“I’m not sure she wants friends.”
“But you do.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Fang shook her head. What would she do with a friend? People were meant to be manipulated, trust was meant to be exploited and friends were meant to be betrayed. This had been her training, and her training had kept her alive. Survival was paramount. Friendship created weaknesses and distractions. In her business, survival and the objectives were the only things that mattered. There was no room for friends.
Embeth grinned and tucked her chin into her chest. “You care about her, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re watching her sleep, silly.”
“I just... want to make sure she’s safe. She had a very hard day.”
“So you’re worried about her?”
“I was with her most of the day, remember?”
“But she didn’t know you were there.”
Fang shook her head. She had stayed well-hidden throughout Coyle’s investigation of Trevin’s old place. But certain things had been brought to light during Fang’s own investigation that she wasn’t prepared for. She was piecing together parts of her memory, and she wasn’t sure how to process them. Especially the memories that haunted her.
“You’re remembering things, aren’t you?”
A deep pressure grew in Fang’s chest, and she shot a glance at Embeth through blurry eyes. She nodded. She didn’t want to talk about the memories she’d discovered. Especially with Embeth.
Not ever.
“What do you remember?”
“That’s enough.” Fang pressed a finger against her lips, her voice cracking. “Let her sleep. We need to get ready for tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Embeth’s eyes twinkled.
“We’re traveling by train.”
Embeth hopped on the bed and slapped her hands on her mouth.
“Shush! Get down!” Fang whispered through her teeth, glancing at Coyle. She expected the detective to stir, but of course not. Embeth couldn’t disturb anything or anyone because she wasn’t there. She looked into Embeth’s eyes, her bright, happy eyes, trying to understand how Embeth could be so full of joy given the situation. She wasn’t here, but yet—she was.
Her little sister hopped in her arms and they left the room. Embeth’s excited whispers made Fang smile, despite knowing she had killed the little girl.
Chapter 13
Grand stateroom of the Dawn’s Edge
Twelve thousand feet over the Sierra Nevada
Moreci stood near the row of slanted windows. His breathing apparatus made quiet chugging sounds as he looked at the passing landscape below. A tour guide explained the ship’s capabilities and provisions to an exclusive group of investors. Moreci wasn’t interested in what the Dawn’s Edge could provide to its guests. He was more interested in the smaller escape ship, the Dawn’s Point.
“I say,” Moreci said, “how safe is the ship, and do we have a lifeboat of sorts?”
“Actually, we do, sir,” the tour guide answered. “It’s a lovely, twin-engine flying craft that can comfortably fit all of our passengers and crew.”
“What’s a twin engine?” a gentleman asked. “Flying craft?”
“Mr. Treece has the finest engineers from across the globe and the nether-realm working with him exclusively,” the tour guide explained. “Under his direction, they produce inventions for the modern world, pushing past the limitations of known scientific achievements to provide new wonders for humanity.
“The Dawn’s Point acts as a lifeboat of sorts.” He nodded at Moreci. “And she will carry us to safety when called upon.”
A light round of applause from the guests made the tour guide blush. The people were bereft of the coming changes to their scheduled flight. And of their own state of being.
“Can you go over the particulars of the Dawn’s Point?” Moreci asked.
“Of course.” The guide offered his extensive knowledge of the craft. All of it made Moreci smile. “And the most exciting feature are the propellers. Each blade is edged with a titanium-aurorium alloy. They are completely unbreakable—unless, of course, you were to hurl a gigantic mass of aurorium into them. But such a thing doesn’t exist.” He laughed, and the crowd laughed with him.
The imbeciles.
They had no idea what was coming. He nodded to one of his men, who was disguised as a guest. The soldier removed a sidearm and pointed it at the guide’s head.
“What’s this all about?” the guide asked, a tremor rising in his voice.
