Blog Tour: One Flew Through the Dragon Heart by C.S. Johnson

I’m pleased to share this new book with you all today! One Flew Through the Dragon Heart is the first book in a new steampunk series by C.S. Johnson. Today I  have an exclusive excerpt for you to read, and a chance to win a paperback copy of the book!

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Publication Date:December 21st, 2018

Genre: Steampunk/ Fantasy

A Chinese Legend. A British Secret. Star-Crossed Lovers with Incompatible Magic.

Brixton Flew works as a professor of wielder instruction at Rembrandt Academy, hoping to erase the regrets of his youth along with the resulting debt. But when he comes face to face with his biggest regret—the woman who broke his heart, Adelaide Favan—Brixton soon realizes his troubles have only begun.

Unable to control her magic, Adelaide knew leaving Brixton was the only way to protect him when they were younger. Now she discovers he is the key to recovering the Dragon Eyes, a legendary treasure connected to her magic and her family’s disgraced legacy—and she knows the risk is great, to both his life and her heart.

With others seeking the power of the Dragon Eyes, Brixton and Adelaide must outwit their foes and face down their families to save London from an ancient legend that sleeps beneath the magic portal in their city.

But the renewed passion growing between them may prove to be the greater peril …

One Flew Through the Dragon Heart is the first book in a new steampunk series by C.S. Johnson, blending together history, romance, mecha-dragons and magic against the glittering backdrop of 1880’s Victorian London.

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Excerpt

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“Brixton.”

His sixteen-year-old self was scurrying past the materials room when he heard his name spoken with a soft, foreign lilt. The sound broke through him like a magic spell, disrupting his intellectual musings and forcing him into an uncomfortable position.

He was in a hurry; his professor would be upset if he was late for class. As a star pupil, Brixton knew he had a certain reputation to live up to, and he had learned well not to call any negative attention to himself.

But at the sound of Adelaide Favan calling for him, he felt helpless—helplessly nervous and helplessly intrigued. It was almost as if some part of him had been waiting for her to call, and he had been more than ready to answer.

Out of guilt, if nothing else.

He nearly lost his grip on the stack of books he carried as he stumbled to a stop and glanced back at the doorway to the materials room. He could see a slim shadow at the back, where her dark skirts whipped around as she moved between stations, pulling out supplies and looking for spare coils, cogs, or anything else she decided she needed.

He did not have the faintest notion why she would be calling him. Adelaide never seemed to talk to anyone unless it was out of necessity.

“Are you coming in or not?” Adelaide straightened, looking up at him from behind a thick pair of black-rimmed goggles, the kind that magnified her eyes behind the protective glass.

Brixton felt a quick twinge of regret. She always wore them when she was working on something. He had a sinking feeling he was going to be late for class—but he stepped into the room regardless.

“I’m surprised,” she said as he tentatively approached her.

“Why? You were the one who called me.”

“Is that what I need to do to get your attention?” Adelaide put her hands on her hips as she stepped back from the table, where a box full of wires and screws and other various building materials winked up at him.

Brixton felt his face turn red. “If you’re talking about earlier, I—”

“I don’t want to talk about earlier,” Adelaide said. “You know who my father is. Do you think your friends are the first people to make fun of me because of my family?”

“They’re not my friends. Not exactly.” Brixton sighed. “They’re just people we go to school with. You don’t have to be friends with them. You just have to get along with them until we graduate.”

“Is that your plan?”

He shifted his feet as the clocks chimed loudly, the pleasant ringing turning sour in his ears. He was officially late for class. Brixton glanced back at the door.

Adelaide did not pay attention to the clock. She saw to her work, fiddling with one of the gearshifts. Brixton noticed she was also still wearing her workshop gloves. Along with her goggles, they were a semi-permanent part of her wardrobe. They were thick and black, going up past her elbows. The school issued them as part of the engineering department; Brixton hated wearing them, since the synthetic material of the gloves interfered with his ability to use magic. Adelaide was the only one who consistently wore them.

“It’s mostly my plan,” he said, finally answering her.

“Seems like a silly plan, especially for the next four years.”

“Earlier, when those girls were picking on you, I didn’t say anything—”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about earlier. People have made comments about me all my life. Getting accepted into Rembrandt two years earlier than everyone else is merely another unearned privilege in their eyes.”

Her voice was calm, but Brixton saw that her fingers, even buried in her large gloves, shook ever so slightly.

