Vacant Graves Read online

  Vacant Graves

  By Christopher Beats

  Book two of The Magnocracy Series

  Donovan Schist’s current job was supposed to be an easy one: grab Phoebe Mosey before pimp and murderer Stanny Slash does, and drag her back home to Ohio—kicking and screaming if necessary. But when a blazing river halts their steam train in the middle of nowhere, the veteran turned detective starts to wish he had stayed in New York.

  With a homicidal Stanny hot on their trail—maybe poisoning Stanny’s man was a bad idea—Donovan needs to get Phoebe out of Juniper Junction fast. Even if that means taking a few jobs for some quick cash.

  He doesn’t expect to find a mining company on the brink of war with a union, or bloodthirsty strike-breakers itching to use a steam tank and other weapons he hasn’t seen since the War of Southern Secession. Or that underneath it all lies something much darker—an unspeakably diabolical conspiracy…

  For more Donovan Schist mysteries, check out Cruel Numbers.

  87,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  This February, we decided that we would do something a little different for the month that usually celebrates Valentine’s Day. Not everything always needs to be hearts and roses—sometimes it can be swords, mayhem and spaceships as well—so we’re using this month to not only debut new science fiction and fantasy authors and series, but also to reintroduce some returning authors in these genres. And, of course, since we’re a publisher of variety, we have even more genres on offer this month.

  Debut author Steve Vera brings us Drynn, book one in his Last of the Shardyn urban fantasy trilogy. The heroes of two worlds reluctantly join forces to fight the Lord of the Underworld. Joining Steve in the urban fantasy category is David Bridger, returning with his sequel to Quarter Square. Golden Triangle is the story of a golden man, werewolf bikers and two nemeses.

  How Beauty Saved the Beast is the second book in Jax Garren’s continuing science fiction romance trilogy, and the sexual tension is ramping up! A burlesque dancer and a scarred soldier defend a colony of anarchists as friends and fellow agents, but when a new weapon threatens to rip them apart, sparks fly as the dancer must take the lead in a fight for the soldier’s life. Don’t miss the trilogy’s conclusion in May.

  Returning authors Stacy Gail, Inez Kelley, Shona Husk and Christopher Beats all deliver their respective book twos this month, all in four different genres. Don’t miss paranormal romance Savage Angel, fantasy romance Time Dancer, Western fantasy romance Dark Secrets and steampunk mystery Vacant Graves.

  Also in February, author Shawna Thomas launches her newest fantasy series with Journey of Awakening. Trained from birth for one purpose, Sara must reunite three ancient stones to restore balance to the land, but one of the stone keepers has other plans.

  Longing for a heroine who’s not your typical heroine? Have an interest in a unique fairy tale retelling? Tia Nevitt delivers both in her latest Accidental Enchantments offering, The Magic Mirror and the Seventh Dwarf, a Snow White retelling where the seventh dwarf is a young woman who walks into adventure with a runaway princess, a prince cursed by a magic mirror, and a romance of her own.

  Last, but definitely not least, are our February offerings for those of you who want to read outside of science fiction, fantasy and paranormal. Mystery author Monique Domovitch joins Carina Press with Getting Skinny, the first in her Chef Landry Mystery series. Charlie Cochrane delivers another heart-wrenching tale of love in male/male historical Promises Made Under Fire. And cool Southern belle Althea Grant’s subdued life as an art gallery owner burns out of control when a seductive bad-boy metal sculptor pushes her to explore her deepest, most thrilling desires in Platinum, Jeffe Kennedy’s newest BDSM erotic romance book.

  We’re pleased to introduce debut author Darcy Daniel with her contemporary romance Playing the Part. Famous actress Anthea Cane meets her match when she encounters an enigmatic blind farmer…but has she also met the man of her dreams?

  And despite my claim that not everything has to be hearts and roses, I’m still a die-hard romantic, so I hope all of you discover an amazing happily ever after this Valentine’s Day, whether between the pages of a Carina Press book or channel surfing on the couch next to you.

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Dedication

  For the Guys

  Remember to save the last bullet.

  Acknowledgements

  Stories are often like a ball of Velcro. Ideas adhere together until one day, almost without trying, conflict, villain and setting come together. I’d like to thank all the people who didn’t mind when that Velcro ball rolled over them: Laurence Putchinski, for the many debates we had over unions and (on a more peaceful occasion) steam locomotives. Jack Miller and Jim Pickering for physics and engineering advice. They may never have moved sixteen tons of coal, but they sure helped me. Finally, Josh Thomas and Brendan Putchinski for talking firearms with me—and never agreeing with each other. I’d also like to thank Deb Nemeth for keeping the story on the rails and anachronisms to a minimum. As always, any remaining fault is mine. Lastly I must offer gratitude to my wife for still believing that malnourished writers are sexy, even when she should know better.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  “How’s your drink?”

