The Marvelous Mechanical Arm of Octavian Rillieux

By Melanie Thompson

It’s 1880 and the civil war is a distant memory. Octavian Rillieux lost his arm in the war, but he and his assistant, Benjamin Ridley, have invented mechanical arms that are ten times better than his real arm ever was. Now, the two are out to capture the heinous villain who is kidnapping and killing women from the upper crust of New Orleans’ society. When this villain runs off with Octavian’s love, Raine L’Eveque, Octavian begins a manhunt that will end in either his own death, or the capture of the killer. The Amazing Mechanical Arm of Octavian Rilliuex has everything; amazing inventions, zombies, an insane asylum and a super hero. Nonstop action, humor and horror fill this fast-paced steampunk thriller. Jump on board for the ride of your life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Torrid Books
• Release date: Jun 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781681461304

Book preview

Chapter 1

Raine L’Eveque stood poised with her foil raised, one foot forward and her left hand on an out-thrust hip. Her opponent, Octavian Rillieux, waved his foil back and forth and mocked her while he deliberately exposed his chest. He was the only man she would ever love, even though they could never marry. Her terrible secret must never be revealed; especially to one who had given so much to the lost cause of the Confederacy.

"En guard, Octavian, she cried. Do your worst."

"You shall not hit me this time either, enfant, though I know you will try."

In the background, the clang and grind of huge gears, the hiss of a foundry and the banging of hammers and pipe benders made it necessary to yell to be heard. They fought on a polished-wood floor in an upper story of Octavian’s gun factory. Below them, Rillieux single-shot shotguns along with Rillieux’s famous two-trigger rifles and spur-trigger pistols and pocket rifles were being manufactured under several U.S. Patents. Octavian was an inventor.

Raine touched the foil to her forehead and attacked. She put every ounce of energy and aggression she could gather into attempting to touch Octavian’s breast with the button on the tip of the slim blade.

He parried her skillfully as he danced out of the way of her attack, and then immediately returned with a riposte that broke her parry. He touched her lightly on the left breast and backed away.

Furious at being bested, Raine detached the button from her foil and attacked in earnest, thrusting, lunging and parrying with all the skill she could muster. She was determined to pink him and remove the smile from his handsome face.

The clink of their thin-bladed swords could clearly be heard over the noise of the gun factory as she backed him toward the wall. When he switched his sword from his left hand to his right, she knew she was in trouble. With one last wicked thrust, she sliced a cut in his shirt from the left shoulder to his right hip. The two pieces of the shirt separated to reveal Octavian’s white skin. Her victory was short-lived.

He popped the button off the tip of his blade and returned her attack with wicked precision using his stronger right hand; a hand she knew was not made of flesh and blood. He parried her last thrust and lunged with lightning speed which removed her own frilly shirt in three quick surgical slices. When the pieces of white cotton fell to the floor, Raine was clothed only in a tight camisole which revealed the tops of her breasts.

She dropped her foil and covered her chest with crossed arms as the door flew open. An older man dressed in a black suit with very high collar points followed Raine’s dragon-lady duenna, Madam Alcala, into the room.

Rupert Dysart, Octavian’s head clerk, dropped his head apologetically. I beg your pardon, sir, but I was unable to stop her. She would come into this room and I had no say.

Raine’s father never allowed her out of the house unaccompanied by this ancient crone whose sharp gaze missed nothing. When she saw Raine’s state of undress, she hoisted the black bombazine skirts of her unfashionable gown and rushed to grab Raine’s arm. She whipped off her black shawl and wrapped it around Raine to completely cover her.

"My dear, what can you be thinking? This is no occupation for a lady. And your blouse and Mr. Rillieux’s shirt…Dios mio, what has transpired here? Your father will terminate my employment and send me off without a reference if he hears about this disgraceful situation. I am completely covered with mortification." Clucking like a mother hen, she pulled Raine toward the offices in the rear section of the floor.

Raine cast a beseeching glance at Octavian who smiled and waved. Of course he would not help her. His ideas of decorum in women exactly matched Madam Alcala’s even though it was his precision with a sword that had denuded her.

As her duenna hustled her down the long hallway, Raine protested. But, Ellie, it was nothing, mere fun, and Octavian is trying to teach me to be a better swordsman. I like wearing breeches. They are so much more comfortable than my horrid gowns. And I want to learn to fight with a fencing foil. Father has no objection to that.

So sorry, child, I cannot hear you. The infernal clanking of these machines is intolerable.

