The Dirigible Airship Disaster

  Nefarious Volume Four

  The Dirigible Airship Disaster

  Lucille Moncrief

  Illustrated by

  Carlo Clemente

  Can’t Get Enough of Steampunk and Gaslight Fantasy?

  Join Moncrief’s mailing list and get a free steampunk and gaslight short story, Hannibal Steele and The Bone Elixir:

  A captured mermaid, two vampire hives on the brink of war, and a bored, sadistic king weave a tale of forbidden love in this spin-off from Moncrief’s Nefarious series.

  Follow Hannibal Steele, chief alchemist of the Scion Hive, as he races against the clock to produce the coveted Bone Elixir. Will he finish the elixir in time before the Great King Abaddon murders Hannibal’s love, Emmeline, princess of the rival Minoa Hive?

  Find out in this thrilling, fast-paced tale set in a steampunk world, where the sea rises in anger at the capture of her princess, wolves howl within the hoary swirls of a white potion, and mermaids join forces with a lonely alchemist in the foggy Georgia night.

  Contents

  Can’t Get Enough of Steampunk and Gaslight Fantasy?

  1. Elyse Delafayette

  2. Four Years Prior

  3. Present Time

  4. Samuel Quartermaine

  5. Talcott Henderson

  6. Samuel Quartermaine

  7. Elyse Delafayette

  8. Samuel Quartermaine

  9. Elyse Delafayette

  10. Talcott Henderson

  A Note from the Author

  Also by Lucille Moncrief

  Chapter 1

  Elyse Delafayette

  I was painted in blood the brightest shade of haint blue, although it couldn’t keep the demons away, for the demon held me in his embrace. With the jagged edge of his blackened claw, Dr. Henderson pulled me close to him as we hurried through the dirt path and crossed the dusty courtyard to his home.

  I clutched tight the tear in my bodice with knuckles white as ghosts, my fingers numb from the strain and shock of what I’d witnessed and been an unwilling party to. My knees began to quake as we reached the house, quiet as the cemetery we’d fled and black as a crypt. The cicadas screamed in a thunderous, dissonant roar in the still night, and he held me as close and tight as cement smashed between bricks. He was cold. His breath came frigid against my neck, stirring the wisps of my sticky hair, and making me shiver.

  He opened the door, glancing around the yard with eyes as narrow as embrasures, and ushered me inside. Taking my hand again, he led me to the foot of the main stairwell. In a daze, we ascended, and I followed him through one of the upstairs bedrooms and into the closet. A sliver of moonlight crossed the room in a gleaming prism like glittering snow, and I grasped the edge of a wash basin next to the closet door. My palm began to itch from the thick layer of dust I’d disturbed.

  “Where are we going?” My voice came out sounding small and foreign, flat like a penny crushed beneath a train. My nose tingled, and I tried not to sneeze.

  “The garret,” he said, pushing aside several hanging coats and revealing a small set of crooked stairs in the wall.

  His eyes glowed an emerald green in the darkness, illuminating the steps. I gulped as he held out his hand once more.

  “We must hurry,” he said, glaring passed my head at the empty bedroom.

  I hesitated. Was he worried that Samuel would follow us? I didn’t think he’d have the gall to do it after what happened. A small, irritating pang of hope that he would appear pulled at my ribs for a moment before I nodded and took Dr. Henderson’s hand, as cold as the winter sea.

  We climbed the stairs. As my skirt rustled against the narrow walls, the tar-like blackness of the garret stairwell swallowed us whole, and I wanted to never hope for anyone’s return again.

  These last four years, there was a hole in my spirit, and the shape of it could only be filled by those long dead. That kind of excruciating longing, with no definite end and no healing balm, had left its indelible mark. Like a bird clipped of its wings, I could not bear to have another poking and prodding at that hole, thinking they could fill it—taunting me with the specious hope that they could sew it shut forever with their presence and affection. My eyes began to sting, and I swallowed hard, gritting my teeth to beat back the lament.

