The Lost Heir (The Gryphon Chronicles, Book 1)

by E. G. Foley

  Waldrick’s smile was not quick enough to mask his distaste. “Limbs, my dear. Do try to be a lady. In the polite world, we call them limbs, if we must refer to them at all.”

  “Ha!” She turned her back on him. “You don’t approve of my manners? Find yourself another way into Newgate!”

  “Now, now, Fionnula, don’t be cross. Very well, I don’t wish you to be unhappy in my humble home. Of course you can have the feather. If you need to go out and have some fun afterwards, I suppose I don’t mind. Just make sure you’re back by dawn, and for heaven’s sake, don’t let my Society friends see you in—this form.”

  “Done,” she replied. Turning around with a splash and a monstrous grin, she snatched the feather out of his hand.

  Oxley and Flare backed away. Gladwin pressed her nose against the glass jar, staring.

  The sea-witch took the shimmering red feather between her palms and began to twirl it briskly back and forth, like someone trying to start a fire with two sticks. A sweet-smelling cloud of white smoke began to rise.

  Faster and faster she rubbed the feather in between her hands. The cloud grew, engulfing her. All of a sudden, the feather crumbled into dust in both her hands. The sea-witch cackled and lifted her fists over her head to sprinkle herself with the sparkling dust.

  Even the satyr stopped munching to see what was going to happen. Inside the cloud of white smoke, a transformation was taking place.

  Lord Griffon clasped his hands together behind his back and beamed proudly, waiting a moment. “Ah, there she is, my beauty from the Irish Sea! Welcome back, my rare ocean pearl!” He put out his hand with the utmost gallantry, and from out of the cloud, a dainty white hand emerged, alighting atop his palm gracefully.

  And then the rest of a wholly changed Fionnula Coralbroom stepped out of the cloud, no longer a sea hag, but restored to what she once had been before King Oceanus had cursed her for her treachery—a dazzling beauty in an ocean-blue dress, with black hair that curled in waves all the way down to her hips.

  “Waldrick!” she greeted him in a breathy singsong.

  Flare stared at her in shock, but Oxley just shook his head as Fionnula lifted the hem of her gown and admired her own legs. “Hello, legs—limbs! Hello, pretty feet! Sweet Poseidon, I am myself again!” Making happy little noises, she pranced barefooted over to a closet and yanked away the curtain.

  Gladwin’s eyes widened again in bewilderment when she saw that the closet contained countless pairs of fancy ladies’ shoes.

  Fionnula Coralbroom’s dainty hand skimmed over her shoe collection; she almost chose a fluffy pink pair of sandals, but then opted instead for a sparkly red pair of high heels.

  She hummed a little tune to herself as she bent down to put them on, flirting with the men as she did so. This done, she popped up again and smoothed her skirts. “Now I’m ready! La, it’s going to be a good night!”

  “Now, no tricks, my pretty, no singing before you get there,” the earl warned.

  She giggled prettily and pressed her fingers to her lips. “Who, me? Do I put a spell on you, my lord?” She glided back to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, fluttering her long, velvety lashes. “My Lancelot! My rescuer!”

  “You enchantress,” he flattered with a tense smile. “Now behave yourself, my dear, and remember, for your own safety, make sure you’re back by dawn.”

  “How kind you are, Waldrick, to look after me. So strong, so handsome. Oh, I cannot resist you mortal men! Back in the old days, there used to be whole ships full of Royal Navy sailors—”

  “I say!”

  “Oh, don’t be jealous, darling. I only used to lure them to their deaths!” She giggled.

  “Right. Off you go, then.” He pushed her away, barely hiding a grimace, and handed her off to Oxley.

  Fionnula slipped her other hand through the crook of Flare’s elbow. “Oh, what big muscles you have, Mr. Oxley!”

  He gulped nervously and looked, thought Gladwin, like he wanted to bolt away from her, but apparently he did not dare risk offending the sorceress’s vanity.

