Strong Mystery: Murder, Mystery and Magic Books 1-3 (Steampunk Magica) (4 page)

“No longer,” Jinhao replied. “You have seen the trouble I am in
at Court.” She regarded him levelly. “You are followed by expensive assassins
that seek your death. You are no common British nobleman.”

Strong looked nonplussed at this statement.

“Well, yes,” he admitted, “but I am retired from all that.”

“Yes,” she replied calmly. “Much as I am retired from being an
Adept
I think.”

He laughed at that.

“Very well,” he said gaily. “Let us both keep our secrets, and
stop this talk of life debts and the like. Together we shall see what
diversions this Hong Kong has for us, shall we?” He stuck out a hand. “Deal?”
Jinhao looked at his outstretched hand. She took it firmly in hers.

“Deal,” she said, trying not to smile. Owen Strong released her
hand. He pulled a watch on a chain from within his cloak.

“I was contemplating taking the morning airship south to the
city,” he explained. “We still have time to make it. I trust you are not afraid
of flying?” This time Jinhao allowed herself a smile.

“I enjoy it immensely,” she said with a secret smile. “Although
it has been some time since I flew.”

“Very well,” Strong replied. “Let us be about it then!”

Jinhao smiled even more broadly. There was no need for him to
know that there was no life debt custom among the Han. He was British, after
all. And there was her vision to follow.

BOOK 2
STRONG MAGIC

Chapter 1
Hong Kong 1885 A.M. (After Mithras)

Owen Strong leapt down from the carriage, his
nostrils flaring as if he were hunting
. The scent of the
yellowish night fog almost reminded him of London, a bit less sulfuric perhaps,
but coal was expensive here in Hong Kong. The air carried wisps of incense and
strange musk, scents that Owen found oddly exhilarating. 

Behind him stepped Jinhao, hooded and enigmatic in her dark
night cloak. The evening was merely cool to Owen, being used to colder
climates. However, he’d been told that it was actually considered cold by local
standards, the weather having become unpredictable almost everywhere these
days. 

Owen noted Jinhao edging up behind him, but kept his focus on
the gray building that loomed before them, with its single, dark door.

Delicately, he spun out his awareness, honed as much by his
time in the Crimean War as it was by his tutors in sorcery. Briefly, he touched
a powerful focus of man-made energies, withdrawing as quickly as he could to
avoid the other Magian detecting him. He felt a surge of excitement. Their
information had been correct. The old warehouse did conceal their quarry. Now,
if only they were still in time to save the Duke’s niece

Owen heard the nearby carriage springs creak, as it released
the burden of Inspector Yu-An Gregg and the chief Magian of the constabulary,
Sir Charles Foster. Gregg came to stand beside him, looking at the warehouse building
with distaste.

“You sure that’s it, Milord?”

Owen was only the second son of
the late Duke Harold Strong
—
may his memory endure. The title counted for little
here. British younger sons had been coming to this bewildering city, a city that
was neither British Colony, nor Chinese fief, for nearly a hundred years
seeking their fortunes. Owen’s purse, which his older brother filled regularly,
commanded more respect than the title. 

Gregg however, was a class snob,
one who would never let Owen forget his place in society, not even for a
moment.  Gregg hawked, and spat onto the sideway, then looked at the building
again.

“I don’t like it,” he said in
his thick English. “I don’t like it at all.”

“He’s there, Gregg, never doubt
it! And if we’re lucky, so should be the Duchess,” Owen said to the detective.
He squared his shoulders as if readying for a battle. “Can you not feel the
evil radiating from it?”

Gregg hawked again.

“I leave that to you Magian
types,” he said shortly. “What do you say, Sir Charles?”

The mutton-chopped Official Sorcerer
waddled forward and peered through his thick eye glasses at the building. He
sniffed dismissively.

“I suppose it’s possible. This
is the Pangyaun District, however,” he pronounced with disgust, looking around
at the dilapidated buildings that flanked their target, “and the miasma could
have any number of causes.” He clicked his tongue.

“It is a rather large building,
Inspector. We should wait for the reinforcements. Even if Strong is correct,”
his voice left little doubt about what he thought of that possibility. “I doubt
that running around in there will profit us more than bruises.” 

Owen had found the little man’s
arrogance and, he now suspected, his cowardice, insufferable even before this
pronouncement. He checked a retort, and turned back to Gregg, speaking in as
reasoned a tone as he could manage.

