Lands Beyond Box Set: Books 1 - 3 Read online

  Lands Beyond Box Set

  Kin S. Law

  LANDS BEYOND BOX SET

  Books 1 - 3 and Bonus Sneak Peek

  By

  Kin S. Law

  Copyright © 2019 Kin S. Law

  Edited by Heather McCorkle.

  Cover Design by Tina Moss.

  All stock photos licensed appropriately.

  Published in the United States by City Owl Press.

  www.cityowlpress.com

  For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior consent and permission of the publisher.

  Praise for the Works of Kin S. Law

  “As befits steampunk, Law fills the pages with exciting gear action and fashion...His prose includes some brilliant descriptions including the opening sentence: ‘A black murder rose from the wound of a cliff’.”

  - Publisher’s Weekly

  “Adventure is what I expected going into this book, and adventure is what I got. The atmosphere was entrancing, the airships were captivating, the action was spot on. I can’t wait to see what the author has in store for us next!”

  - Mystery Author, M. W. Griffith

  “A different take on the steampunk genre. Most stories tend to explore the contraptions invented had the Industrial Revolution taken a different path, and the world remained stuck in the Victorian Era. Using Mark Twain as a pivotal character will likely bring about a chuckle or two.”

  - M. P. Ceja, InD’Tale Magazine

  “It's a fun story about a diverse group who comes together to save the world, something we've seen many times, but what sets this story apart is the quality of the writing- great dialogue, cool world building and wonderful characters, especially the women. Rosa and Vanessa are prickly, strong, smart, and capable, and couldn't be more different from one another. No damsels in distress in this Pirate story, I loved those ladies.”

  - GoodReads Reviewer

  “The characterization of the four main characters is exceptionally well done. The plot is a weave of two quests. The first is to find out who is stealing famous landmarks like Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower, and of course to fight them and thus return the landmarks. The second is to find Albion’s mentor, Captain Sam Clemens, and resolve the issues that caused their separation. The fantasy elements were quite interesting and the author has been very creative.”

  - ARC Reviewer

  Contents

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  FUTURE THAT NEVER WAS

  1. 1

  2. 2

  3. 3

  4. 4

  5. 5

  6. 6

  7. 7

  8. 8

  9. 9

  10. 10

  11. 11

  12. 12

  13. 13

  14. 14

  15. 15

  16. 16

  17. 17

  18. 18

  19. 19

  20. 20

  21. 21

  22. 22

  23. 23

  24. 24

  25. 25

  26. 26

  27. 27

  28. 28

  29. 29

  30. 30

  31. 31

  32. 32

  33. 33

  34. 34

  Epilogue

  SPECTRE OF WAR

  1. Prelude

  2. 1

  3. 2

  4. 3

  5. 4

  6. Interlude I

  7. 5

  8. 6

  9. Interlude II

  10. 7

  11. Interlude III

  12. 8

  13. 9

  14. 10

  15. 11

  16. 12

  17. 13

  18. 14

  19. 15

  20. Interlude Exeunt

  OF STATIONS INFERNAL

  1. Station 1

  2. Station 2

  3. Station 3

  4. Station 4

  5. Station 5

  6. Station 6

  7. Station 7

  8. Station 8

  9. Station 9

  10. Station 10

  11. Station 11

  12. Station 12

  13. Station 13

  14. Station 14

  15. Station 15

  16. Station 16

  17. Station 17

  18. Station 18

  19. Station 19

  20. Station 20

  21. Terminus

  Want More City Owl Press Books?

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Additional Titles

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  FUTURE THAT NEVER WAS

  1

  The Rogue, the Maid, and the Writer

  Albion

  My first thought upon setting boot in the tavern was a guilty pleasure. Sure, I had seen my share of beautiful bodies and vivacious visages, but those had been limited to lantern-lit shadow play, and jasmine-scented nights lingering like incense on the skin.

  With my unshaven beard, it would be hard for the girls to tell I wasn’t a native. Kowloon might not be home anymore, but the girls there were short, slender, and demure. They spoke very little, giggled over men who looked like children, and covered their lily-pad feet with silk. I always thought of them as carefully tended orchids, easily plucked or crushed. Girls in this Dublin pub looked like a field of sunflowers: gold where Kowloon girls were dark, round where they were flat, some even tall enough to look me in the eye. My back straightened a couple vertebrae just asking for a table. Everywhere they moved they laughed and joked with the patrons. And what patrons they were, a dirty, drunk, decadent, downtrodden, delinquent, dated, dour, diverse, different bunch.