More like will not, Raine mumbled as she allowed herself to be drawn into a small room where the noise of the factory was muffled. Her day dress of figured muslin lay discarded on a bench along with two petticoats, her corset, cotton shift, stockings and frilly pantalettes. I cannot fence in these ridiculous garments. You must see my need for the change of clothing.

You attempt to get me in trouble, child. Your father would not approve of your immodest display or of you frolicking with a man dressed like a common woman of the streets.

As Elena Alcala helped her dress, Raine reflected on her father’s thoughts about her fencing lessons and Octavian. He approved of Octavian and thought him a good match, even though Raine was doomed, due to the terrible secret she carried, to remain a spinster and on the shelf for the rest of her life. Poor father, he just did not understand the implications of what he had done.

Father knew about the lessons she took with Octavian, encouraging her to learn to defend herself, but not about the costume she wore while practicing. Elena was right. If her father heard Octavian had sliced up her shirt, the lessons would stop.

Her father did allow her more freedom than many of her friends. She rode astride wearing men’s clothing when she was at Vermillion, their plantation. Her father even encouraged the practice, saying it was safer. But here, inside the city, down close to the docks on the river, he would never allow her to be seen in such revealing garments, even with Octavian to guard her virtue.

New Orleans was not a safe place. Just last week, the chief of police had been murdered near his home on Claiborne Street. Her home was not that far away, a huge brick mansion across from the Ursuline Convent on Ursulines Street.

When she was once again clothed as a demure maiden, rose-silk shawl draped around her shoulders, straw bonnet tied under her chin with matching rose ribbons, she went hunting for Octavian with Elena in tow. She found him minus the destroyed shirt in one of the private offices. Her cheeks flamed and she looked away. But not before she saw the ruin of his right arm, amputated just below the shoulder, and his broad chest.

He turned away from her immediately, hiding his injury. Go away, Raine. You should not see this. I know I am only half a man. I would prefer to keep the hideous sight of my injury private. I know how repulsive I am, I don’t know how you can stand to even look at me.

She started to protest. It is part of who you are. You shouldn’t be embarrassed. You are a hero of the South. The arm was lost honorably.

When he spoke, she could hear the pain in his voice. It matters not how it was lost. A one-armed man is only half a man. Leave, please. I cannot stand for you to see me like this.

Elena pulled her away. Come, Raine, you should not be here. Mr. Octavian requires his privacy and in my day, a young woman never saw a man in a state of undress, not even after she was married.

I know of Octavian’s debility, Elena. Everyone in New Orleans knows. And it is very unkind of you to point out his defect. It is an honorable wound received fighting for the Confederacy.

Elena grabbed her arm. You are being deliberately obtuse. You know that is not what I meant.

Before Elena pulled her from the room, she’d seen three different prosthetics laying on the desk waiting for him to choose one and attach it to the stump. She knew he’d designed and manufactured each one. He used different artificial limbs for various purposes and always seemed to be tinkering in his laboratory. But he was very secretive about how they worked and extremely shy about his infirmity. She’d never actually seen the stump of his ruined arm until today.

The arm had been severed just above his right elbow. A flap of skin was crudely sewn over the end of his arm. It looked reddened and slightly irritated. It was possible he did not care for it as he should; preferring to concentrate his attention on the prosthetics, not the arm itself.

She waited for him outside the room in the hallway. When he emerged, he was neatly clothed in a dark gray coat of super-fine with a sparkling white shirt, gray riding britches and highly-polished riding boots. The coat fit his broad shoulders snugly and the only sign of his prosthetic was that the white glove pulled over his right hand seemed bulkier than his left.

He was tall, almost a foot taller than her; handsome and elegant, his square jaw covered by a neat goatee, his thick, brown hair neatly combed and pomaded. When he bowed and kissed her hand, his moss-green eyes smiled into hers. Come, he said as he tucked her hand into his arm. I shall walk you to your carriage.

They hurried through the noisy gun factory, passing huge metal presses and many men working with their sleeves rolled up because of the heat. Octavian helped Madam Alcala into the carriage parked on Levee Street, and then turned to assist her.

You know your infirmity does not affect me or…or our friendship, she said shyly.

I can only hope you speak the truth. You know how much I value your opinion.

For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but he did not. He merely smiled and waved as he shut the door and backed away, indicating to the driver it was safe to proceed.

Raine fell back against the red-velvet cushions and sighed. What was she doing? She was encouraging his suit when they could never be together. He was going to declare for her. She loved him and longed to be his, but their love could never be.

