The Ticking Heart Read online



  Vincent Gabriel is an inventor; his newest invention a clockwork-humanoid prototype he has spent the greater part of a decade designing and creating, the long working hours filling a void within himself. His assistant, Samuel, however, is less than pleased with the new invention.

  As Vincent's creation falls apart, so too does the delicate relationship between the two men. Their differences threaten to overcome them, their actions pushing them so far apart that neither knows where they stand.

  The Ticking Heart

  By Sylvia A. Winters

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Samantha M. Derr

  Cover designed by Megan Derr

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition April 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by Sylvia A. Winters

  Printed in the United States of America

  One last turn should do it. Vincent heaved his weight behind it and the wheel turned slowly, creaking out its reluctance. On the other side of the wall, the clips sprang free with a shuddering clunk. Vincent ran to watch, his eyes transfixed on his creation—a masterpiece of machinery that looked like a man and would, hopefully, act like one too. A loud whirring filled the air around him as the key rebounded, tightening the clockwork mechanisms that lay deep inside the body. Its work done, the key receded into the wall and the body was freed.

  Vincent watched, wringing his hands as the clockwork man blinked his eyes open. "Edgar," he gasped as the man reached out a quivering hand. The name was Edgar .3, to be exact; the original prototype hadn't taken more than a few, tentative steps before it fell to pieces, and the second had had some complications with homicidal mania. But Edgar .3 was the best of the lot, and Vincent knew he was the one, that he was going to last.

  As Edgar took his first steps, Vincent was close to tears. He couldn't fault this one. Edgar .1 hadn't looked nearly as good—the skin had had a leathery texture to it, but Edgar .3's was soft and supple and even from just a few feet away, Vincent couldn't see anything that made him seem less than human. The stitching holding the skin together was hidden beneath the gentleman's clothing and underneath Edgar’s hair. His eyes were a problem, of course—the glass was the best quality money could buy, but looking at them now Vincent could tell they weren't real. Maybe it was just because he knew, and they'd probably fool a regular passer-by, but anyone who looked closely would know.

  "Oh my word," a familiar voice breathed, and Vincent turned to see Samuel standing in the doorway, his eyes wide in shock, brows drawn a little together.

  Samuel had never seen any of Vincent's creations in their activated state before. He'd been Vincent's assistant for as long as either of them cared to remember, but he'd made it clear a long time ago that he wanted as little to do with these clockwork human facsimiles as possible.

  "He works," Vincent said, his voice higher than usual, excitement bubbling away beneath his skin as Edgar's white-gloved hand connected with his cheek. He closed his eyes, savouring the touch. Edgar .1 had never gotten this far, and .2 had gone straight for his throat. Vincent had dreamt of this moment for years, ever since ... He bit the inside of his cheek. The past didn't matter now; he had the future right here.

  He stepped forward, hands brushing Edgar's chest—real, it felt so real—and raised himself onto his tiptoes to press a kiss to his mouth. His lips felt so soft, albeit a little cold.

  Behind him, Samuel made a harsh clucking sound in the back of his throat, and when Vincent turned he was gone, the doorway dark and empty. Vincent frowned. Samuel should be here to enjoy this moment, to share in his success. After all, he couldn't have done this without him.

  A loud clanking noise made him jump, and with a jolt of horror he realized it was coming from Edgar's chest. "No," he muttered. "No, no, no. Edgar—"

  Edgar jerked away suddenly, his left leg stretching out and back again, right arm running a circle around and around, the shoulder rotating 360 degrees in a way no human arm ever should. Vincent screamed as Edgar crumpled in half and fell to the floor, the mechanisms inside him still clanking, growing quieter and quieter until a soft clicking noise was all that could be heard. "No!" he screamed, covering Edgar's body with his own. After all his hard work, after everything he'd done, everything he'd been through to get here, another failure. It was too much.

  "Vincent?" Samuel asked, his footsteps soft on the stone floor. "Is there anything I can do?" Naturally Samuel had vanished the minute success seemed imminent and returned at the very moment of failure. Vincent sometimes had to wonder whether Samuel enjoyed watching him fail.

