The Ranger: Apollo's Story (Tales of Welkinia Book 2)

by J. M. Ivie

We all paused, waiting to see if Niall would bite. Ryanne enjoyed pushing him to his limits…

  “I only see one monster in here, Ghost!” Niall slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dinnerware.

  Barak grabbed his flagon and swirled the contents. “Is there a mirror here I do not know of?”

  Grinning like a devil, Ryanne toyed with his fork. “No. I’m pretty sure one of us would stare too long at his reflection and promptly die.”

  I laughed. “I’d hate for that face to be the last thing I see before I die.”

  Niall scowled. “We have mirrors…”

  He didn’t seem to understand we were talking about him.

  Barak’s rumbling chuckle reverberated in his chest as he slid his eyes to the dark, burly man in front of him.

  “Something funny, Hound?” Niall barred his teeth, rising from his seat. His barrel chest and thick neck engulfed his massive shoulders. The sheer size of his muscles could swallow Barak’s three times over. Despite Niall’s large form, the Luxterrian didn’t faze the Fiermontian warrior in the least.

  Barak merely tilted his head to the side and took a bite of his food.

  “Did you hear me?” Niall shouted, slamming his palms down on the table again.

  “The entire realm can hear you.” Barak still listlessly ate at his food, ignoring the hulking figure about to come down upon him.

  “Niall, calm down…” In my attempt to soothe the impending scuffle, I only achieved in making Niall angrier. Niall grabbed my tunic, pushing his two big, brown hands against my chest. The chair screeched at the force which he hurled me.

  Ryanne laughed, throwing his feet up onto the table. “You’ve made the Butcher mad, Apollo.” He clicked his tongue, tapping the red blade against his thigh.

  It would have turned into a fight had not Jensen’s voice filled the hall.

  “Men.”

  The four of us stood at attention. The clock struck seven, and the bell rang, ushering Jensen into the room. His eyes scanned us till they landed on me and lingered longer than was comfortable.

  “I expect more from you…” He stopped, looking at me once more. “Apollo. I need to speak with you alone.”

  Alone. The thought made my throat tighten and my stomach flip. I didn’t know why Jensen wanted me alone, but, the first thought in my mind was by far the worst. Reluctantly, I watched as Jensen scolded each of my fellow Rangers and I listened as he briefed them on what would happen if this behavior should continue.

  Once the men left, it was me and Jensen in the dining hall.

  “At ease,” Jensen smiled, raising his hand in a failed attempt to release the tension.

  My body barely relaxed. I watched uneasily as my task-master fiddled with a piece of paper in his hand.

  “I didn’t want the others to hear this, in case they didn’t take it well.” Jensen opened the letter and handed it to me. “You’re assigned.”

  I glanced at the parchment with interest. Once I had finished reading it, I was far less interested than I was amused. “What’s this?” I couldn’t help asking since this mission was far from what Jensen usually stuck me on.

  “Countess Corina Winsdale was found dead five seasons ago. After a full inspection they concluded her death was not an accident. Unfortunately, the Guardian assigned to the case could find nothing to help pinpoint the murderer. A few weeks ago, Azu Rowe, who has taken charge over all Winsdale assets, reached out for an Archivist to organize his wife’s—now daughter’s—immense library.”

  “This still doesn’t explain what you want me to do,” I rebutted.

  Jensen’s brows knitted. “I need a man I can trust. Rumor is going around that the Countess’ daughter is a Peculiar,” he said as he tapped his fingers along the dagger he kept secured to his side. A lump formed in my throat as he subtly reminded me of my place. “Even if there is little to support this, we need to be careful. Our contact—she is dependable, but, she is also far too attached to the Countess to make me believe her entirely. I need someone who can tell me with certainty whether the Countess is in fact a Peculiar or not. If she is, we must neutralize her. If not, she poses no threat and can continue living her life in ignorance to our existence.”

  “Why me?”

  “You look normal.” He eyed me up and down, “And you are the only one who has been in the military. You can understand. Niall isn’t the type to be around women. Ryanne is frightening, which will do nothing to gain the trust of the Countess and Azu Rowe. And Barak?” He released a long, drawn-out sigh, “He is too… Fiermontian.”