Octavian’s family had owned slaves for a hundred years before the war. He fought for the South; defending their right to own slaves and the plantation way of life. He was a Southerner to the core and Raine’s deepest secret was her ancestry. No one but her best friend, Cerise Laballe, and her father knew her mother was a quadroon. If Octavian found out, he would surely despise her.

Tears flowed down her face and she angrily brushed them away.

What troubles you, my dear? Elena asked as she patted Raine’s hand.

She turned her head to look out the window of the carriage. They traveled down a narrow cobbled street shaded by huge oaks. The mottled light shifted constantly. Nothing, she said. I was momentarily distressed by Octavian’s plight. She smiled brightly. I’m fine now, truly.

* * * *

Octavian decided to ride to his home on Prytania Street in the Garden District. His horse waited in the mews behind the house. His faithful servant, Hubbard Semple, handed him Jupiter’s reins and then mounted his own fat cob. Together they trotted through the bustling city.

He loved New Orleans. Close to the river, the smell of the water blended with the scent of garbage, rotting fish and the blooming flowers that hung in profusion from balconies and grew in courtyards throughout the French Quarter. He was able to differentiate the smell of jasmine, tube rose and gardenias from the odor of low tide on the river.

When they reached his home, Hub dismounted and opened the black, wrought-iron gates. His huge house was an odd combination of Greek Revival and Victorian with a two-storied deck, tall columns and a cone-topped turret. His bedroom was inside the tower. The gardens surrounding the mansion were immaculately groomed and filled with spring flowers.

Hub took his horse and he entered through the kitchen, passing Lulei, his cook and housekeeper, and the two maids preparing dinner as he made his way to the hall and the grand staircase.

Under the stairs was an elevator Octavian had added and modified to suit his own needs after he purchased the house. The metal door closed with a clang behind him as he switched on the light. The interior was lit by electricity provided by the same steam-powered device that made the elevator function. He slid a hidden panel aside and inserted a small, brass key into an almost invisible hole. Activated, the elevator began a slow descent. The only way into his laboratory in the basement was by using the elevator.

He rushed into his lab excited by the idea of working on a new project. He had invented a set of glasses that allowed him to see at night. His assistant, Benjamin Ridley, looked up from his own work when he entered the lab. Ridley was perfecting another of Octavian’s ideas, a spyglass that could see ten times farther than any in current use. They had tried many different lenses. Ridley was using a small grinder to shape yet another lens.

Ridley tossed his work aside and came to greet him. The lab was crammed with workbenches and shelves of tools and projects, some complete, some failed, many in progress. The litter of his work covered all the tables. Rolls of drawings for new ideas lay intermingled with a plate from last night’s supper, discarded napkins, a pot of coffee, half-filled cups of coffee, nuts, bolts, brass fittings and sheets of brass and silver.

Sir, I can’t seem to get this one lens ground to your specifications.

Good day Ridley, it is a pleasure to see you as well.

Ridley’s fair skin turned bright red. Uh, sorry, how was your meeting with the beautiful Miss L’Eveque?

She sliced up my second-best shirt. Her skill improves with every lesson.

Ridley rolled his eyes. You allowed her to do this, I’m quite sure.

I must admit, I fought hard, and then I gave in and submitted to her victory. I did return the favor. Her skin is like cream. Octavian picked up a half-filled cup of coffee and swallowed it in one gulp."

Sir, that has to be three-days old, at best.

Octavian cleaned the residue off his teeth with a swipe of his tongue. I thought it a trifle bitter. Come examine these glasses and tell me what you think.

The two had met during the war. They’d been part of the Mississippi River defense stationed at Fort DeRussy, which was theoretically impregnable. When General A.J. Smith attacked and destroyed the fort, Octavian had pulled Ridley, a corporal serving in his brigade, into the river seconds before the Union Army blasted the walls to pieces. His arm was horribly crushed by a floating log as they swam downstream to safety. Ridley stayed with him, choosing to come to New Orleans and work for his former captain.

Octavian picked up the night-vision glasses. Two leads dangled from the head gear. He opened his shirt and inserted them into the holes in his shoulder he used to control his artificial arm. The glasses, like his prosthetic, were powered by his own brain. He snugged the goggle-like devices against his eyes and tightened the straps holding them to his head as Ridley killed the lights.

Can you see, sir?

Octavian stared into the laboratory. He could see, just not as well as he’d hoped. I think I need to up the power or clean these things. Are they fogged up?

Here, sir, allow me. I’ll get the lights.

Octavian removed the head piece and handed it to Ridley.

I say, old man, where have these been? They are utterly filthy.