  “Get my men into Newgate and then you may go off and have your fun.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Fionnula Coralbroom blew the earl a kiss as she skipped out with his henchmen, but the wicked glimmer in her eyes remained the same as when she was a hag.

  Gladwin suddenly felt rather sorry for the prison guards of Newgate. She had no idea what the treacherous siren might do to them.

  As for Derek Stone, she hoped he would find a way to fend off this sneak attack. For if Oxley and Flare succeeded in killing the Guardian, young Jacob didn’t stand a chance.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Ghosts of Newgate

  As night descended over Newgate Prison, clammy-cold and inky-black, Jake made up his mind that he was going arrow-straight in life. From now on, he would not so much as use a curse word—if only he could somehow get out of this.

  Being in a cage was intolerable to a boy so used to doing what he liked, when he liked, and answering to no one. Although he was pretending to be as nonchalant as the rest of the hard-edged boys who shared his cell, in truth, he was terrified, for even a streetwise pickpocket had much to fear in the dark, dank bowels of Newgate.

  The rough guards. The rats that scurried along the filthy walls. The awful smells that carried fevers.

  And of course, the dozen criminal lads, his cellmates. Unlike him—in Jake’s view—they looked like they belonged here. By the time they fell asleep, he was weary down to his bones from hours of trying to look tough so they would stay away from him. At last, he was the only one left awake and could focus on planning his escape.

  Or so he thought.

  But his cellmates had no sooner dozed off than a whole new round of prisoners started arriving: the dead.

  Countless ghosts of the past prisoners of Newgate began floating through the mighty dungeon that had been their final home.

  Gooseflesh prickled down Jake’s arms; the hairs on the back of his neck stood up when he spotted the first translucent figure floating up the hallway, a mysterious orb surrounded by an eerie bluish glow.

  “Oooooo…”

  “Woooooooo!”

  “OOOOOO!”

  Ahh! Jake bit back a shriek, his heart pounding. He backed against the wall by his cot. They were everywhere!

  The dead of Newgate began materializing from out of the walls, as motley a population as had ever been incarcerated. Criminals in life, they made very nasty spirits, moaning and cackling and chasing around after their enemy ghosts.

  A pair of gentlemen duelists from the previous century carried out a swordfight sideways on the wall, dancing upside down across the ceiling as they tried to hack each other to bits.

  A ghostly highwayman galloped his horse right down the main aisle of the cell block, while a crooked apothecary floated past, snickering evilly as he stirred rat poison into the medicine he was making for some customers.

  The night watchmen on patrol in the jail obviously could neither see nor hear the ghostly prisoners running loose throughout the jail after dark, but Jake could see them everywhere, each one trailing a weird, faint, blue glow. With all the noise they were making, he was amazed that none of the other boys woke up.

  Each spirit that he saw made him shake his head and swear to himself he’d never steal again. Heaven forbid he should end up like them, imprisoned here for eternity.

  A Tudor-era traitor sauntered by carrying his head, while a hanged pirate captain marched down the aisle barking orders at his invisible crew.

  Jake cowered when a ghostly burglar poked his head through the bars and then came tiptoeing into the cell, creeping stealthily among the sleeping boys.

  The ragged ghost-thief flew from one sleeping person to another trying to rob them of any valuables they had in their pockets. Jake watched the apparition becoming more and more frustrated when his spectral hand kept whooshing right through anything he tried to take.

  Angrily, the intru
der flew around the cell to his next would-be victim, but when he came to him, Jake pulled away, holding onto his lucky conch shell necklace, even though he knew the ghost-thief wouldn’t be able to grab it.

  He wasn’t sure why anyone would want to take it, anyway. His sole token from his parents had only sentimental value. “Don’t even think about it!” he warned, protecting the seashell in his hand.

  The ghost thief’s eyebrows shot upward. “Wot, you can see me?” he exclaimed.

  “Of course I can, you idiot!” he whispered. “Now get away from me! Shoo!”

  “’Hoy, lads, this one can see me! Can you see them, too, eh?”

  “I can see all o’ you,” Jake said impatiently, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the other boys. Easing up out of his smelly, bedbug-ridden cot, he stood and crept past the sleeping prisoners, followed by the ghost-thief.