“I don’t presume—”

“But you do.” Adelaide pushed up her goggles onto her forehead again, brushing back her long black hair.

Brixton hated how he stared at her. Up close, her eyes were cloudy gray, speckled over with a silver lining. He noticed they were slanted, ever so slightly; along with her flattened nose and full lips, there were plenty of hints at her Chinese heritage. He had heard the whispers of her family, especially her father, the famous Captain Favan who led Her Royal Majesty’s Airship Force.

That was one of the main reasons he had tried to befriend her before. Brixton had approached her when she was first introduced to their class, eager to talk about her father’s legacy and how it was his dream to be in the Airship Force one day, too. Adelaide had ignored him then, brushing off his introduction.

Remembering that, he frowned. She has some nerve, admonishing me for poor manners.

He cleared his throat to give himself a moment to recover. “You should know you’re presuming that I’m presuming something. I don’t know you well enough to presume anything.”

For the first time, Adelaide softened her expression. Brixton briefly wondered if he had hurt her feelings, or if it was possible he had successfully pointed out her double standards.

She tugged the goggles down over her eyes a moment later, returning to the project before her. She said nothing as she picked up a suturing iron and began to burn a twisted bunch of wires together.

For a long moment, Brixton watched her. Despite her gloves, her movements were very precise—so precise that they almost seemed awkward.

Just like the rest of her, he thought with a small smile.

Adelaide was fourteen years old, two years younger than everyone else at Rembrandt. She had transferred into the school during the middle of their second semester, and ever since their failed first meeting, Brixton kept his distance from her, even if he continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye. He knew the others in his class teased her for her youth, her connections, and her ancestry.

He could sympathize with her some in that regard, given he received plenty of his own mockery. He was only at Rembrandt because of his scholarship. Most of the students were from the aristocracy, and the idea of rich merchants or lower-class workers—such as his parents—sending their children to Rembrandt was nothing short of scandalous.

He easily dismissed those who badgered him; he was here for an education, and nothing more.

But as Brixton gazed down at Adelaide, he suddenly wondered if she was able to do the same.

She was such a small thing. She was not only two years his junior, but she was also at least a foot shorter. The Rembrandt Academy uniform nearly swallowed up her body. He could see her vest was pinned in the back, and her long skirt was clearly hemmed. Brixton had a feeling she liked to wear the goggles on her forehead if for no other reason than they lent her another two inches in height.

“Why did you call me?” Brixton asked, daring himself to speak again.

Adelaide bit her lip, and Brixton found himself staring again.

Finally, she sighed. “I need you.”

His breath caught and his body went still. He was only able to move after she added, “I need your help.”

The words came out with a ripe bitterness in each syllable, and Brixton almost laughed at her discomfort. It was clear she never asked for help if she could avoid it.

He cleared this throat again, swallowing the last of his laughter, and nodded. “Tell me what it is.”

“I need help assembling this,” Adelaide said, pointing to the neat array of metal scraps and parts before her.

“What is it?”

“A dragon heart.”

“Beg pardon?” Brixton dropped his books, missing the table and causing them to clatter to the floor. He was certain he had misheard her as he bent to pick them up, but he was even more surprised when she laughed.

Her eyes were pushed back into slits behind her goggles, giving her a wizened, animated look as her smile widened. Brixton stared at her as he picked up his books and stacked them neatly beside hers.

“I’m only kidding,” Adelaide said, before she arched her brow. “Or maybe I’m not. Either way, I need your help with this part.”

She opened the top panel and pointed to a small knot of wires lined with alloy and copper. “This is an energy loop I’ve been working on. It’s a special type of power source. The Board wants to develop more efficient batteries, especially since the Edison Project has shown promise. Now they want to see what the wielders can do to improve it.”

“I talked with Professor Ohm about this,” Brixton said. “He wanted to find a way to generate perpetual energy. He thought electricity could possibly be infused with magic.”

“I know. I overheard your conversation after class a few days ago.”

“You did?” Brixton took the suturing iron out of her hand.

“He was dismissive of the idea as an alternative life source, but he was interested in seeing if you could figure out how to make his own theories work.”

He bit down on his cheek. He knew which conversation Adelaide was referring to, and it was one where Professor Ohm spent several minutes admonishing him for his eclectic reading tastes.

“What?” Adelaide asked.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop.”

She jutted her chin forward. “It’s also rude to ignore people who need help.”

