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Clockwork Heart (nanowrimo 2012)

© Katherine Pocock 2012

Prologue

It was barely four in the afternoon, but already the air had grown cold and the sun had begun its descent. Bitter cold air kicked up off of the unsettled waves lapping against the docks. Caught by the wind, it brought a brine scented mist ashore where it hung low around the ankles of sleepy workers who were ambling their way home.

The ones with the weaker constitutions gasped and skittered as the fog, which had been burnt red by the dying light, clawed at their skirts. They would look around with wide fearful eyes and their hearts thumping loudly within their ears, wholly convinced that it was an omen – an omen of death.

Those built of stronger stuff, shuddered and folded their arms across their chests. Their steps moved with renewed vigour as the blood red fingers snatched at their ankles. Each still held on to their paranoia like a comforting companion, their eyes darting here there and everywhere as they searched -- always searching for a sign of him.

This sense of unease cloaked every inch of the industrious and somewhat idyllic town of Portside. Sat on one of the largest import docks in the five neighbouring counties, it had always been known primarily for its trade and stunning views.

Until he came – the ripper.

No one knew which ship he had climbed off of, but the townspeople always looked to the shadows for his face. It was the face of the faceless for no one living knew who he was, what he looked like or even if it was a man. It had to be though, the papers would argue daily – because how could someone as evil as the ripper be a woman?

They would shudder if they knew – shudder to know exactly what it was that hunted on their streets.

And yet, those who were most at danger and had been the primary target of this killer, chose to ignore each of the warnings. Even as sensational stories of hearts torn from chests reached their ears, the continued on with their lives as it was merely a speck of dirt on their frock coats. The poorer half of town was hurrying home so they could lock themselves safely within their four walls and pray they would see morning light. Yet those most at risk, those with more money than they had sense, dressed up in the best frocks and coattails in preparation for another evening of drinks and festivities.

Drayton House, a large estate belonging to one of the wealthier families of the town, stood out proud among the darkening city as light shone brightly from each window like a beacon in the night. More notable was the long procession of coaches that wound up the long driveway and through half of the city. That evening, the youngest Drayton daughter was being thrust upon society. So in answer, society decided to take advantage of the free food and entertainment so they could gossip about everyone’s business under the guise of small talk. No one cared in the slightest that this young woman was old enough to wed, not even Miss Drayton herself.

A large black coach rolled forth drawing every eye within the closest vicinity. It stopped before the front steps of the large estate with much clanking and groaning that was much louder due to the sudden silence that had fallen over the gather crowds.

The footmen jumped from their perches at the back of the coach while the driver pulled a lever at his side. It caused the beasts before him to whinny in protest before their bodies stiffened and they became immobile.

Most people sent curious glances their way, but not because of the extraordinary presence of metal horses. No, every one of the town knew what they were and probably owned one or two of them. It was because they were curious as to who would make such a spectacle of themselves.

Women laughed behind their fans and men coughed and spluttered their laughs into their glasses.

One man even leaned in to his companion and whispered in her ear.

“Surely they know how ridiculous and scandalous it is to have clockworks operating at such a high decibel.”

His friend nodded her head in agreement. It was one of the golden rules abided by those with money. In a town that was so noisy, everything proper and seemly was to be seen and not heard. It went for the women, it went for the staff and to be the best of the best in social graces, you had to have quiet clockworks too.

At the midst of the spectacle, a blushing debutante spilled from the carriage with the help of a portly footman. At only five foot one, young Elaina had to tilt her head back as far as it could go to give the man a smile of gratitude.

He nodded his head respectfully, a twinkle in his eyes as he gave the young woman’s hand a squeeze while her female companion stepped out from the carriage behind her with extra care. The older woman, with greying hair and a lined face, made a great procession of organising her skirts and tilting her chin in the air as an act of open defiance. Being a woman of superior breeding, the crone would be damned to hell before she would let herself be cowed by the judgemental gazes boring into the side of her face.

Yet Elaina Banner, whose face was still hot from embarrassment, turned away and allowed her gaze to find the comforting nothingness of the ground. The petite woman had always been shy and thus was keenly aware of the judgemental eyes staring at her within that moment. They all remarked under their breaths that she looked sickly despite the large amounts of powder applied to her skin and the pinkness on her cheekbones.

The only stare she failed to notice were the most important pair of them all.

Perched upon the uppermost part of the house, a figure leaned forwards over the edge of the roof while its hands were lightly wrapped around the snout of the gruesome looking stone gargoyle. The shadow on the roof barely paused to think about the distance between itself and the ground. Instead, it squinted and leaned even further forwards as if to get a better look.

There was no sound up on that roof, no sound of breathing, only the whisper of the wind as it whipped the hood around the person’s head revealing a pale cheek before it was hidden in the hood’s shadow once more.

The loud arrival of the carriage had drawn its attention. Snapping its head around to peer at the commotion, a spectator might have puzzled at the jerky way that the figure jerked its head to the side. The figure lips twitched up into a strange grimace beneath that hood, an equivalent to smiling as its bold stare remained transfixed upon the blushing young woman with a sickly pallor.

Anticipation burned deep within at the promise of a hunt. And there was a strange happiness too within its empty chest that the hunter may finally find what it was searching for.

The girl with her obvious lack of health had to be the one.  

“Mine,” A silken voice whispered into the night only to have the words whipped away by another brush of biting coldness. But the threat was there all the same as it glared down at the brown haired teen below. “I will have what is mine.”

The Ripper would just watch until it was time …time to kill again