Patrick LeClerc makes good use of his history degree by working as a paramedic for an ever- changing parade of ambulance companies in the Northern suburbs of Boston. When not writing he enjoys cooking, fencing and making witty, insightful remarks with career-limiting candor.
In the lulls between runs on the ambulance —and sometimes the lulls between employment at various ambulance companies— he writes fiction.
Emelia DuMond is an actress, her skill at adopting and changing her identity lifting her from her humble beginnings to success on the stage of Victorian London. And to the attention of the Ghost Society, a secret organization who work to defend the world from threats of the paranormal. After centuries of seeking, the sinister Disciples of the Void have obtained an arcane book of great power. A power that could tear the veil between dimensions and plunge the world into a dark, unspeakable future.
Now she has recruited an aging soldier of fortune burdened by a conscience, the sword wielding daughter of an Afghan brigand and an airship whose captain escaped slavery during the Civil War by stealing a Confederate vessel.
Can Emelia and her band of plucky outcasts save the world from a cult of fanatics intent on unleashing an ancient horror?
"The Beckoning Void" is a tale of cunning plots, flashing swords, skillful piloting, witty repartee and eldritch dread.
"The Beckoning Void is a fabulous mash-up of steampunk and cosmic horror, all told with Patrick LeClerc's signature fast-pace, accessible writing style."
– C.D. Gallant-King"Loved the characters. The action was well paced and detailed. Hope to see another story featuring these characters. Excellent combination of steampunk and horror."
– Jeremy K MortisThe Beckoning Void is a fun romp to prevent global, Lovecraftian apocalypse. Fans of steampunk will find so much to love here, and those who are looking for a history/sci-fi/fantasy mashup will also be pleased.
– Eclectic TheistThe slanting rays of the setting sun poured in through gaps in the rotted shutters of the ancient cottage, illuminating swirling eddies of dust. The fireplace was cold. Part of the thatched roof had fallen in. A scatter of leaves skittered across the floor as a breeze found its way around the warped door.
Count Roderick sat on a rickety chair in the dimly lit hovel, sizing up the three men opposite him. Rough men. Dressed like brigands, but with a very unbrigand-like sense of purpose about them. Each of them had a hanger or messer and a hefty dagger at his belt, and two had long pistols at their sides. That didn't concern Roderick overly. For his own part, he wore his sabre at his left hip and a revolver at his right. The count felt that the naked display of weapons might serve to discourage violence. He also had a dagger up his sleeve and a derringer in the pocket of his jacket, in the event he was asked to remove his weapons to demonstrate his peaceful intent. Demonstration was a fine thing, he believed, and his intent was generally peaceful, but flexible.
It was the eyes of the men that concerned him. Hard eyes. Not the cold, hard eyes of a murderer, but the kind of hard eyes that burned with the flames of a fanatic. Dangerous men.
But they were dangerous men with money, and he had debts. Pity the elder count hadn't been granted the sense to run an estate. The man had been a gifted soldier, skilled with a horse or a sword or a pistol, and with an eye for ground, a head for tactics, and a way of commanding men.
That much had earned him a title from the Emperor of Austria-Hungary. But for all his sterling qualities, he had a blind spot for money and a mercenary's devil may care attitude toward tomorrow. Couple that with a rapacious appetite for fast horses, beautiful women, drink and cards and the end result was that when he died, he left his estate—and therefore his son—in debt up to his eyeballs.
Roderick didn't really blame his father. The man had been a simple soldier who had landed unexpectedly in luxury and took full advantage of it. He'd have done the same. Probably could have in different times, for he had inherited his father's charisma and martial prowess. The young man, however, had the misfortune to be born into a period of peace.
So here he was, conducting clandestine meetings with shady, probably mad cultists in a cold, drafty cottage instead of attending victory balls in Vienna.
"You have the book?" asked the first ruffian. A lanky fellow with a face like a corpse but not as joyful.
"I do." Roderick reached into his satchel and handed it over.
In truth, he was glad to be rid of it. The thing made his flesh crawl. It was old, filled with symbols and scribbles in some language he couldn't read but found disquieting. The leather binding reminded him of human skin and the ink was the rusty brown of old blood. He told himself that this was just silly superstition. That he was a man of reason living in an enlightened age, but the blood of an Irish father and Romani mother provided fertile soil for the seeds of eldritch horror to take root.
The cultist leaned over it, the fire in his eyes burning hotter. He reached out and touched the spine, tentatively but with restrained desire, stroking it with a trembling hand. The others peered over his shoulder.
Like virgins on their first visit to a brothel, thought Roderick.
"I'm impressed," said the leader. He placed a purse upon the table. "I'd have thought Dr Carmody would have defended this with his life. And was ever vigilant."
The count shrugged. "I enlisted the help of a lass I know who excels in distracting even the most vigilant of men. And making them much less capable of defense." He looked into the purse and frowned. "This is half what we discussed. I did bring you the whole book. I'm fairly certain of that."
"When our leader receives it, the rest of your payment will be sent to you."
Count Roderick's frown deepened. That wasn't the agreement. He considered the situation and figured that the reduced payment had a great deal to do with the fact that they had more weapons than he did. The fact that they were willing to hand over any payment at all was likely because he had enough weapons to make completely stiffing him not worth the risk.
He thought for a long moment. Accepting such treatment was bad for business. On the other hand, they did have him outnumbered three to one, even though the one was him, which he figured brought the odds pretty close to dead even. Still, even a fair fight was something best avoided until you could find a way to make it unfair in your favor.
