Fortune's Eve: a short story of gaslight and magic: Hellion House Steampunk Series, #1

By Emma Jane Holloway

Not all monsters dwell in the woods.

 

The mages of the Conclave have questions—dangerous ones that put airship pilot Gideon Fletcher and his sister, Miranda, in the midst of an inquisition for illegal magic.

 

The Fletchers live in an elegant world of gentlemen's clubs and Society balls, but their claim to fame is making daring rescues in the perilous Outlands. It's all fun and monsters until they save a man wanted by the Conclave, and the mages turn their suspicions toward Gideon's family.

 

Their scrutiny brings a new kind of peril. Little does Gideon know his sisters have much to hide. Trouble has arrived for the Fletchers, and it clearly means to stay.

 

For those who like steampunk adventure with a touch of magic—not to mention conspiracy, monsters, airships, and an adorable baby dragon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rowan & Ash Artistry
• Release date: Jul 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781777045807

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Not all monsters dwell in the woods.

The mages of the Conclave have questions—dangerous ones that put airship pilot Gideon Fletcher and his sister, Miranda, in the midst of an inquisition for illegal magic.

The Fletchers live in an elegant world of gentlemen’s clubs and Society balls, but their claim to fame is making daring rescues in the perilous Outlands. It’s all fun and monsters until they save a man wanted by the Conclave, and the mages turn their suspicions toward Gideon’s family.

Their scrutiny brings a new kind of peril. Little does Gideon know his sisters have much to hide. Trouble has arrived for the Fletchers, and it clearly means to stay.

CHAPTER 1

The Outlands

Late September

If we don’t find the wreck soon, we’ll be obliged to turn back, Norton Fletcher said.

Gideon glanced at the sky, calculating the remaining daylight. His father was right. No one risked traveling outside the city after dark. That would be certain death for the crew of the wreck.

But not for us. Fletcher’s face was rigid. Don’t get caught up in the emotion of these missions. It’s a quick way to die.

Gideon gave a low laugh to hide his resentment. His father never let go of his impulse to instruct his grown son. I have compassion.

A waste of energy. Everything breaks and everything mends, Fletcher said. Live long enough, and you’ll understand.

Do you truly believe that? Gideon asked, heat creeping into his words.

Yes, his father replied, and no. It’s what old men tell themselves to stop the ache of fear in their bellies.

The words were terse, a bitter blend of the flippant and the true. Questions crowded Gideon’s mind, but Fletcher’s expression closed like a door banging shut, the Dragonfly’s captain replacing his father. Not that the difference was pronounced on most days.

Gideon studied his father, who stood at the pilot’s station with feet planted wide and back ramrod straight. Fletcher wasn’t a large man, but his stocky figure and lined features, weathered by decades of sun and wind, made Gideon think of petrified oak. As Fletcher eased a lever forward, the Dragonfly dipped closer to the river, twin propellers thwop-thwopping through the mist. Autumn fog trailed ghostly fingers around the dirigible as if the mist meant to snatch it from the sky.

A flare had gone up two hours ago, according to the report of the watchmen who scanned the forest from the great towers that flanked the city gates. Fletcher Industries—one of the premier airship firms in the city—kept half-a-dozen rescue crafts on standby, but the last week had been busy. When word arrived, only the Dragonfly was docked at the airfield and the crews were shorthanded. Norton Fletcher—owner, designer, and still one of the best pilots in the sky—had taken the job himself. Of course, Gideon went with him. He was heir to the Fletcher empire and familiar with the day-to-day operations, but he still took pleasure in watching his father work. Or he had. As the afternoon wore on, that first thrill had darkened to anxiety. So far, they hadn’t found any trace of the wreck.

Gideon peered over the edge of the gondola, estimating the distance to the dense treetops. Ash, birch, oak, chestnut, and the occasional conifer grew in a lush tangle. This area between settlements was called the Outlands. After the population fled the countryside, nature had thrown a party. The result was the beautiful but deadly forest that covered every trace of civilization. Gideon leaned out another inch, one hand on a sturdy cable. There was still plenty of clearance before the craft risked scraping the branches, but distance made it hard to see the river. Unfortunately, closing the gap would be unwise. That was the gamble with rescue missions—risk all to save the innocent, yet risk becoming a victim oneself.

A trio of dragons soared above the branches as the ship passed overhead. Their population had grown with the forest, but the city dwellers paid them no heed. Urban dragons were relatively small, weighing about twenty pounds. Even their wild cousins rarely grew larger than a goat, and humanity had far more to worry about than an invasive species of lizard.

For the hundredth time that afternoon, the broad silver swath of the river emerged from the encroaching trees. The Dragonfly had followed a zigzagging path, searching both sides of the water. They had seen a fleet of River Rats—clans of wandering thieves and magicians who lived aboard their crafts—and once a smuggler’s ship with its gun ports open. Both had probably been bound for the walled farms to the east. There was gold in river business—at least for those brave enough to risk it. Gideon would take the sky any day.

The foliage slipped from view, the water gleaming directly below. His heart skipped as he saw what the Dragonfly had come for—the wreckage of a midsized sailing craft.

There, Gideon cried, pointing over the side. Bring the ship around again.

The crew—four hands besides the Fletchers—jumped to obey, hauling on the lines that adjusted the auxiliary sails. Boilers hissed, feeding the engine that drove the propellers. Slowly, the Dragonfly, with its twin gray-and-white silk balloons, pivoted in the sky.

Sir, we dare not go lower, Higgins, the grizzled senior airman, said.

Then get your gear on, Norton Fletcher replied, guiding the ship into position above the wreck. We’ll go down for a look, although it’s not promising.

Hopeful or not, it was still their duty to search for survivors. Gideon grabbed his own equipment, wondering what they’d find. Fools had a way of getting what they deserved.

The