I’ve been listening to Abney Park on and off for a week to get in the mood for a certain story I started years ago…
And it’s still there…
Here’s a snippet of my WIP, if you care to take a look:
***
Anais hasn’t seen one of them in a while. But then, he normally does his best to stay the fuck away from the wrong side of the river, the ragged fringes of the city, those broken places.
Neon-lights sketch cold shadows over ruins and rubble. From behind a dumpster, a fairy with razor-sharp teeth watches hungrily. A dark figure leans against a cast-iron lamppost. Warm orange gaslight spills over a velvet cloak. A gentleman, with a cane and a top hat, out of place amid the urban detritus spilling from derelict buildings down to the slimy, stagnant river. The man seems frozen in place, like a statue. A vampire, then. Anais is tempted to reach for his talisman. But it’s best not to tease the creatures of the night. Besides, he’s here for business tonight, not for pleasure, and he got what he came for – spare parts for ancient clocks and watches, out of manufacture for two hundred years, items you get only at the Dustbin, if at all, and only when the air-pirates have been in town.
Anais should keep going, shouldn’t linger where feral fairies and lewd vampires watch his every move. Sure, Anais can defend himself, but better fighters have ended up as dinner for vampires or dessert for fairies at night and enjoyed their breakfast as slaves on the auction block of the flower market the next morning. But he hasn’t seen one of them in a long time. Anais’s a watchmaker not just by trade but by birth – the magic’s in his blood. And this broken doll, he’s exquisite. His limbs are shapely, his muscles toned, the skin finely textured porcelain. The hue reminds Anais of sunny days in autumn, not pale, not tan, and utterly delicious. The doll’s cheeks are flushed, his mouth passionate and frozen in a fragile smile. His eyes are closed, the bronze hair dirty and disheveled. Anais takes a step toward the doll. A cheekbone is cracked. Another step. His right hand and forearm are missing. The doll is dressed in rags that do not conceal the perfect proportions of his male anatomy. Nothing broken or missing there. And although it looks as if he hasn’t been used in a very long time, the key’s still firmly slotted in his back. He’s listing sideways against the dumpster. Perhaps a leg is broken, or the joint is screwed up. The fairy on the other side of the container is hissing softly now. Anais isn’t sure if it’s intended as laughter or warning.
He should go now. Should leave the broken doll leaning against the dumpster, to topple over and break into pieces in his own time, to be torn apart by ruin-rats for salvageable parts in their time. He should not, should definitely not throw the fairy a fiver and order it to pick up the doll and carry him to Caledon Square where Anais will be able to flag a cab to get himself and the doll back to his workshop.
But two and a half hours later, the naked doll lies stretched out on Anais’s workbench, and Anais carries a bucket with warm soapsuds into his workshop. He wrings out the sponge and bends over the doll. First he has to scrub off the dirt and the dust. Then he has to determine just how broken the doll is.
And if Anais can fix him.