“Have a good night then.” The captain took a few steps before she turned around. “It still doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“The whole thing. This city is getting too weird.”
“Tell me about it,” Emma said. She took the Frankenstein monster’s arm to guide it back up the hill. Only once she was certain Captain Donovan had gone and no one watched her did she take off the Scarlet Knight’s helmet. Beneath it was the face of the statue Jim had made. She removed the rest of the armor to reveal the rest of the statue. She carefully took this apart, to stuff it into a garbage bag; she had promised Jim she would return it intact.
It had all worked. Mrs. Chiostro had used her magic to temporarily animate the statue, which since it was a totem of Emma was somehow eligible to wear the armor. With her doppelganger, she had managed to convince Captain Donovan that she was not the Scarlet Knight.
To create the Black Dragoon’s identity had taken more work. With the original armor turned to dust, they had to assemble a new set. With her connections in the arms business, Sylvia had tracked down a suit of armor they could use, which Emma had painted black. With a spell, Mrs. Chiostro had then incinerated the body of Roberto Moreno, but left the jaw relatively intact for identification. An anonymous tip later, Donovan had the Dragoon’s armor and his identity. And so for the moment the police would think Moreno was the Black Dragoon, which meant Becky was safe. Emma blew out another sigh of relief and then kicked the motorcycle to life.
***
The male patrons of the café in Paris—and a few of the female ones—turned to look at Mrs. Chiostro as she entered. The looks and leers softened once they saw what she carried on her back. She shrugged her shoulders a little bit, enough not to upset her bundle.
Glenda sat in the darkest corner of the café, a corner that still allowed smoking. At the moment, given that it was one in the afternoon in France, she nursed a cup of coffee. Mrs. Chiostro knew it wouldn’t be long until the old witch switched to something harder. Glenda frowned as Mrs. Chiostro took the backpack from her shoulders and rested it gently on the table.
“I see you’ve made some interesting changes,” Glenda said.
Mrs. Chiostro patted the long golden hair Sylvia had styled that morning into a braid, a process that took hours as Sylvia learned how to do it with one hand and her new hook. “A near-death experience will do that to you,” she said. She signaled for the waiter; he practically hurdled the nearby tables to reach her. Once she’d ordered a coffee—and given the young man a seductive leer that caused him to turn bright red—she continued, “I’ve been an old widow for too long. It’s time for a change.”
“What about Mr. Chiostro?”
“I’ll always love him, but I think a hundred fifty years is enough mourning, don’t you? Time to get back in the game as they say.”
Glenda clucked her tongue at this. “And what about this? Is it yours? Or did you steal it from some poor mortal family?”
Mrs. Chiostro reached into the backpack to stroke the wispy dark hair of the baby inside. “I guess you could say she’s a foundling. I found her in a temple. Her name is Isis.”
Glenda spit a mouthful of coffee back into her cup at this. “Isis? As in the dark one?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Chiostro tickled the baby’s nose, which prompted the child to giggle. “It was all that remained of her.”
“Why didn’t you kill it?”
“You sound like Sylvia. She wanted to slit the poor girl’s throat right then.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Emma would never forgive me if I did.”
“Oh yes, her. I suppose before we discuss the child you should tell me what happened.”
Mrs. Chiostro did so; she recounted the battle in the temple, the death of poor Tabitha, Sylvia’s lost hand, and her own desperate fight against Isis. She went on to describe her near-death, saved only when Isis left her to deal with the Scarlet Knight. She finished with Emma’s sacrifice, as she offered her heart to save her friend. “That’s what did it. The monster couldn’t digest a heart so pure its owner would give her own life to save someone else.”
“It exploded?”
“Yes. And we found this child later in the rubble. I think it’s what remained of the human the dark one possessed.”
“So you think this is a human child?”
“I haven’t seen anything to indicate otherwise.”
“And what do you want to do about it?”
“I thought the coven might find a home for her. A home where she can be carefully observed and supervised, just in case.”
“You don’t want to raise her?”
“I don’t think it would be safe for her in Rampart City. There are too many there who remember the old Isis. She’s better off with a fresh start.”
“You realize we aren’t babysitters, don’t you?”
“I’m aware of that. Would you rather I dump her on the doorstep of some church? Then we would have to always worry what might become of her. At least this way we can watch her, in case any of the dark one’s spirit remains.”
Glenda considered this. From the way her eyes darted, Mrs. Chiostro knew the old witch yearned for a belt of alcohol to pour into her coffee. “I suppose I don’t have much choice after what you and your sister—and Tabitha—did for us. If you want any other favors, now is the time to ask.”
“I have everything I want.”
“What about Sylvia? I could have Red look for a spell to bring back her hand.”
“That won’t be necessary. I think Sylvia rather likes the idea of having a hook, gives her easy access to another weapon.”
“That sounds like her.” Glenda roughly snatched the backpack and yanked the baby across the table. Little Isis began to wail until Mrs. Chiostro put a finger to the girl’s forehead. “I think she likes you.”