“I don’t know if you’re saying that to make me feel bad about before, or if it’s just to make sure I stay here and help you,” Brixton muttered. “Do you care to tell me which?”

“I have an extra pair of gloves if you need them,” Adelaide offered.

He rolled his eyes as she sidestepped his question. “I don’t use them if I can help it.” He called up the power that resided inside of him. He could feel it flowing from his heart down to his fingertips, filling his palm. “I like working with my hands better. It’s easier to conjure up my talent. That’s my magic, as you might have known already. I can build things. Anything, really.”

“Well, no wonder you’re so good at this.” Adelaide pouted as Brixton undid her work. “You’re using magic.”

“And you don’t? Why are you in school to be an engineering wielder if you’re not using magic?”

“I like working with machinery,” Adelaide said. “I’m here because Rembrandt produces the best engineers in London. The fact that it’s a magical school does nothing for me.”

“Do you even have magic at all? I thought that was a requirement for coming here.”

“It is.” Adelaide went silent, and for the first time, Brixton saw her blush. With the small patch of red on her cheeks, he could just make out a light trail of freckles across her nose.

“Ouch.” He flinched as the suturing iron slipped across his fingers.

“Pay attention to what you’re doing. You don’t have to worry about my talent right now. All you need to know is that it’s not helping me fix this.” She crossed her arms and looked away.

“Right.” Brixton turned back to the item in front of him.

Available on Amazon

About the Author

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C. S. Johnson is the award-winning, genre-hopping author of several novels, including young adult sci-fi and fantasy adventures such as the Starlight Chronicles, the Once Upon a Princess saga, and the Divine Space Pirates trilogy. With a gift for sarcasm and an apologetic heart, she currently lives in Atlanta with her family. Find out more at http://www.csjohnson.me

CS Johnson | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Pinterest

One lucky winner has a chance to win a paperback copy of One Flew Through the Dragon Heart, You just need to click on the link below to enter! Good luck!

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Blog Tour: A World of Intemperance by Ichabod Temperance (Vol. 2 in The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance) Excerpt & Giveaway! @IckyTemperance

Welcome to the Adventures of Ichabod Temperance!

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Publication Date: October 27th, 2015

Genre: Fantasy/ Adventure/ Steampunk

It is New Year’s Eve, 1875. In this humorously told Steampunk tale, adventure-prone Ichabod Temperance and his lovely sweetheart, Miss Persephone Plumtartt, once again find themselves swept up into a whirlwind of misadventure and international catastrophe. The entire world totters on the brink of war, as various nations develop arsenals of dreadful power. It seems as though every nation on Earth lusts for Empire. A sinister plot boils to change the course of human history. Along with a remarkable cast of characters, including sapient animals and clockwork men, our heroes find themselves plunged into unimaginable peril!

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Excerpt

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“I say, we can build a protective wall with our baggage to protect against the blustery gales, eh hem?”

“Good, Persephone, now we can improvise a tent from these blankets.”

“My parasol will be the tent pole, oui!”

“Good, DeeDee. I will slide the carriage bolt out of this rifle and we’ll use the barrel for ventilation. I will allow one candle to be lit.”

“I say, good show!  These are absolutely delightful diggs for the night, wouldn’t you agree, Mademoiselle Gauzot, eh hem?”

“Oh, oui my Persephone, our accommodations are most charming, to be sure! The Mademoiselle GoldenBear is the saviour of our little party. Hurrah and bravo Miss Abigail!”

I feel myself blushing!

“Thank you, DeeDee. Everyone brings their own unique strengths to the table; I am happy to share mine.”

“Oh, you bring many skills, Abigail, oui! You have the uncanny navigational prowess, that guides us unerring to our objectives! You are one with the woods and share a sacred bond with the animals that populate them. You command fantastique magical powers to defeat our enemies that rise from Nature Herself! Not to mention the strong punch, too, I think! The formidable, Mademoiselle Abigail GoldenBear! Vous êtes magnifique!”

“Oh, and let’s not forget the ever dependable and competent Mademoiselle Persephone, too! What are these mysterious blasts of red energies! Sacre bleu! This is an extraordinary power you display, Mademoiselle, oui!”