  Vincent didn't answer. Instead he buried his face in the crook of Edgar's neck, breathing in the smell of leather and metal and the silk of his cravat. He remembered the smell of cut grass and dirt and fresh cotton; remembered laughter, heated kisses and fumbling inside each other's breeches beside the river. He remembered tears and farewells; a white handkerchief waving as Edgar's carriage took him away, and all the long, lonely days that came after, dark, gloomy and never-ending.

  He shook his head and got to his feet. He would try again, as he always did.

  Behind him, Samuel crept forward and laid a hand on the small of his back. Vincent tried not to flinch at the touch, familiar in a way that Samuel never was. "Vincent, let us leave it for today, please? We could go for a stroll in the park, perhaps."

  Vincent laughed. Was Samuel really suggesting a leisurely stroll? Now? "You're a good boy, Samuel," he said, his eyes straying back to Edgar .3's broken form. "But perhaps you take life too lightly. This calls for more work, and lots of it."

  A scrape of enamel, and Vincent turned to see Samuel gritting his teeth. They stared at one another for several seconds, Samuel in frustration, Vincent in sheer surprise.

  "Holding your tongue? Perhaps you should loosen it." He didn't care what Samuel had to say in any case. He was going to make this work with or without his help.

  "Why do you need this so much?" Samuel snapped. "Are you really so lonely? Will your real friends not do?"

  Vincent smiled sadly. "Samuel, you don't understand."

  "No, I think I do. You're miserable and alone so you've thrown yourself into work that will provide for needs that you cannot trust real people with. Am I wrong?"

  Vincent refused to answer that. Instead he hefted Edgar back up into his arms and carried him awkwardly to his workstation.

  "Why can you not just say it? Why do you have to bottle everything up like this?" Samuel demanded, following him to the table. "You think this will change things for you? Let me tell you, Vincent: it won't. You will be the same sad and lonely man, except now you'll have a body of clockwork to feed your covert vices."

  Vincent turned at that; whirling around he slapped Samuel across the cheek with the back of his hand. He found he didn't regret it, the smack of flesh against flesh and the red flush of Samuel's cheek satisfying.

  Samuel's eyes flashed fire, his jaw clenching as he spun on his heel and fled the room.

  Well, Samuel could leave, Vincent thought. Edgar, when he was finished, never would.

  *~*~*

  Samuel didn't return for a whole week. Vincent spent the vast majority of the time in his workshop, Edgar face down on the table with his skin peeled back, the metal casing beneath opened, revealing the clockwork mechanisms inside. He had yet to find the culprit for Edgar .3's demise.

  With a sigh he moved down the table, picking a screwdriver from
his toolbox. As his hand closed around it a wave of dizziness washed over him, the room spinning and darkening. He barely had time to realize he was going to faint before he hit the floor.

  *~*~*

  "Vincent? Vincent!"

  He opened his eyes slowly; his head pounded and he found he was thirsty, his throat dry as chalk. "What happened?" he muttered, trying to sit up.

  Samuel was kneeling under him, cradling Vincent's head in his lap. "You didn't eat a thing for an entire week. That's what happened. Scared me half to death, coming in here to find you on the floor like that. I thought you were dead."

  "Hm. Not dead yet." He gave up trying to sit upright; every time he moved he felt dizzy, and his head throbbed in protest.

  "No, but you will be if you carry on like this. Really, Vincent, you shouldn't need me to remind you to eat and drink."

  He forced a smile. "Ah, but I think I am made of clockwork. You remind me I'm not."

  Samuel was quiet for a moment, then, "Hmm. Well, my man of clockwork, I think it's time you rewound. Come on." He helped Vincent to his feet and led him from the room. Vincent cast one last look back at Edgar still lying on the table, but he didn't protest. Samuel was right. If he wanted to finish his work he needed to rest. A few hours of sleep, perchance a little soup and wine, and he'd be back at Edgar’s side.

