Part two prologue

Content warning: This chapter features a lot of drug use.

Sylvia Sapping laid down in the padded compartment. She had a pipe and a pill of opium, which she lit off a match the young man next to her held. He smiled and lit his own pipe, then put the match out on the pad Sylvia lay on. This young man wasn’t a faerie, demon, angel, or werewolf, so he would get intoxicated quickly, and sober slowly. Sylvia couldn’t do that. Her faerie blood prevented her from getting intoxicated for the most part – after one had been to Faerie itself, nothing seemed mind-altering anymore.

The young man smiled and drew in smoke from his pipe. “What was your name, again?”

“Sylvie.”

“Oh. French?”

“Yeah, and faerie.”

The young man smiled. He probably thought it was a joke.

“You?” Sylvia asked.

“Monty.”

“You have an accent. American?”

“Yeah, and monster from beyond the void.”

Sylvia hoped he was kidding, but wouldn’t have been surprised if he wasn’t.

“You ever feel like your brain just jumps from really happy to really sad at random moments? You’ll be depressed for the longest time and then all of the sudden the complete opposite.”

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely hate that.”

“It’s not fun.”

Neither of them said anything for the longest time, or what the longest time felt like on opium, before Monty opened his mouth again.

“My real name’s Ishmael Samuel Carter.”

“I’m Sylvia Marie Sapping.”

“I hate working.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“I know a lot about whales.”

“Oh?”

“They’re fish.”

“Nice.”

“I think I’m attracted to men.”

“That’s nice.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t have time for being attracted to anything but opium and working.”

“Yeah, I hate working.”

“You already said that.”

“I’ll say it again.”

Sylvia’s mind was beginning to feel clouded, but not as much as she wanted. She thought about also getting out the bottle of laudanum she had in her pocket, when the door burst open and three beefy sailors came in. They stumbled over a prone form, which got a groan from the unfortunate fellow. The first sailor, a tall fellow with dark skin and a thin face, hauled Monty to his feet and physically dragged him out of the opium den. The other two, a blonde with a broad face and a redhead who looked like a weasel, followed behind him.

Sylvia stretched her arms. She could do with some entertainment. She stood up and followed the sailors outside. 

Monty was in a bad scrape. The redhead was holding him against the wall, with a revolver pressed against his head. The blonde was busy rifling through Monty’s pockets, probably looking for money.

Sylvia pretended to walk past them idly so that she could get to the other side without seeming weird.

All three men stopped to stare at her. Sylvia nodded to them. “Gentlemen.”

“Do you know this harpooner?” the tall one asked.

Sylvia shrugged. “Why?”

“He’s in a lot of debt.”

“How much?”

“Forty-five thousand dollars.”

“Speak English.”

“Maybe somewhere around thirty thousand pounds.”

“Holy Debt, Monty.”

The tall sailor looked sharply at Monty. “Hold it just a moment. What’s your name?”

“Montgomery Starbuck.”

The sailors looked at each other, and slowly, the redhead let go of Monty.

The tall one looked him in the eyes. “You’re not Ishmael Carter?”

“What? No, I’ve never met him.”

“And you aren’t a harpooner.”

“No, I’m a sailor on a merchant ship who’s on shore leave.”

“And an opium addict.”

“Yeah, that too, I guess.”

“Ishmael Carter wasn’t an opium addict,” the redhead said.

“No, he wasn’t.” The tall sailor slapped Monty on the back. “Hey, sorry about that. You see anyone who looks like you, tell us because that’s Ishmael Carter. We’re on the ship Black Galley, got it? It’s a big whaling ship from Nantucket. Can’t miss it. Oh, and here, take this for another pipe of opium.” The tall whaler threw a fistful of money on the ground in front of him.

Monty nodded eagerly and grinned at him. “Thank you.”

The three whalers headed off down the street. Monty knelt down and started collecting the coins, while Sylvia stood and watched him.