  “I don’t understand. Are you a ghost, too, then?”

  “Not yet,” Jake muttered.

  “Then how come you can see us?”

  “I don’t know, I just can!” he whispered in annoyance.

  “Explain yourself, lad! You’ve got the second sight?” the pirate captain demanded, clomping over to them on his peg-leg.

  The two gentlemen duelists now noticed their conversation and stopped trying to run each other through, coming over to investigate, as well.

  “What is going on here?” the first demanded, elbowing his opponent aside.

  His opponent elbowed him back. “Is it true, lad? You can see us?”

  Jake scowled. “Afraid so.”

  “Young master,” the taller one said at once with a gentlemanly bow as he smoothed his fine, ruffled shirt, “since you find yourself with the good fortune of being amongst the living, will you be so kind as to bring a message to my lady?”

  “She’s my lady! She loves me!” his enemy interrupted, drawing his sword on him again. “En garde!”

  The ghost thief shoved his way between them once more and floated back to Jake. “Never mind these two. They been at this for a ‘undred years. The important question is, how do we get out of ‘ere?”

  “How should I know?” Jake retorted. “I’m trying to get out myself. If you’ll excuse me!” He marched past them, walking through one who refused to get out of his way.

  He went to the metal bars and peered through them.

  It was the particular cruelty of the jailers to hang the keys in sight, but out of reach of the prisoners. It gave them all something to stare at so they could contemplate the error of their ways.

  But Jake meant to do more than contemplate. He gripped the bars of the cell and focused his full attention on those tantalizing keys.

  They dangled from a peg set into the opposite wall.

  Recalling his success with the mincemeat pie, he made sure none of the guards were coming, then glanced over his shoulder to confirm that none of the boys were awake.

  Satisfied that it was only himself and the curious audience of ghosts looking on, he reached his arm through the bars of his cell and extended his fingers. Come!

  Staring at the keys, his eyes burned with his fierce concentration, his skin grew hot, and his hand shook with the power of the tiny currents of air that vibrated forth from his fingertips.

  Slowly, the inexplicable force from his mind flowed down through his outstretched hand and vibrated across the other side of the corridor, finally reaching their intended target. The tips of the heavy iron keys began to swing ever so slightly.

  Jake did not take his attention off them. The low jangle they made when they moved might have caused the sleeping boys to stir, but he did not even look over to check. Nothing broke his attention, not even the growing crowd of curious ghosts who gathered around to see what he was doing. A bead of sweat ran down Jake’s face as he concentrated on using his mind to slide the ring of keys up the peg without them making too much noise. By the tiniest degrees, the key ring slid up the peg, inch by inch, and suddenly slipped over the edge. Yes!

  The whole heavy key ring cleared it, suspended in midair, but now came the hard part. Jake brought up both hands now, redoubling his concentration.

  The keys floated slowly through the air as if one of the ghosts were carrying them.

  His heart pounded with excitement; one of the boys turned over in his sleep, startling him. The keys dropped down a few feet in the air, but did not hit the floor.

  They hovered at knee-level. Whew. That would’ve been loud. Jake quickly regained his focus, giving the task his all until the keys had floated close enough so all he had to do was bend down and pluck them out of the air.

  His fingers closed around the solid iron of the keys in jubilation. At once, all the ghosts began applauding and cheering at his feat.

  “Well done! Bravo! Good show, m’boy!”

  “How’d you do that?” the Cockney ghost-thief demanded.

  “Why, no prison cell can hold ‘im!” the dead highwayman commented in awe. “If I’d had your talents, I’d have been a criminal king.”

  Jake glanced at the ghosts uncertainly. It was the first round of applause he had ever received in his life. He gave them a curious half smile, blushing slightly, and nodded at his cheering audience of dead criminals in thanks, but he said nothing, careful not to wake his sleeping cellmates.

  Wasting no time, he went over to the door, tried a few different keys, and finally found the right one.