  I nodded. Fiermontians and Luxterrians… they don’t get along well. Taking the note, I read it over. “Sir, we never use our names on missions. Why am I to use it now? Will that not compromise me?”

  Jensen reached into his pocket and pulled out my old bronze eagle pin. My pin from being a Royal Guard. “The instructions are clear in the letter. The military, per Azu’s application, sent you. No one, aside from our contact, knows what you really are, and we must keep it that way.”

  I placed the pin in my pocket, and all I could manage was a nod.

  “And, I shouldn’t need to remind you of the rules. But—” Jensen straightened his coat as he paced the room, “rules are rules. I wouldn’t want to take risks.” He cleared his throat. “A Ranger will not interfere with the quarrels or affairs of others outside of his task or mission. A Ranger must do his best to remain in the shadows. A Ranger must remain unattached.”

  I nodded again.

  Jensen smiled, as if pleased. “Good. I have no doubts in your abilities and resolve. Your dislike of the Hierarchy makes you even more dependable.”

  “Dependable?”

  “I can’t have my men falling for Countess Zahra’s charms.” Jensen pulled out a note which looked like my official commission. “A stiff upper lip and a heart of stone is what I look for. You’ve got exactly that. You leave this afternoon. A trunk of clothes have been sent ahead to the rendezvous point. For now, you need to change into something less casual if they are to believe you are what you claim to be.”

  Archivist.

  ___

  I felt out of place. I commonly wore a leather jerkin or black poet shirt. Now, I had a fitted white button shirt, red paisley vest, and tan trousers. Even worse, I had to wear spats instead of boots. I looked the part, but I didn’t feel like myself in the clothes.

  “What are you doing that requires such a costume?” Barak asked.

  I clenched my jaw, withholding the embarrassment I felt inside. “I’d rather not say.”

  Barak threw his hand on my shoulder as a smirk lifted one corner of his lips. “I hope it is worth the humiliation of looking like a prig, brother. Those shoes—” he bit back a chuckle. “They make your feet look so small.”

  I flicked my thumb from my temple—a Fiermontian curse he taught me— and looked back to the mirror to resume my shave.

  Barak seemed amused by my silent and vile retort, chuckling under his breath as he gave me space to work. “No doubt Jensen has put you on this task looking like—”

  “A high-collar dancer?” Ryanne cut in, grinning as he quickly glanced at me.

  “Yes, exactly.” Barak grunted, seemingly not too pleased with the new edition to the room. “Possibly because he is the youngest.”

  Ryanne shrugged and looked at me. “Pity, you’re not bleeding. Cut yourself while you shave, will you?”

  Barak clicked his tongue. “Maybe he can cut you while he is at it.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.” Ryanne still grinned. “As long as he works nice and slow.”

  Barak’s smile was a slash of white. “I would enjoy watching you bleed.”

  I looked at them, unnerved by their conversation. “If you two will stop flirting with each other and just keep quiet, maybe I can leave on time.”

  Barak chuckled, “Now, tell me, carini otoko, how does it feel to dress like a respectable person?”

  “You are rotten, Barak. Why the Lapp do I put up with
you?”

  “Because, if I were not here, you would be torn apart by this sorry excuse of a human—” Barak pointed his thumb toward Ryanne who bowed his head to take the insult as if it were a compliment. I should have gotten used to Barak’s consistent teasing, but it still pricked at my pride.

  “Will you be all right, Barak? Your leg is still gashed up splendidly.” I pointed to his injury, attempting to change the subject.

  “Despite all its beauty, he can still walk…” Ryanne sighed. He sounded disappointed.

  Barak shrugged, tapping his knee. “I will be fine.” He threw a look in Ryanne’s direction. “I am to play the part of a homeless mudscraper. My leg will add to the… Sorika… of my character.”

  “I think you’re trying to say authenticity,” I said, recognizing the Fiermontian word he used.

  It took a moment, then he nodded. “Authenticity.” He grabbed the bar in the doorway and pulled himself up by one arm.