“I say, let me not keep my fellow adventure-mates in suspense another moment. I inherited a power through my family bloodline, a power that lay dormant until I intruded upon a laboratory experiment my father was conducting. I was bathed in a strange beam, which not only brought this dormant power to life, but increased its intensity greatly. I do not know its exact nature, but it feels similar to the scarlet glow of power that Miss Goldenbear wields. Through recent, Eastern Martial training, I have learned to harness this power and use it as my own. I also suspect a small amount of influence from the passing of the Revelatory Comet on my intellectual capacities. That is all the explanation I can offer. Quite frankly, I am most eager to learn the nature of your extraordinary abilities, Mademoiselle Gauzot. You display superhuman acrobatic and climbing skills as displayed on the icy cliff, and then moved at a pace almost faster than the eye could follow as you dispatched many Saurian Soldiers in the valley of Bar’Bazaul. Despite your slim stature, you are far stronger than you appear. I confess I’m most perplexed. Would you be so kind as to enlighten us, Mademoiselle, eh hem?”

“Oh, you are too generous I am sure. You ladies are far more interesting than Mademoiselle DeeDee I think, oui!”

“No, Deedee, I’m with Persephone on this. You have been more than just a little obtuse with the goods on your background. I insist upon a proper explanation.”

“C’est la vie? If Mademoiselle Abigail says I must, then I must, I think.”

Gauzot busies herself with the placement of her skirts, and the primping of her hair. After a quick moment to quickly gather her thoughts, DeeDee continues.

“Oh, I am happy to confess that I am the product of the finest finishing schools on two continents, oui!”

Gauzot excitedly warms into her obvious fabrication.

“Zee training in zee etiquettes, zee culinary and zee musical arts were but a start! Oh, oui! Riding zee horse and zee athletics of zee badminton. Oh, my, this has honed your DeeDee into quite zee athlete I think, oui!”

“Finishing school, eh? I think there’s something fishy in Kuetinpeenk Bay.”

“I say, thank you, ever so much Mademoiselle. My cares are assuaged. Your reassurances wash away any doubts I may have harboured, dear, dear, Mademoiselle Gauzot.”

~batt, batt, batt~

“Dearest, Persephone.”

~winky-dink~

“I say, there is just one more item that I would be, oh, so, grateful for another candid reply, if I may, though?”

“But of course, my child, I am zee open book, n’est ce pas?”

“Quite so. Your unfortunate allergy to sunlight. Have you suffered from this malady for some length of time?”

“Oh, Oui. I am afraid that the condition came upon me as a young woman, and I have languished in its grip ever since.”

“I see, yes, quite. Thank you ever so much, Mademoiselle.”

“Oh, but of course, my sweet Persephone.”

“Oh, I say, forgive me, but there is just one other little point I should like to clear up if possible?”

“Of course, Persephone, I am your most obedient servant. Please, my lovely girl, ask me anything that could be causing the concern in your pretty little head?”

“Why did you slay Colonel Ketchouppe, by exsanguination, on the Winniedepuh Express?”

“Duh-what!”

My two companions of this extremely tiny shelter never blink. Nose to nose, they both look calmly into each other’s eyes. Each femme calmly measures her opponent’s pupils and the depths within.

“Please calm yourself, Mademoiselle GoldenBear.”

Gauzot speaks to me without breaking the eyelock on Plumtartt.

“Persephone forgets that we had the delightful little Belgian detective clear up our little mystery, no?”

“No, Mademoiselle. He merely proclaimed the despicable Colonel as being unworthy of continued existence, an opinion agreed upon by all at the time. The murderer, though, was never discovered.”

“Oh! Zee mystery! To think back on it now seems so thrilling, no? But I tell you, somehow, I never let it bother me much, too!”

“Quite.”

“Oui.

“Rather.”

“This tiny tent is too confined for any physical outburst in this little stare-down, test of wills. You two shut it down or I will.”

“Your DeeDee is at ease, Mademoiselle Abigail.”

“I say, I’m as cool as an arctic eve.”

“To tell the truth, Persephone, I think DeeDee saved Colonel Ketchouppe’s life. I was about to break his neck right there in the club car when DeeDee suggested we all retire for the evening.”

“Abigail!”

“Just speaking the truth, Persephone. That man represented so much of what is hateful in this world. In fact, I recall being a little disappointed that someone else got to murder the disagreeable gentleman before I got the chance.”

“Miss GoldenBear! My word!”

“Well, maybe I did allow myself to grow over-fond of the dog. When he called him an ugly mutt, that was the last straw, for me. If I had a lead pipe handy, I would have done him right then and there, in the club car.”