  The runty scrag wrinkled his nose. “Feels a bit...oily.” He inspected the beer dubiously. “What’s the brew?”

  “An import. Holland, I think. Unique flavor, eh? I thought we should broaden our horizons.” I took a long drink and smacked my lips appreciatively.

  He peered at me sideways with disgust. “Holland? Where’s that? The goddamn GDL?”

  I nearly snorted beer out my nostrils. The idea was preposterous. Britain would never let the Low Countries join Größer Deutschland. The Channel was their private moat. All the countrie
s bordering it would stay independent and pliable, short of a war.

  “Something funny, friend?” The imp glared at me with beady brown eyes.

  That’s when I knew what I was dealing with. A goddamn Nativist.

  “No, not at all,” I said, nervously eying his beverage. He set it down in irritation. For a moment, I thought it was in danger of going un-drunk. “It’s just that Holland is a member of the United Provinces. Haven’t you ever heard of them? You know—windmills, dikes...blonde women with big dugs and wooden shoes?”

  “Big dugs, eh?” His glare became thoughtful. “I never fucked a tart with wood shoes.”

  “Gotta watch for splinters.”

  He laughed and to my immense relief, took a belt. “Guess it’s alright,” he said. “For furrin stuff.”

  I smiled at him. Free drinks were an immigrant not even Nativists could turn away.

  When he was done, he wiped the foam from his mouth and sized me up. “I didn’t wanna sound an ingrate, friend. I ’preciate the sentiment.”

  Was that suspicion in his eyes? Maybe he always looked like that, having a job like his.

  “I’m just glad to share my cheer with someone.” I slapped the bar. “Landed a swell contract today. Nothing to it. The job practically does itself.”

  All this was true. I just left out our conflict of interest.

  “Bully for you. That’s the best kinda work—the kind that ain’t work at all.”

  “And what sort of work do you do, friend?” I tried to sound casual.

  The little bastard’s spine was bent from cringing. When I asked that question, though, the cringe went right out of him. He sat up straight and tried his best to look down at me, despite the fact I had half a foot on him.

  “Stanislaus,” he breathed.

  He didn’t mention a Christian name. He didn’t have to. Men like Stanislaus don’t have ’em. Hell, they probably don’t have mothers. Scum like that pop fully grown out of the gutter, same as toadstools.

  I feigned astonishment, though I was hardly surprised. This job was right up Stanislaus’s alley. “You don’t mean Stanny Slash, do you?”

  The rat inclined his head like a monarch.

  I tried not to laugh. “Well. Let me buy you another round. Barkeep!”

  The bartender gave me a curious expression. I nodded at him.

  He nodded back.

  When the mug came, my drinking partner hesitated. For a moment, I thought he might suspect something.

  That wasn’t it though. He flicked his watch open and bit his lip, as though he was doing some tough math. Of course, for guys like him, all math was tough.

  “Train leaving soon?” I made the inquiry in a polite whisper, as if I were afraid to be a bother.

  He snapped it shut and shook his head imperiously. “Not at all. I’m meeting someone. But I’ve got time for another round.”

  Of course you do, I thought, checking my own timepiece. She’s on the three-nineteen. But I’ll be damned if you get her.

  Before our conversation could develop any further, the pretentious thug stopped mid-quaff. He slammed the glass down with a face like he’d just swallowed a yellow jacket. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he bolted for the door.

  I didn’t have to ask where he was going. “You forgot your hat!” I called after him.

  He kept running.

  “That took long enough,” I said sourly.

  The bartender moseyed back to me. “Bowels of steel.”

  “Oh?”

  “Jesus, yeah. I used the whole bottle.” He reached behind the counter and produced an empty flask of castor oil.

  “How much do I owe you for the shit-juice?”

  He shrugged and started inspecting the thug’s effects.

  I added another nickel to his bribe to cover the oil. I wanted things square between us, especially now that I knew we were crossing Stanislaus.

  “What’s this?” the barkeep asked.

  “It’s a placard,” I said, taking it. “Keep the other stuff in case he comes back.”

  “I think the millennium will come sooner. It was a whole bottle...”

  “Then do what you will.” I offered a curt wave of my bowler and left the saloon.