“She probably thinks I’m her mother.” She smiled at the child. “You be a good girl for Grandma Glenda. I’ll see you when you get to be a big girl.” Mrs. Chiostro only hoped that wouldn’t be as an enemy. Though she hadn’t seen anything evil about the baby so far, that didn’t mean something wouldn’t crop up later. And as someone touched by the dark one, the child would always have the potential to serve as a gateway for evil. For those reasons she had wanted to keep the baby, but Sylvia had convinced her it would be too dangerous for someone who knew the previous Isis—notably her husband—to recognize her and ask inconvenient questions.
The baby looked up at Mrs. Chiostro with moist brown eyes to plead with her. “I’m sorry, dear. This is for the best.”
Isis’s face turned red, but she didn’t cry. By the time Mrs. Chiostro finished her coffee, the girl had fallen asleep. “I suppose I should get moving. There’s a nice boy by the Louvre who’s been pestering me for a cup of coffee.”
“Go on then, you old heartbreaker,” Glenda said. As Mrs. Chiostro left, she couldn’t help but frown at that choice of words. With all that had happened, she didn’t want to imagine any more hearts breaking. But then she stepped out into the sunlight and felt the joy of youth suppressed for too long.
***
The security guard stayed a step behind Emma and made no pretense about following her into what had been her office, however briefly, as assistant director for the Plaine Museum. Fired. The word echoed in her mind. She had never quit anything and she had never been fired either. The failure stung as bitterly as a wound from the Black Dragoon.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Earl,” Leslie said. “I offered them my resignation when I heard.”
“I couldn’t let you do that,” Emma said. “I’ll find something else.”
“I’m sure you will.” Leslie shook her head sadly. “Did they say why?”
The director had said. With her fingers tented as always, she had laid it all out for Emma. “I would love to keep you. You’re a valuable asset to this museum. But at the moment, when people hear your name they think of those murders.”
&nbs
p; “I was cleared of all charges.”
“I’m aware of that, but perception is as important as reality, especially with donors. They don’t want to invest in an organization if they feel there are unsavory characters working for it.”
“Unsavory? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Yes, but you know how things are in this city—if you’re cleared they assume you must have bribed someone.”
From experience, Emma knew she couldn’t argue with this point. This was the police department that had let Don Vendetta go recently because evidence had been destroyed. Being cleared by a notoriously corrupt outfit didn’t mean much of anything. If anything, it fueled the gossip. “I understand. But couldn’t you keep me on in my old job? Or even as a researcher? I wouldn’t mind.”
“I could, but I think I would be doing us both a disservice. I’m sure someone with your credentials won’t have trouble finding a new position.”
“This is the only place I’ve ever wanted to work for. It’s my dream.”
“Be that as it may, for now you’ll have to put your dream on hold. In time, once all this has faded from memory, there may again be a place here for you.”
Emma looked down at the floor, defeated. “I see. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, ma’am. I’m really grateful.”
The director offered a limp handshake. “Believe me, Dr. Earl, I wish things could be different.” In a lower voice, the director said, “If the Plaine Museum really is your dream, come back and see me in about a year. I think we’ll be able to work something out then.”
Emma nodded, but wondered if the director would still remember her in a year. She left the office to find the security guard outside. He followed her down to her old office, so she could clear out her personal items.
These she piled into a cardboard box. There wasn’t much, just a few photographs and her diplomas from Parkdale High, Northwestern, and Berkeley. She was tempted to complain about the unfairness of losing her job because of public perception, but she already knew the world wasn’t fair.
“Take care of yourself, Leslie.”
“You too, Dr. Earl.”
There was nothing else to say. She nodded to her former secretary and then left the office with the security guard in tow. As luck would have it—good or bad luck she couldn’t be certain—Dan came out of the cafeteria as she walked through the main gallery. He raised an eyebrow at her. “What’s going on? You’re leaving?”
“Yes. I’ve been let go.”
“Let go? Why?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Is this about that police business? They cleared you, didn’t they?”
“Yes. They dropped all of the charges.” She looked back at the security guard and wondered how much she could divulge. “The director felt at the moment my baggage would be a liability.”
“That’s bullshit!” Dan said loud enough to draw angry glares from nearby mothers. He lowered his voice before he continued, “You’re the best they’ve got. How can they do this?”
“It’s politics. But she did say I might be able to come back in a year or so.”
“This isn’t fair. You did nothing wrong. Did you?”
“No, I didn’t do anything wrong. That’s how it is.”
“It isn’t right.” Dan’s body shook with rage, the angriest she had ever seen him. He steadied himself to add, “Maybe there’s something I can do. I’ve got some pull with a few of the big donors. I might be able to work something out.”
“That’s sweet, but I couldn’t ask you to do that. I’ll find another job.”
“I hope so. If you need a reference—”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
He nodded and then twisted the wedding ring around his finger. “There is something I need to ask you while I have the chance.”
“What is it?”
He looked her squarely in the eye as he asked, “Are you really not the Scarlet Knight?”
Though she desperately wanted to look away, Emma forced herself to meet his gaze. “I’m not her,” she said.