  The ghosts gathered around him, watching eagerly, as he claimed his freedom. “Young man, how did you do that?” one of the duelists inquired. “Was it by science or magic?”

  “What’s the difference?” drawled the pirate.

  “Who are you that you should have such skills?” the other duelist asked him, narrowing his eyes.

  “Never mind all that!” the ghost-thief interrupted. “Plucky lad got himself out of his cage, that’s wot matters! So now, why don’t ye do the same for us?” The ghost turned to him. “If you’ve got magic or whatnot, you must know something about how we can get out of ‘ere.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.” Jake stepped out of his cell and closed the door again, locking the rest of the dangerous boys in to finish out their sentences.

  “Please!” They crowded round him, making the hairs on his arms stand on end with their tingly coldness.

  Jake thought fast. “Well, to be honest, I don’t think you even need to be here,” he whispered back.

  “What do you mean? We haven’t been able to find a way out of this prison in ages!” the highwayman said.

  “But how can these walls hold you?” he asked. “You’re not solid.”

  “How rude!” the gentlemen duelists cried in unison, equally offended.

  “Well, you’re not! You’re dead, mates. These walls can’t hold you anymore. All you have to do is float away!”

  “Well, yes, but then what?” asked the pirate.

  “How should I know?” Jake shrugged. “Go to heaven?”

  “Who, us?” They all laughed heartily. “We’re criminals, lad! The devil’s own! Condemned!”

  “No, that can’t be true,” Jake protested in a whisper so as not to wake the rest. “There must have been something good about you in life. If you were all bad, wouldn’t you be already—you know—down there?”

  He pointed meaningfully toward the floor.

  They thought this over. “You really think there might be hope for us?”

  “Aye, why not? Look, I’ve nicked my share of this ‘n’ that,” Jake admitted, still stung by the magistrate’s mockery. “I’m no expert on right and wrong. For all I know, some of you might be rotten to the core, but you don’t seem all that bad to me. Maybe the lot of you are still here because of, I don’t know, unfinished business or something.”

  The ghosts glanced around at each other uncertainly, then began to talk amongst themselves, arguing over what to do. “Dashed impertinent of him to suggest we could leave anytime we liked.”

  “But what if he’s right? What if th
ere’s hope? What then?”

  “There’s no hope.” The highwayman leaped off his ghost-horse angrily and turned away. “Life’s not fair, and death, neither.”

  Jake looked around and sincerely wished in that moment that he could not see ghosts, for these ones were as frustrating as any living people.

  “I’m trying to tell you maybe there’s something you can do about your situation!” Jake informed them.

  “Like what?” the highwayman asked, glancing coldly over his shoulder.

  All the ghosts floated closer, eager to hear his advice. Jake thought hard. “Find the people you did wrong to when you were alive, the ones you went to jail for, and try to make it up to ‘em somehow.”

  “What? Make it up?”

  “You need to try to make resta…resti—” Jake struggled to think of the word. Dani would have known it. “Resta—”

  “Restitution?” the pirate captain suggested.

  “Aye, that’s it!”

  The ghost-thief frowned. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  “Make restitution to those we wronged, hmm?” the highwayman echoed. His ghost-horse’s ears had pricked up. “An interesting notion. But where would I begin?”

  “Sounds preposterous to me,” the shorter duelist grumbled.

  “Why?” Jake asked.

  “What if the people we wronged are dead, lad? Then what are we supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know! Find their descendants or something. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but that’s the only advice I’ve got,” Jake said crossly. He really had no time for this and was even more annoyed by the guilty thought that perhaps he ought to take his own advice: Harris the Pieman and plenty of other people he’d stolen from in his illustrious past career as the best boy-thief in London.

  Which he swore was behind him forever after tonight.

  He turned away from the ghosts, grumbling under his breath. “Seems like common sense to me, but hey, I’m just a kid. What do I know? Stay here and haunt the jail for a few more centuries for all I care. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to break somebody out of here.” As he walked away, moving down the corridor to try to search out Derek Stone’s cell, he could hear the ghosts debating his advice.