  The bartender probably wouldn’t have been so cheery if he knew he’d just poisoned one of Stanny’s guys. Stanny Slash was one of those underworld figures whose reputation had transferred into everyday life without getting him arrested. That was probably because the police were as afraid of him as everyone else. Now one of his men was on the crapper, squeezing out bowels and curses in equal measure. Hopefully, he wouldn’t do the arithmetic and discover who put him there. I’d hate it if the barkeep got iced on my account.

  Not that I was going to go out of my way to warn him. This was the Magnocracy. People mighta helped each other before the Southern Secession, but not now. Not since the robber barons took over and finished the job the Confederates started. Brotherly love, like the Federal government, was rather anemic.

  These days you kept your head down. You watched out for you and yours. I was being paid, so the client counted as one of mine. The bartender was on his own. If he didn’t like it, he shouldn’t have taken my dime to begin with.

  It sounds harsh, but it wasn’t. Harsh was watching your friends die in a lost cause. Harsh was watching your government defeated by rebel ingrates and their damned limey allies. Harsh was spending ten long years waiting for a veteran’s payout while your surviving comrades die from frostbite and starvation.

  I knew about harsh.

  The usual afternoon madness had descended on the depot. No one paid me any mind. I straightened my cravat, checked the curl of my mustache, and held the placard in front of me. I cultivated a look of semi-expectant boredom, becoming just another hired coachman. It wasn’t a hard sell—a good detective wore unassuming threads and a countenance to match. My billycock was fashionable but not flash, and my cravat was a business ascot from Macy’s—respectable but not pricey.

  The rail barons practically invented time, so naturally the black steel Akronite came puffing in at exactly three-nineteen. I could’ve set my watch to it. She wasn’t a big bicoastal, but a decent-sized locomotive nonetheless. She ran from New York to Akron and back, hitting all manner of factory burgs and backwater hamlets in between. She brought fresh country faces like moths to the flame. It was sad, really, since that flame was gonna burn ’em to cinders.

  For a lot of these people, New York was the end of the line in more ways than one. Everyone thinks that because there’s so much money here, they can get a slice.

  As if.

  These newcomers would die broken and penniless in the tenements. Or be ground up in the ceaseless gears of a factory. Or cough themselves apart in a filthy sanitarium.

  What you have to understand is that New York City is a net importer of human beings. That’s a fancy way of saying that more people come in than go out. Country folk arrived looking to live in a glass tower but went to Potter’s Field instead.

  It’s dark stuff, I know, but I’ve made a career out of it. Call me a vulture if you like, but folks back home pay good money to find their loved ones. To put it poetically, I’m a modern-day Orpheus. I go spelunking into the grimy bowels of the city and drag out their pretty daughters. Sometimes I get them before they’re digested. Other times I don’t.

  Don’t let these
dark facts fool you, though. I was in a good mood. Today I was going to catch a girl before she even got swallowed. It ain’t often I save a minx before she steps in the trap. When I got her ma’s telegram, I knew this was going to be easy. But I had no idea how easy it was going to get.

  By dumb luck, I happened to cool my heels in the same bar as the scrag sent to grab her. I took one look at the placard and quickly had a discreet word with the bartender. The bartender got a few more coins in his pocket and I got rid of the competition without even drawing my baton.

  Everybody was happy.

  The wheels of the Akronite ground to a halt. Midwesterners disgorged in a tidal wave of bad country fashion. A young girl in a red traveling dress approached, eying my purloined placard. If I had any pity left in me, I would’ve felt sorry for her.

  I was guessing that the poor girl had scrimped and saved a long time to buy the weeds she was wearing. They probably seemed like high fashion to a savage like her, but city types wouldn’t be so kind. Her paisley was one of those two-dollar jobs that came out of a catalog instead of a store. I wasn’t a goddamn Rockefeller, but even I wouldn’t let my wife walk around with a shawl like that. The girl was also wearing a bonnet. I’m not one for fashion, but if I had to guess, I’d say the last time a self-respecting New Yorker wore a bonnet was when Buchanan was in the White House.

  “I’m Miss Mosey,” she told me quietly.

  “Glad to meet you, Miss Mosey. May I call you Phoebe?” I gave her my most banal smile and reached for her hand as if to clasp it.

  She frowned and I mentally kicked myself. The placard had been in the pseudonym she gave Stanny over the wire. Phoebe was her given name.

  “Actually, sir, I prefer to be called—”

  Before she could say any more, I dropped the placard and, still grasping her petite hand, fettered her right wrist to my left.

  “What’re you doing?” Her eyes widened.

  “Saving you. Do you have any luggage?”