I may have left them on the table by the band saw. I was using it just last night to trim a piece of wood for a new saddle I’m working on. Perhaps some of the dust got on the lenses. He snatched them out of Ridley’s limp grasp and dumped the remains of another cup of coffee on the glasses. Give me your shirt. I’ll wipe them clean with that.

Ridley backed away. This shirt is new. You ruined my best silk shirt just last week. Ridley scrabbled around under the nearest table emerging with a clean rag. Here, I had Lulei cut up an old sheet. We can always use rags in this place.

Octavian wiped the lenses clean and put the head-piece back on and set the lenses snug against his eyes once again. When Ridley turned out the lights, he could see everything in the lab as though they were still on.

Amazing, you should try them. He took the glasses off and handed them to Ridley, fumbling for his assistant in the stygian blackness.

They will not function for me, Octavian. Remember, I have no outlets.

Laughing, Octavian turned on the lights. I keep forgetting. It seems so natural to me.

Are you really going after Agnello for killing the police chief?

Williams got in the middle of the war between the Messina and the Palermo families. I know Joseph Agnello killed him and I intend to prove it. Now that Williams is dead, LaLauire will appoint one of his filthy friends to the position of police chief and we shall have no say in the matter.

Indeed sir, the mayor of this city is a scoundrel.

LaLaurie is not a scoundrel, Ridley. He is an evil, delusional man with a serious illness.

Ridley had been heading back to his own workbench. He stopped in mid stride. An illness? Does he have the fever?

Octavian frowned and laid his night-vision glasses on the table. No, I have it on excellent authority that our mayor is infected with syphilis.

Chapter 2

Stop the screaming. It drives me insane. Vitor LaLaurie clutched his head and shrieked at nurse Caroline Ashford.

Nurse Ashford, a stout matron in her forties with iron-gray hair pulled into a severe bun, big features and a determined chin, placed strong hands on his shoulders. Calm down, Mr. Vitor. The patient will cease to make noise in a very few moments. They are just securing her to the table.

LaLaurie pushed the nurse’s hands away and stood up. He began pacing furiously back and forth across the carpeted floor of his office in front of the one-way, viewing window. Inside the treatment room, three strong attendants manhandled a woman patient as they strapped her to a leather-covered table.

Huge banks of equipment placed against the far wall of the room towered over the table. A snarl of black, rubber-coated wires snaked from the machine into the wall. The patient was a young woman clearly in the throes of delusion. She foamed at the mouth, screamed and snapped her teeth. Her hair, a wild blonde tangle, haloed her head. Her green hospital gown slipped, revealing a creamy white shoulder. LaLaurie licked his lips.

The three attendants used thick, leather restraints to strap the patient to the table, fastening each with plum-sized brass buckles. When she was fully restrained, the doctor entered the room.

The attendants placed a leather cap fitted with a brass halo over the patient’s tangle of hair and attached it to the machines with thick wires. The doctor, Helmut Fleischer, supervised.

A huge rubber spatula was forced between the patient’s lips to prevent injury to her tongue. The woman watched the attendants through wild eyes and continued to scream, though the noise was now muffled.

LaLaurie had watched many such sessions of electro-shock therapy. He had designed the equipment and built it here in Eden Isle. As soon as the machine was turned on it induced brain seizures and the patient’s screaming would subside. After the experimental treatment, the patient would be quiet and docile for weeks…sometimes for the rest of their lives.

Bored, he went back to his chair and sat down next to a table laid out with the instruments of his own treatment; a brown jar filled with liquid mercury, a glass of milk laced with a tiny bit of arsenic and a black rubber syringe hooked to a rubber hose. A vial of silver nitrate mixed with water sat next to the syringe.

Nurse, come now and commence the treatment. I am ready.

He slipped his pants down and leaned back exposing his genitals to the nurse’s adept hands. LaLaurie had contracted syphilis ten years ago from a whore. It was only his experiments and treatments that kept him alive. He rubbed the soft bump recently formed on his forehead. He’d done his research. More of these lumps could form and he might go insane.

The nurse lifted his penis and threaded the rubber tube of the catheter into his urethra. Vitor clenched the arms of the chair, his knuckles stark white, and groaned.

Hurry up, bitch, he ground out between clenched teeth. This treatment is torture.

When she was done and the catheter lodged, she injected the silver nitrate solution. LaLaurie shrieked and arched his back in agony as the solution burned through his urethra.

This treatment was for gonorrhea, but Vitor was determined to try anything and everything. Why should one venereal disease be different from another? They all came from infected whores, started in the same location, and it was a known fact that they originated in women. He shrieked again.