  At the top of the stairs, a small candle set in a chamberstick sat atop a rough-hewn table, illuminating the sharp edges of the gables in stark relief. Wax pooled at the bottom of the chamberstick, almost drowning the weak flame. Dr. Henderson turned, and I fell within his gaze, bathed in a sheen of green light. He peered down the stairs.

  With that worried, harried expression of his, I wiped at the corners of my eyes with my dress sleeve at the thought of Samuel.

  The look on his face, how red his eyes appeared above those sharp fangs. How could that mouth, which had given me such life, be the same one that could take it? My skin felt tight from the drying blood, which started to give off a sour, sulfuric stench.

  The sharp sound of a drawer opening snapped me out of the bitter reverie. I eyed Dr. Henderson in the weak light as he rummaged through a drawer in the table, pulling out another candle. He held the wick over the flame, and the room grew brighter. My mouth went dry, and every part of me grew cold. His alabaster skin glimmered like the full moon in winter, and set against it was blood in bright red and midnight blue, crisscrossing his flesh like lightning. Death never looked so alluring.

  He unfolded a set of clothes from the table, and I looked away, glancing down the darkened steps. That foolish wish to see him tugged at my insides again. I hugged myself tight and stared at my feet. They soon turned green as I fell back within the adder’s sights.

  “I turned many years ago, from the anguish, the guilt, the fear,” he said, pulling on a pair of pants. His belt jingled as he tightened it.

  My feet were bathed in the soft glow of the candle once more as he looked out the open porthole window.

  “You must have a sort of . . ..” He paused, putting on a shirt. His talons had now receded, and he deftly fastened the buttons. “A spiritual Waterloo.” He looked back at me, pinning me within his emerald spotlight. “You will die during the transformation if you are to remain tied to this earth with the stubborn tendrils of hope.”

  My heart fell to the floor, and I swallowed hard.

  “Do you have a Waterloo? And don’t say the incident with the Quartermaine. Something as banal as star-crossed love would never suffice.” He slipped on a pair of shoes and began tying the laces.

  “It happened four years ago,” I whispered.

  He suddenly stiffened, like a rabbit when it hears the baying of the hounds.

  The air grew cold, oppressive. I backed away, pressing up hard against the wall. A small creature with artic white fur, its tail tipped in sable, ran up the stairs—an ermine. The floorboards creaked as the creature stopped above the steps and began to rumble a low growl.

  Dr. Henderson recoiled, standing up and bumping into the table. The chamberstick clattered to the floor and the light extinguished. I pressed harder into the corner of a gable, wishing to disappear into the wall. Although such a small creature could do little harm, he brought with him a malignancy that seemed to breathe cancer in the frigid air. The growling grew louder, and before me, the ermine grew, transmogrifying into the shape of a man with wild hair and eyes that glowed cerulean. The breath disappeared from my lungs, and he spoke.

  “My prodigal son,” Dr. Marquis hissed, like the words were a bitter poison. “Your dusty footprint below the huckle of my coffin was enough to inform me of your deceit.” His eyes burned brighter. Black horns began to protrude from his forehead, and his limbs lengthened, crackling like dry twigs as th
ey grew.

  Dr. Henderson steadied himself against the table. His fangs snapped forth into long, sharp points, and his talons began to grow, splintering the surface of the table. Electricity ignited the air. The hair on my arms stood up, and my skin puckered in gooseflesh. I held my breath, eyeing the stairwell just beyond the monstrous Dr. Marquis. Every nerve, every instinct to live screamed within in me to run, but I was trapped in that tiny, dark garret room. My fingernails began to dig into the plaster of the wall, like I could claw my way out.

  “And since you’ve so mercilessly taken someone dear to me, I shall take something of yours,” he whispered, and the spotlight of his blue eyes fell upon me, like being bathed in ice water.

  My mouth fell open in fear and revulsion, and my hands gripped the sharp corner of the gable. Plaster stuck beneath my fingernails like chalk, and in a blur, Dr. Henderson flew past Marquis and stopped between us. His talons were extended, and blue blood dripped from the points.