“I’m taking over the ship,” Moreci said, and he pushed a small device in his hand. Shouting and gunfire ensued. “Thank you for sharing the information on the escape ship. She will suffice for my own people when the time comes.”
The soldier pulled the trigger. The guide dropped in a blood-soaked heap. Screams erupted, and more soldiers poured in, weapons drawn. Veiul arrived behind them.
“Take them to the grand ballroom, and hold them until we’re ready,” he said to his officer. The soldiers escorted out the assembled passengers, leaving Moreci with Veiul and two of his personal guards. He went back to the window and scanned the valleys below.
“What happened?” Moreci asked.
“I was ambushed by one of them,” Veiul explained. “Poes was his name.”
“And?”
“All of them are alive,” she said. “But our operative destroyed Treece’s Tesla-Vine Gate. They can’t follow us.”
He watched her reflection. She glanced at one of his two guards, who glanced back.
“All of us are soldiers, all of us are expendable. If I wanted you dead for not meeting your objective, so be it.”
Veiul said nothing, but her shoulders tensed. He knew she wouldn’t be put down easily.
“We’ve been together ever since I created you,” he said, turning to her. “We shared many pleasant memories, didn’t we?”
Veiul’s face flushed deep pink. He stepped closer, reaching his hand to her face.
“I always thought you were better than her,” Moreci lied.
Veiul’s hands tightened into fists.
“Even though Fang appears to be more powerful, she isn’t. She has her inner demons. Fang isn’t fully vamperion. Her spirit isn’t as sullied or torn as the rest of her ilk. But her mind was affected, just enough, for me to push her. That’s why I created a psychological toy.”
“The small music box?”
He nodded. “It helped control her. Put her in a more... agreeable mood. ”
“Nice of you. I remember the tune, though I’m not familiar with the composer.” Her pose relaxed—just a bit.
“Christ Lag Todesbande by Heinrich Bach. It’s German for ‘Christ lay in the bonds of death.’ I thought it was fitting, you know? Her people, the vamperion, were the saviors of the nether-realm, but now they are helpless vampires wearing the bonds of death. Interestingly, she had seen Heinrich in concert and remembered her sister liked it.”
He could see Veiul’s mind spinning, trying to work the math. It was never one of her stronger points. Not like Fang.
“When was this?” Veiul asked.
“The concert was in 1658. One year before she killed her younger sister, Embeth.” He turned to Veiul. “Did I ever tell you their tragic story?”
“No, but why would I need to know?”
“I hope I’m wrong, but I have a feeling you may see her again soon, and if you do, you need to know their story. Just in case you need to hurt her in here.” He tapped his chest.
“Tell me what happened.”
Chapter 14
Southern Pacific Depot
San Francisco
If I am not right, set me right, keep me right; that I may at last come to thy house in peace.
Amen.
The Pegasus, a cross-continental locomotive train, was the epitome of luxurious travel. Treece hired the best engineers and craftsmen, resulting in extraordinary innovation and the f
inest technology available. Passengers rode from coast to coast in comfort and grand style. No other machine in the world had its equal.
Treece’s team was given double-decker suites with magnificent views of the rolling countryside. They were spacious enough to hold four people comfortably. Servants were assigned to each of the rooms, providing any amenities available. Expensive liquors, rare chocolates, and imported water were theirs with a ring of the bell.
Coyle sat on her bed upstairs with a cold rag on her head, watching the green hills of northern California roll by. The cold, blue, mountains of the Sierra Nevada jutted into the morning sky far in the distance, with the blue Pacific Ocean behind them.
She closed her eyes, wincing at the events of the previous night. Her bright idea to impress them with her skills may not have worked out. They’d asked for a detective, and she’d wanted to give them a show. And just like the training scenario, everything fell apart. She pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping the sharp pain digging into her skull would go away.
“You’re not cut out for this.”
Maybe Moreci was right. Maybe she wasn’t made to be a detective. Maybe she would never find the justice she sought. Detectives solve cases, one after another after another. Certainly, she could find difficult evidence and put things together in her head. But what else did it take to be a great detective? Because she didn’t have it.