“You can have some of this,” he said. “You saved my hide.”

“Did I?”

“If you hadn’t called me Monty, they never would have believed me.”

“But you were lying.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you get into that much debt?”

“Boy, I don’t even know.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Forty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

“Oh, tell me about it.”

“You’ll never be able to pay that off.”

“Why else would I be asking everyone to call me by a nickname?”

“Seriously?”

“What else would I do?”

“Get a job?”

“Ugh.”

Sylvia couldn’t argue that working held no appeal at all. “You could maybe work for Johann.”

“Who?”

“Dr Faust. He does backalley doctor things like not delivering babies and getting buildings burned down, but he also gets paid, he has a wealthy patron, and also I’ve seen him doing drugs as part of his job.”

“Oh, that sounds good. He wouldn’t be averse to someone with a lot of debt, would he?” Monty picked up the final few coins and jingled them inside his hand.

“Nah.”

“Will you show me to his home?”

“Yeah, I can do that, but…”

“What?”

“Opium.”

“Oh.” Monty looked over to where the sun was sinking fast. “Dangerous to be out here at night.”

“You buy me laudanum and I’ll sleep at your place, so that I don’t forget about you come morning.”

“A job for a single bottle of laudanum?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a deal.”

They shook hands, and walked until they found a drug store. Monty bought several bottles of laudanum, and Sylvia followed him home to a tiny closet-like room where the only furniture was a sofa and a flimsy table at its side. Monty sat down on the sofa, wrapped a ratty blanket around himself, and took a long drink from his bottle of laudanum.

Sylvia sat down next to him, and let him wrap part of the blanket over her. They laid down with their heads on opposite sides of the sofa, so that their legs were entangled but their upper bodies didn’t touch. Sylvia wasn’t sure how much laudanum she drank, but it was enough that when she finally closed her eyes to sleep, long after Monty had passed out into a drug-induced stupor, she immediately descended into a vivid opium dream.

She stood in a featureless desert of roiling sand dunes. In front of her was a strange monster she had seen in several of her dreams, dubbed a sandstriker. They looked a bit like giant lobsters, but were the color of the sand they lived in, and had a huge mouth of sharp, gnashing teeth. Sylvia knew from experimentation that almost nothing could defeat them, except a well-placed sword or spear thrust to the back of the head.

Well, she wasn’t very good with a sword or a spear. Coming into contact with a sandstriker was enough to have her shaking in her boots, especially since she’d already died gruesome deaths in multiple opium dreams of the same kind.

Sylvia turned and ran. The monster roared and struck at her with its pincers, grazing her back. Sylvia kept running, thankful that she wore a shirt.

Angry that it had been thwarted, the monster went after her, showing that it could run at surprising speeds. The sandstriker pinced, only to be met by Sylvia’s waiting sword. It howled in pain as Sylvia ran up its arm and stuck her blade into its left eye.

Sylvia ran after that, fast enough in the dream that the monster couldn’t catch her. When it was out of sight, she laid down and fell fast asleep.

When she woke up she walked along a trade route to an oasis, where everyone was welcome. It was against desert law to deny someone water when they did not have any, and Sylvia didn’t have anything of the sort, as far as she knew.

Still, many people in positions of power chose to bypass that law, and you sometimes had to mention it to them to jog their memory. Of course, only an idiot would deny Sylvia, the goddess of this universe, water, so she strode openly into the oasis.

The oasis was like a little city. It had palm trees that hugged close to the water, and grass that grew a little further out. There were many pools of water, some clear and blue, and some brown and dirty from people bathing in it. Lots of traders were set up there, ready to sell travelers anything they had conveniently forgotten. Merchants sat in the cool shade of the trees, or their tents, having low conversations with their neighbors. 

Sylvia went immediately to the nearest pool, and dipped her canteen into it. She took a long drink, then topped the waterskin up and got to her feet.

