Timothy pursed his lips. The Duke was trouble. He would seat him as far away from Giselle and himself as possible.

  Giselle finished with a prayer of protection and waved the group towards the adjacent room. “If we would all assemble in the dining room, we can begin.”

  There was a knock on the door. A harried housemaid rushed to answer it. The Duke smiled and patted his pot stove belly. “Ah, that would be my guests.”

  “Guests?” Timothy arched a brow. “But Miss Benedict has already done the closing prayer. It might be dangerous for anyone to come in after the blessing.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be much of a problem for them.”

  The same mousey housemaid curtseyed and presented the group of three men. “You!”

  “Hello, Mr. Flood. I do hope we haven’t interrupted anything important.”

  *****

  Running a con is very much like a being a player in a team sport in that it relied heavily on communicating with each other through secret signals. For instance, Timothy smoothing his hair over his right ear meant, ‘It’s all fine. The show must go on!’, thumbing the bridge of his nose, ‘Things are wobbly, fake a seizure.’ and rubbing his belly as if dyspeptic meant, ‘Bugger it! Run!’

  Giselle never wished for a stomach ache more in her life.

  She held her breath as she waited for the signal.

  Timothy winked and smoothed the hair over his ear.

  Damn.

  She resumed waving the crowd into the room. “Duchess Barrow?”

  The elderly woman’s eyes brightened in recognition. “Yes?”

  “If you would, please, take your brother’s hand and bring him in.” Giselle waved hostess-like towards the dining room.

  “But I need to see to my guests!” protested the Duke.

  “I assure you that Mr. Flood will take care of them.”

  “Come along, Eddie.” The Duchess pulled him along. “Stop being such a bother.”

  “Ladies?”

  “Oh, I do hope…I mean....Emund seems so upset…this is all so….” Lady Rowena twittered.

  “Do shut up, Mother.” Lady Ava pushed her mother through the door. “Uncle Emund is just showing off.”

  With all the pigeons finally in their coops, Giselle slid the heavy oak pocket doors closed, shooting a dark look towards Timothy.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Kirby?”

  “I was invited.” Professor Kirby pulled at the fingers of his gloves, sliding them off his hands. “By the Duke.”

  “Bah! As if I believe that for one bloody damn second!”

  “Oi, settle down, boy.” Harry edged between the two men. “It would be a shame to go on stage with a black eye.”

  “That’s enough, Harry.”

  “S’allright.” The hulking man jutted out his chin and stepped aside.

  “I’ll admit that I was rather…disappointed….when I learned that your firm had been awarded this assignment. I can’t imagine what you did to win Mr. Bridgestone over. Or perhaps it was due more to the wiles of your associate?”

  “You snotty old fart, take that back!”

  A visibly sick Travis Dare put a shaky hand on Professor Kirby’s shoulder. “Professor…”

  “In a minute, Travis.” He brushed the young man’s hand away. “I will not, Mr. Flood! It is people like you that are a detriment to serious, sincere parascientific exploration!”

  “Professor….” Travis wiped a stream of blood from his nose. “Something is very…”

  “Travis, please, in a minute! If it were in my power, Flood, I’d horsewhip you and your little-”

  Screams and crashing sounds coming from the dining room interrupted his rant.

  The Professor and Timothy chorused, “What the hell?”

  “I was trying to tell you.” Travis said as he crumbled to the floor.

  The three men ran over to the heavy oak doors and, standing on either side, struggled to pull the apart. Once opened, the scene inside was utter chaos. Floating over the middle of the table was a blood soaked, shrieking shade of a woman, her head lolling to and fro, squirting ectoplasmic goo in a semi-circle from the gash in her neck at the guests who all cowered on the floor. Giselle looked up in time to scream, “TIMOTHY!” right before the doors slammed shut, smashing three of Harry’s fingers.

  “Whut duh we duh, Pruf?” mumbled Harry as he sucked on his fingers.

  Professor Kirby went pale and took several gangly steps backward.

  “PRUF? WHUT DUH WE DUH?”