  A few gentlemanly types trawled through in various levels of stupor. Clinging to the girls and ordering liquor like water, the group inspired me in a mostly Sherwood Forest kind of way. I was not the only one. A quartet of sailors in waterproof slickers eyed the dandies, their coin occasionally drawing attention, but unable to compete with the gold fobs, expensive cigars lit with shining flintlocks, nor the frilly lace likely to disintegrate at the taste of salt. I sensed an upcoming confrontation. If the dandies left with the whole covey, some would likely see the end of a dagger. Say what you like about the dirigible age, but it does bring people together.

  I slumped onto a bench, choosing a booth with my back to the wall. A polite gesture caught the sight of the nearest barmaid, who balanced a platter and an inebriate. She fended off the dandy in an elaborate velvet suit, drunk out of his mind and grabbing for her hip-length pleats. Blondie was a very good actress, having at her disposal an endless array of winks, smiles, and flips of her hair. Not only did said skirt never catch on his meat hooks, she came away with a bit of shiny tip as well. Her linen barely creased.

  Unable to contain my appreciation, I whistled softly as
she came to take my order. At first, she must have thought it more wolf-calls and heckling, but the smile in my eyes soon propagated to the barmaid’s.

  “He’s a merchant out of Camden,” she informed me, in the way most working girls have when chancing upon an empathic soul. I remembered dimly a time those two words were scandalous in Britain—a farthing for the man who guesses which two I mean.

  “Bit of a run-in with air pirates, lost his entire shipment of fine Caledonia perfume,” she continued.

  I noted the slender figure, the modest curves, but also the wide Nordic shoulders and the regal set to her hips. Strange place to meet such a distinctive woman, but I supposed anything is possible when one could hop on a dirigible one day and be on the other side of the world in a matter of weeks.

  “A shame,” I replied, trying not to stare at the deep bosom peeking out from her frills.

  “Isn’t it though? Portsmouth had a reputation for ladies of the evening, even before the airship towers went up. A girl needs to wash between jobs. Lad would have made a killing, pardon my French. Wouldn’t be interested in such things, I take it? Fine upstanding gent like yourself?”

  “You might be surprised.” A glittering bottle of lavender essence appeared from a deep pocket in my duster.

  “That’s Caledonian, isn’t it?” she whispered on the sly. “Best not to let too many eyes on it.”

  “For you,” I said. “If I can avail myself of one of your hot ciders?”

  “Cheeky monkey. Coming up,” she answered with a wink.

  I watched her leave, making a subtle show of touching the bottle on her wrists, before making it vanish into the pockets of her apron. I suppose it might have been another of her acts, but the delicate dabs didn’t seem to fit with her character. She looked like she knew what she was doing. I took my pint of cider, and watched her hips sway as she left, putting the disquiet out of mind.

  The Jilted Merman was half-full that evening. Night mist snuck in with the soon-to-be inebriates, drifting through the plank door, bright with moonlight. Ornaments yet hung on one drooping evergreen in the corner, cheap baubles to wring every last bit of cheer from the salty patrons. Evidently the barkeep preferred the scent of pine needles to his clientele’s breath.

  It does the Portsmouth people credit to note that their natives were placidly drinking next to unidentifiable scoundrels, air pirates, and jacks of all trades lurking in the dark corners of the tavern. The smattering of locals were well-muscled, weather-roughened, and clearly a group not to be fucked with. Toughs in tweed, all of them. One particularly ginger fellow, having the slight, rat-like bearing of a no-good cutpurse, attempted to size me up. I simply removed my well-worn duster. This revealed aeronaut’s muscles as tight as cord on the wide set of my shoulders, and all was well. My brown eyes and silken hair often drew louts who thought Orientals were pushovers, which was why I had trained my arms to speak for me.

  Suddenly, the voice of our friend the dandy merchant rang out in an aria of woe.

  “Damn and blast!” He cursed with London airs through a week’s worth of beard. “If it weren’t for the Turkish blockade, my dear Swarthy Wain would yet be riding the gales!”

  “You sayin’ them bloody Turks shot down your freighter?” prompted a sympathetic friend, or a curious sadist.

  “I’m saying those bloody borscht-swilling swine closed the route over the Ottomans. Great big cannon emptying bandits out of their skies and into ours! I took my Wain over land, avoiding the worst of them in the Channel, when who should I see?” the merchant announced.

  “Who?” chirped a chorus of ill-weather friends. Misery indeed loves company.

