The Ruby Celeste Series - Box Set, books 1 - 3: Ghost Armada, Dire Kraken, and Church of Ife

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  Eight men. That was all.

  But by the time they knew this, it was too late. They had been outplayed on these people’s home turf.

  And now here they were. Locked in cells—and the only weapons beyond the bars, trained on each of them.

  Some rescue mission this had turned out to be.

  No Answer

  (Chapter Thirteen)

  1

  As Reuben was led across New Calais, the call Ruby had placed went without answer. Only after thirty long seconds did she give up.

  Head spinning, hair stuck to her face, she grimaced.

  “Why isn’t anyone answering?”

  None of the technicians had any response.

  Ruby cycled through to Mikhail. She had tried him first. More than once. Maybe she should not have tried at all … but with her entire combat team dispatched, one technician missing, Natasha giving chase, and the person they’d come here to rescue broadcasting nothing but empty air for the past twenty minutes, she could not be in the dark a moment longer. She needed something. Something to tell her the low feeling in the gut was incorrect, and things were not going horribly wrong.

  And yet … nothing. She’d called and called. Then she’d tried for Natasha. Her departure had been most recent. If something had befallen the workhands, Natasha would surely have not followed in their footsteps.

  No answer.

  Glim, Herschel, Reuben …

  No one was answering.

  Why was no one answering?

  “Something is wrong,” she said.

  Without Natasha or Mikhail to provide level words, it was Trove who stepped up. “I’m sure they’re okay. They’ll get in touch when they’re ready.”

  “They’re not okay!” Ruby cried. She braced at the sweep of pain through her head and throat. “Something has happened!”

  “You don’t know—”

  Ruby had had it. She’d been told so many times she ‘didn’t know’. She had sent people in to find out—and what had happened to them? Who knew what.

  Well, she would stand for it no more.

  Pressing a damp hand to the workstation she sat at, she levered onto unsteady feet.

  Darrel stepped forward. “What are you doing?”

  Ruby ignored him. Gripping the console, she walked around it—lurched, really—to the main display.

  “Where is that radio transmission coming from?” she asked Amelie.

  “It’s a little building near the cathedral.”

  “Can you rig up the overhead to show me where it is?”

  “On it.”

  “What are you doing?” Darrel demanded.

  The overhead map of New Calais filled the main display. Marked on it was the Harbinger’s location: the southernmost satellite island.

  Near the cathedral was a white cross.

  “That’s where the broadcast is coming from?”

  “Yes, Miss Celeste.”

  “Zoom in. I need to see up close.”

  Darrel demanded again, “What are you doing?”

  Ruby fixed Darrel with the deathliest stare she could manage. “I’m going to save my friends.”

  “No! You’re barely fit to walk!”

  Ruby had already turned back to the screen. She squinted against it—damn, it was so bright—but she fought to construct a mental map.

  Darrel said, “Let the others handle it.”

  “Something has happened to them. It needs to be me.”

  “You can’t go. You’re not going.”

  “What, you going to drug me again?” To Amelie: “Thank you. Keep an eye on things while I’m gone.”

  “Aye.”

  Ruby turned for the door.

  Darrel blocked her path. His arms were folded, and his face livid.

  “You’re not going.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Darrel, but I stopped listening to your advice when you saw fit to drug me.”

  She sidestepped.

  This time, mercifully, Darrel did not stop her.

  2

  Trove jogged to Ruby as she was heading up the corridor.

  “What should I do?” he asked.

  “Stay here,” Ruby told him. Her head gave a particularly sharp pound, and she closed her eyes tight on it. A slippery hand found the wall.

  “What if they get you, too?”

  Ruby thought.

  It hurt so much.

  “Okay,” she said heavily. “Okay. Give me one hour. If we’re not back on the ship by then, pull the same number as I did on Rhod Stein.”

  Trove balked. “Open fire on the city?”

  “That’s right. The cathedral.” Grimacing against another violent stab of pain, Ruby said, “Blow it to hell.”

  3

  Ruby shook.

  The air was cool, barely breezing.

  Her oily coating of sweat turned it into needles of ice.

  She had crossed the parking bay and found the walkway leading to the central island. Pressed right to its edge, she dragged herself hand by hand along the railing.

  She had thought the night would take the edge off. Instead, every step she took closer to New Calais only tightened the viselike grip.

  She tripped. Her legs spilled out from under her, and she lost the railing. She landed in a flat heap.

  How would she ever get up again?

  Then she thought of Francis, and somehow, some way, she moved.

  It was slow. Her legs were weak. Her hands, too. It was not a tight grip she held on the rail, but a clammy, loose curl of fingers. She shivered, and it hurt, every tremor across her every inch. Her head was a barrage of storming hail.

  She dragged herself on.

  She did not know how fast she went, nor how long it took: only that the bridge seemed to stretch forever. At some point she had to close her eyes, for even looking out into the dark hurt. White flashed across her eyelids, and she moaned.

  Closer and closer she came—and worse and worse she got.

  Finally, she gripped forward and found—the railing was gone.

