Something Strange and Deadly by Susan Dennard Read Free Book Online Page A

It was also the path to the men’s toilets. Scarcely the sort of place a lady should see. For that matter, scarcely the sort of place I wanted to see. Hesitantly, I continued on, keeping my gloved hand to my nose. The stink of urine was strong in the morning heat, and I fumbled for my handkerchief.
    I slunk past the water closet door, cheeks aflame and eyes averted, until I saw a narrow door with a small handwritten note fixed to it.
    P LEASE KNOCK. E XPERIMENTS RUNNING.
    I took one last stifled gulp, returned my handkerchief to my pocket, and gritted my teeth with determination.
    I knocked. As the moments ticked by and no one answered the door, my determination faded and frustration wormed in.
    I pressed at the handle to check if the door was locked. It flew open and promptly hit something—presumably glass, judging by its spectacular crash.
    This was followed by a furious bellowing, sounding much like I imagined an enraged bull would.
    Steeling myself, I stepped inside and peered around the door.
    â€œDidn’t you see the sign?” shouted a lanky man with tousled, corn-blond hair. He stood beside a table, his shirtsleeves rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt undone. All his exposed skin sent an embarrassed warmth through my face.
    As if he wasn’t frightening enough with so much profanity, he also wore the strangest set of goggles I’d ever seen. They covered half his face and were made of shiny brass with thick, clear lenses that made his eyes look like grass-green croquet balls.
    And he was looking at me as if he expected an answer.
    â€œP-pardon me?” I asked.
    â€œDidn’t you see the sign?” he snapped.
    I glanced behind. “Well, yes.”
    â€œSo?” He rolled his hands in a quick, wheel-like movement as if to say “Now what?”
    â€œI knocked,” I said sheepishly, “but no one answered.”
    â€œBecause I’m busy.” He stomped toward me, and I shrank back, ready to retreat through the open door should his expression turn any more menacing.
    â€œS-sorry,” I stammered.
    â€œYou should be,” he said. “You’ve contaminated my grave dirt—look!” He thrust a finger toward the floor. I flicked my eyes down. Soil and glass covered the ground.
    I opened my mouth to apologize but clamped it back shut at the sight of his blinking, goggled eyes and sharp frown.
    â€œSee that?” he barked. “D’you know how hard it is to get dirt from Laurel Hill? I ought to make you get more! Make you face the Dead and...”
    I stopped listening. His hands flailed up, down, and side to side as he declared me reckless, thoughtless, and I even think I heard rude mentioned.
    I took his foulmouthed moment to examine the room, which was no bigger than my bedroom, all the edges crammed with books, flasks, and trunks. There was just enough space at the center for several people to move about (albeit closely). Light shone from a single, tall window at the back. Behind the goggled young man, a table stood covered with wrenches, screws, wires, and other equipment one might find in an inventor’s lair.
    My breath caught as my eyes rested on a telegraph like the telegraphs at the fire stations—telegraphs that spring to life when a fire alarm sounds. This one must be connected to the Dead alarms.
    â€œAnd,” the young man said, interrupting my thoughts with a forceful fist in the air, “I needed it to calibrate my goggles!” His chest heaved as if he’d just fought a boxing match, and I decided silence remained my best response. After several empty seconds, his hand dropped and he cleared his throat. He slid off the goggles’ strap and gently eased the lenses from his face.
    I blinked in surprise. The lenses were no longer clear but a murky brown. How had the glass changed color? My surprise grew when I noticed that, with his face fully exposed, the blond man was quite young—perhaps only a few