  “The Blasted Manchu Marauder! Albion Clemens! Him and that accursed ship, what was her name, The Gooseberry? The Cloudberry?”

  “The Huckleberry!” I called, certain my voice would be directionless in this crowd.

  “The Devil take The Huckleberry and her crew! Damn ship just drops out of the sun, she does, and quick as a wink we’re boarded by masked pirates, rounded up by a fence of cutlasses!”

  I couldn’t have taken a better advert in the paper. At this point, several patrons became willing to ply the piracy victim with drink in exchange for details, and his voice fell to a hush. Surely that had been his ploy?

  Quietly chuckling in the corner, I turned to receive a steaming flagon of cider from the beauteous barmaid.

  She leaned close and kept her voice low. “Here you are, Marauder,” she quipped, returning my sass cheek for cheek.

  Obligingly, I flipped her a coin for her trouble. I was beginning to like her. As she caught the coin, I caught her wrist gently. “Say, all jibes aside, I wonder if you could help me.”

  “Back door is next to the loo. Turn left to get to the docks, right goes by the constabulary,” she supplied, clearly used to her clientele. “If you’re in a carousing mood, I’m afraid the night flowers have all been plucked, and I just serve drinks.”

  “How could you think I had such lewd intentions? Betrayal made fouler by beauty!” I feigned a gasp. “No, my dear, I’m looking for a man.”

  “Oh my…are you sure?” she pouted, popping out a well-formed Nordic hip.

  “He’s…like a father to me,” I obliged, and for a moment it seemed as if the actress had been replaced by a human being. Wry smiles soon masked her again, but at least she seemed sincerely willing to help.

  “Sorry, I haven’t seen a cloth button or silk slipper in here for months, not since the Imperial ambassador’s visit. You are a rare sight, Chinaman,” she answered helpfully. Vixen once more, she scented for a tip. “Especially a young, handsome Chinaman…”

  “Age is a question of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter,” I said, surprising myself. It had been something Captain Sam said quite often.

  “You sound like an old man!” Blondie chortled.

  “Might be because I’m looking for one, an American. White hair and beard, bit of a penchant for cigars. Might be wearing a dirty drover’s hat. Likes blondes. Would be carrying a Winchester rifle.”

  As I talked to my barmaid, the rat-like ginger man resumed eyeballing me from across the pub over rounded spectacles. I didn’t like it very much, especially when I caught the glimpse he gave to two rather unsavory characters in a booth. No rat like a rat with two snakes for backup.

  “No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone like that,” my barmaid said, nibbling on a stray lock of hair from her bun.

  “I know him. He would have been through this tavern,” I said, keeping my tone nonchalant. “Thank you anyway.”

  “I’ll ask around. If you need anything, just call.” She favored me with a wink.

  I turned my attention to the second flagon, always the better of the two for its lack of immediacy. Savor is best when thirst comes second.

  Master Ginger slipped through the pub and into my booth, even as the maid laid down two more flagons of wondrous cider. He seemed surprised, and impressed, his spectacles highlighting large, dark eyes. At close range, the man did not seem so rat-like. A sparse frame hung on strong shoulders, made deceptively smaller by an overlarge tweed coat. His ginger was fake. Black roots sprouted at eyebrow and hairline over a pasty complexion. Under dirty tweed and threadbare elbows, the man’s clothing was simple linen and canvas, but surprisingly clean. He spread his hands, to show he meant no harm.

  Five lead slugs weighed down my hip. I debated muffling the hammer click against my duster, but I doubted murder was on his mind. Ginger and his friends were planning something; I just didn’t know what. But I had been taught to be prepared.

  “Wotcher drinkin?” he asked in a passable cockney. The voice was surprisingly warm. “Looks good.”

  “Help yourself,” I offered. Just kill them with kindness. “You have business with me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He smiled, and took a long draught, breathing a contented cloud of spirit into the chill pub air. “This is the only thing I get in the Isles.”
r />   “Best cider in the Commonwealth,” I agreed.

  Lamplight flickered over his face, giving him a merry expression that no doubt matched mine. It was good warm gaslight too, none of the humming or buzzing from those Tesla or Edison arclights. A good deal warmer than the deadly game we were playing, certainly.

  “The lager is better in Deutschland,” the ginger began. “France has the best wine, and I get nothing but stout on the Emerald Isles. Nothing holds a candle to English cider. My name is Elric Blair, and I need your help.”

  “Shaw,” I answered, choosing the name of a friend. Blair’s eyebrow popped up over one lens.