Wes and Kit: steampunk mystery gay romance, #1

By Hollis Shiloh

Wes has a soft heart—even if it is a gear heart from when he was mechanicalized during the war. Now close to homeless and in desperate straits, he still finds himself taking on a stray dog—and helping out an injured man he stumbles across in an alleyway.

That's how he meets Kit. A harmless, gentle clock repairman with a heart condition of his own, Kit is in danger…because he's working on a certain clock. 

He hires Wes to protect him until the danger is past…whatever its cause. But they find their feelings for each other are becoming too strong to ignore, despite the danger. 

When a chance to solve the mystery presents itself, Wes finds he might just lose the man he's come to love…if he can't find Kit in time.

Length: 37,000 words

Steampunk elements, mystery elements, some violence

Heat level: Low

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spare Words Press
• Release date: May 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386602606

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Wes and Kit

by Hollis Shiloh

Would you quit following me? Wesley Newton scowled at the small mutt dogging his footsteps. The scowl was a fierce one, but the dog simply flattened its ears and looked pathetic, crouching a little lower and looking up at him with eyes that looked bigger than ever. Wes scowled harder than ever. Go on! Scat!

A quiet, cracked laugh drew his attention to the shadows. He looked over sharply. Nearly invisible in the dim lighting of the alleyway sat a man, more a bundle of rags than a person. Wes, for all his soldier's training, would have missed the man if he hadn't moved. He blended so well with the garbage and darkness of the alleyway. Or perhaps I'm losing it, thought Wes. He probably wasn't at his most alert after spending the last two days scavenging for a job—and food.

Scat's what you say to a cat, said the hoarse voice of the man. He shifted a little, looking less like a lump of garbage and more like a long-legged, slender man sitting against a wall.

Oh? Expert, are you? Wes turned to face the man properly, but didn't take a step nearer. He knew better than to get too close to someone on the streets—either you would put yourself in needless danger, or you'd frighten them. And he didn't need either choice, especially after a long hungry day and nothing to show for it. Nothing except that annoyingly persistent mutt.

Um. The man sat very still, arms wrapped around himself loosely. He seemed to give the question serious thought. Probably not.

Hmm. Wes glanced at the dog again and frowned. It was rude to leave while the man was talking to him, and he had nothing else to do, but he wasn't comfortable talking with a stranger who acted like this, either. The man could be drugged or ill. Wes didn't need any more complications in the day. Even though the man had a nice voice. Perhaps especially since the man had a nice voice.

And for all the cracked, hoarse quality, it was a nice voice. There was a hint of education and whimsical humor in it, as if the man was someone who could laugh at himself.

Let me guess, said the seated man wearily. You can't afford to feed a dog any longer, so you want to send him away. You wouldn't be the first.

Wes bristled indignantly. Hardly. It's not my dog. I wouldn't send it away if it was, no matter how little food I had.

Well, it thinks it's yours. Look. He nodded wearily at the dog, who had lowered itself to the ground and begun to crawl closer to Wes's feet, as if it just wanted to be closer. Its rat-colored, feathery tail waved back and forth tightly, sweeping the dirty alleyway floor.

Hmph. That's what I get for sharing a crust, muttered Wes, turning away, embarrassed by this evidence that pointed him out as a soft touch.

The man in the alley laughed gently. There are worse things.

Such as? He regarded the dog with disapproval and resignation. Obviously there would be no budging the creature. He might as well get used to its ingratiating presence. I don't have the money to feed myself supper, let alone share with this dirty mop.

You could be the sort of man who doesn't share a crust with a stray dog. That would be worse. He stretched again, just a little, and Wes realized now there was pain in that movement, not a languid ease or drugged contentment at all. The man appeared to be unable to rise.

Wes froze. The man stilled his attempted stretch and didn't scramble further.

You're hurt.

Why, yes. Quite a bit. I could pay you to help me home. Not till we arrive, of course. But I have bread there, and some money. He smiled, or tried to. Even in the dim lighting of the alleyway, it looked pained.

Wes moved forward without having to think about it. Of course you don't have to pay me, he said gruffly. He might not be a soldier anymore—his country and indeed the world might have no more use for him—but he still wouldn't leave a wounded civilian to suffer if he could help it.

Where does it hurt? He bent to help, not hesitating. In the few moments of their interaction, he'd formed a fair assessment of the alleyway man. He was loose-limbed, weak, and not up to Wes's fighting weight, even when Wes was tired and hungry from a long day searching for work.

As he grew closer, he could see the man a little more clearly. He was not dressed as poorly as Wes had thought: not rags, but decent clothing that had been clean and well-mended before being torn and bloodied.

Oh, it hurts pretty much everywhere, said the man with a breathless groan. He let Wesley help him up. Wes lifted him without difficulty. The man was light enough, all long legs and rangy arms, not a thickset fellow at all.

