Master of Myth (The Antigone's Wrath Series Book 1)
Read Master of Myth (The Antigone's Wrath Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Starla Huchton
Chapter Four - The Cheval Rouge
Chapter Six - The Arrangements
Chapter Twelve - The Conference
Chapter Thirteen - The Retreat
Chapter Fourteen - The Hookah Bar
Chapter Fifteen - The Raggedy Fleet
Chapter Sixteen - The Gangster
Chapter Seventeen - The Flight North
Chapter Eighteen - The Monastery
Chapter Twenty-Two - The Island
Chapter Twenty-Three - The Darkness
Chapter Twenty-Four - The Lights
Chapter Twenty-Five - The Machine
Chapter Twenty-Six - The Consequences
Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Parting
Starla Huchton
To those who loved this book long before it saw the light of day,
She flies with the wind you put in her sails.
The Ring
“It is time, Brother.” He drifted into the room without so much as a warning knock on the door, brushing back the hood of his black cloak to reveal silver-white hair. His steps were soundless against the black metal floors, an irritating feat most men could not achieve. Stopping near the end of the iron cot, he waited for acknowledgement.
The occupant of the small quarters cast the younger man a glance, and then resumed scraping the straight razor over his chin. “Do come in, Matthias,” he said with a hint of derision, wiping the blade on the towel draped over his shoulder. “Have travel arrangements to Pevensey been made then?”
The corners of the visitor’s mouth turned up almost imperceptibly. “There’s been a change of plans, I’m afraid. Brother Boldin was dispatched for that job, along with the book. Your services are required for retrieving the other item in Grimsby.”
The man glared at his pale reflection and lowered the razor. His thick, black mustache twitched with irritation. “Surely there are other men capable of handling that task?”
“Mmm. Yes, but you’ve been chosen for this errand specifically.” He opened his palms outward, to show this was a thing he had no control over. “I would
hate
to inform the others that you refuse to—”
“Do not play that game with me, Matthias.” His voice dropped into a dangerous tone. “My loyalty to the Brotherhood is absolute.”
A placating smile spread across Matthias’s face. “It certainly is,
Brother
. I only meant that displeasing news is not met well by your superiors. I trust we can leave the matter of the old woman in your capable hands then?”
His mustache gave one last twitch, and he nodded at the self-satisfied messenger.
“Very good. Your transport leaves in ten minutes. Try not to keep them waiting.” Matthais turned and left the way he came, the edges of his black robe brushing the steel doorframe.
The straight razor clattered into the washbasin, a small rivulet of blood slipping into the foamy water. The man muttered a soft curse, aimed not entirely at the fresh nick below his chin. As he wiped the shaving soap from his face, he resigned himself. He would see to this child’s errand.
After slipping his arms into his black overcoat, he placed his black bowler on his head and strode out the watertight door. How much trouble could one old woman be, anyway?
“There you are, my lovely,” Captain Rachel Sterling whispered as she approached the grand ship docked in Grimsby, England’s commercial port. She took a moment, as she always did, to carefully inspect the exterior of the vessel. Her gaze drifted up the side of the steel plating to where the round hull stopped and gave way to the railing. Turned wood capped with bright brass gleamed in the early morning light.
She smiled to herself as she looked up to the sails attached to the three thick masts, marveling at the sail configuration. These were not made of the humdrum canvas of Royal Navy watercraft. This material was far superior. Delicate filaments of steel had been spun and woven to create the thin mesh that made up the six sails and ballooning. The mesh was so fine it weighed the same as its fabric counterpart, but could still hold up to the pressure of the heated gases that filled it for flight. The layers were locked together by rigging for water travel, but as soon as the ropes were loosed, they could be inflated with gas the mast pipes pumped into them. The
Antigone’s Wrath
was a mighty vessel, and she boasted technology that turned Air Transport Authority officers unabashedly envious.
“Have the men finish loading the shipment for La Rochelle and prepare for departure,” Rachel instructed the first mate as she boarded the ship. “I’ve some charts to draw up before we leave, so I’ll leave the details to you.”
Iris Singh pushed back the hood of her cloak to tie back her dark curls. The crisp morning air brought a hint of color to her tanned skin. “Aye, Captain. I’ll see if Monsieur DuSalle won’t lend a hand after he’s arranged to collect the supplies from the market.” With a brisk nod, the first mate headed for the crewmen arranging crates on the deck.
The captain watched for a moment before heading below. While there were, in fact, charts to be marked, something else demanded her attention.
She reached the door to her quarters and inserted a cog-shaped key into its matching indention, turning it a full rotation clockwise. The gears inlaid in the exterior sprang to life, unlocking the portal as they rotated. After hanging her cloak and hat on the wall hooks, she removed a blue velvet pouch from her vest pocket and weighed it in her hand. Grasping it tightly, she flopped down onto the chair behind her desk and let out a heavy sigh. Including the tiny spray of althea flowers, birch, and celandine tied with cream-colored satin ribbon given to her this time, none of the trinkets Mrs. Tweed sold to her in the past were a fraction as valuable as the one Rachel held now. It was so strange for her friend to have such a thing that Rachel could think of little else after their meeting in the crowded street market of Grimsby. How had that woman, one now reduced to near poverty, come to own a piece of such master craftsmanship?