“I believe you,” he said and a little part of her died inside. “That bitch killed my wife. All they found of her was a pile of ashes in the basement, hardly enough to bury.”
“I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do—”
“No, but thanks. I should have known you weren’t her. You’re too nice to be something like that.” Dan’s fists clenched as he added, “If I ever get my hands on her, I’ll make her pay.”
She wanted to hug him or at least put a hand on him, but she couldn’t. She was only a minor acquaintance, not really a friend and now not even a coworker. “I know how difficult it is to lose someone,” she said. “Try not to give in to the pain. Don’t let it change who you are.”
“I won’t,” he said, but she knew these were only words he didn’t fully believe. In time she hoped he would.
“I’d better get going,” she said. She glanced at the security guard behind her. “I’ll see you around.”
“I hope so.” He stood in the Main Gallery to watch her go. She paused at the doors to look back at him and give him a little wave. He waved back at her. Then the doors closed and he was gone.
***
Though she didn’t drink, the bar at the Hilton seemed like a perfect place to go after being fired. She nursed a ginger ale while she waited for the other half of her party to show up. She didn’t look up as she heard the stool next to her groan. “Rough day, huh, kid?” Becky said.
“I’ve had rougher,” Emma said.
Becky ordered a bottle of beer and a hamburger and then they retreated to a table. An awkward silence hung in the air between them. “I’m sure you’ll find something,” Becky said.
“I know.”
They said nothing for another minute before Becky said, “I hear you have a new houseguest.”
“He comes and goes,” Emma said. She still found it disconcerting for a huge rat to pop up from her toilet as she brushed her teeth. It was more disconcerting that this rat would then nuzzle her like a cat as toilet water dripped from him. “I think Jim told him to keep an eye on me.”
“You and the Sewer Rat. It sounds like a fairy tale—or an Andrew Lloyd Webber opera.”
“He’s a nice man, once you get to know him.”
“Not many people want to get that close.”
“He saved my life.”
“I know.” She shook her head. “So it was the same guy who killed Steve?”
“Yes,” Emma said. She died a little more inside to lie to her best friend. “Isis put him up to it.”
“But why did he kill Steve?” Tears came to Becky’s eyes; she wiped at them with her napkin.
Emma looked down at the table. She knew the real reason: Isis had planned all along to turn Becky against her best friend. She couldn’t tell Becky that; the guilt of what she had done as the Black Dragoon would destroy her as it had Ian. Instead, Emma said, “She was probably trying to send me a message.”
“A message? My husband died to send you a message?”
Emma reached out to take her friend’s hand. “It’s all right. You can get through this. I’ll help you. OK?”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Becky—”
“I need some time alone to sort things out.”
“You know that’s not going to work. You can’t run from this, not like I did.”
“I’m not going to run from anything. I’m going back to our house—the one Steve and I bought—and I’m going to sleep in our bed, the one we won’t get to share thanks to you.”
“Becky, please. I’m sorry—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Goodbye, kid. I’m sure things will work out for you. They always do.”
Emma watched her friend go and wished there was something she could say or do to make things better, but nothing—not even magic—could make the wounds Becky had suffered heal any faster; she would have to wait it out and
support Becky as best she could.
A waiter left Becky’s food at the table. Emma ate it in silence; she thought back to what Merlin had told her on the mountaintop about the challenges that lay ahead. Now she understood, but she would face them. She left a tip with Becky’s money and then stood up. There was still one job for her to do.
VOLUME 0
DARK ORIGINS
By P.T. Dilloway
Copyright 2012 P.T. Dilloway
Chapter 1: My Dinner With Merlin
It was almost four thousand years ago, in what came to be known as Britain, when I first met Merlin. I had just been exiled from the village when my latest attempt at conjuring killed Bleeth’s chickens. My woman, Beaux, had decided she’d rather share a bed with her grubby sheep than with me.
The only place I could take shelter was a cave out in the woods. It wasn’t much of a cave, more like a hole in a rock. I didn’t even have room enough to stand up without hitting my head.
I did manage to find enough dry wood to get a fire going. Not a great fire, but enough so I wouldn’t freeze to death. I managed to catch a squirrel, which would have impressed Beaux; she never thought I was any good at hunting or gathering. The squirrel had accidentally fallen out of a tree and broken its leg, but I counted it as a victory.
As I sit by my fire and roast my squirrel, Merlin appears. These days everyone likes to depict Merlin as an old man with a long white beard and all that, which isn’t true in the slightest. He has a neat black beard with short black hair. It has a little gray in it since he’s nearly forty, ancient in those days, but he’s in good shape. In the firelight I can see his skin is a bit darker, much tanner than anyone I’ve seen before.
“Greetings, stranger. May I partake of your hospitality?” He speaks my language perfectly, though with a bit of an accent.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer,” I say. I gesture to the squirrel and my fire. “There’s a village not far from here. You’d have better luck there.”
“No, the time is not right for me to appear there. Not by myself. I need your help, Marlin.”
“How do you know my name?”
Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Call Page 81