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Le livre du moment

Burton & Swinburne, Tome 1 : L'étrange affaire de Spring Heeled Jack

  • 26 Avril 2013
  • Mark Hodder
  • Steampunk, Aventure, Science-Fiction

Extraits du moment

  • Clara à Octavius

    -Ne t'inquiète pas, quand tout ça sera fini, je t'enseignerai l'art du tact.

    -Ah oui, vraiment ? Quel genre de leçons comptes-tu me dispenser? Attends, je sais, tu m'apprendras s'il est plus respectueux de répondre à son interlocuteur par une gifle ou une torgnole ! La nuance pourrait m'échapper, vu que je ne fréquente pas les cercles huppés de la ville.

    -Tu mériterais un coup de coude pour ça.

    -Ah, tu préviens, maintenant ? C'est nouveau ça !

    Extrait de Les Noces Mécaniques
  • Mlle Sekhmet avança dans la lueur du feu. Elle avait trouvé un morceau de tissu vanara qu'elle avait majestueusement drapé autour de son corps. Ses épaules brunes étaient nues mais ses longs cheveux épais et le filet d'argent lui faisaient comme une cape. Sous sa forme mortelle, elle était juste un plus halée que lorsqu'elle était immortelle et toujours d'une beauté si douloureuse qu'elle était presque irréelle. Le tissu, les cheveux et le filet d’argent se combinaient pour lui donne l'apparence d'une déesse sortie d'une légende, bien plus que les Vanaras. Rue bondit, courut vers elle et prit place à sa gauche. Lady Kingair était un battement de cœur derrière-elle. La louve-garou se tint à sa droite.

    Extrait de Le Protocole de la crème anglaise, Tome 1 : Prudence
  • Chapter ONE

    London, 1883

    THE INVITATION CONTAINED an address and two words: Come alone.

    Caleb Byrnes had found it earlier that morning, in the middle of his bed in the Nighthawks Guild headquarters, a place that he'd previously considered impenetrable. Not only were the Nighthawks comprised of rogue blue bloods—those afflicted with the craving virus, whose infection had not been sanctioned by the aristocrats who'd once ruled London—but they were also thief-takers and bounty hunters. An intruder should have been heard, or smelled, or spotted before they got within five yards of the place. And if they hadn't been, then the guild was protected with all manner of mechanical devices. It was a virtual labyrinth. To his knowledge, nobody had ever broken in successfully.

    His curiosity was aroused.

    Or perhaps that was just a side effect of the fact that the invitation smelled quite liberally of perfume.

    Someone had just dared him.

    Someone who knew enough about him to know what piqued his interest.

    Someone female.

    If there was one thing that Byrnes desired above all else it was a mystery, or a chase. The hunt was everything to him, whether he was hunting miscreants over the rooftops of London, vampires causing mayhem, or women.

    It was only once the chase was done that he grew bored, and considering that it had been a good year since he'd had a decent pursuit or case—that actress from the theatre, or the so-called Vampire of Drury Lane—he figured he was due.

    Hence why he was here, at the address listed.

    Lifting the invitation to his face, Byrnes breathed in the scent, and stared up at the nondescript Georgian townhouse in front of him that threatened to blend in to all of the others along the street. If he hadn't owned preternatural senses, the perfume would have been subtle, that of lilies floating in the wind past him. As it was he could make out the tiny trace notes of oils and chemicals, of solvents and preservatives, and something faintly musky that he couldn't quite identify.

    Lifting his hand to knock, Byrnes paused as skirts swished behind him along the footpath.

    "Goodness, Byrnes, is that you?" Ava McLaren asked, coming directly to a halt behind him.

    Not his intended pursuit, though Ava certainly could have delivered the invitation, as she too was a Nighthawk, and therefore had the means to enter his room. The scent was wrong however. Ava was engine oil, blood, and chemicals, masked by the faint trace of rose perfume she sometimes wore.

    "Indeed it is." Byrnes raked a glance over her, and missed nothing—including the gold-engraved invitation trailing from her fingers. His eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

    Three years ago, Ava had been the victim of a madman who performed clockwork experiments on women, a case that had left her with a thick, ragged scar down her chest, a mechanical heart, and a case of the craving virus. Her parents had thought her dead, and there was no place in the world for a female blue blood such as herself, so she'd ended up staying at the guild and taking a position there in the laboratories with Fitz. In three short years, she'd become quite adept at crime scene investigation, whereas Fitz still fainted at the sight of blood.

    Had Ava received the same invitation? The thought irritated him a little, for he'd thought this to be his mystery. However, he saw Ava as a friend—one of the few he truly owned—so he pushed the thought away.

    "Same reason, perhaps, as yours." Ava lifted the invitation ruefully, juggling her parasol in her other hand. "I received this but an hour ago. It sounded urgent."

    "Urgent?"

    Extrait de London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy, Tome 1 : Mission: Improper
  • Au rythme d'un air de jazz de La Nouvelle-Orléans, sous les lumières tamisées de l’Étrange Cabaret, danse un spectre en corset blanc. La mine lugubre, grimé du visage de la mort, il ploie et se déhanche nonchalamment. Il s'arque et retombe, bondit et s'allonge avec la grâce et la douleur des amours brisés. Ses bras s'accrochent éperdument à la voute d'un baiser arraché. Et sa poitrine haletante laisse échapper une étrange mélopée, tressaillant des assauts du tourment.

    Dans l'assemblée, pas une respiration ne vient perturber la danse macabre de la fée. Le temps semble suspendu. Le public attend impatiemment la prochaine revue. Si peu de mortels peuvent assister à ce ballet funeste. Dans l’Étrange Cabaret, la valse du spectre n'est jouée que pour ceux dont l'heure est venue, ceux qui ne vivront pas plus d'une année, ceux invités par la Mort à la table des élus. Baronne Samedi danse pour ces âmes perdues. Elle ploie et se déhanche pour adoucir leur trépas. Et alors que les dernières notes de sa voix onctueuse restent suspendues, pareilles à l'ultime palpitation d'un cœur aimant, d'un pas la banshie retombe, pour les guider dans l'au-delà.

    Extrait de L'étrange Cabaret des fées désenchantées
  • Lors du voyage de retour, les deux mille kilomètres se déroulèrent dans une ambiance taciturne. La jeune femme avait choisi de se murer dans le silence. Il s’y résignait lui aussi. Toute conversation déboucherait inévitablement sur une dispute, entraînant des questionnements à la fois houleux et gênants auxquels il n’avait aucune envie de répondre.

    Extrait de Les Foulards rouges, Saison 1 - Episode 3 : Paint it Black

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