She casually surveyed her surroundings, seeking the person she needed. There was nothing to fear here, because in this wonderful fantasy Sylvia had created she was the goddess and nothing bad ever happened to her. It was a subconscious world of adventure that she frequently visited when she dreamed, though it had been a while since her last visit. Sylvia took a deep breath of the desert air and continued her search for Akaj, the nomad who could sharpen her sword. After the fight with the sandstriker, she knew this was a necessity and had to be addressed immediately.  

Akaj was the finest weapons master in the Realm of Araria, and having made Sylvia’s sword, he would know how to make it so razor sharp it would cut through just about anything. If only she could have a sword like that in real life!

Akaj was over in the corner, talking with a stranger. Sylvia sidled over to join them.

The stranger had straight brown hair, and skin tanned from constant exposure to the sun. He wore a simple brown shirt and white baggy pants, and looked to be about twenty five. He spoke with Akaj in a low, secretive tone.

As Sylvia got closer, she could hear small snippets of the conversation.

“… bandits again, I believe,” the newcomer was saying. “If they attack one more caravan… I will tear their heads from their… ” Suddenly he noticed Sylvia.

Akaj grinned, teeth contrasting against his tanned skin. “If it isn’t Sylvia Sapping! Need another sword sharpening?”

Sylvia smiled. “Why, yes, I do. Got in a… well, I wouldn’t call it a fight exactly, but a… spat, with a sandstriker.” 

The newcomer’s mouth fell open. “You did what?” 

“I fought a sandstriker.”

Akaj pointed to the newcomer. “This is Mikal, commander of a battalion that protects caravans from danger.”

Sylvia flashed a grin. “Sylvia Sapping.”

Mikal nodded. “Bandits have been attacking caravans left, right, and center. I can’t keep track of how many have died at the hands of these murderers.”

A smile worked its way onto Sylvia’s lips, and she forgot all about getting her sword sharpened. 

“I’ll take them,” she said.

Mikal stared at her.

“You don’t think I can do it, do you?” Sylvia asked.

Mikal shook his head slowly. “How old did you say you were?” 

“I didn’t, but I’m twenty.”

Mikal laughed. “Do you honestly think you can do what the guards of twelve caravans couldn’t?” 

Sylvia grinned. “Totally.”

Akaj smiled. “Mikal, I do not doubt that Sylvia can, indeed, defeat those bandits. No problem. You should consider at least letting her try. Now, Sylvia, how about that sword sharpening?”

Sylvia nodded, and handed her sword to Akaj, who took it into his tent and began to use his sword sharpening machine.

Mikal turned to Sylvia and said, “Will you really do it?” 

“Yes, I will.”

Mikal looked like a tremendous burden had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you.”

Soon, Akaj returned and presented Sylvia with her razor sharp sword. She took it, gave Mikal a grin that made him hope he was never on the wrong end of her weapon, and said “Can you lead me to the place where the bandits are attacking?”

Mikal shook his head. “You really think you can defeat them, don’t you? Well, there’s nothing wrong with confidence.”

Sylvia was next awoken rudely in the middle of the night to the uncomfortable reality of October in London in the year 1860, which was not the warm, arid paradise of the invented fantasy world of Araria. She shivered violently and clutched at her blanket, angry that Monty had the audacity to use even some of it. 

Sylvia groped for her bottle of laudanum. Blessedly, there was some left for her to drink, and that made her a little warmer. She curled into a ball, and stared at the door, which was slightly ajar. Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep. 

The door creaked open more. A pale hand with fingers of all the same length curled around the inside of the knob. Sylvia rocked back and forth. Go to sleep, dammit! Sleep!

Something was breathing down Sylvia’s neck. A sob shook her. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.

Nothing worked, so Sylvia screamed her lungs out into the fabric of Monty’s sofa. Fingertips brushed the back of her neck and she heard ragged breathing right next to her ear. She remembered that her father had once said to face her fears whenever they came, so Sylvia turned over and opened her eyes.

