Evermore (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #3)(69)

Kiss Of Ash (The Witchblade Chronicles #2)

Surrender

Redemption

The Mercenary's Price





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***Read on for an excerpt of Redemption, a paranormal romance for readers over the age of 18***





REDEMPTION





CHAPTER 1


It all started with the dog—a real one, not a mech one. Not that Matilida Upton blamed the poor creature for changing her life in a most dramatic and permanent fashion. No, the blame could be laid squarely at the studded boots of Sir Magnus Grimshaw, the queen's Chief Royal Inventor.

Tilda knelt on the slippery flagstones of the lane running alongside her London townhouse, the elongated and fitted cuirass style of her bodice lending a degree of difficulty to the task. She peered into the underground cavity, wrench in hand. The blasted air filtering system had stopped working again and Tilda, being the only one in the household of four women who knew how to fix it, tinkered with the gears. She loosened a nut and a burst of steam shot out of the pipe, fogging up the goggles of her leather and brass mask. It would have scalded if she hadn't taken the precaution.

She set the wrench aside and peered into the cavity. Warmth and the scent of damp metal drifted out but the smell of something more putrid penetrated the mask's breathing holes. Urine. She wiped the goggles and looked closer. Something was in there. A grey ball of fluff. She reached in and pulled it out. It whimpered and stared up at her with huge brown eyes.

"Hello, little one. Who do you belong to?" There was no one else in the lane, and certainly no one looking for a dog. The animal blinked at her and snuggled closer. It was made of flesh and fur, which didn’t necessarily categorize it as a real animal, but Tilda could feel little ridges through its coat which were unmistakably bones and not metal rods or gears. It was also warm and rather affectionate. Clearly it was someone's pet and used to human contact.

She took it into the kitchen and set it down on the wooden table on which Mary had just finished preparing the vegetables to go into the soup. The maid glanced up from her stool near the cast iron oven and dropped her ladle, handle and all, into the cauldron. "Ew, what's that bedraggled thing, miss?"

"A dog," Tilda said, removing her mask and hanging it on the hook near the door. The air was cleaner in the house than outside but still not fresh. With the filter not working, it would remain that way. "A real one," she added. "I found it outside."

"Are you sure it's a dog?" Mary said, bending down to get a closer look at the animal. She screwed up her nose. "Could be a rat." The dog peered at her beneath fluffy grey brows then buried its nose under its paw. "I mean, who would want a real dog? You have to feed and clean a real dog, and pick up its whatsit."

Tilda patted the animal's matted hair. "Shall we clean it up and find out?"

"Your aunt won't approve," Mary said, casting a cautious eye at the door.

Rather eerily, the door opened but instead of Aunt Winnie, Tilda's sister bounced in. Letitia was always bouncing. She had far too much energy for a genteel lady, even one of only eighteen. "There you are, Til," Letitia said. "I've been--. Oh! What are you doing with that rat?"

"I think it's a dog," Tilda said.

"A real one," Mary added.

Tilda explained how she'd come across it. "We're about to clean it up. Perhaps there's a clue to its owner beneath all this hair."

"Or perhaps there isn't." Letitia clasped her hands as if in studious prayer and bounced. "If not, can we keep it, Til? Pleeeease. I've always wanted a dog."

"Mr. Cranker has mech ones for sale," Mary offered. "With red fur and everything. Red suits your coloring, Miss Letitia."

Letitia stuck out her bottom lip. "I rather like the idea of a real one," she said. "I could take it for walks. And buy it a pretty red collar, studded with pearls—"

"Before you get carried away, we can't afford pearls," Tilda said. She sighed. Her sister was a delightfully fun companion but she was rather trying at times. "And I think you'll grow tired of walking a dog every day."

"And scooping up its whatsit," Mary said. "The Council for Cleanliness doesn't like dog mess on the pavements."

Hence the growing rate of mech pets instead of real ones in the city. "Besides, it may have an owner already," Tilda said. "Come on, let's clean it up before Aunt Winnie returns. She'll have a fit if she sees a dog in the kitchen."

Mary dipped the brass temperature stick into a small pot of water sitting on the stove then wiped it on her apron. "This'll do," she said, showing them the read-out in the panel at the stick's crown. "I was going to use it for washing but it's just the right temperature now for the little mite. Come on, let's dip him in."

"After we feed it." The dog's ears waggled as if it understood. They gave it the ham bone Mary had kept aside for the soup and filled a bowl with water. After the dog had eaten its fill, they plunged it into the pot. It yelped and struggled for a moment then its eyes fluttered closed and it seemed to enjoy being scrubbed, dried and pampered.