“Abigail!”

“There, I have been truthful and forthcoming. As a show of respect, I would appreciate everyone present not withholding from one’s team-mates.”

“Okay, okay, I may have had some small part in the extinguishing of that smoldering lump of sulfur, but that was then and this is now. Do we have any biscuits?”

“Yeah, DeeDee, we’ve got biscuits, but not until we clear this business to its entirety.”

“Very well, ~sigh~ I killed him.”

“Why, Mademoiselle?”

“I was hungry.”

About the Author

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Standing over five feet, seven inches and weighing in at better than one hundred and thirty pounds, Ichabod Temperance is ‘The Alfalfa Male.’ After lengthy music, karate, and pro-wrestling careers, Ichabod’s involvement with movie stuntwork has led him to write these whimsical, steam-driven adventures. Mr. Temperance and his lovely muse, Miss Persephone Plumtartt, live in Irondale, Alabama, USA, along with their furry pack family.

Ichabod Temperance | Amazon | Goodreads

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Print Copy of any volume in The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Series! Click the link below to enter!

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Book Trailer Reveal: Dead Steam by Bryce Raffle (Excerpt & Giveaway)

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I have to say, this is the coolest book trailer I’ve seen in a while…

Which isn’t surprising considering how awesome this collection sounds! Dead Steam is now available for review. If you would like a copy in exchange for an honest review, there’s a sign up sheet below. There’s also a sweet giveaway too!

Dead Steam: A Chilling Collection of Dreadpunk Tales of the Dark and Supernatural

Expected Publication Date: October 1st, 2018

Genre: Anthology/ Dreadpunk/ Dark Steampunk/ Horror

Reader beware: to open this tome is to invite dread into your heart. Every page you turn will bring you closer to something wicked. And when the dead begin to rise from the steaming pits of hell, only then will you discover that it is already too late. Your life is forfeit.

Featuring an introduction by Leanna Renee Hieber, author of the Eterna Files and Strangely Beautiful saga, DeadSteam plays host to the scintillating writing of David Lee Summers (Owl DanceThe Brazen Shark), Jen Ponce (The BazaarDemon’s Cradle), Wendy Nikel (The Continuum), Karen J Carlisle (The Adventures of Viola Stewart), Jonah Buck (Carrion Safari), and more…

With seventeen chilling tales of Dreadpunk, Gaslamp, and Dark Steampunk, DeadSteam will leave you tearing at the pages, desperate for more. For within these pages, the dead rise from their graves to haunt the London Underground, witches whisper their incantations to the wind, a sisterhood of bitten necks hunts fog-drenched alleyways lit only by gaslight, and only one thing is certain: that dread will follow you until you turn that final page.

And that sinking feeling in the pit of your chest? That fear that something is following you, watching you, hunting you? It is not for nothing. Look over your shoulder, dear reader. Watch behind you. Listen to the whispers in the darkness.

But know this…it is all inevitable.

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Excerpt

Burke Street Station

The city was frost and fog. Icy crystals formed on the windows of the train station. Breath drifted up in a hazy clouds like puffs of cigarette smoke as Theodore tried to warm his hands, blowing hot breath onto his stiff, cold fingers and rubbing his hands together vigorously. When that failed, he thrust them back into his coat pockets, cursing under his breath. His threadbare coat offered little warmth. Drafts of wind found their way through the broken stitching and the tears in his sleeves like rats scrambling through the cracks in the station walls. A discarded page of newsprint, caught in the rushing wind, tumbled and turned in the air and landed, crumpled and torn, at Theodore’s feet.

He stooped over, picked it up, and glanced at the engraving of a wanted man. Even without a skill for reading, he knew what name was printed beneath the picture of masked man on the page. Anthony Tidkins.

Wanted, he read. That was one word Theodore recognized. Crimes was another, and then, finally…murder.

Rubbish. The newspapers always tried to make villains out of the radical thinkers of the world. The Resurrectionists, who named their organization after the sack-em-up men who provided the anatomists with subjects for their scientific endeavors, were scientists. They had provided the world with aether, revolutionizing air travel. They had brought Prince Charles back from the brink of death. They had devised the engines for the London Underground. Anthony Tidkins himself promised to cure death. Yet the newspaper men still called for his blood. Theodore balled up the page and shoved it in his pocket.

