queen is dead, my lady. We were pursued.”

The star god tilted her head, gaze settling on Blaine and the baby that slept in his arms. “Her death changes nothing.”

“It should.”

“Aaralyn told Ophelia what to expect if she raised import taxes on Daijal again and barred their debt slaves from her lands. Your queen sought to cripple that country and ended up crippling her own. You children never learn from your past mistakes.”

“It is the children I think of now.”

“As do I.” The star god stepped toward Blaine, and he felt very much like a beetle about to be crushed under someone’s heel just then. “Give her to me.”

Blaine’s father extended an arm between them, hand clenched into a fist. “This child is the only surviving Rourke. She is my duty.”

“She is your failure, like the rest of her bloodline. Princess Eimarille lives, though not as Rourke for much longer, despite the name she carries. The prince survives but is to be grieved for as dead. No other mortal outside these walls knows about this child, so tell me, how can she be Rourke?”

Blaine’s father bowed his head, eyes squeezed shut, before lowering his arm and stepping aside. As she passed him, the star god touched his shoulder with one gloved hand, the same way star priests did when they gave benedictions in festival crowds.

“Daijal’s Blades were sent to all the cadet bloodlines back a dozen generations. You could not stand against them all, much less the ones who set upon the throne. You weren’t meant to,” she said quietly.

“I could have tried,” Mal said.

“You would have died. You still might.” Nilsine pulled her hand away, light glinting off the mirrored lenses of her goggles as she turned her head from him, gaze alighting on Blaine. “News of the queen’s death will reach every country by way of telegraph wires before morning. The blood kin of Ashion royals no longer live, no matter what the rulers of Daijal or the Twilight Star will claim.”

Nilsine reached for the baby Blaine carried, but he jerked away from her seeking hands.

“Father, this isn’t right,” Blaine said desperately. “We’re Westergards. We’re supposed to protect her.”

Mal went to him, kneeling with a pained grimace, wavering there for a moment. He placed his hands on Blaine’s shoulders and turned him around so they faced each other. “We are Westergards, and this is how we protect her. By letting the star gods guide her travels.”

Nilsine hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, you are Westergards, are you not?”

His father’s shoulders stiffened as he turned his head to stare at her. “My lady?”

“The babe is not Rourke. Her name was never written down in the royal genealogies. Has your son been with you since you fled the palace?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will take him as witness.”

The hands on his shoulders tightened to the point of pain, but Blaine bit back a whimper that tried to escape. He stared wide-eyed at the star god, not realizing what she meant until his father smoothed back his hair and pressed a firm kiss to his forehead with trembling lips.

“Guard her well, Blaine,” Mal said in a ragged voice. He pulled the signet ring from his right index finger, tucking it into Blaine’s front pocket for safekeeping. Blaine opened his mouth to protest, because his father never removed that ring, but Mal shook his head. “It would’ve been yours when you came of age.”

Blaine blinked wetly, trying to steady his breathing. “Father.”

Mal smiled, a cracked, ragged thing that didn’t comfort Blaine at all. Then he stood and gently pushed Blaine toward the star god, who smiled in a way that made him flinch. He tightened his arms around the baby he carried, but this time, when Nilsine reached for the infant, he let the star god have her.

“Come, child. We must go,” Nilsine said.

Blaine was ushered to the rope ladder, and the E’ridian standing beside it held it steady as he reached for the first rung. He climbed up slowly, losing his footing every now and then as he tried not to look down. One of the E’ridians on the deck extended a hand toward him when he was almost at the railing.

“It’s all right,” the woman said in the trade tongue that crossed all six countries of Maricol.

Blaine was hauled on board with a firm grip, going to his knees on the decking. He was urged to his feet and tucked out of the way against the railing. He peered over the edge, watching as the star god deftly climbed the rope ladder while carrying the baby.

“The peacekeepers will double back and attempt to breach the hangar once they see us launch. They’ve been demanding entry everywhere since the fire started. I will open the roof and stay behind to ensure your escape,” the E’ridian on the ground said.

“Your sacrifice will be written in the stars,” Nilsine replied before swinging herself over the railing.

Blaine stared at where his father stood on the ground, looking back with as much love as grief on his face. “Father?”

“Remember this night, my son. Remember it for those of us who are gone,” Mal called out.

What happened next would come to Blaine in flashes when he was older: the sound of clockwork mechanisms grinding together as the roof cranked open; the rumble of the airship’s engine as it prepared for flight; the shouts from peacekeepers looking for a way in and finding it with the help of a magician’s clarion crystal–tipped wand.

The way Blaine’s father looked when he died beneath a hail of bullets as the airship cut loose its anchor and rose into the smoky night sky.

Blaine didn’t realize he was screaming until a hand clamped over his mouth and drew him back from the railing. Bullets peppered the air around them, pinging off the thin metal plating that shielded the belly of the airship’s balloon. He was dragged through a narrow doorway into the flight deck as they cleared the hangar for the sky.

“Hush,” Nilsine said as she knelt before him. She cradled the baby in one arm and raised her other hand to his eye level. Starfire shimmered at her fingertips, drawn from the aether, the same shade as the Eagle constellation tattoo branded into her skin. “This is your road now.”

Everything went soft and hazy, his vision going dark at the edges. A calm swept through him, foreign and cold, tucking the panic away. The wind howled outside the flight deck door while the creeping cold of altitude bit past his thin clothing.

When Nilsine removed her hand, Blaine kept the star god’s secret of a surviving bloodline behind closed white teeth.



Welcome to Maricol, where the land will kill you, kinship turns the gears of war,
and burning the dead lest they come back to life is the only way to survive.

Sunday Steampunk Spinner




Hailey Turner
Hailey Turner is big city girl who spoils her cats rotten and has a demanding day job that she loves, but not as much as she loves writing. She’s been writing since she was a young child and enjoys reading almost as much as creating a new story. Hailey loves stories with lots of action, gritty relationships, and an eventual HEA that satisfies the heart.


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