What the Steam Brings Read online

  What the Steam Brings

  Lexi Ostrow

  Published by

  Colliding Worlds Press

  The right of Lexi Ostrow to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it was published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by CLS Editing

  Cover Art by Bliss Designs

  Copyright © 2017 Colliding Worlds Press All rights reserved.

  Dear Reader, February 17, 2017

  Welcome to my newest steampunk world. Isabella’s story came to me when I should have been writing an anthology piece. I feel in love with her and an unsuspecting character. My current release schedule doesn’t leave me much room to dabble in the world in full, but I couldn’t wait to release Isabella’s story. I hope you enjoy the serve as a prequel for a full length novel, hopefully releasing in January 2019.

  XOXO,

  Lexi

  Isabella let out a contrite sigh, her breath visible in the cold London night air, as she stepped out of the metal carriage. Her dark hair was down and blew in the breeze behind her. A chill swept over her as she paid the driver and watched the metal, horse drawn carriage canter down the street. Her eyes had yet to adjust to the excess steam in the air, and she wished she’d remembered to bring her protective goggles with her before she’d run out.

  London proper was not what it once was, and being there without eyewear meant she’d likely have streaks of tears running down her cheeks before she was at her destination. “Bloody, fucking steam,” she cursed and kicked at a loose gray stone, sending it sailing into a lamppost.

  The cobblestone paths were almost overcrowded with the steam-powered beasts, and not for the first time, she wondered if allowing the mages to power their world had been a terrible error. Since then, everything had been exchanged for beasts of metal, powered by magic and steam. Horses were now all but extinct within in the city of London, and many pets had become outdone by the stylishness of the metal ones the mages animated.

  Yet, many had grown blind from exposure to the heated steam by-product of the mage magic. Things were dirtier too, another disadvantage of everything running quicker and with less human hands to clean up the mess because they simply could not keep up. She longed for a night where the scream of steam did not sound through the night, but the steam trains connected London to all of Europe now, thanks to sky bridges built using mage magic. The world she knew as a babe was gone, and the battle, in her opinion, had taken so much more than it had given.

  Isabella had worked for the past year as what was now called a mechanic, the laborer that toiled and worked to keep the mage’s inventions running, ensuring that the magic did not die out. She’d received extensive training and had only been allowed the honor of such a title as repayment for what she’d lost in the battle. Quite possibly the only thing of use she had to offer were her skills at entrapping the mage magic inside the many devices to keep their new world order running smoothly. She was utterly alone aside from her work, and she’d quickly grown adept at knowing how to turn the cogs to trap the magic.

  The mages had brought power to their world and had given them gifts they could have only dared to dream of in days when witchcraft was met with execution. Transit was by far quicker, and the rich certainly lived richer with splendid inventions such as heated irons to curl their hair and telephones. It was nearly impossible to fathom the quaintness of 1848, though it had only been two years prior.

  Two very long years, filled with far too much death and destruction.

  The shrill scream of a steam engine blasted through the early evening air and snapped Isabella from her thoughts. “You can’t verily ignore a summons such as this to search for eyewear,” she chided herself as she hastily waved away the steam, as if she needed to give herself a reason for leaving such a priceless tool behind.

  Isabella Gernard had waited over a year to be summoned by the great mages of London. A year filled with longing and empty nights where she reached for her beloved, only to find an empty bed. She’d never dared to dream that the mages would grant her request. She and her husband were not a part of the Ton, but her husband had fallen in the great battle betwixt men and mage. That alone granted her status and riches in the new world order. Even still, Isabella had been shocked to have her prayers answered by the very demons that had created her nightmares.

  So much had changed in that year, but her grief had never disappeared. She’d been awarded a mechanical carriage to take her places safely without the escort of her husband. All it had done was isolate her from the world and mark her as one of the Forgotten, as the wives of the dead were not so affectionately referred to.

  Shaking off her nervousness and thoughts of the past, she forced herself to walk down the short street towards the mage hall. None were allowed to be directly dropped in front of the imposing structure that had once been Buckingham Palace. The mages did not trust the peace that they had so brutally won and were constantly worried the commons would overthrow them.

  As if any of us could tangle with their powers, she thought bitterly as she came to a stop in front of the wrought-iron scrollwork gate.

  “State your intentions, lady common,” a guard said as she grew close enough.

  Resisting the urge to snarl at the indecency of being called a common, she pulled the carefully bound scroll from the bodice of her dress and shoved it at him. The guard raised a disgusted brow at having to undo it himself, but wasted no time jerking the scarlet velvet tie off. The scroll dropped open, nearly dragging on the ground. She wanted to tear it away from him, it was precious to her, but she refrained and waited. His lips moved as he muttered, reading the summons partially aloud. Grumpily, he shoved it back at her, almost knocking her arse over tit.