He pulled out his trick coin as he approached the gate. The station master was asleep at his booth, a little dribble of spit running down his chin. Typical. Thoedore stuck his coin in the machine, waited for the gate to open, and then, with a light tug on the fishing line threaded through a little hole in the tip of the coin, it popped back out. Easy. He was in before anybody noticed what he had done. He pocketed the coin and started down the hallway.

Tap-tap, clacktap-tap, clack, his shoes beat a rhythm on the stone steps. The sole of his left shoe was beginning to wear, and the heel of his shoe tapped against the heel of his foot as he walked. He puffed on his hands again, and peeked over his shoulder. No one was after him. He had done this trick a thousand times before. So why did he feel like there was someone watching him?

Clacktap-tap, clack. Again, he glanced over his shoulder. The odd double-rhythm of his broken shoe was suddenly unnerving in the deserted station. Where were all the other passengers? Nice folks avoided this place like the plague, especially after midnight. The oil lamps that lit Burke Street Station were so routinely out of oil that he could hardly find his own feet in front of him, but still, Theodore expected to see other passengers. But where were the other vagrants? They should be sleeping in the dark corners of the hallway under blankets made of rags. And the boys from the blacking factory should be heading home from their long shifts, fingers stained black with powders and oil. But there was no one. Only the rats skittering through rat tunnels to keep him company.

Tap-tap, clack, tap-tap, clack.

Another set of footsteps began to follow his own, beating out a different rhythm. A steady tap, tap, tap, tap. He paused to listen, and nothing but silence greeted him. He glanced over his shoulder. Nobody there. 

He continued onward, and again, a second set of footsteps started up behind him. He paused to listen. This time, they didn’t stop.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Whoever it was, they were getting closer. Closer and closer, louder and louder, tapping out a steady rhythm as they approached down the long, dark hallway. He could almost make out the solitary figure in the gloomy, hazy light, but then the fog grew thicker, and whatever he thought he’d seen was gone. The footsteps kept on getting louder, though, and closer. He turned and ran down the hallway.

A long flight of steps delved deeper into the darkness of Burke Street Station, down, down toward the platform. The train was already rumbling, announcing its approach. It vibrated through Theodore’s toes to the tip of his spine, rattling his bones.

He grabbed the railing all but flew down the staircase. The rumble of the train grew louder and clearer.

“Shit,” Theodore cursed. Taking the steps two at a time, he hurtled down the steps and didn’t stop when he reached the bottom.

Nails on a blackboard. The tines of silverware scraping against a ceramic plate. The screaming madmen at Newgate Asylum. The anguished cry of a mother weeping over her stillborn babe. Theodore had heard these sounds all, but not one compared to the shrill screech of an automatic train rolling into Burke Street. Iron wheels grinding against iron tracks. Hot metal sending up sparks, belching out steam as black as sin. The carriages rattling and clanging against one another. The hiss of hot coal burning in the engines. The shriek of brakes as the train ground to a halt. If it went on long enough, it would surely drive a man mad. Theodore covered his ears with his hands, pressing them against his head to muffle out the deafening noise, and waited for the thundering train to come to a halt.

When it did, he realized it must have drowned out the sound of the steadily approaching footsteps he’d heard in the hallway, because he could hear them again, and they were closer. So close he half expected to feel someone’s hot breath on his neck. He whirled around, but there was no one there. Silence greeted him like an old friend. His heart hammered against his chest.

“There’s no one there,” he muttered to himself. But he didn’t sound convinced.

A smell lingered in the air, as if something foul had passed through. The smell was familiar enough, the breath of a man with rotting teeth. It was a foul, cloying stench. He spun around again, and this time found himself face to face with the man to whom those dreaded footsteps belonged.

Only he wasn’t a man. Not really.

About the Author

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Bryce Raffle writes steampunk, horror, and fantasy. He was the lead writer for Ironclad Games’ multiplayer online game Sins of A Dark Age and is the founder of Grimmer & Grimmer Books. His short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including Hideous Progeny: Classic Horror Goes PunkDenizens of Steam and Den of Antiquity. His short story, The Complications of Avery Vane, was awarded Best Steampunk Short in the Preditors and Editors Reader’s Poll in 2016. He lives in beautiful Vancouver, Canada, where he works in the film industry.

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Bryce is giving away a digital copy of Dead Steam to one lucky winner. The giveaway will run from Sept. 17th to Sept. 20th so make sure you enter!

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