When the silver nitrate had been injected, Nurse Ashford handed him the glass of milk. The arsenic was something new he’d recently heard of. If it didn’t kill him, it might work. He’d had fewer headaches since he began drinking it.

He pulled his pants up and removed his shirt. Last week small pustules began to form on his back. He suffered silently as the nurse drained each of the many new blisters and dabbed mercury on them.

It seemed each week brought new symptoms. He had searched countless documents and scientific treatises written throughout the ages in his efforts to discover crumbs of knowledge that would help him locate a cure.

He was experimenting with several drugs in his laboratory. He had purchased large quantities of a white paste from South America called basa. Indians made the paste by using their bare feet to stomp the leaves of the coca plant.

He mixed the basa with kerosene then strained it. The resulting white crystals were blended with methyl alcohol which was chilled. Then those crystals were washed once more with sulfuric acid.

He poured some of the pure crystals into a small vial, added purified water and turned on the flame beneath it. When the thin liquid bubbled, he turned the gas off and the flame died. The smell of alcohol filled the office.

He glanced through the viewing window and saw the patient on the table arch her back and thump her feet. The crackle of electricity could be heard through the glass as her hair stood on end. The patient’s gown hiked up as she thumped her legs in the grip of the massive seizure revealing white thighs and gold pubic hair. One of the three attendants reached down and squeezed her thigh to hold her still. This action spread her thighs revealing the glistening, pink inside of her sex. LaLaurie thought of Jeanne, his mistress, and licked his lips. She’d be getting ready for work. She was employed as a laundress at Eden Isle, but her primary job was to suck his cock.

As Nurse Ashford loaded the syringe from a vial filled with the thin liquid, he resumed watching the treatment in the other room. She tied his arm off with a rubber strap and thumped his forearm for a vein. The medication derived from the basa was very powerful. It induced euphoria and helped him deal with the pain of his affliction. As far as LaLaurie was concerned, it was a miracle drug. Nurse Ashford injected the liquid into his vein and he closed his eyes as a rush of pleasure raced through him.

Send Jeanne to me, Ashford, he said as he pulled his starched shirt on and tied a snowy-white cravat in front of a full-length mirror.

As you wish. Her frown said everything while her mouth said nothing. He knew she disapproved of Jeanne and he enjoyed forcing Nurse Ashford to fetch her. Ashford sometimes got a little high in the instep. Putting her in her place always made him happy.

When Jeanne arrived, he pulled her into the office. The woman in the treatment room was gone, but the memory of her nakedness still lived in LaLaurie’s heated imagination. Jeanne, he said in a seductive whisper. I have need of your services.

Jeanne was plump and no longer young. He’d pulled her off the street where she was finding it harder and harder to find customers. Aging was a harsh reality for prostitutes. Her gratitude was pathetic and useful not to mention skills gained over a long and inglorious career on the street. She looked into his eyes and recognized the glitter of need. He drew her to the desk and sat on the edge. She fumbled with his trouser buttons, finally easing his engorged cock out of confinement.

Pull your tits out, he told her.

She stood up and opened her blouse. Her large breasts fascinated LaLaurie. She’d had a miscarriage over a year ago, but still lactated. Two of the patients had produced babies Jeanne fed. He loved it. He squeezed the tender white flesh and shoved a long nipple into his mouth. Jeanne arched her back and let him nurse like a baby. When her milk flowed freely, he took one nipple out of his mouth and sprayed his cock with it. Mother’s milk was supposed to cure all kinds of venereal disease.

Excited now and impatient, he pushed Jeanne’s head toward his dick. Suck me. Her sure hands and soft lips worked their magic. In minutes he was finished. Jeanne stood up and wiped her mouth on her apron. I won’t need your services tonight, he said with a leer. Take care of the babies.

Yes, Mayor LaLaurie, she said and curtsied her way out the door. LaLaurie grinned. Subservience in all forms pleased him. Grunting, he jumped off the desk and stood in front of the mirror to finish getting ready for the office. His interlude with Jeanne had been quick. He shouldn’t be that late for his meeting.

He applied macasser oil to his dark-brown forelock and arranged it to cover the huge bump. It looked as though another lump was forming next to his temple. He rubbed the area finding it tender to the touch. If he lived, he would soon look like a monster.

He slipped on an orange and yellow striped waistcoat, buttoned it over his belly, shrugged his shoulders into a tan and coffee-brown, tweed frock coat and placed a brown derby on his neatly pomaded locks. Ready to go to his office in downtown New Orleans, he strolled through the corridors of Eden Isle, his own personal sanitarium for the insane.

He walked briskly down the green tile of the wide