  It ought to have been a victorious moment. But the second her boot landed on New Calais proper, this whole ordeal—this whole storm—was rendered minute.

  Searing agony tore through her. Ruby did not cry but screamed against the night.

  She was going to die—here, unable to reach the people she had come to save … unable to reach Francis—to see him again …

  She fell to her knees. Her head smashed into earth.

  Let it end … please, let it end …

  Then—

  A hand touched her shoulder. Small: a child’s.

  And all the pain just—went.

  Ruby gasped.

  She lifted her head. Opened groggy eyes.

  The lids were no longer heavy.

  The breeze drove icy needles into her no more. It was colder than it should have been, yes. Her coating of sweat saw to that. But it no longer hurt.

  Nothing hurt.

  The hand had not left her shoulder.

  Ruby met a pair of eyes. A little girl in a red dress, her hair dark. She stooped by Ruby’s shoulder.

  Ruby floundered for the name she had heard from Francis. A moment later she found it. “Grace?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Hello, Ruby.”

  4

  “What are you—?” Ruby could not finish the question. She struggled with another. “How did you—?” That, too, went unfinished.

  One hand still on Ruby’s shoulder, Grace took Ruby by the wrist and gently tugged to pull her up. “I need you to come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “To the shroud.”

  “No, I need to save my friends—” Ruby pulled in the opposite direction.

  Grace did not let go.

  “You can,” she said. “But walking in there will not do any good.”

  “Then how—?”

  “Your friends are held in cells in a building near the cathedral,” Grace said. “They have
been detained by eight men with guns, and as we speak, those men are preparing to execute them.”

  “Then I need to go stop them!”

  Grace held firm. For an eight-year-old, her grip was unnaturally strong.

  “I want to stop them too. But for that, we need to go to the shroud.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “The shroud is below the cathedral. For the first time in weeks, it is unguarded. There is an alarm. The moment the shroud is taken, it will chime—all over this island. That alarm will distract the men holding your people captive long enough for them to escape without anymore bloodshed.”

  Ruby’s eyes widened. “Bloodshed? Who?”

  “None of your people are dead. But if you insist on dawdling, I cannot promise that won’t change.”

  Ruby thought, fast. “How do I know you’re not leading me into a trap? How do I know you’re not exactly the same as the other people in this so-called church?”

  “The men holding your friends captive are not true disciples of this church. Nor is Abraham, at least anymore.”

  “How do I trust you?” Ruby repeated.

  Grace looked up with hard eyes that did not belong to a child.

  “I guess you’re just going to have to try.”

  5

  Abraham strode down the aisle between cells. Poised by each barred door were the surviving members of his false disciples. They had guns. More were discarded by the stairs leading down.

  “Is this all?” he barked.

  Francis glared back.

  “He asked you a question, boyo,” said Hanratty. “Answer it, or I’ll shoot your girlfriend.”

  Brie whimpered, and Francis enclosed her tighter in his arm, burying her face in his shoulder.

  Abraham lifted a hand to wave his henchman off.

  Francis remained silent.

  “All right,” Abraham said. “I’ve asked nicely.”

  “Could have fooled me,” came Reuben’s voice from a cell opposite.

  A rifle butt slammed the metal bars of his cell.

  Abraham turned. “Bring them out,” he instructed the men opposite.

  Three doors were unlocked. Heavyset men stepped in, rifles levelled at the men inside. In the left cell: Mikhail and Natasha. The middle: Reuben. And the right: Glim and Herschel.

  “Don’t try anything,” Abraham warned.

  The crew were led out.

  Francis rose. “What are you doing?”

  “Kneel,” said Abraham.

  “Hey!”

  “I said, kneel.”

  Natasha was closest, and he kicked her behind the knee. She grunted and fell into a crouch.

  Mikhail lunged.

  Two rifles pointed at his chest stilled him.

  “Kneel,” Abraham repeated.

  Face dark, Mikhail obeyed.

  “Mikhail, no—”

  “Shut up,” Hanratty hissed at Francis.

  Reuben, Glim, and Herschel did not yield. But then a foot struck Reuben in the back of the leg, and he hit the floor just as Natasha had.

  Rifle barrels sunk hard into the flesh at Glim’s neck. Another trained to Herschel’s chest.

  “Last chance,” said Abraham. “Kneel.”

  “No,” Francis muttered. “No, no, don’t!”

  But sure enough, down they went.

  “No!”

  “Shut it, boyo!”

  “Hands behind your heads,” Abraham said.

  “What are you doing?” Francis cried. He marched for the front of the cell.

  Hanratty’s pistol levelled. His finger quivered over the trigger. It was not pointed at Francis, but past him—at Brie.

  “One more step and your girlfriend gets it,” he said. “Go on. I dare you.”

  Abraham approached. He eased Hanratty aside. Hanratty, leering madly, did not look remotely happy to oblige.

  “I asked a question,” he said. “I don’t ask questions twice.”

  “How am I supposed to know if this is it?” Francis burst out. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been locked up here, pissing blood down my shirt the past four hours! I’ve got no idea who else is in the city!”

  “I wasn’t asking you,” Abraham spat. “I was asking her.” He pointed a weathered finger at Brie.