  “I-I-I-I….”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Timothy grabbed his carpetbag and ran over to his Travis and shook him awake. “Wakey-wakey, pretty boy! Time to go to work.”

  *****

  Aristocrats are not people that do things. They are, by the natural order of things, people who have things done. So, when things go completely off the rails and disaster is imminent, it is simply a waste of breath hoping that they will suddenly man up and use their superior education to take control and actually DO something. Bless them.

  Which is why the Barrow family, in spite of generations of military heroes and seats in Parliament, were huddled under the table screaming at an ectoplasmic goo covered Giselle, “DO something, girl! Fix this! Make it all go away!”

  “What? Me? Why me?”

  “This is all your fault!” Lady Ava sneered. “Look at my dress! I’ll sue you! You are ruined!”

  With this in mind, dear reader, let it soften the blow when Giselle Benedict, a foundling waif and girl with a blood line as common as water, looked upon their pleading faces, into their crystal blue eyes, and porcelain smooth skin with nary a pockmark or scar, snapped and said, “Sod it. To hell with the lot of you.”

  She stood up, pulled off the slimy veil, tugged off the long opera gloves now ruined with goo and pointed at the screaming ghost, “And you! You stupid git! Sod you in particular! Dead is dead! You think you’re the first git to get groped? Sister, you aren’t all that special.”

  The ghost shocked into silence, stopped screaming and glared at Giselle.

  “I’ll see myself out.”

  Giselle made it to the window when the timed smoke bombs that Timothy had taped underneath the table went off.

  *****

  “HEAVE-HO!” Timothy grunted as all four men pulled the door open.

  “GET IN! GET IN!”

  Smoke rolled out of the room like a thick fog.

  “GET OUT! GET OUT!”

  The Barrow family rushed out, trampling over their brave rescuers, collapsing, coughing and heaving in the front room.

  Timothy yelled, “Kirby! Harry! Get them outside to fresh air. Giselle!?! Where is Giselle?”

  A weak voice cried out, “Here….in here. I can’t…” and then the heavy sound of a body falling to the ground.

  “Mon Dieu! Giselle!” Travis ran into the dining room.

  “Wait up!” Timothy grabbed his carpetbag and followed right behind.

  The smoke was dissipating slowly. It hung in the air like a cloud and slowly rolled out of the room like a white time. It was source of pride that Timothy only used high quality smoke bombs that now came back to bite him in the ass. He coughed and waved the air, trying to see. “Giselle! Travis!”

  A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to the floor.

  Travis put a hand over his mouth and hissed, “Shhh. Look!”

  A few feet away, the Blood Red Maid floated horizontally above Giselle’s unconscious body. The Maid hissed as she lowered herself down, closer and closer until her lips brushed Giselle’s. The girl shivered and her face took on a gray pallor. The Maid smiled, opened the girl’s mouth and closed her cadaverous mawl over it. Giselle’s body contorted and convulsed as the Maid sucked and drained her lifeforce.

  Timothy gasped. “GISELLE!”

  “Non, non!!” said Travis. “Give me your ghost box.”

  “What? The box? Why? The box can’t help her. It’s just a prop! A stupid box with lights and a vacuum tube! It’s not real! I’m not real, Travis!”

  Travis opened the carpetbag and pulled out the box. He squeezed a drop of blood from his nose, smeared it on the lid and drew a diagram in the blood.

  “Luckily for her, mon ami, I am.”

  He gave the control button to Timothy and pushed the ghost box towards Giselle. He stood and shouted, “Attencion! SLUT!” He grabbed his crotch. “I got what you need over here!”

  The Blood Red Maid shrieked and rushed towards Travis.

  “Allons-y! Timothy! NOW!”

  Timothy pushed the red button and the hinged lid of the box flung open. A beam of light shot out and encased the Blood Red Maid like a net, dragging her inside the box.

  The lid closed. Travis grabbed it and wiped the diagram off with his sleeve. Timothy crouched by Giselle and rubbed her cheeks. “Wake up, please….wake up and I promise…I promise I won’t ever, ever do anything stupid ever again.”