Monty was bending over her from the side of the bed. “Hey, are you alright?”

“What?” Sylvia asked.

“You were screaming like mad.”

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“Yeah, you woke me up. I was having such a nice dream…”

Sylvia huddled down into the sofa. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” Monty laid back down, flipped over, and put a distinctive tricorn hat he had with him over his face. He was out cold in seconds, and Sylvia was left lying in the dark pondering a question that paralyzed her. The desert had been a dream, of course, but if she’d really been screaming, had the part after it been waking or nightmare?

Notes:

Welcome to part two! If you didn’t know, the epilogue of part 1, which was mostly wrapping up loose threads such as the fate of Ransom and Mark’s siblings, was published last Saturday. There’s also a new chapter index with both parts one and two, and since the ‘Dominic’ prologue is now the prologue for the whole series, a new prologue for part one that details police captain Gabriel finding Dominic’s body is coming out this Saturday.

Also, if anyone reading this story has any favorite mythological creatures who they would like to see feature as characters, leave a comment and I’ll incorporate them.

Thank you for reading!

Dominic – 1.0

Three people stood under the weak light of a streetlamp. The first was a tall young man who stood in a shabby black overcoat with a back straight as a rod. His short, dark hair was combed across his forehead, and each of the features on his long face were angular and very pronounced. He held a battered suitcase in one hand.

The second figure was a woman, not quite so tall and certainly not as thin as the man, wearing a slender dress with high shoulders that hugged her frame. Her hair was braided around her head, so blonde it was nearly white. Her face was round, with small features and a mocking smile.

The last figure was another man, shorter than the first but taller than the woman, whose frock coat, hat, and two suitcases were obviously very expensive. He was a brunette, slightly overweight, with an egg-shaped face and wide, innocent eyes.

Dominic, who had worked on the railroad for years, had made a habit of observing arrivals, and was intrigued by the three of them. They were contrasting in appearance, and the first young man looked very strange standing next to the two aristocrats. The luggage and clothing of the latter two was so prim, and pristine, and fashionable, while his… wasn’t. Despite that, the man was the most confident-looking of the three, and extruded an air of utmost authority. The smile on his face was arrogant and self-satisfied. Why?

It didn’t really matter, and Dom had a job to do. He had unloaded luggage for people coming in on the late night trains for years, and he knew what to do. Get out the bags, call out the names, wait for people to come forward and claim it. The first man was talking with the aristocratic woman, so Dom had to clear his throat several times before they stopped to pay attention to him. The aristocratic man coughed, and wiped sweat from his face with an embroidered handkerchief.

The summer heat was oppressive, and the combination with the smog over London made it hard to breathe. The air stood still and sticky, and here by the train tracks there was smoke and heat pouring off the train. Dom was drenched in sweat, even more so than normal.

He lifted a heavy, beat-up trunk that smelled of chemicals over one arm, and an identical one that was significantly lighter over the other. “Two bags for a Doctor Johann Faust?”

The strange, arrogant young man in the shabby coat raised his hand. “Me.” He had a thick German accent, though he did not look distinctly German.

“Where d’ye want these?”

“I have a cab coming to pick me up.” Johann Faust gave him some kind of foreign coin. “Sorry, I don’t have any English money yet.”

Dom grunted. He could turn the coin in later for a more appropriate one. A carriage soon rumbled up the street, and he passed Dr Faust’s two bags to the driver. He saw a flash of a redheaded man with a cigar before Faust climbed into the cab, which was full of smoke.

He trudged back to the pile of bags. The remaining ones had obviously not been used before. He looked at the tag. “Ernest Janson?” Janson? The Janson? He looked up at the remaining young man, hardly more than a boy, who was standing awkwardly under the streetlamp with his hand up. Surely this could not be Lord Janson, the man who was creating so much trouble for everyone by having his ‘reform’ laws passed. That man would be much older.

“My father’s cab isn’t here yet,” Ernest Janson said. “You can wait to pick them up.”