The ring was warm and heavy between her fingers as she slipped it out of the cloth. Rachel held it at arms’ length, studying it as the light reflected off of the many ruby chips of its surface. As she rubbed her thumb over the gold band, a hum filled the air, like a machine rumbling to life, and the scent of burning grease accosted her nostrils. The hair on her arms stood up as a wave of electricity passed through her, and she dropped the thing on the desk, pushing away from it. That was no ordinary piece of jewelry.
With no consideration for the money it would bring her, she scooped it back into its bag and shoved it in her pocket. She threw open the door and bolted out of her quarters. As she raced down the gangplank, Iris called to her, but Rachel had no time to waste. The ring had to go. She would simply return it to Mrs. Tweed and forget the whole thing happened. Why someone who knew her so well would even consider giving it to her was beyond Rachel’s comprehension. She detested all things related to Aether Manipulation. She would not allow it to remain in her possession. Iris would be livid when she learned of this, but Rachel’s tolerance of the first mate’s obsession with paranormal relics did not extend to this degree. As the captain, it was her right to say what would and would not be on board her ship. The argument about the legality of transporting such things was hardly the issue. Nowhere in the twelve years she’d been captain had she run across such an item as this. No, she would not allow it this time.
After nearly running over a porter on the dock, she slowed her pace to a reasonable, but brisk one. It wouldn’t do to cause any accidents that would delay her in ridding herself of the ring as quickly as possible. She retraced her steps through the loading docks and public houses until she was at the market again. A block before her destination, Rachel caught a glimpse of something suspicious. A group of four men dressed in black suits and bowler hats stood in a semi-circle around the old woman’s blanket. With a building at her back, Mrs. Tweed had no escape route. Rachel wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but from the terrified look on Mrs. Tweed’s face, whatever was happening was not a routine business transaction.
Rachel crept closer, concealing herself behind a parked hansom cab a short distance from them in order to overhear what transpired. The matching attire of these men spoke of organization, maybe a gang of some sort, but they bore no insignia she could detect. As she leaned around the edge of the cab, she heard a snippet of the exchange.
“I’m telling you the truth.” Mrs. Tweed’s chin jutted out. “I don’t have this thing you’re looking for. Search me all you like, but you won’t find anything like that.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary, my good woman.” The ringleader was pale and oily looking, with a handlebar mustache that twitched when he spoke. “I fully believe you don’t have the item in question. What I wish to know, is which of your patrons might be in possession of it now?”
Mrs. Tweed chuckled. “You think an old biddy like me’d remember who bought some little trinket I don’t even recall owning? You overestimate my memory.”
From her vantage point, Rachel saw Mr. Mustache’s fingers moving near a bulge under his coat, a blunt instrument of sorts. That did not bode well for Mrs. Tweed; these men were determined to cause violence. Rachel regretted her decision to come alone.
“I shall ask you one more time.” His tone was threatening, and Rachel had to strain to hear his words. “Where is the ring?”
Her heart skipped a beat when she heard that. There was no doubt in her mind which ring Mr. Mustache wanted. Mrs. Tweed would not have had anything else like it, and Rachel had a very good idea of why they wanted it. It would not end well.
Rachel’s stomach clenched with dread. Should she step from concealment in defense of Mrs. Tweed, she would instantly mark herself as a target. Regardless of her prowess with blade or bullet, four-to-one odds were odds she didn’t like. Even if she managed to take out one or two, Mrs. Tweed would still likely be hurt by the remaining men. And there was no guarantee there wasn’t a man lurking somewhere she hadn’t spotted yet. Were she to be defeated, they would undoubtedly search her and find the ring. Despite her dislike of the object, she recoiled at the thought of handing it over to them.
But she could not back away, not where Mrs. Tweed was concerned.
One of the men pulled a knife from the inside of his coat. Before she could react, the blade left his hand and pinned Mrs. Tweed’s sleeve to the wall of the building behind her.
The situation deteriorated quickly after that.
Mr. Mustache produced a brass Billy club from inside his coat and snapped it down, extending it to its full length. Rachel slipped from her hiding place and dashed toward the scene as he raised the club. The other three men followed his lead.
Breaking into a full run, Rachel knew without a doubt that she would be too late to stop several of the sickening blows from striking the elderly woman. Rage fueled her. With a flick of her wrist, the pistol strapped to the inside of her right arm was in her hand. She fired a shot directly through the neck of the man on the far left. He crumpled into a gurgling heap, the blood spurting between his fingers where he clawed at his throat. Her second shot landed in the back of the knife thrower, but the third missed its target when the last goon rolled to the pavement. With a click of her heel, her boot knife shot out, and she kicked fiercely. He swept a leg out toward her and met with sharpened steel, eliciting a scream of pain as he grabbed his knee. Even before the wound was certain, Rachel trained her gaze on Mr. Mustache. He watched her with stunned surprise, his club held mid-air. A drop of blood slipped off of the weapon to splatter on the cobblestones below.