  “Go to the door. Walk past the first three doors and knock twice. Do not look to any other room, do not knock once too many, or one too few. If you do, you will be ignored and not granted a second audience.” He gave her an unflattering grin. “I wouldn’t clutch that too closely either, goes up in smoke, it does.” He guffed, as if he’d told the most entertaining of jokes.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to count to ten in her mind, calming the irrational urge she had to strike out at the guard, before continuing through the gates towards the palace. She could almost sense the dread that hung in the air, thick and heavy like a death shroud. The emerald, amethyst and sapphire robes of many mages caught her eye as they briskly walked by the buzzing, steam-powered lights that lined the path. None spoke to her, but none stopped her path towards the doors either.

  With every step she took, her heart pounded in her chest. If it kept up, by the time she made it to the mages, it would likely burst free of her chest and she would be in need of their healing talents. Terror did not make her heart beating franticly as she approached. She was not afraid; there was nothing to fear inside the mage guild. It was something else altogether.

  Only those invited could enter, and the mages did not extend entrance without thoroughly checking on the individual. Her nerves were on end, a good brush against someone, and she could likely generate her own energy. She had waited a year to finally be reu
nited with Tristan, even if but for a moment. She could not deny the power of the mages, but she was not certain she believed they could raise the dead.

  “If you didn’t believe in them, in this magic of theirs, somewhere deep in your gut, you wouldn’t be here,” she whispered as the guards stepped aside from the door to let her pass.

  For the briefest of moments, she was frozen after stepping under the regal archway. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the majesty of the palace. She had never dared to imagine she would see something so stunning, but her eyes were not deceiving her.

  The walls were as fine a white as any she had ever seen, the floor a matching ivory with gold leaf swirls running throughout the tiles. Columns were placed, based in gold as well, holding up the large ceiling throughout the room. Paintings of past rulers and of the mages who now ran London adorned the walls. It was the hustle and bustle inside that truly took her breath away. Everywhere she looked, she saw mage robes in every color—scarlet, emerald, and even citrine and azure—scattered around the grand hall. Commons stood in large lines, some awaiting healing and others seeking help with their business. There were doors as far as the eye could see, and only then did she realize the guard had not specified which side of the hall she would need to be on.

  “And if I foul this up, this has been for naught because there will be no second chance.”

  Narrowing her eyes in a glare, she looked for the onyx black robe of a necromancy mage. It felt as if she stood, blocking everything, for hours before she caught sight of such a mage. She watched as the outline of the man, slipped through the second door to her right.

  “Think you can ruin my night by withholding details! Hmmph!” She scooped up the bustle on her skirt and did not bother to hide the stamp of her heeled boots as she crossed the space to the door.

  Raising her hand, she tried to ignore the slight tremble in it, and knocked three times. She wasn’t breathing as she awaited a sign that she had done it properly. Slowly, and soundlessly, the door swung inwards. It’s time, Isabella. It’s time to be with Tristan.

  Bright lights flared as the door opened fully, causing Isabella to shrink back. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the onslaught of mage light, she slowly saw the room come into blurred clarity before her. A solitary mage, the one she had followed, stood staring at her. His eyes were as bright a blue as she had ever seen, and she was transfixed by them. It wasn’t until he spoke that she realized he’d done something to her with those eyes of his.

  “Lady Common Isabella. We welcome you. I have looked into your soul and know what you seek. This will not be a fixed solution. You will only have so long with Tristan before his body fades away, and his soul returns to the space between worlds.” His voice was smooth, calming even.

  “I just wish to be reunited with my husband, for any amount of time.” There was no pleading in her tone, just a statement of fact. She had long since stopped pleading for the mages to fully return her husband, and if this were the only way to say goodbye, she would not offend the mages and destroy it.

  “Very well. I am certain rumors of our skills beyond our steam tools have reached your ears. Your husband will be returned to you as he was when last you saw him healthy. He died in the great battle, but he will hold no scars or tarnished markings. He will be as he was on the final day of his healthy life,” the mage explained as he began to guide her from the small room, down a hall and opened the second door. “He will be whole. You may touch him in any fashion that you wish. Your time together is your own. There will be a barometer in your room, and once a certain heat has been attained, your husband’s time will be up. You will then be expected to gather your composure and leave with our gift to you, never to return for another.” He gestured for her to step inside the room. “If these terms are agreeable, then you will have your time. This will be your kindness.”

  There was no hesitation. She did not care if she could only claim one mage gift in her lifetime. This would be the only one she ever needed. “I accept, I understand and I thank you for this kindness.”

  Funny, she thought, their kindness only comes after the war that lead to their rule. Shaking the thoughts off in fear the mage could read them, she took a step further into the room.