  “Excellent form, Chigaru-Baraka…” Ryanne hummed out. “Fall and break your leg now.”

  “Only if you break your skull first.”

  “I’d like to see you in pain before I meet my end.”

  “You will be alive for a long time, Vinadi. I do not show pain.”

  Ryanne shrugged. “I’m bored to pieces. I’m going to go taunt the Butcher. If I’m lucky we will both be dripping blood and sweat by the hour’s end.”

  “If we are lucky, you will both be dead.”

  Ryanne bowed at the waist, “Ever the gentleman, Chigaru-Baraka.” He winked at me and left the room.

  Barak released a sigh. “I know you should be all right, Apollo… as long as you do not die while babysitting.”

  My head nearly spun off my neck as I turned. “How did you know?”

  Barak grinned as he dropped from the bar. There was a gleam in his eye, one that told me he wouldn’t say. “May the eye of Dracul watch over you.”

  I smiled, poking the dragon necklace that dangled just below his collarbone. “You know I don’t believe in the Dragon.”

  He nodded, “I can still offer you a Fiermontian blessing, can I not?” He patted my shoulder, “Peace be with you, my brother.”

  ___

  My heart drummed in my chest, beating against my bones. I still felt lethargic from the potion Jensen gave me. Until the Ticketmaster asked if I’d like to fly directly from Bouldarcaven to Luxterra, I didn’t truly know which island I was on.

  It wasn’t uncommon for me to take a whale somewhere. Many of my missions took me to Fiermont or even Arclend. Luxterra was a simple jaunt for the gigantic beast.

  I boarded, watching the enormous fins sway back and forth as the creature restlessly waited to move. After half-an-hour, the whale took to the air, diving into the lower atmosphere through the clouds. Its mournful call was the only sound I could hear from inside the small glass room. The calm silence in the air rattled me to the core. I hated the quiet. It was the torture of being alone with myself I really couldn’t stand. Aside from the occasional creak of the wooden seat, and the distant call of the whale, the entire cabin remained silent. All other passengers sat in their separate booths, and I saw them through the glass as they chatted away with each other. It made me sick.

  Another ear-piercing howl of the beast made me look out the window to the clouds which drifted slowly below the fins.

  The sudden jerk of the whale jarred me from my self-inflicted torture. I heard a whistle blow and a man yell out from the metal tube above my head, “We have arrived at Luxterra.”

  The conductor’s voice pulled at my ears and I drew a letter from my breast pocket. Winsdale Manor. The lump I had yet to grow accustomed to formed in my throat once again. I dreaded what awaited. Long hours of cleaning and organizing a library for a spoiled Countess.

  The docks were elevated just enough to match up with the platform that was strapped to the back of the whale. The beast nestled into its resting spot as it lined up to the dock. I stood and grabbed my bags. Too many passengers filed into the main hall for my taste. I didn’t know how they all fit on the whale, stuffed in the little glass booths. People bumped against me as I walked. I felt suffocated within the crowd. When my feet finally hit the wooden dock on the outside of the beast relief flooded my heart. Relief which only lasted a moment.

  Once I escaped the silence of the whale, a whole new obstacle awaited. A woman in a black suit and weathered features approached, keeping her icy gaze fixed on me. Judging from her expression it appeared she ripped out my soul and had examined every inch. My skin crawled as she drew nearer, making me more and more uncomfortable with every step she took.

  “You must be Andras Faithe.”

  Her voice suited her. Rough, scratchy, and stern. Her mouth knew only one position—a grimacing frown.

  I bowed, “Yes, ma’am. But please, call me Apollo.”

  She glowered as her life-sapping blue eyes scanned me up and down. “So, Jensen sent you?”

  “Yes…” I tightened my posture, disturbed this was Jensen’s contact.

  She huffed, “I should have figured he’d send one of his young thugs.” She raised her chin, tilting her head back. “You will address me as madame Beth; nothing more, nothing less, understood?” She waited, and before I could respond, she spoke again, “Come along. Master Rowe is waiting.” Her lip curled farther into a frown. A miracle. I didn’t think her face could appear any more sour than it already was. She looked as if she were holding her breath and licking a sour fruit all at once.