  A thin smile crossed her lips as she croaked out, “Liar.”

  The box trembled in Travis’ hand as he gave it to Timothy. “No matter how far I run my family troubles always find me. Take it. It won’t hold her for very long. A few hours at most.”

  “What do I do with it?”

  “Throw it in the Thames. Running water will ground it. Or at least flush it far away from here. Au revoir.”

  “Ta.” He waved his new friend goodbye.

  As Timothy helped Giselle to her feet, the sound of crashing glass came from the sitting room.

  “Oh, God. What now?” Giselle said.

  The smoke still hung like a fogbank in the sitting room creating a dramatic backdrop as the mysterious dark figure in the clanking suit of tubes and gears reached into the display case and nicked the brass funeral urn of Duke Roger Barrow.

  “Hey!” Timothy shouted.

  The dark figure turned to face them. Behind the red goggles and the pneumatic chestplate that churned oxygen through his lungs, a familiar face smiled back at them.

  “WEB?” they chorused.

  He made a salute, walked stiffly to the window and with the flick of button, fired up his steampowered rocketpack and flew off into the night.

  “I knew it!” A blustery voice screamed at them. Edmund Barrow rushed at them as fast as his bulk would allow. “They are thieves! THIEVES!”

  “What? No!” Timothy shook his head. “It wasn’t us!”

  “You are in collusion!” The red faced Duke bellowed. “This was all a rouse! Thief!!”

  “What’s the plan now” asked Giselle.

  Timothy rubbed his stomach furiously.

  “Good plan.”

  *****

  Butler helped Web out of his Walkabout Suit and secured him back into his chair. He had three minutes and 24 seconds of leeway between suit and chair before organ failure and death. Sometimes, Web would add a buckle or a bolt just to make it a tad more difficult for Butler to accomplish the feat within the…heh-heh….deadline.

  It made life exciting. And for a person forced to spend a lifetime trapped in a birdcage, any kind of diversion was treasured.

  Web moved his chair over to trophy case. He carefully placed the Duke’s ashes behind the placard. He pulled down camera goggles and snapped a picture and set it via the wireless to his friend, Des, with the added note, “Checkmate.”

  Web smiled and let the glow of success comfort him.

  Sometimes….just sometimes…it was so good to be alive.

  The door opened behind him. “Butler?” He swerved his chair to face his visitor.

  “No.” Timothy Flood said.

  “Butler is indisposed,” Giselle Benedict said, holding a dented shovel.

  “Oh.” Web lifted his chair higher. “And what business do you have here?”

  “Unfinished business, Mr. Bridgestone.” Timothy said.

  “But, first explain yourself.” Giselle put the shovel down. “You used us. To get an urn full of ashes? Why?”

  Web laughed. It a dry, throaty laugh forced up by the pumps on his chest. “It’s just a game, dear lady, a simple diversion between two perpetually bored friends. You see my trophy case? Each year, we challenge the other to steal something. In the beginning, it was little things. I simply pickpocketed from guests. That got dull quickly so we tried hiring people but that got complicated and, frankly, was never really in the spirit of the game. Then we found the right combination: in order to win the game, the player must perform the theft! For homebound persons such as us, that raised the stakes considerably. Hence, the invention of my Walkabout Suit, copyright is pending. Oh, I can’t tell you how that spiced up the game.”

  “Why the Duke’s ashes? Why the séance? You could’ve done the deed without all the theatrics.”

  “I scored extra points for panache, dear lady. As for the ashes, you’d have to ask Des. It was his challenge. The one I tasked him with was nothing as complicated. I worried too much about his safety.” Web shrugged. “Sentiment, that’s my biggest failing. I will have to do better next year.

  “Still, Des’ command to steal the ashes did offer me quite a challenge. I knew of Bitsie’s terror of ghosts and built my ruse from that cornerstone. I paid two of the maids to claim to see the Blood Red Bride to flame the fires. After that, it all fell into place. A séance to divert the family’s attention and I could sneak in, take the ashes and leave. I give you my word that I had no idea that it was real. Still, no harm, no foul.”

