The Last Chance Locksmith

THE LAST CHANCE LOCKSMITH

by Niall Spain

A shockwave rippled through the bunker. Unfortunately, this knocked one of Heather’s romance novels off her shelf and onto the thick carpet below. Even worse, it woke her a whole thirty-seven minutes early. The rumbling faded fast—the clinking of glass beakers from her lab stilling soon after—but there was no chance she’d fall back asleep now.

Heather carefully got out of bed and disengaged her clockwork alarm. Not that it usually woke Fleeya (the woman had a supernatural ability to sleep through almost everything, distant explosions included) but she didn’t want to take any chances. Her wife looked so peaceful when she slept, all her formidable scars, muscles, and height hidden beneath a puffy, green duvet. At least she could wake the way Heather would like to: with a steaming mug of coffee lying in wait.

She tucked her book back on the shelf and padded down the hallway barefoot. Once you’d perfected the art of heated floors, there was no need for scratchy slippers. Those thirty-seven minutes of lost sleep had taken their toll though; she clipped her head on the side of a support beam before she remembered. The renovations. Raising the roofs was proving to be slow work. When she’d made the bunker she hadn’t planned on sharing it with anyone, let alone someone who was six-foot-two. Still, she was making progress.

So long as the chaos up above didn’t collapse it.

Heather sighed. She’d come out here for peace and quiet. She rarely found either.

At least there were ways to deal with that. Carefully curated libraries, gigantic pillows, and best of all: coffee. Her prized contraption waited at the end of the hallway, a tangle of copper pipes, glass spheres, gauges, and oak-tipped handles. She’d been perfecting the machine for years. All she had to do was pull one lever, and the process began.

Buzzing filled the living room as the beans fell into the grinder, followed by a deeply satisfying hiss as a piston tamped the grounds into a compact mass, perfect for brewing. The steel filter swung beneath a pressurised nozzle and clicked into place as the water above slowly started to agitate. Heather stared, willing the bubbles to come faster. They never did.

That was the only part of the process she had yet to refine. In a perfect world, she’d have water that was already boiling hot, her life-saving caffeine only a moment away. Especially on mornings like these. The sheer energy that required, though. She’d need some sort of perpetual—

Another impact rocked her home from above, making her apparatus sway.

Before she could help herself, Heather pressed a hidden button in the ceiling and pulled down a long, copper periscope. Curiosity killed the crow, her mother always said, eternally exasperated with her. Like the bird, Heather was small, sleek, dark, and curious. They both loved shiny things and flew away from people. Yet here she was, altering her nest for Fleeya. 

Almost instantly her mother was proven right. Something flashed through the viewfinder and Heather reeled back from her scope, blinking away spots. She felt her mother’s smugness, despite the years and the three feet of concrete and steel she’d put between them. Just one more thing she’d tried—and failed—to get away from.

Heather’s vision finally cleared, and she looked back at her coffee machine. No boiling water. Still. What a nightmare.

Irritated, she chanced the periscope again. This time she saw the scene clearly. A soot-covered woman—thick of thigh and arm—faced away from the entrance to the bunker with a large, scorched shield held at the ready. Closer to the door crouched two men: one young, one old, both bloodied. The latter cradled a burned hand, an axe discarded at his feet. The former hammered at Heather’s armoured door with the pommel of his sword, shouting something she couldn’t hear.

In the distance, a bonfire given human form strode towards them; a whirl of black smoke and forge-red flame. Heather hadn’t dismissed her silence enchantment, but the creature looked like it was laughing.

Heather rolled her eyes. Another day, another rag-tag group of would-be heroes here to beg for her help. 

Behind her, she heard the glorious sound of water dripping into the pot below. Still too many minutes to go though. Heather wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and hide under the sheets until this was all over. They’d be alright; those scrappy adventurers always made it out alive one way or another. But if Fleeya saw what was happening…

Heather twisted the silence rune on the side of her periscope out of alignment. The sounds of battle burst through from the speaking stone embedded above, far too loud for this early hour.

“—please! We were told you could help! You’re our only hope!”

The monster was laughing. Heather failed to see what was so funny.

The young man shifted and she saw he was cradling a chest against his side; a blackened, twisted chunk of metal with a comically oversized padlock on the front.

“MEET YOUR DOOM, MORTAL! WITHOUT THE KEY YOU HAVE NO HOPE! I HAVE WON! MAKE THIS EASIER ON YOURSELVES AND JUST DIE!”

The creature reached inside of itself, scooping out a handful of flame and molding it into a roiling, black fireball. Then it hurled it their way. The large woman was there in an instant, getting her shoulder behind her shield and deflecting most of the blast before it hit the injured men. Or Heather’s door. That shield must have been made with a Tungar alloy. Heather would have loved to get her hands on that, if a fresh shockwave wasn’t rippling through her home. Sooner or later, one of the blasts was going to wake Fleeya up. Heather knew there was a limit to her slumber: she’d woken her with explosive experiments a few too many times before.