  “Are you from Arclend, madame Beth?” I asked, hoping that I could somehow appease her offish behavior.

  The woman gave me a curt nod, but otherwise said nothing.

  Once we climbed into the carriage, she fixed her eyes on me once more. “If you think your small talk will get you anywhere, you have something else coming. I will be watching you. I know what you are.”

  My muscles twitched, and my skin prickled. “And I know who you are, madame. Let us both be careful to not reveal ourselves.”

  Her skin tightened as she pressed her lips against each other. “Understand, Ranger, you step out of line once, I’ll make sure I write it in bold letters and deliver it to Jensen personally.”

  “You needn’t worry yourself, madame Beth. I have no interest in stepping out of line.” Blood pounded in my ears as I tried my best to remain cool and behaved.

  Beth flicked her wrist, whether in anger or satisfaction, I wasn’t sure. We didn’t speak another word to each other the rest of the ride.

  ___

  It didn’t take long before Winsdale Manor came into view. A vast garden peppered the circumference of the palace-like home, and I nearly choked on air. Even in the chilly Luxterrian winter, the garden was stunning.

  We jumped out of the carriage, and I followed the crotchety woman up to the door. She knocked three times, and I waited impatiently for the doors to open.

  “Welcome, Mr. Faithe!” A weathered middle-aged man greeted us. His rugged face had me enraptured, and I found myself straightening because of his commanding presence. But, despite his smile, there was a cold quality to him… like someone made him from ice.

  “Thank you for accepting me, sir.” I shook his hand as I forced a smile.

  “Oh, I didn’t accept you.” Mr. Rowe laughed, producing a note. “The military, they just… sent you.”

  I clenched my jaw trying my best to hide my screaming insides. Of course they just sent me.

  “I see you’ve met madame Beth, my daughter’s studious governess,” Azu motioned to the sour woman who hadn’t taken her eyes off of me for a second since we met. “She will show you to your room.”

  I nodded and took hold of my bags. This would be a long, painful experience.

  F O U R

  I COLLAPSED ONTO THE BENCH in the garden and mulled over everything. I dreaded meeting the Countess. The thought of mingling with any of the Hierarchy appalled me. I looked around, taking in the sights and sounds. There weren’t many entran
ces into the garden, aside from the tall, iron gate in the far right corner and the two arched doors to the left I had walked through. There were still a few hours before supper… enough time to bask in the sunlight. It felt good. The warmth of the golden light spread over my face, and I rolled up the sleeves on my shirt. Last time I checked, I was nearly as pale as Ryanne was white. I hadn’t been in the sun for months and the lack of it began to mess with me. I loosed my cravat and leaned back to welcome the sun.

  I supposed the hypnotic symphony of the small birds which surrounded me and the bubbling garden fountain had put me to sleep, for I woke up and found the sun had nearly vanished behind the trees. When I sat back up from my slumped position, I saw a maiden standing by the tree. She had a bucket in one hand and a pair of clippers in the other. Her plain dress was muddy, and her smooth copper skin glistened with sweat. She was enjoying what she was doing, which was pruning the tree. I must have drawn her attention, for her eyes shifted my way. Eyes, the shade of an emerald, locked with mine.

  “I’m surprised you could fall asleep on that stone bench.” She smiled, shifting the weight of her body to the side. She seemed cautious, perhaps even suspicious, of me. I studied her a moment, not sure of her either. “Don’t worry, I rarely bite,” she said as she snipped the last twig.

  Snarky. What a lovely first impression. “Does the Countess usually keep women as her guard dogs?”

  “I believe she prefers the company of humans over animals.” Her eyes lit with a mischievous spark. I watched as she placed the branch in the bucket and wiped her hands. She was tall, perhaps five foot eight, with a figure that remained a mystery below the layers of sullied garments she wore. “What brings you to Winsdale, sir?”

  I blinked, stood, and straightened my coat. I scrambled to remember how to treat women, even with my limited experience, there seemed a few simple rules to conduct myself by. “I’m the new Archivist, ma’am.”

  She nodded and looked me over. “I take it, from how you spoke, they have not introduced you to the lady of the house.”