“I tell you, Inspector,” Owen
pressed, “I sense the same aura in that building as I did before. Our villain
is in there, and, almost as certainly, so is the Duke of Chu’s niece. We must
hurry. As I said before, given the astrological timing, there may be only
moments to save her.”

Gregg squinted at Owen, saying
nothing. Finally, he sighed.

“You’ve been right so far,
Milord.” His hand reached under his coat and emerged with a long barreled
pistol, the short charge tube at the butt end glowing balefully.

“Foster,” he ordered wearily, “we’re
going in.” 

Owen raised an eyebrow in
surprise when he saw the weapon in Gregg’s hand.

“An
aether
gun,
Inspector?” Owen had seen few of those since leaving the army. He knew that
such weapons were severely restricted in civilian use by the Crown. The glow of
the
aetheric
fluid in the handle told his practiced eye that it was
probably charged with lightning.   

 Alchemical artificers had
learned to fashion devices that could manipulate the elemental powers in much
the same way as the power Owen could wield with his mind and body as a trained Sorcerer.
Magian
was the term in polite society these days for one who could use
Magia. Some insisted on the term to denote modern scientific methods as opposed
to the
hedge witchery
of olden times. Owen personally didn’t care what
they called him. He’d learned that power spoke more loudly than a dictionary,
and he doubted that Sorcerers would be replaced by machines anytime soon.   

Gregg gave a half-embarrassed
shrug.

“Special issue. If this madman
is as powerful as you say, it seemed warranted.” He fixed Owen with a stony
look.  “Mind you, Milord, you best be right. I have to answer to the
superintendent himself just for drawing this from the armory.”

Owen gave the Inspector a short
nod of respect. Gregg was a good sort for a policeman, he’d found, for all his
avowed cynicism. He seemed as honest as the police ever were here, and he truly
seemed to care. 

Being the only half Chinese
Chief Inspector in the city’s department couldn’t be easy for him. Their doings
tonight could easily see Gregg’s career broken, just for following the word of
a civilian such as Owen.

Rather than acknowledging any of that, Owen simply replied.

“Let us be about it then.” He
hefted the electrum walking stick that was far more deadly in his hands than
Gregg’s gun.

“You’re not going,” Gregg said
bluntly. “I’ll not be responsible for a civilian, let alone a noble one. Wait
here for the reinforcements. Sir Charles,” he hefted the gun, addressing the
older man, “let’s go.”

Foster pulled an electrum wand
from his sleeve.

“Very well,” he harrumphed, “but
this is foolishness.” The clear crystal on one end of the wand began to softly
glow, while the black crystal on the other end seemed to swallow the light around
it. The two began walking towards the door without another word to Owen. 

Rather than protest, Owen passed
a meaningful look to Jinhao over his shoulder. She nodded silently. Her cloak
flowed from shoulders to the ground, revealing a loose black tunic and pants
with a close-fitting hood of the same color that left only her eyes visible.
Over her shoulders, Owen could glimpse the hilts of twin blades. The woman
moved in a silent blur, vanishing around the corner of the building. 

Owen silently wished her well,
and then ghosted up behind the two men who were now standing before the door.
Sir Charles Foster’s wand glowed against the shadowed doorframe; Owen sensed
the
working
. He swore softly, hefting his cane.

“What the devils do you think
you’re doing?” Owen hissed at Foster.

The squat man startled, then
snapped at Owen without turning his head.

“Checking for wards, Strong.
This isn’t my first tea party, you know,” the contempt was now clear in his
voice. 

“You’ll trigger any wards he’s
set you, fool, let alone alert him that we’re here,” Owen snapped back.

“That will be enough,” Gregg
hissed. “Milord, I thought I told you…” his rebuke was cut off in astonishment
as a circle of angry, pulsing red energy appeared under their feet, alive with
crawling lines within it.

Quickly, Owen activated one of
his tattoos, feeling it burn against his skin as he focused its energy through
his cane. The three men flew backwards through the air carried by Owen’s air
spell, just as the circle exploded in a fiery cloud that roiled upwards. 

Landing in a tangled heap, Owen
scrambled to get his feet under him.

“That’s torn it,” he exclaimed.
“He knows we’re here!” He ran for the door, slamming his shoulder against it to
no effect. Gregg, shaking himself off, ran up behind him.