“Father?” Probably that was Lord Janson, not this boy.

“Yes, my father, Duke Oswald Janson. He’s very important in politics.” Ernest looked very pleased with this, unaware that his enthusiasm made Dom want to put a fist between his eyes.

“Very important, yeah? He’s that one what did them reforms last month, an’t he?”

“Reforms? Oh, you mean the laws he had passed? Yes, and he was very happy to have them done. He said it’ll make things so much better for everyone.”

Dom ground his jaw. “Better? You call passing laws that force anybody not working into work better?”

Ernest stiffened, looking uncomfortable. “Father says people should not be idle.”

“Idle.”

“Y- yes, that’s what he says.”

It was that that made Dom explode. “Idlers are not poor men, women and children!” He shouted it loud enough that one of the coal boys gave them an odd look, and that Ernest Janson took a large step back. The woman with him, who had been distracted, now snapped to attention. There was something wild in her glare, something dangerous that made Dom uneasy.

“Please don’t- don’t hurt me. It wasn’t my fault, I’m his youngest son, I’ve never lived in London before. ”

Dom cursed under his breath. If the boy had had nothing to do with the laws, he should never have lost his temper at this one. “Sorry, then, sir, I shouldn’t have shouted. You too, missus.” He nodded at each of them in turn.

“Just a misunderstanding,” Ernest said weakly.

“For the record, we cannot stand Lord Janson any more than you,” The woman said. She checked her watch. “Where is he?”

Dom smiled triumphantly. It felt good to know the gentry hated the man, too. “All of these bags belong to you two? Ernest and… Clarissa?”

“Clara.” The woman – Clara – turned at the sound of a carriage, and nodded to Dom. “Here’s the one you can shout at.”

Unlike the man before, Duke Oswald Janson climbed out of the cab. He was of average height, with slick dark hair, a thick mustache, and a face very much like his son’s. He was dressed in a complicated suit, the jacket, pants, and bowtie of which were black, and his hands were gloved. Janson surveyed the scene, his hawklike eyes landing first on Ernest, then Clara, then Dom, before beckoning his son and climbing back inside the carriage. 

Dom wanted to take Clara’s advice and let Janson know exactly what he thought of the reforms, but he had a job to do, and people to support. He couldn’t lose this job, and insulting Duke Oswald Janson was like to lose him his life as well as his job.

Dom carried the baggage to the carriage, and caught a snatch of conversation. Ernest was excitedly telling his father about how a man called Duke Leonard Mephisto had come to pick up the other man on the train. Dom knew that name from politics, too, and knew that Duke Mephisto was Duke Janson’s rival. He was alright, but not Dom’s favorite. 

Once they’d gone, Dom heard the clock chime two, so he waved goodbye to the other workers and started home. He lived in an apartment building in a poor part of the city, in a two-room flat shared with two girls who he’d adopted into his care. One, Sylvia, was his daughter by his late wife, Rue, who had died years ago of the consumption that had taken his two young sons as well. The other, Deirdre, was an Irish girl, Sylvia’s friend, who had suffered some great trauma in Ireland that drove her to them for sanctuary. They both worked, Sylvia did “something” he suspected was illegal that took up most of her day, and Deirdre washed costumes for a high-profile theater. Neither of those jobs brought in much money, so on top of his regular work Dom left the girls alone at night and worked late night shifts no one wanted at the railroad. 

If need be, Dom could have quit his job, and they could have rented out one room to another person, but what else was there to do but work? He would rather have something to lose in the event of his untimely death.

They were not asleep when he arrived home, they never were, but were sitting at the small table playing a card game. Sylvia was winning by a fair margin, though Deirdre was being rather careful with her cards. When Sylvia turned to greet Dom, Deirdre slid a few cards from the deck into her hand. 

“Papa, Deirdre is a terrible cheater,” Sylvia said. Her accent was French, though they were not and had only lived there for a few years when she was very small. “You must tell her off.”