  I peeked around his arm. Marquis’ eyes began to spin with rage, and he held his cheek, sliced to ribbons, the rank flesh hanging loosely through his fingers. Bile crept up the back of my throat, and Dr. Henderson gently placed his arm around my waist, prodding me down the stairs. But I stopped as footsteps sounded at the bottom—heavy footsteps, hurried footsteps. Dr. Henderson pulled me close and Marquis’ eyes grew wide, igniting the room in that eerie, blue glow.

  Samuel appeared on the steps, aiming a crossbow with a wooden stake straight at Dr. Marquis’ head. My spirit threatened to leap at the sight of him. His eyes never left his mark, and Marquis appeared to shudder and shrink, slowly backing away and into the table. It bumped against the far wall with a heavy thud, and the candle flame flickered, casting malignant, twisted shadows on the wall. Dr. Henderson pushed me up against the corner of the gable, his hand gripping my arm tight, obstructing my view.

  “Get her out of here.” I heard Samuel say as the floorboard at the top of the steps creaked from his weight.

  Dr. Henderson picked me up and ran down the stairs, the scene spinning into an indistinguishable blur. I heard Samuel once more just as the click-whizz of the crossbow engaged.

  “I’ll see you later, Henderson.”

  As Dr. Henderson carried me outside, he whispered into my ear, “Do not worry, my bewitching doll, for we are free from such tendrils of hope.”

  I shivered in his embrace, his ever tightening and cold embrace.

  The Adder was now in my room. I’d foolishly, giddily invited him in, and soon I hoped to be a part of his black world.

  He sat on the window seat, the shudders open and the waning half-moon glowing behind him. His hands were placed on his knees, and he sat as still as the gargoyles adorning the rainspouts outside. I slipped off my shoes, and pulled at the tear in my dress, trying to hide myself from his searching, neon gaze. My nose crinkled and burned from the overwhelming stench of Trina’s dried blood. Dr. Henderson continued to watch me. My skin tingled, and I glanced at the open bathroom door. I wanted nothing more than to wash away this putrid, dismal day.

  “Undress,” he said.

  My mouth fell open and he stood, unbuttoning his shirt as he closed the space between us.

  “You’re filthy. Let me wash you.” He draped his shirt over the back of my vanity chair. The heavy brass buttons clinked against its metal back.

  The blood in my veins accelerated its rush, and the silence that only lasted a second but seemed to stretch into eternity, was filled with my hollow, irreverent words. It’s no wonder I have such a low self-regard,” I said.

  His left eyebrow lifted for a moment. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or irritated. I grew cold as he stood in front of me, the glimmer of the moonlight streaming down the ridged muscles of his chest and stomach, painted in streaks of faded blue and red. I gulped, and he reached out, pulling my torn bodice down over my shoulders and to my waist in a quick, fluid motion. I gasped at the chill and sudden exposure, my arms flying to cross my shame, pressing my breasts tight against my body. Dr. Henderson scowled for a moment, and pulled the rest of my clothes down to the floor. They pooled at my feet like the shadows of a decision I almost wished to reverse.

  “You’re annoyed with me,” I said, my voice taking on a coquettish edge. My sudden betrayal had left me improvident. I looked at his mouth. His fangs had receded to anthropomorphic canines, and I inwardly shrugged.

  He shook his head once. “No, but you would be wise to obey me.”

  I smirked, and began to say, ‘Never,” but his eyes flashed red and with a sweep of his hand, he picked me up. With my ear to his hollow, cold chest, the breath left my lungs as he crossed the threshold into the washroom. He placed me in the copper tub, plugged the drain, and started the water.

  I eyed him in the darkness as he lit the oil lamp. He moved methodically, slowly, folding his pants at a crisp, vertical crease, and set them on top of the wash basin. He placed the belt upright. The intricate face of the brass buckle glinted in the glow of the oil lamp. I wondered then if he could bare to touch silver, or if he feared the crucifix. And what was so terrifying about that wooden stake in the crossbow? If a vampire could be felled so easily, what was the point of even being one?