He leaned helplessly on Wes, his breathing jagged and pained, with truncated little gasps as he bit on his lip and clearly tried not to scream.

Your ribs, is it? asked Wes. Come on. Doctor or home? It'll get easier when you can rest comfortably.

The man nodded, but didn't speak, taking long, shuddering moments to catch his breath and brace himself against the pain. I suppose—it had better be the doctor, he said regretfully.

I thought so. I'd carry you, if that wouldn't hurt more.

Best n-not, managed the man, as they took the first step down the alley. He gasped a pained breath at the first step, holding on to Wes. His hands clutched fistfuls of Wes's shirt, and he was shaking and sweaty.

But he didn't cry out, not once, while they made their way slowly and agonizingly down the alley. Wes was patient. He knew how much cracked ribs could hurt, and there was no way to tell in the evening light, before the gas lamps were lit, whether the damage was worse than that.

I'm sorry about this, the man managed once, when they were partway there, but most of the time he stayed grimly silent. The lamplighter went by, glancing at them once, sharply, and then hurrying on. The alleyway man was gray with fatigue and pain, his lip bitten white and a little bloody. Whoever had worked him over had done a good job. There was little to mark him out as injured, aside from the pain on his face and the state of his clothes. He could have passed for just another drunk on a Friday night.

Sorry I can't get you a cab, said Wes, glancing at one trundling past. The street was cobblestoned, and the cab made a loud rattling noise as it huffed and puffed past. Steam cars drew a reluctant admiration from Wes. He could appreciate the cleverness of them. But at the same time, he resented them for replacing horses.

At least horses needed cleaning up after. Perhaps he could've gotten work as a manure man, cleaning the streets, if there were more horses about. The steam cars left nothing but a burst of smoke and steam in their wake, adding to the foggy feel of the night.

Almost there. You never told me your name. Wes spoke bracingly. He glanced over his shoulder, scowling. If the little dog was still following, it would almost certainly never leave him alone again. It would take dedication to trail him for so long...

No dog.

Ah. Relief touched him. He wouldn't have minded a dog, if his situation was better. But as it was, he didn't need any more responsibility than himself. He was too much already, with no work handy and none likely to appear for one such as himself.

I'm Kit Fowler, said the alleyway man, through his teeth, trembling all over. And I'm sorry, I think I'm—

He slumped, still and boneless, and Wes nearly dropped him. Fortunately, he caught the man and held him up the best he could, wincing at what landing hard would do to hurt him worse.

Dog toenails skittered on the cobblestones as the little dog leapt forward and tried to lick Kit's ankles. Oh, get off, said Wes disgustedly. He hefted the unconscious man, sighed, and started off again, a mutt prancing by his side, falling to heel as if it belonged there.

#

The hospital was going to be a problem. He was getting winded, carrying the damaged Kit so far. It wouldn't have been a problem, except that he hadn't eaten for so long. It was difficult to carry a grown man so far on an empty stomach, even if he was a light man. And of course Wes hadn't any money for a cab.

No one offered to help them. Why should they? A disreputable man carrying his drunken friend. Who would stop to help? He didn't bother asking, just moved on in stone-lipped silence, making his face impassive against the strain.

The dog trundled along beside him, tail high now and wagging every once in a while. The little creature almost danced, clearly happy to be heeling, and not having him try to chase it away.

Worst crust I ever spared, he thought grumpily, then glanced down at the small creature, trying to frown. You would be a very loyal pet, if I could afford a pet. It would have been nice to be in a situation in his life where that was an option.

The hospital loomed up ahead. He eyed it with undisguised relief.

The guard watched him approach but didn't uncross his arms or offer to help. What's up with him, then? the man asked without much concern.

Ribs, I think. He tried to keep his voice from getting hard and angry at the man's calloused attitude. After all, in a moment he'd be asking for the man's help.

Hm. The guard grunted, as if admitting that was a better ailment than pure drunkenness. Well, bring him—

You'd best take him, said Wes, hesitating to draw any closer to the large, imposing doors—and the mechanical detectors in them.

But it was too late. The alarm went up, a low booming sound that made him shudder. He stopped. Kit didn't wake up. For one absurd moment, he was glad of that: it meant Kit's face didn't have to change to a look of twisted disgust like the guard's did.

The guard's words, though, were casual enough. Oh, you're one of them, are you? He moved forward and took Kit from Wes's arms, rather roughly. Not repulsed, just indifferent. He's not, is he?

He wouldn't have agreed to the agonizing trip here if he was, knowing he'd be turned away. No. Wes stepped back, and the booming quieted. A man in an orderly's white uniform, stained with red, appeared, a look of alert grumpiness on his face. He stopped at the sight of Wes backing off, not trying to force his way in.

Wes stood back and waited, the dog at his side, as they carted Kit in between them, taking him off efficiently, still unconscious.

I hope he makes it. Wes bent