  He let Samuel put him to bed, and no sooner had he lain down with his head against the pillow than he succumbed to sleep. A few hours, he told himself as he drifted away. Just a few hours.

  *~*~*

  He woke to sunlight streaming in through the windows and the smell of hot onion and potato soup wafting through the room.

  He pushed himself up in his bed to see Samuel carrying a breakfast tray through the door, laden not with breakfast but with luncheon—a large bowl of soup and some fresh bread. Samuel placed the tray in Vincent's lap and stood back, leaning against the bedpost as he watched him tuck into the food.

  Feeling Samuel's eyes on him, Vincent paused, soggy bread halfway to his mouth and dripping onto the tray. "Is something the matter?" he asked.

  "Not with me," was Samuel's vague reply. "I've drawn you a bath, so once you've finished that, you can take it in the kitchen."

  Vincent hated the bath being in the kitchen. He had a real house now, with a basement workshop and an attic and two spare bedrooms—but Samuel refused to carry heavy buckets of it up the stairs by himself, so it was the kitchen or nothing, unless he wanted to draw his own baths, and he was far too busy for that.

  He came downstairs in his robe and lowered himself into the warm water before Samuel entered, carrying a pile of freshly laundered clothes which he dropped on the floor beside the bath along with a towel. "Are you going into the basement today?" he asked. Vincent thought he sounded a little angry, and unreasonably so.

  "Of course."

  "Hm." Samuel said nothing more as he left the room, leaving Vincent to bathe and dress in private. Samuel never dressed him—after all, he wasn't so much a servant as an assistant. It just happened that most of the things Vincent needed assistance with were routine daily tasks, and since Vincent had embarked upon his latest project, Samuel had spent less and less time in the basement, despite his skills in machinery and engineering. He should have been excited, eager to work on such a ground-breaking creation, but Samuel had doubts. It was an affront to God, he said, and pitiful. Vincent didn't agree, but then Vincent had never believed much in God.

  He was still buttoning his waistcoat as he descended the stairs into the basement. He hadn't bothered with a jacket; he never did when he was working since it always got too hot, and besides, who was there to see him except Samuel?

  He paused at the foot of the stairs, just inside the entryway to the workshop, the angle just so that he could see the workbench clearly. His heart froze, then picked up pace, pulse running hot and quick as a steam engine. Edgar .3 was gone.

  "Good lord," Vincent muttered, taking a tentative step into the room, eyes scanning the corners for any sign of him. Excitement began to bubble in his chest. This could mean only one thing. Somehow, he had fixed the problem with Edgar's mechanisms. Edgar was alive.

  And, quite possibly, judging from the empty room, running around the city streets with his chest cracked wide open.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, Vincent went through his options and came up with only one. He had to find Edgar; that much was clear. He couldn't risk his work being stolen or destroyed by some fearful mob who didn't understand it. He had to get Edgar back here, as quickly as possible.

  "Samuel!" he hollered up the staircase, already bounding up after his own echoing voice.

  He nearly crashed into Samuel at the top, the two of them bumping shoulders and jumping apart as though they'd been branded by hot iron.

  Samuel's hair was ruffled, his shirt rumpled, his eyes wide—green eyes, Vincent realized with a jolt. Funny, he'd always thought they were brown ...

  "What is it?"

  "Edgar. He's gone!"

  Samuel's eyes squeezed shut, his face looking pinched as he ran a hand through his hair. "I know."

  "You've seen him? Where did he go? Why didn't you stop him?"

  "I'm sorry, Vincent, but this ... this blasphemy, it isn't worth your health."

  The blood cooled in his veins, almost instantly, heart scudding almost to a stop and dropping in his chest. "What have you done?"

  "You must understand. I'm trying to save you from yourself, Vincent. You work all day, all night, without rest, without even a break to eat. It's madness, true madness."

  Vincent grit his teeth, anger flaring. "What have you done?"

