Clockwork Menagerie: A Shadows of Asphodel Novella by Karen Kincy Page B
Authors: Karen Kincy
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weapon.
“Just do the job properly,” Zinoviya said to her henchman.
Bracing himself on a table, Konstantin dragged himself to his feet and fumbled for a wrench. The Russian officer raised his saber’s pommel; Konstantin swung the wrench wildly and cracked him in the teeth. Cradling his jaw, the man swore and spat blood. Konstantin scrambled back and put the table between them.
Adrenaline roaring through his blood, he stumbled toward the exit.
“For heaven’s sake,” Zinoviya said, “use the barbiturates.”
With a burst of energy, Konstantin reached the door. The Russian officer clenched a fistful of his hair and yanked back his head. Pain stabbed Konstantin’s neck—the needle of a syringe, he realized, collapsing on the floor.
“Don’t do this,” he slurred, tongue thick, before the anesthesia knocked him out.
Eyes shut, Konstantin swayed back and forth. Rattling deafened his ears.
A train rushing over tracks. He was on a train.
Head pounding, he opened his eyes. Sunlight pierced a crack in the freight car. Sacks of potatoes lumped around him. It smelled of mold and blood—his blood. Rope twisted around his hands and feet, digging into his skin.
They hadn’t gagged him, which meant no one could hear him.
Acid rose in his throat, and he retched before gasping. Where was the train bound for? Countess Victorova hadn’t been so gracious as to hint at that before her goons rendered him unconscious. At least he wasn’t dead.
Yet.
Muscles straining, he lurched to his knees. With his hands behind his back, he staggered to his feet. The train cornered a bend; he fell sideways. God almighty, his skull might split open. On his knees again, he shuffled to the door. A rusty nail jutted from the wood. He backed against it and sawed at the rope around his hands.
This worked for the heroes of dime novels, but in reality he gouged himself and snagged the sisal rope on the nail. Swearing, he reevaluated the situation. He yanked the rope taut and wormed one of his wrists free, then the other. Being skinny had its benefits. Bruises purpled his raw skin. When he touched the back of his head, his fingers came away crusted with blood. Wincing, he unknotted the rope at his ankles.
What time was it? He squinted at the sunlight. Morning, perhaps, maybe even afternoon. How far had he traveled from St. Petersburg?
Konstantin stumbled to the door. Once unlatched, it rumbled open with a clang. Blinded, he shaded his eyes with his hand. Snow and pines and no sign of civilization. If he jumped, and didn’t break any bones, he would freeze to death in the Russian wilderness. If only Himmel were here with his maps.
Oh no, Theodore.
Konstantin sank onto a sack of potatoes. Would the countess tell everyone about his… proclivities with the captain? They would be fired. Convicted. Or punished outside of the law, like so many men before them. Even worse, he hadn’t told Himmel were he went. Not even about boarding an icebreaker to Kotlin Island.
No one knew where he had gone. No one could possibly find him now.
Judging by the sun, the train clattered due east, the route of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Baron von Bach had been prophetic.
The Russians really were shipping him to Siberia.
Teeth chattering, Konstantin huddled against the burlap, his eyes stinging, the world outside an endless wasteland in black and white. What had he done? He would die in Russia, of all despicable places. Honestly, he expected his obituary to list a fascinating experiment gone wrong, but this was humiliating.
Roughly, he scrubbed his face dry. They had stolen his gloves. Damn, he better not lose any of his fingers to frostbite. Despair wormed into the marrow of his bones. Vienna was gone. Himmel, gone. His life, gone.
All because he had been utterly right.
His stomach growled at this most inconvenient time. Raw potatoes weren’t on the menu. Konstantin was sure they tasted repulsive, and besides, he was allergic to potatoes, tomatoes, and
“Just do the job properly,” Zinoviya said to her henchman.
Bracing himself on a table, Konstantin dragged himself to his feet and fumbled for a wrench. The Russian officer raised his saber’s pommel; Konstantin swung the wrench wildly and cracked him in the teeth. Cradling his jaw, the man swore and spat blood. Konstantin scrambled back and put the table between them.
Adrenaline roaring through his blood, he stumbled toward the exit.
“For heaven’s sake,” Zinoviya said, “use the barbiturates.”
With a burst of energy, Konstantin reached the door. The Russian officer clenched a fistful of his hair and yanked back his head. Pain stabbed Konstantin’s neck—the needle of a syringe, he realized, collapsing on the floor.
“Don’t do this,” he slurred, tongue thick, before the anesthesia knocked him out.
Eyes shut, Konstantin swayed back and forth. Rattling deafened his ears.
A train rushing over tracks. He was on a train.
Head pounding, he opened his eyes. Sunlight pierced a crack in the freight car. Sacks of potatoes lumped around him. It smelled of mold and blood—his blood. Rope twisted around his hands and feet, digging into his skin.
They hadn’t gagged him, which meant no one could hear him.
Acid rose in his throat, and he retched before gasping. Where was the train bound for? Countess Victorova hadn’t been so gracious as to hint at that before her goons rendered him unconscious. At least he wasn’t dead.
Yet.
Muscles straining, he lurched to his knees. With his hands behind his back, he staggered to his feet. The train cornered a bend; he fell sideways. God almighty, his skull might split open. On his knees again, he shuffled to the door. A rusty nail jutted from the wood. He backed against it and sawed at the rope around his hands.
This worked for the heroes of dime novels, but in reality he gouged himself and snagged the sisal rope on the nail. Swearing, he reevaluated the situation. He yanked the rope taut and wormed one of his wrists free, then the other. Being skinny had its benefits. Bruises purpled his raw skin. When he touched the back of his head, his fingers came away crusted with blood. Wincing, he unknotted the rope at his ankles.
What time was it? He squinted at the sunlight. Morning, perhaps, maybe even afternoon. How far had he traveled from St. Petersburg?
Konstantin stumbled to the door. Once unlatched, it rumbled open with a clang. Blinded, he shaded his eyes with his hand. Snow and pines and no sign of civilization. If he jumped, and didn’t break any bones, he would freeze to death in the Russian wilderness. If only Himmel were here with his maps.
Oh no, Theodore.
Konstantin sank onto a sack of potatoes. Would the countess tell everyone about his… proclivities with the captain? They would be fired. Convicted. Or punished outside of the law, like so many men before them. Even worse, he hadn’t told Himmel were he went. Not even about boarding an icebreaker to Kotlin Island.
No one knew where he had gone. No one could possibly find him now.
Judging by the sun, the train clattered due east, the route of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Baron von Bach had been prophetic.
The Russians really were shipping him to Siberia.
Teeth chattering, Konstantin huddled against the burlap, his eyes stinging, the world outside an endless wasteland in black and white. What had he done? He would die in Russia, of all despicable places. Honestly, he expected his obituary to list a fascinating experiment gone wrong, but this was humiliating.
Roughly, he scrubbed his face dry. They had stolen his gloves. Damn, he better not lose any of his fingers to frostbite. Despair wormed into the marrow of his bones. Vienna was gone. Himmel, gone. His life, gone.
All because he had been utterly right.
His stomach growled at this most inconvenient time. Raw potatoes weren’t on the menu. Konstantin was sure they tasted repulsive, and besides, he was allergic to potatoes, tomatoes, and
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