  “I—I don’t know,” Brie blubbed. “I didn’t kn-know Natasha had c-come … She was on the ship when I left!”

  Abraham nodded. “All right then.”

  He looked back to his men.

  “Kill them.”

  6

  Together, Ruby and Grace ascended the cathedral’s steps at a run. They went hand-in-hand.

  The lectern at the top was still aside. It had not been shifted since Francis’s excursion.

  “Down here,” Grace said. “Hold onto me!”

  They hurtled down the spiral staircase.

  The tunnel at the bottom was carved from rock. Dim light illuminated it. The dank smell of water just starting to stagnate permeated the air.

  They sprinted up the short passage, landing on a metal platform.

  There, in the middle of the room: the crimson shroud.

  “Come on,” Grace said.

  She pulled Ruby down the steps.

  Ruby hit the bottom. She took one step—and stopped.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why bring me here? I know about you. Francis told me. You’re always with Abraham; always by his side. You never speak. So why, when he has done so much to keep this thing hidden and protected, have you brought me to it?”

  Grace looked back with a gaze wiser than her years.

  “Because it belongs to you,” she answered.

  Ruby’s face twitched in a frown. “What do you mean?”

  Grace shook her head. “There’s no time. If you want your friends to live, you need to take that thing.”

  Francis.

  Ruby nodded. She took a step.

  Grace pulled back.

  “What?” Ruby breathed. “You said I don’t have time!”

  “I have to go.”

  “Then go—”

  “No, listen,” said Grace. “I go with the shroud. I’m the only one who can touch it. There’s something inside; I’ve been—keeping it safe. But now it’s yours.” She blinked. “I have fulfilled my role.”

  “This isn’t making any sense,” said Ruby.

  “What’s inside is what has been making you ill,” Grace cut across. “That’s why you could not come to the island before. It’s why you got sick.”

  “How do you—?”

  “When I let go, it’s going to hurt. But only for a second. Okay?”

  “I don’t understand—!”

  “But when you touch it, it’s yours! The shroud will be inert the moment the inheritance is passed over.”

  “Inheritance? Grace, what are you talking about?”

  But the little time they had was gone. As though she had seen something in her mind’s eye—men with guns pressed to their captives’ heads, perhaps—Grace’s face drew up in a maw of shock.

  She unhooked her hand from Ruby’s—

  “Follow what you see, Inheritor!”

  Her hands planted on Ruby’s back. She shoved—

  The moment Grace’s contact ceased, Ruby’s whole body roared. Knives tore through the space behind her eyes—

  She screamed—

  The air went electric. Ruby was caught in an invisible net, and for an infinitesimal moment the pain ratcheted up to a supernova—she was going to die this time, she was!—then the net broke.

  She floundered. Her hands went out—grasped for the shroud—

  And all at once, the world exploded in a blinding flash of white light.

  7

  Abraham looked back to his men.

  “Kill them.”

  “No, don’t!” Brie screamed.

  Francis’s eyes bugged. Fingers moved to triggers—

  “HEY, GRANDDAD!” he roared. “WHERE’S GRACE?”

&n
bsp; Abraham’s face split in confusion. He swung, looking for her—

  A peal shrieked, tearing the air apart.

  Everything began to happen very, very fast.

  A look of terrified understanding crossed Abraham’s face. He broke into a run, hurtling up the aisle to the steps leading out onto New Calais.

  At the same time, the men pointing guns at the Harbinger’s five kneeling crew members were caught off-guard.

  Mikhail swung a kick.

  As it hit home and sent the man behind him down—his finger squeezed the trigger; a spray of bullets drew a diagonal across the ceiling—Reuben grabbed the man closest. He wrenched him forward, hooked an arm around his neck, and slammed him face-first into the next guard over.

  At the same moment, Glim moved. He was shorter than the other men, but just as capable. He flung himself into the chest of the man standing in front of him. Another burst of bullets streaked the air—same time as the first—

  Natasha sprang forward. Her captor had been pointing a pistol at her head. She slammed his wrist, sending the barrel sideways. His finger moved to depress—

  She was faster. Another blow cracked him in the head. He reeled backward.

  Natasha spun. The man behind had shifted. She delivered a swift kick between his legs—he grunted—and wrenched the rifle from his grip.

  Back—the man she’d punched in the face was bringing his handgun around—

  Barely half a second after the other sprays of bullets cut the air, Natasha joined with a third. A streak pierced her gunman’s torso in a spray of red.

  Before his pistol had even clattered to the floor, she pivoted, rifle levelled at the man moaning behind.

  Herschel swung a punch of his own. It sailed home on gunman number seven. He grunted—loosed his grip—

  Herschel kicked. The gun clattered free. It hit the ground—somehow, it did not go off—

  Herschel grappled him. He threw him through the open door of the cell he’d just been led out of.

  Only Hanratty was left.

  He knew. From the moment Abraham’s face had contorted in alarm at the disappearance of Grace, he’d known. And now, because they had been stupid enough not to slaughter all these people the moment they came to this island—now they had lost the upper hand.