  “I almost died! They think we stole the ashes. There is a warrant out for our arrest.”

  “But you didn’t die. And you’ll only go to jail if they catch you. Think of it as your own game of hide and seek!”

  “You are a sick, twisted soul. I can’t stand to look at you. I’ll wait downstairs, Timothy.”

  She slammed the door and Web smirked. “Women. Never saw the use in them, really. So, now it’s down to just us men. It’s a funny old world, what? Who knew your ghost box would actually work. Bravo to you, sir! Perhaps there is a market for you to explore after all. Providing you evade the police, of course. But with a new name, a new life, who knows what you could accomplish. I do thank you! I really couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  “My pleasure, sir, and now it is time to settle the bill.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To give you what you paid for,” Timothy said and pulled the pine box out of his carpetbag. “One extracted ectoplasmic entity, as requested.”

  He dropped it to his feet and kicked it across the floor. It crashed into the trophy case, splintering the lid. A black and red tendril seeped through the cracks, thin as a pinworm at first but growing in thickness until finally the lid burst completely off.

  “No! NO! You can’t do this to me! Butler! BUTLER! My suit!” Web called out as he swung his chair up and down, frantically unloosening the hinges. “Help me, Flood! Get me my Walkabout Suit! Don’t go! You can’t leave me like this!”

  The goo coalesced on the floor into a black clot that molded itself into the shape of a naked young woman. Electric lights flickered and bathed her in a lightshow of blue and white. Tongues of lightning flickered over to the automatons causing them to dance herky jerky and then fall face down across their gaming tables.

  Fully formed, the Blood Red Maid raised her head and started to scream. The shrill shrieks shattered the glass trophy case and, as the sonic vibrations increased, cracked the windows in the steeple overhead. Shards of glass rained down like stilettos.

  “FLOOD!” Web activated an umbrella that spread out over his chair, shielding him from the glassfall. He swooped down and lashed out at him with his chair. “This is not checkmate!”

  “It is for me.” He ran towards the door. “Actor exits, stage left.”

  Timothy slammed the door shut and leaned against it, catching his breath. A horrible THUMP from the other side jolted him.

  “FLOOD!” Web screamed from the other side. “This is not the end! I will find you!”

  Timothy ran down the stairs, two steps at a time, nearly colliding into Giselle.

  “What is all that racket?” she asked. “The fire brigade is coming down the lane.”

  “Ummm, and that is our cue to leave.”

  “And go where? Duke Barrow will have every cop on our tail by morning. We have nowhere to run, Timothy. ”

  “We still have what is left of our fee and a friend told me there are wonderful bistros in France. Perhaps, if we are very lucky, one that is for sale to a pair of entrepreneurial spirits...”

  Captain Amy and the Steam-Driven Kittens of Doom

  Azrael Wolf

  I’ll give you this, little one,” his arrogance saturated the words. “If persistence is a marketable item, you’ve surely bought more than your share.”

  His laugh conveyed an element of evil to which she’d become accustomed, yet it also hinted at the villain’s overconfidence. Captain Amy Talon, airship commander and adventurer extraordinaire, clutched her dagger and let the many possibilities of attack dance through her thoughts. The man she’d sworn to stop stood before her, laughing at her dogged persistence and ragged appearance.

  Through cunning and skill, she’d tracked him to the skies over this volcanic island. Her pride and joy, a sturdy little airship named Talon’s Kitty lay smoldering on the jagged rocks of the island’s only peak. Both her vessel and his had fallen from the sky after a vicious aerial battle.

  Though wounded several times in the engagement, Amy didn’t fall. She never did. Like in past battles, her wounds healed faster than they should, faster than humanly possible. There was a strange magic about her. Invulnerable, unstoppable and gifted in the ways of technology, Amy stood as humanity’s only beacon of hope against the darkness, against the evils of Von-Dark.