“It seems to be metal beneath
the wood,” Owen exclaimed. He stood back and started raising his cane.

Gregg tried the door with his
shoulder and then roared in Mandarin.

“Mother’s sweaty arm-pits! A
steel door in the Pangyaun? A steel door I don’t know about?” He moved back,
raising his gun.

“Save your power, Milord,” he
continued more calmly in now un-accented English. “No one sets up a steel door
here without official sanction
—
my
sanction. The bastard has made me mad now.”

Owen averted his eyes as a
flash-crack erupted from the gun’s muzzle, and then another. Owen blinked away
the after-spots swimming before his eyes as there came a sound of tearing metal.
Gregg’s foot had kicked in the door.

It fell with a resounding crash,
and both men looked into the dark cavern of the warehouse beyond.

 “Where’s Foster?” Gregg turned
to look about him. “Foster!” He called over his shoulder, “Get in here!”

“I, I think I’m injured,” came a
weak voice from where they had fallen after Owen’s
air
spell. Gregg sighed
loudly, the thick accent back in his voice.

“What was that at the door,
Milord?
I’m thinking that we definitely need more Magian help before
going in after that.”

“
Fire
ward,” Owen replied
shortly. “Sorry for the rough ride; I felt it best to get us out of the field
as quickly as possible.”

 A woman’s scream came from
within the gloom of the building.

“There’s no more time, Gregg. We
have to go now!” Owen shouted, sprinting forward. One by one Owen activated his
tattoos of power as he ran. That
fire
ward had not been set by a
dabbler, no matter how deranged. Owen feared he’d need all the power he had
before all was done.

Looking about in the dim light
that came through the doorway, he was confronted by tall walls of stacked
crates.

The scream came again, followed
by a voice pleading in Mandarin. Cursing under his breath, Owen lit the gem set
in the handle of his walking stick, giving him a low light to see by. Choosing
a path between the stacks, he moved on as quickly as he could.

As he threaded his way among the
stacks, he felt the thrill of impending battle course through his body like an
old lover. He didn’t realize he’d missed it quite so much.

Was this really why he’d gotten
involved in this affair despite his own high-sounding ideals, for the hope of
fighting again? Was he really that crass? He pushed aside the thoughts when he
saw a stronger light around a corner of stacks. Dousing the light of his
gemstone, he peered around the corner and froze before a scene from some
version of a Christian hell.

In a circle of light cast by a
mage lantern hung above them was a metal table with two men standing next to
it. One was an older man, clad only in a rubber apron and boots, goggles with
an array of lenses sprouting from his head. The other, in threadbare clothes
holding a tray was clearly an
Animated
.

Animated
were made by Necromancers from the body parts of
living persons, then given a kind of false life by their creator. If Owen had
any doubts about his theories concerning the disappearances, they were laid to
rest by what he now saw.

A young woman lay on the table,
struggling with her steel bonds. As the older man took up a thin blade from the
tray and turned to lean over her, she screamed again. Time to put a stop to
this, Owen vowed. Readying himself, he stepped around the corner.

“Stop!” He shouted out.
“Archibald Renton, you are called to challenge!” If his theories were correct,
Renton’s ego would not allow him to refuse a Sorcerer’s challenge. While they battled
it out, Jinhao should be able to get the girl to safety. He had no doubts that Jinhao
was even now hiding in the shadows waiting to strike. At least, that had been
the plan.

The old man looked up, the light
reflecting off of his lenses, making him look like some grotesque insect.
Instead of showing distress at Owen’s appearance, he cackled.

“Are you the pansy-assed lording
who has been dogging my steps? I’m not surprised that you showed up after that
knock on the door.”

Owen stepped closer, his walking
stick pointed at Renton like a gun.

“My name is Owen Strong, Renton,
and I call you to challenge.”

“Challenge?” The old man
wheezed, then cackled again. “You have no concept of the power I wield!” He
pointed towards the shadows in a sweeping gesture first to the left, then the
right with the thin blade. “Rend him, my pretties!” He waved a hand
dismissively, “That for your challenge, lordling!”

Owen heard the sudden shamble of
many feet. Out of the shadows emerged horrid shapes. Some were freakishly tall,
while others were as small as children. Their patchwork of limbs and heads were
attached to the wrong bodies, and all of them were reaching out towards him in
eerie silence. There were a lot of them, closing around him in a half-circle.