And maybe I never will.
She rubbed her eyes and walked to the dresser, pulling a hairbrush through her thick brown-gold hair. She caught her reflection in the large window. Her hazel eyes stared back. She wasn’t sure when age lines usually appeared at the corners of women’s eyes, but she had them at twenty-two.
And what would she look like at thirty-two? Fifty-two? Would she find Ronan by then? And how many women would die while she tried to figure out her life?
She gazed at the slouch of her posture. It was, no doubt, the result of a lack of proper rest, but she had to wonder if the cost of bringing Ronan to justice was growing heavier on her, especially in light of her recent actions of immaturity.
And what was the secret she wanted to tell Poes? She paused, frowning at herself. Was it something she knew? Something he knew? She shook her head and continued. Nothing made sense. Not yet.
She finished brushing her hair and opened her luggage to find a handsome brown pantsuit and matching waistcoat fashioned from woolen tweed. Soft but firm black leather boots and gloves were set beside the clothes. She pulled them out and found another matching set underneath.
Treece had packed her a week’s worth of dress-work clothes. She opened another trunk and found two dresses in the latest fashion resting next to beautiful matching shoes. She checked for a manufacturer’s imprint but realized the shoes and clothes were all made in-house by Treece’s company. At this rate, she’d soon be owned and run by him as well.
A soft rap at the door diverted her attention. She went downstairs and opened the door.
“Yes?” she asked the attendant, giving the girl a quick once-over. She was young, late teens. Her face was pretty with baby-fat cheeks. Her mousy, brown eyes were both shy and curious. Shorter and a bit heavier than Coyle. Smudge on the left sleeve. Odor of cigars. Soft hands.
The girl hummed and handed her a handwritten card. It read, I have a note for your husband.
Coyle frowned. “I have no husband. Who is the note for?”
The girl frowned and looked at her notecard. She pulled out a pad of paper and wrote with a small pencil before handing over the pad. Coyle studied the paper. This is for Suite number 202.
“Are you deaf?” Coyle asked, tapping her own ear.
The girl’s cheeks flushed red, and she nodded. Her soft eyes shot to the floor before looking back up.
Coyle signed,
The girl’s eyes and mouth opened slightly, but then she frowned. She signed something vaguely resembling,
Coyle had learned American Sign Language from her deaf aunt and cousin, who were taught at a private school. But when she practiced signing with others during her travels, she sometimes had difficulty understanding them. When she questioned her aunt, her aunt explained deaf people could carry an “accent” of sorts depending on their friend group and the region they lived in. But she’d assured Coyle that for the most part, people eventually found enough similarities to hold a conversation.
Coyle wasn’t too interested in making new friends and decided to keep the conversation short and simple.
The girl handed the note to Coyle and gave a polite smile.
Coyle nodded her head and shut the door. The note read, Meeting in Treece’s suite, seven o’clock. She glanced at the trunk with the dresses and sighed.
More opportunities to embarrass myself.
Her pipe hanging at the side of her mouth, she spent the rest of the day reading and rereading the journal she had found deep underground. The edges were torn, and some of the ink had melted into the pages from the seawater. But she read what she could and guessed what she couldn’t.
Most of it was written with constant misspellings and a shaky hand, making reading slow and even impossible at times. She could only guess the author was Trevin, but the journal also contained torn pages from someone else’s journal. This author’s writing indicated education and excellent penmanship.
She set the torn pages and reread them. The author wrote with a gentle though tortured heart. He and another unnamed cohort had been in charge of modifications within Project Archangel.
There were many entries pertaining to a girl, half-human, half-vamperion. She was brought in wearing a straitjacket. She had murdered her adoptive parents with a knife. The unnamed girl was full of rage, almost untamable. Time went on, and the experiments began. Eventually, they forced her into a semblance of control and gave her the codename Fang.