  Samuel glanced away, casting his eyes briefly to the floor before raising them again to meet Vincent's; his own gaze just as defiant. "I've disassembled your machine and given the pieces to the bone-grubber this morning."

  Time seemed to slow, the world tilting to a sudden and sharp angle. Vincent thrust out a hand, steadying himself against the wall. Samuel's words echoed in his head. "Impossible," he muttered.

  "I won't have you wasting away while you obsess over a pile of skin and clockwork. Vincent, it isn't real." He felt a hand rest against his shoulder and he turned his head to see Samuel close, far closer than was proper, before Samuel's lips brushed, gentle, against his stubbled cheek. "This is real."

  Whatever was or wasn't real, Vincent felt that he had lost all grip upon it. He was falling, floating backwards into some dark abyss, where nothing existed. Edgar was gone, everything he'd worked for, more than half a decade ... And Samuel was just ... Samuel. Traitor. The fool, he thought he was helping?

  Vincent laughed, the sound strained and unnatural. "If you do not believe in me or my work, Mr Murphy, then you will leave my home. And if I were you, I would not bother returning."

  Samuel gaped. When he had taken the position as Vincent's assistant, he had moved into the house, taken one of the spare rooms. But now he was no longer an assistant, and the room was forfeit.

  "I will give you one hour to collect your things."

  "Vincent—"

  Turning away, Vincent began to descend the steps back into the basement workshop. "From now on, you may refer to me as Mr Gabriel."

  "I will do no such thing."

  "Goodbye, Mr Murphy."

  *~*~*

  Samuel left the house that evening. Vincent didn't see him go, but he heard the heavy shifting of boxes, the slam of the front doors. Briefly, he looked up from his laying out of gears and mechanisms, his noting of pieces he had and pieces he needed. He could feel the emptiness of the house now, and it matched the emptiness in his chest.

  Samuel had been a good assistant, the only one Vincent had ever been able to work efficiently with, but he had committed the worst atrocity: destroyed years of work and set him back at least six months, if not longer. He would have to build Edgar .4 from scratch.

  He worked methodically, taking his time, long into the night, candles burning all around him. He could still feel the gh
ost of Samuel's lips upon his cheek. This isn't real. This is real.

  Had he imagined that kiss? Had it meant what it meant when Edgar—the real Edgar—had kissed him those times, or had it been merely brotherly? He couldn't be sure. And wasn't that the whole problem? A man could never really know where he was with other men, with women, either. Machinery was precise and simple. It told no lies, and when it was broken, it could be fixed.

  Suddenly, Vincent felt very, very tired. The desire to work flowed out of him like sand through an hour glass. Perhaps his purpose would grow clearer with the sunrise, after he had, as Samuel had put it earlier, rewound.

  But sleep didn't come easy, and he lay tossing and turning, his nightgown and bedsheets tangling around his legs. That kiss, so soft, barely there, kept flickering through his mind like a candle flame, springing back to life each time he thought he'd snuffed it out. This is real.

  Was it? Was it real?

  Samuel had been Vincent's assistant for nigh on fifteen years now, and not once had he ever made any overtures as to being that way, as to feeling anything more than friendly affection for Vincent.

  No, he couldn't assume ... Besides, what did it matter? Samuel was gone, and he wouldn't be back. Vincent didn't want him back, not after today. How dare he?

  Vincent growled low in his throat and pushed himself up to sit.

  Samuel had never liked his work, had called it blasphemy right from the beginning and wanted no part in it. That had been alright with Vincent. He could respect another man's beliefs, after all, but what he could not tolerate was another man disrespecting his beliefs, destroying everything he had been working towards because of some puerile sense of self-righteousness.

  Was that the reason? Samuel had cited concern for Vincent's health, for his sanity. But Vincent knew damn well that he was perfectly healthy, perfectly sane. He was dedicated to his work and that was all. To those who hadn't yet found their purpose, perhaps it did seem like madness, but he himself knew better, that it was a higher calling of sorts, something that mattered more than he himself did.