  Dr. Henderson turned around then as the tub filled, the warm water lapping at my crossed knees. A spark of fear, and a familiar curiosity shot through me at the sight of his hands as he leaned in and turned off the water. I quickly averted my gaze from his naked form.

  “You look at me as if you wish to ask something.” His lips parted and his fangs erupted with a sharp snap.

  I willed myself to remain calm, and sat up straight in the tub with my back against the cool rim. “Your buckle,” I nodded at his clothes on the washstand, “it’s made of brass. Can you not touch silver?”

  “I cannot.” He turned, rummaging around the countertop. He returned with a sponge, a cake of soap and ceramic pitcher. “Sit up,” he said.

  I stared at my knees, holding my breath, scooting closer to the spigot. I squinted my eyes shut as he entered the tub and sat on the rim behind me. Cold, determined hands gripped my shoulders, and he pulled me back against him. My eyes flew open. My insides bubbled and disintegrated into nervousness.

  I cleared my throat, “What about crucifixes?”

  He laughed once, a dry rattle like dead reeds in the wind. “I can touch them, stare at them, even, but I hate them.” He put the sponge in the water, swirled it around to catch the bubbles, then gently rung it out. “They symbolize anguish, and sacrifice for the most ungrateful of creatures.”

  “Humans?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He pushed my hair to the side of my neck, and began to wash my back. “You are better than that.”

  My back became slick from the soap, and the scent of lavender soon overtook the sulphuric stench that had covered me. I shivered, despite the hot water, at his cold breath, so close to the jugular. He’d never fed from there, and I wondered what it would feel like. I decided to gamble my boring, sad little life and see just how far I could irritate him. “Go on. I love to be told how good I am.”

  His hands, which had now grown black talons, dug into my shoulders as he pulled me back against his hardening erection. My mouth fell open as he tilted my chin, forcing me to look up at him. His face still held that taciturn, emotionless quality, but his eyes were now a cruel, crimson shade. I held my breath.

  “You’re not good. None of us are,” he shook his head, “but I can save you from eternal punishment.” He released me.

  The water sloshed from the rim as I retook my position, my heart hammering in my ears. “That’s nonsense.”

  “Hm, is it?” He reached down, pulling my arm away, outlining my exposed breast with the sponge.

  I bit my lip to keep from gasping. Heat began to coil deep within my loins, spiraling into a tight spring in anticipation of bursting. I could feel his desire against the back of my head. I could feel him smirking behind me.

  “And what would He say ab
out your reaction? That you are ‘good’?” He pinched my nipple between his fingers and circled the sponge down onto the sensitive skin of my abdomen.

  I bit my lip harder in the hopes of refusing him a reaction.

  “After I saved your life and did you a favor by exposing The Quartermaine’s deceit, you still deny me. Like I said, humans are the most ungrateful of creatures.” He dropped the sponge.

  Water droplets splattered my face as he pulled my hair back, forcing my neck at an unnatural angle. A yelp caught in my throat and I shut my eyes to avoid looking at him. With a long, sharp talon, he traced the delicate outline of the life-giving artery in my neck. A sigh escaped my lips, and then my lungs stopped working.

  “Foolish girl,” he said as gooseflesh covered my skin. “My beautiful, foolish girl,” he whispered.

  I opened my eyes and glared at him. “I’m not yours.”

  “No.” He shook his head once, his eyes widened as his mouth parted and his gaze rolled over my naked body. He withdrew his nail and loosened his grip on my hair. “But you will be,” he whispered, his eyes returning to green.

  The water, now thick with suds, splashed over the rim as I faced away from him again and took a deep breath. He filled the pitcher.

  “Tilt your head back.”

  I only obeyed him because I couldn’t stand Trina’s blood in my hair for another moment. He gently poured the water over my head. I couldn’t understand how someone could be so methodical, gentle, and yet filled with such a controlled and patient, consuming rage; rage at humans, rage at God even. He was terrifying, fascinating, and he was the only one who could end my anguish. With strong hands now warm from the water, he lathered my hair, and rinsed it out again.