One entry, dated March 1868, read,
We learned she was born in 1649 in a hamlet near Buckinghamshire. By the age of ten, she had suffered a terrible tragedy during a ship’s voyage from England to New Amsterdam (now New York). After that, there is no history of her whereabouts other than the account of her murdered adopted parents. Where had she been for over two hundred years? And now she is mentally and spiritually dismantled.
It is with utmost care and delicacy the physician touches the deep wound. And only the Great Physician Himself could heal the wounds inflicted on her poor soul. Did she suffer them from our own hands? Or when she killed her younger sister? Or were they brought upon by the many deathly tasks for which she was created? Only He can tell, and only He can heal.
And what have we done? Who did we think we were to change the course of her destiny? Our own hubris is but a stalk of dried wheat compared to the fiery Seat of Judgement that awaits. I would do anything to keep this girl named Fang whole, to keep her safe, to keep her away from the evils of this world. But I fear I’ve done too much already, and these hands of clay are not worthy to protect her cherished soul.
Another entry, dated June 1871:
The other operatives, Veiul particularly, tell us something is wrong with Fang.
It is said she makes conversation with the air, with someone unseen. Whether it is an angel for good or a phantom for ill, Fang won’t tell us. But I know Fang is suffering either way, and it tears me apart to know this was our doing. Prof. Moreci is certain the invisible companion is nothing more than Fang’s guilty conscience. He says she killed her little sister and can’t find a way to navigate through her own storm. Despite my earnest objection, Prof. Moreci pushes to take advantage of her malady by creating a psychological tool to control her.
The last entry was dated November 1889:
Fang has become unusable. She has left many of her peers to die in the field, espec
ially after their campaign in Afghanistan. No one trusts her, prompting her to be shut away in confinement until her broken mind can be repaired.
After much discussion with our psychologists, Fang believes the visage of her sister is real and no device, either psychological or physical, could separate them. The spirit of Embeth is wholly in Fang’s hands, heart and mind. She will protect her younger sister, whether phantom or memory, with fierce loyalty. I have little doubt Fang would destroy entire armies to protect the treasured girl. I once asked Fang what Embeth was worth. She replied without hesitation, “More than all the stars in the sky.”
Coyle looked outside, past the clouds, past the bright screen of daylight. She knew the stars were there but couldn’t see their brilliance. Just like she couldn’t see her own worth. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be valued so tremendously, so powerfully.
After last night’s exhibition of debauchery, she was positive she would never know. She would not feel that esteem from any of her team and especially not from the One she prayed to.
She closed her eyes, her mind searching for answers. Fang had been ten when she and Embeth traveled across the Atlantic. Then tragedy struck: Fang killed Embeth. But how? Why? And how was Embeth intertwined with Fang’s psyche? Or was she really a spirit? Was she benevolent or venomous? Embeth had to be benevolent; otherwise, Fang wouldn’t protect her so.
“You’re the epitome of disarray.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
And where was Fang now? Why was there no evidence of her whereabouts? She said she would keep in touch, and yet she hadn’t. Did she change her mind? Did she and Embeth leave and find somewhere else to live out their days?
She shook her head and refused to believe Fang had completely disappeared. After she killed Trevin, she would be in pursuit of the other people responsible. In fact, Fang was much like Coyle. They were cut from the same cloth, weren’t they? Each pursued the men responsible for destroying their lives.
A chime rang seven o’clock. Coyle chose the black silk dress with matching light-gray coat and gloves. The neck was high, just under her chin, but the cut accentuated what few curves she had. It fit perfectly, just like all the other clothes. The shoes fit comfortably, and the heel gave her small frame a lift. She glanced in the mirror and removed the choker before stepping outside. The attendant popped up from a chair with a tight smile.
Coyle and Fang: Curse of Shadows (Coyle and Fang Adventure Series Book 1) Page 14