Steampunk Pistol Novels & Stories

Lacey answered. “I got just the thing,” Lou said. He walked a few inches to the side, bent over, and unlocked the case. He opened the door and pulled out a small black-and-silver handgun. Then he closed the case and walked back to them. “This is a Taurus compact pistol seven-thirty-eight. It’s lighter than our frame revolvers,” he explained and handed it to Lacey. “It’s on sale for two hundred and five dollars.” She palmed it, weighing the small yet powerful weapon in her hand. “It might be too compact.”

And someone’s blood was about to paint the walls. The ride led me to the outskirts, far beyond the Crescent Moon territory, to an abandoned machinery workshop—rusty, silent, and crawling with the stench of trap. I got off the bike, lifted the seat, and pulled out my twin handguns. They looked standard enough, but the bullets? Each one dipped in wolfsbane. Enough to paralyze a werewolf within seconds. Death within minutes. I didn’t come here to die. But I wouldn’t mind taking a few corpses down with me.

I аdvіѕеd him, ѕірріng mу соffее and then refreshing mу сuр frоm thе саrаfе. Frаnk the hуеnа рut the mоnеу іn his ѕuіt росkеt, lеаvіng the envelope. He rеmоvеd ѕіlvеr .25-саlіbеr ѕеmі- automatic hаndgun wіth mоthеr of pearl grips. Thе he flаѕhеd іt for mе tо ѕее, before рuttіng іt оn thе tаblе аnd palming іt wіth hіѕ lаrgе hаnd.

The door groaned and swung open, letting in a gust of freezing rain and the smell of gunpowder. Arthur Sterling stepped into the light. The CFO of Vane Enterprises looked pathetic. His charcoal suit was soaked and ruined, his silk tie was missing, and his face was smeared with soot and blood. He was holding a small, silver pistol that looked like a toy in his shaking hands. Behind him, two men in Viper leather stood, their faces masked, their eyes filled with a desperate, cornered malice.

Mind you, I don't know how a gun works. He gave me another short kiss and pushed me to the safe. “Jerald…” I said and he looked at me as the door starts to close. “Be safe.” I say to him and he winks. I don't know where he gets his positivity in life but I'd love to have it too. I looked at the gun. It's written pepperbox.It is a double-barreled pepperbox comes with a gold metal grip, with expensive decorations and a standard barrel, which could be ornamented.

I lifted it out with careful hands and opened the latch. There it was. A sleek silver pistol with a pearl handle, nestled in custom-fitted foam. Below it were six bullets that gleamed with an odd, blue tint. Wolfsbane. Enough to kill six werewolves, or one werewolf six times over. I stared at the weapon that could end Darragh's life, that could destroy everything I cared about. In Ciara's vision, this gun was the difference between my best friend living and dying. Between having a future and losing everything.

Alessia replied as she unslung her rifle and dropped it into the container but her hand stayed firmly on the grip of the pistol tucked into her waistband. "Let them keep the handguns because we don't have time to argue about regulations while the naval guns are leveling the eastern keep," I told the guard as I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into the chilly air of the chapel where the smell of old incense was mixed with the fresh scent of stone dust.

I said before picking up a hand cannon of a pistol, "What's this one?" "That would be the PZ 600, the bullets underneath are as natural as you are, anything you hit with that will go down, money-back guarantee." I tied the holster to my side and all the ammunition in my bag, before setting the gun in the holster. Jameson and Damien were gathering stuff, Jameson just picking out what looked good while Damien was more methodical with his choices. Then I saw it, a weapon so perfect it didn't even look real. There was a scythe on the back wall, split in color down the middle, one side silver the other side gold.

"For the robot one." He looked at Vesper Thorne. "I don't have a white tuxedo," Cyprian grunted. "But I have this." He tossed Vesper a sleek, suppressed pistol. "Don't scratch it." Vesper caught it. He checked the chamber. "You're a peach, Cyprian." Modern Vespera caught the rifle. She checked the sights. She looked at her team. The Council of Vesperas. A Demon Queen. A Mob Boss. A Cyborg.

APG MARK I. Unlike any weapon the boy had seen: compact, thick-barrelled, utilitarian enough to be beautiful. Metal filmed with humidity. A technician in wire frames and surgeon’s steadiness loaded red-banded armour-piercing rounds with the care of a sacristan, thumb pressing each cartridge into a curved magazine that swallowed them like oaths. A nearby soldier barked without looking up. “Nicht rennen, Junge!” (No running, boy!) Stephanos didn’t answer. He broke for the deeper tunnels where the camp’s lights thinned and the labyrinth began to keep its own counsel—where secrets went to ground and the world above learned to forget.