Clockwork Menagerie: A Shadows of Asphodel Novella by Karen Kincy Page A

from fiddling with it so he wouldn’t look suspicious. They ventured down an endless corridor lit by kerosene lamps, portraits of important Russians glowering from the walls.
    How big was this building? Where was the laboratory?
    What if there was no laboratory, just a dungeon where they would torture him until he confessed all the archmages’ secrets?
    How ridiculous. Konstantin fought a nervous laugh.
    “This way, sir.”
    A door groaned open on rusty hinges. Beyond, darkness gaped like the belly of a whale.
    “This is it?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Konstantin gripped the camera to hide his trembling hands. “The lights?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The cadet ducked into the shadows. A heartbeat later, electric lights buzzed on above. Adrenaline spiked Konstantin’s blood.
    This was the laboratory.



onstantin would recognize psychothaumaturgy equipment anywhere.
    A sinister steel chair dominated the room, looking as if it might electrocute whoever sat on its black leather seat. Tubes of tempered glass flickered with unearthly violet light—likely one of the noble gases, best suited to channeling souls. On a worktable, a colorless crystal glittered on velvet. His throat tight, he walked to the gemstone, hesitant to touch its icy facets. Within its heart, a wisp of light flickered.
    Some unfortunate soul, imprisoned by technomancy.
    “Konstantin Falkenrath.” Countess Victorova’s voice startled him.
    He composed himself before turning around. “This must be your laboratory.”
    Zinoviya eyed him with a flawless smile. Her gown of cobwebby silk lent her the look of a ghost. “Did you receive an invitation?”
    Konstantin’s heart raced so fast he felt dizzy for a spell. “Forgive my curiosity.”
    “May I see your camera?” She slinked closer, her gown rustling on the concrete. “It looks like a lovely piece of equipment.”
    He couldn’t refuse, not without abandoning his charade.
    Konstantin lifted the camera from his neck. One moment, Zinoviya cradled it as sweetly as a baby; the next, the camera tumbled to the floor. He lunged with outstretched hands, too late, the lens cracking upon impact.
    Zinoviya’s lips curved in a pout. “Goodness, pardon my ineptitude.”
    “Jesus Christ! You can’t do this.”
    Her laugher chimed like shattering crystal. “Konstantin, dear, you really haven’t a clue.”
    “Psychothaumaturgy is illegal.” He stared her down, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Immoral.”
    “You’re such a bumbling idiot.” She smiled as if teasing him, toying with his scarf.
    Konstantin gritted his teeth. Her perfume clouded his nose, the cloying smell of lilies at a funeral. “They will hang you for this.”
    Zinoviya stroked her fingertips along his cheekbone; he jerked back. “Calm yourself.”
    “That’s hardly appropriate, considering the circumstances.”
    “For a man with your abnormal proclivities, you mustn’t be so obvious.”
    Ice chilled his veins. “What do you mean?” It sounded unconvincing, even to him.
    “How coy of you.” Her eyes gleamed in the electric lights. “My poor dearly departed husband preferred the company of other men, when he was sober enough to perform at all. God knows how much time I wasted on him.”
    Konstantin grimaced. “I’m uninterested in gossip.”
    “The Archmages of Vienna may be very interested. What is the punishment for sodomy in Austria-Hungary? Imprisonment? Death?”
    He laughed hollowly. “A crime I have never committed, I assure you.”
    Zinoviya curled her lip. “You aren’t much of a liar.”
    “Go ahead. Blackmail me. They must already suspect me, if it’s so very obvious.”
    She stepped back, her face blank. “True, though it wouldn’t be the most expedient option.” Her gaze flicked over his shoulder.
    Tensing, Konstantin turned—a blow to the back of his head knocked him sprawling.
    Blackness edged his eyesight. He crawled to his knees, brain aching against his skull, and hunted for something, anything as a