He was still debating with himself when the corpse-faced man interrupted his train of thought.
"This woman. If she knows of our plan, she must be eliminated. Unless you've already done so."
That was a step too far. The count was well aware that sometimes one couldn't make an omelet without murdering some witnesses, but these men grated on his nerves. They were too direct, too sure they could impose their will on him. Him! Like so many fanatics, they were simple blunt instruments, intent on bludgeoning the world into the shape they wished and entirely lacking finesse. Nothing wrong with a good old blunt instrument, when the time called for it, but he'd be damned if he was going to be beaten into shape. And "eliminating" Margarethe would be a criminal waste of a perfectly good prostitute with a captivating smile, a real sense of panache, and one of nature's finest sets of tits. May as well burn the Sistine Chapel.
The count leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs and rolling his neck. His frown disappeared, replaced by a Cheshire cat grin.
"Sorry, boys," he said. "I'm afraid this simply isn't the done thing, as my dear old dad would say. I'll be taking that book to your boss myself, and we can discuss things like 'payment in full' and 'professional courtesy.'"
"You expect us to agree to your terms?" said the man, his words grating like the stone door of a tomb.
"Don't see that the opinions of three dead men should concern me overly."
As the cultist's brows lowered in consideration of this statement, Roderick was on his feet, his chair crashing over. He drew his sabre and slashed in one fluid motion that left the man gurgling blood from a cut throat.
As the second brigand scrabbled for the pistol in his belt, the count stepped sideways and brought his blade down on the man's skull, splitting it to his eyebrows and dropping him twitching on the floor.
The last cultist drew his hanger. He parried Roderick's first slash on the short, heavy blade and made a savage counter. The count slipped back out of range, letting the weapon swish past, a victim of its own momentum, before lashing out with his own lighter, more nimble blade, shearing through the muscle and tendon of the man's sword arm as it passed. His next cut opened the man's belly. The cultist folded up and crumpled to the floor.
The count stepped away from the fallen as the survivor cursed him in a strange tongue.
"Sorry, old boy, but you're not getting the full effect, insulting me in that gibberish."
"The Old Ones will feast on your soul," muttered the man between groans.
"Unlikely, unless they find themselves some better disciples," Roderick replied. He kept his eye on the man, who was still struggling to rise despite the terrible wound spilling blood and viscera. Can never be too sure you've killed a fanatic, he thought. One reason he'd taken care to hack the man's sword arm before giving him the killing blow. A skilled swordsman can kill easily enough, but a smart one disables first, preventing a determined enemy from seizing a moment for revenge.
The man was feebly pawing at the pistol in his belt with his left hand, but his strength was fading and the weapon was placed to be drawn with the right, and was slick with gore, so he was making poor headway. The count decided the cautious thing would be to put his back to the wall and wait until the enemy finished bleeding out. Shouldn't be long.
"Good choice, by the way, going for your sword," he told the man. "I was hoping you'd reach for the pistol, like your friend did. Most men who have a gun do. But it's a poor choice when the fight's this close. Takes too much skill and time to draw, cock, aim, and fire the thing, and it's no bloody use in defense. No, the sword was the way to go. Gave you a fighting chance, anyway."
"You'll die for this," said the man. "My master will never forgive this betrayal."
"Not so sure," Roderick replied. "Now, let's be honest. You were leaning in the direction of betrayal yourselves, what with the short payment and the demands for the blood of my trusted asset. When I do bring him the book, he'd best make things square."
"You think he'll overlook this?" The man's voice was weaker, barely a whisper
"I do. And that is what separates a man of imagination such as myself from simple minions like you and your friends. What man would be foolish enough to deliver himself to your master after betraying his men? My willingness to show my face will put that suspicion to rest. And with your inflexible fanaticism and enthusiasm for force, it will be easy to spin a tale of you lot trying to fight your way past the authorities upon being discovered with this clearly dangerous object. Being the loyal agent that I am, I fought my way clear, using my connections and cunning to ensure its safe delivery and shedding a tear for you brave fellows who fell to make this victory possible."
The wounded man shuddered and subsided, almost melting into the floor as the life passed from him and the muscles ceased to move. The count wiped the blood from his sabre and sheathed it, then gave himself a good once over to make sure he hadn't been cut. Often in the heat of battle, a man might not notice a wound. He felt the euphoria of a fight survived beginning to fade. He was quite proud of this performance. Three to one isn't nothing, even if they weren't real soldiers, and things could easily have gone the other way. He took the purse and book and returned both to his satchel.
His smile turned grim as he left the cottage. Bringing the book directly to his client was dangerous, especially since he'd done what he'd done, but he did need that payment. Bankers wouldn't respond well to the plea that his criminal contacts had reneged on a deal, and the really difficult thing about bankers was that he couldn't just take a sabre to them. And if he didn't deliver the book, he'd have abandoned a contract, which would tarnish his reputation as a man who could get things done outside of legitimate channels.
No, the thing to do would be to uphold his end and insist the client do so as well. That would send the message. People would know he was both reliable and not to be trifled with. As far as his cover story, he knew a constable who would be more than happy to take credit for defeating a group of brigands. That should lend credence to the story he would tell his client and leave a lawman in his debt, which was never a bad thing.
Perhaps a visit to Margarethe would be in order. After all, he had just saved her life. Perhaps she'd be willing to express her gratitude. If the story of his heroics wasn't sufficient, he did have half the promised payment. He was sure he could haggle the final price up from his client for suitable expenses. Probably should charge the bugger extra just for the lesson in how to treat his agents.