“Alas, if only she were my child. Did the two of you get something to eat?”

Sylvia gestured towards a half-finished loaf of bread. “We ate some of that. It was stale.”

“I’ll buy more tomorrow.”

Deirdre stood up, and Dom realized how pale she looked. “I’ll be going to bed now, Mr. Sapping.”

“Goodnight, Deirdre. There’s medicine in the cabinet if you need it.”

She shook her head and made for the bedroom. 

Dom sat with Sylvia for a few more moments, before she, too, went into the bedroom. The girls shared a room, and he slept on the sofa. They were lucky to own two rooms, so that the girls could have their own room, and lucky to not have to share their two rooms with anyone else. 

Someone knocked at the door, and Dom got up to see who it was. To his surprise, it was Dr Johann Faust, the man from the train. What was he doing here?

“Good sir,” Dr Faust said. “I have discovered that I am missing one of my smaller bags, a cloth knapsack that contained a series of very important books of mine. I was wondering if you had seen it?”

“Did you follow me here?”

“On the contrary, it would seem you followed me. My new lodgings are on the floor just above yours.”

Dom stared dumbly at him. A doctor? Living here? Why? That would be good for people who had severe medical conditions, at least. “Oh. Well, I can’t say that I have seen your bag. We can go back to the tracks to look if you think that would help.”

Dr Faust nodded, so Dom put his hat and coat back on and led him down the stairs. The tracks were close, and at a fast pace it only took them ten minutes to walk there. Dr Faust was silent during the walk, and Dom didn’t prompt conversation from him. He liked to be alone with his thoughts, which ran wild so late at night. 

When they arrived at the tracks, Dom went to unlock the building where any lost luggage would go. Dr Faust paced by the tracks while Dom fumbled with the lights.

“I highly doubt it would be in there, good sir. The bag is of dark fabric, and it is quite late.” Dr Faust had not moved from his position beside the tracks. “In fact, I think I see it there. Would you be so kind as to climb down and get it for me? I have not a light.”

Dom had a small candle in his pocket, which he lit and shone down onto the tracks. He saw the bag Dr Faust was talking about clear enough, sitting slumped onto one of the ties, but was loath to climb onto the train tracks. 

“Do you really need it tonight?” In the daytime, the workers could notify the running trains when someone was on the tracks, but now there was hardly anyone working at the station. The drivers of trains passing through would also not be able to see him. Maybe he could dash out and grab it, but the straps looked tangled in the tie somehow.

“I would prefer to not have that specific bag run over, good sir. Here, I can tip you for your efforts, I have English money now.” Dr Faust held up a shiny coin, which glinted like a cat’s eye in the night.

Dom could buy Sylvia a birthday gift with that. He licked his chapped lips in anticipation, looked both ways, and took a tentative step on the tracks. The bag was caught on a tie, tangled around the heavy bolt that kept it in place. Dom squatted down, and jammed his thumbs under the canvas strap. It smelled strongly of chemicals, and made him woozy. Hadn’t Faust said it was full of books? Liar. Something rumbled under Dom’s feet, and he gave up trying to untangle the strap. He took out his knife and sawed, growing desperate. The bag came free with a jerk, and Dom fell forward.

His face smashed into the fabric, and the chemicals contained within made his head pound. There was liquid on the surface; something must have broken. Dom went to grab it, and realized his sleeve had caught on the tie. He pulled, but the scent from the chemicals was sapping his strength. The train was coming, he could feel it in the ground, and Dom was panicking.

Suddenly, Dr Faust was there beside him, sawing at Dom’s caught sleeve. A shrill whistle split the night air, and Dom’s vision swam. His head fell, and he was aware that the rumbling in the ground was enough to make his molar rattle. He reached out for Dr Faust, and found that both the man and the bag were gone. The last thing he saw when he looked up was Faust tumbling across the tracks to the other side, and the frightened face of the driver as the train passed him by.