“Why does this always happen so bloody early?” Heather grumbled.

“Hello?! You’re there?”

Drat. She’d forgotten she’d disengaged the rune.

“Please! You’re our only hope! We—”

The voice cut off as another fireball hit home, and yet another grinding pulse shook the walls. Fleeya’s hanging plants swung like the bunker was a ship on rough seas, not safely tucked under the earth. She had only recently managed to keep any alive for longer than a week. If they fell…

Heather breathed in deeply and looked back at the scene. The adventurers were still alive, thank the stars, although the woman looked like she was fading fast. The monster shrieked with glee again, all confidence. It didn’t care about the adventurers, or Heather’s morning. She wanted to shut the thing up for good but… No. She wasn’t going to get involved again.

“Can you just go?” Heather asked. “I’m trying to enjoy my morning.”

“But... you’re the locksmith.”

“Artificer.”

Even through the soot, he paled. 

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I—You’re our only hope.”

You avert one apocalypse and it’s all anyone talks about. 

“I’m not. There’s that key the fire-thing mentioned, right?”

“Destroyed,” the young man sobbed. “We were almost there and then... The Burning Mistress... She got it. She consumed it.” Who named these things? “We were told you’re the only one who can open this.”

Anything with a lock could be opened in more than one way. She didn’t understand why no one else seemed to realise that. 

“Well, I’m sorry, but this is my home, not my place of business. I’m retired, see?”

Nearer now, the towering monster—presumably this Burning Mistress—was gathering flame. She scooped handfuls from her body, although the blaze never seemed to lessen. The biggest fireball yet.

“The world is going to end!” the adventurer shrieked.

“You aren’t the first heroes to show up at my door, and the world’s still going, as far as I can see. Look, there’s a river to the south. I know she’s nine kinds of scary, but I’m sure she can’t follow you through that. Survive today, heal up, and I’m sure you’ll find someone else to fix your problems for you.”

“What’s the point of surviving? Until her ever-burning heart is stabbed, she’s immortal. She’ll sweep the world with fire and—”

“Hold up. Ever-burning? And it’s in that chest?”

The adventurer’s eyes widened with hope, and they nodded vigorously. “Yes, but we can’t open it without the key, and we can’t kill her until it’s open and—”

“Got it,” Heather interrupted. “Hold on.” 

Quickly, Heather strode over to her mauve armchair and sank into it before pulling down a second periscope. This one was gleaming steel, and there were two handles curving out from it like rams horns, each studded with runes and buttons that had nothing to do with being silent.. She engaged the first rune. The fiery demon paused as she saw two nearby hills split open. Or perhaps she was distracted by Heather’s turrets—polished steel tubes ringed with arcane sigils and glowing a soft purple—as they unfolded from the earth. The demon gave another laugh.

“FOOL! I HAVE LIVED THOUSANDS OF YEARS! WITH MY HEART TUCKED SAFELY AWAY, NOTHING CAN KILL ME!”

That was probably true at one point. The Burning Mistress clearly hadn’t counted on Tungar slugs the size of a cow, though, or ballista bolts pumped full of liquid nitrogen.

Months ago, Fleeya had laughed when she’d found her working away on the bunker’s defences. Aimless tinkering, she’d called it. Well. They were useful now.

Heather wasn’t sure whether it was the sheer kinetic force of the slugs or the icy chill of the bolts, but after the smoke cleared the monster—and the hill she had been standing on—were both gone. 

The young man stared, mouth agape. 

“Th—Thank you,” he said. “I can’t—”

“Look, I’ll call us even if you leave me in peace and don’t tell anyone I did this, okay?”

“I—of course.”

“Oh. And leave me that chest, will you?”

She folded the periscope away as the rag-tag group limped off, shaking their heads. The coffee machine finally fell silent behind her. The warm smell of roasted beans filled the room. Heather turned to see Fleeya standing beside it, one perfect eyebrow arched.

“Saved another day, love?”

“Uh, what?” 

Fleeya eyed the remaining periscope hanging from the ceiling. Heather folded it away quickly. 

“No, just improving the coffee machine.”

“Oh, really?”

“No more waiting for the water to heat! It’ll be great.”

“So I shouldn’t make room for another grateful adventurer?”

Heather slipped on her thick work gloves and kissed her wife. She made her way up their bunker’s spiral staircase towards the surface. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, and winked. “One is more than enough.”

 “I’ll pour you a cup. Don’t be long.”

NIALL SPAIN is an Irish writer currently living in Toronto, Canada. He co-hosts two multi award winning podcasts, and won Best Host in a Series in the 2024 Canadian Podcast Awards. His stories have appeared in the Dragonesque anthology, and ZNB Presents. When he’s not writing you can find him climbing rocks, drinking craft beer, or cooking meals that are maybe a little too fancy. Find him over at: linktr.ee/niallspain.

The Last Chance Locksmith was edited by André Geleynse. It can be found in Tales & Feathers Volume 3.