  With that, the mage sat on the steel chair in the room and gestured for her to sit upon the regally made bed. She did so and marveled at the silk beneath her. She had never experienced such riches and was shocked to find the room so well adorned, when all it held was a mage light flickering in the corner, a chair and a bed. The black was as deep as the robes the mage wore, and a part of her did not want to think about him being present when she finally saw her Tristan.

  “I will not remain once your encounter begins,” he said, as if truly reading her thoughts. He pointed to the barometer on the floor. “This will all be undone with heat. Mage magic relies on heat.”

  For the smallest of moments, Isabella thought he would continue speaking. That he would unveil some sort of secret that could be used against his kind. Not that any would oppose them, the people might not have wanted their rule, but many were content with their talents.

  The mage’s eyes bore into her before he looked away, back at the barometer, and continued. “When the steam is released a third time, the final black marble will rise and your husband will begin to fade away. Be mindful of the time, you will get no more.”

  She tensed as he closed his bright blue eyes. Silence filled the room, and yet, she could sense the power the mage was pulling from the air around them. The temperature rose quickly, and she hated that she’d adorned herself in winter wear—not that she’d intended on wearing anything once Tristan was returned to her. For now, the oppressive weight of her one good woolen cloak was stifling.

  White sparks began to appear mere meters from where the mage sat, mingling and leaping through a puff of steam that he had no doubt created. She gasped, watching as the sparks seemed to jump around the room. Her hands wrung together in her lap, and her heart pounded, so loudly she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. But she did not dare to take her eyes off the magic occurring mere steps from her. The sparks began to swirl and reach higher, spinning and changing colors before her eyes. Within moments, Tristan’s form was easily identifiable in the jumping flashes.

  “Do not move,” the mage warned knowingly.

  Her jaw dropped as she realized she had stood, ready to run to her husband when the task was complete. Shaking her head as if to ward off the awe-induced haze, she sat back down on the bed. She wanted to ask how much time would pass before he was finished, but she didn’t dare interrupt. She could tell it could not be long, as her husband’s form appeared more solid with every second that ticked by. His tan skin was growing darker, an oddity for the region, but he was not British. His blond hair seemed thicker, and his golden eyes snapped open so abruptly that she cried out, thinking something was wrong. And he was blessedly nude, likely due to the summoning, and tempting her already as her eyes landed on his member.

  She tried to look past her husband, to the mage, but he was gone.

  “Isabella, you didn’t? My love, tell me you didn’t?” Tristan asked as he stepped forwards, closing the distance betwixt them.

  She was up with a start, throwing herself into his outstretched arms. His lips pressed against hers, and she’d never felt more alive than in his arms. “I had no choice. I could not lose you without saying goodbye. What good would the battle have been if nothing good came from it?”

  He reached out and gently cupped her chin in his hand. She turned, nuzzling his palm and wishing they had so much more time together than they did. She kissed the palm of his hand as he moved it off her chin, now that her eyes were staring deeply into his amber ones.

  “Is it not better, my love?” his Spanish accent was as thick as ever. “I cannot imagine we fought such a war and nothing was gained.”

  She could feel the tears prickling in the corners of her eyes, could see them obscuring her vision as bad
ly as the bloody steam did. “There was nothing good that came from it, because I lost you too it.”

  “Mi amore,” Tristan said as his mouth closed over hers.

  Passion flooded through her, as white-hot and strong as it had been the final time they’d touched in that manner. Her body was slowly turning to fire, remembering the play of his fingers over her bare skin, and the way his prick felt as it drove in and out of her body.

  “You have not given anything to the mages for this? No payment, no servitude?” He searched her eyes pleadingly.

  She shook her head, feeling the tears slip down her cheeks. “Much is different in this life now. The mages won the battle. Their services are charged to those that can afford them, but they were not without kindness. Those of us widowed in the battle were granted much, including a dalliance with our lost love. Even if it could only last but a short time.”

  “If all we have is precious moments, I do not want to squander them speaking of silly changes. I will spend them in your arms, in your body, reminding you of all the love you still have, even if I am not by your side to give it.”

  His mouth moved over hers once more as he pushed the fallen strands of hair from in front of her face. He greedily deepened the kiss as his hands wound around her back. His touch was as it had always been. The same as if they had not been separated for so long and he weren’t simply a spirit.

  It did not matter how much see had seen the mages create once they had stepped out of the shadows. Isabella knew of the rumors, but to be experiencing her husband as a ghost, a solid ghost at that, was too unbelievable. She knew she was not dreaming, but it was impossible to feel anything but amazement at the all too real hands that skimmed over her corset, hastily undoing the wretched ties. She let it fall off her, groaning as his fingers skimmed across her bare back, heating her with the simple touch. He should have felt cold as a spirit, or so she assumed, but he was oh so warm.