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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  Well, he would not stand for that. No way.

  He grabbed into Francis’s cell.

  Francis gasped as Hanratty’s fingers entwined in his hair.

  He was yanked back—

  His head slammed into the bars.

  “Hey!” Brie cried.

  Hanratty put the gun to Francis’s head—

  “Francis!”

  His finger squeezed—

  Someone collided with Hanratty from behind—

  CRACK!

  The bullet flew wide—

  The gun clattered—

  Francis dropped—

  Brie hurtled forward. She snatched up the gun—

  CRACK!

  Hanratty’s head exploded in a shower of gore.

  8

  “You’re pretty good with that thing,” Reuben said.

  Francis gripped Brie tight. “Just get us out of here.”

  “On it. Stand back.”

  Before Francis could say anything, Reuben shot his cell’s lock. The bullet’s crack and subsequent whine was deafening.

  He shoved the door aside.

  “He had a key,” Francis said as he ushered Brie out. He nodded at Hanratty’s body.

  “Had a head at one point, too,” said Reuben. He shrugged. “I just always wanted to shoot a lock.”

  The seven remaining men—six, Francis amended; the one Natasha had sprayed with bullets was barely breathing—were locked in a single cell. For good measure, Mikhail and Reuben had taken great pleasure in knocking them out with their reclaimed rifles. Francis wouldn’t be surprised if these people woke with significant brain damage.

  “Where’s the old man going?” Mikhail asked.

  “The cathedral, probably,” Francis said. “The shroud is there.”

  “Let’s get going then.”

  Francis shook his head. “I don’t care about the shroud. I just want to get out of here.”

  “But the money—”

  “I don’t care,” Francis repeated. He still held Brie tight. “I just want to get back to the ship. I just want to go home.”

  Flashes

  (Chapter Fourteen)

  1

  Ruby groped for the shroud. She touched it—

  It was as if a hook had been embedded behind her stomach. It wrenched her forward, and she had the frightening feeling she was falling out of the world.

  Images swirled in an incomprehensible vortex. Ruby contorted in its buffeting winds.

  She saw a girl. Fifteen; maybe sixteen. She had dark eyes, dark hair. Freckles. She sat on a swing.

  Next, a house. A younger girl. This one was—twelve? And a woman. Middle-aged. Lined.

  Their mother?

  The house flickered.

  It blazed. Smoke rose like thunderheads in the sky.

  Next: a sky island. The young woman was there … and a man.

  Rising in its centre was a strange stone structure. Struts gripped the island, and petals formed a fan above it.

  The young woman held something which hung from her neck. She was … singing?

  Was this Ife?

  The image was gone.

  Others came. They shot past in a blur. Ruby saw a village; people. Children, running. A pond. Skaters danced across its surface. A dock extended. The woman sat at its end, legs kicking.

  She was alone.

  It whirled away. The picture that replaced it—a grove—came almost too fast for Ruby to process.

  More. So fast Ruby could not keep up.

  Then, all at once—

  The vortex stopped.

  She was thrown out onto her feet.

  This was not the bowl-shaped room she had taken the shroud from. She was on an island packed with deep snow. She could feel it, right up to her shins where she had sunk in. Icy crystals fell from white sky: the beginning of a snowstorm. Ruby’s breath plumed.

  Reaching out of the snow was a stone ruin. It formed jagged peaks where the top had broken off—

  Then Ruby was yanked back. She threw out a hand as if to hold onto the place she’d been shown—then it, too, was gone.

  2

  She landed hard on stone floor.

  She was back beneath the cathedral. And in her arms: the shroud.

  Except for the ache from her fall, she did not hurt anymore. There was no pain. No electricity.

  No Grace.

  She looked around in confusion.

  How long had she been out?

  At her wrist, her communicator crackled.

  The sound was enough to rouse her. She had no time to think of the things Grace had told her before—

  Going, she finished. There was no other word to place there.

  No time for that. For now, the only important thing was that Grace had said an alarm would go off the moment the shroud was taken. It would allow her friends safe escape.

  Which meant, assuming Grace had not been lying, they would already be on their way to the ship.

  And now Ruby needed to follow before someone came for her.

  She pushed to her feet.

  Gripping the shroud tight under an arm, she flew up the stairs and back to the tunnel. To its end—she could hear the alarm trilling now; how long had it been going? How long did she have?

  Up the stairs—

  She flew down the cathedral’s aisle, between pews. Down the steps, her bounds as long as she could make them without risking a fall in the dark.

  She burst out into the night.

  New Calais was alive with the roar of a pulsing alarm—and people, congregating around the island’s centre.

  Did they know what the alarm was for?

  Ruby didn’t know. She didn’t think so. The church’s disciples milled about in a disordered, confused jumble.

  But whether she was right or wrong, she had no intent on finding out. She needed to be out of here now.

  Mentally orienting herself—the cathedral’s entrance was due south, so the Harbinger waited in a straight line—she sped into a run.

  Her feet pumped on flagstones.

  The cathedral receded.

  She could see the great walkway between islands now. Two hundred metres. One hundred and fifty … one hundred … just fifty—another short run and she would be back on her ship—she would be back with Francis—

  A figure launched out of the dark.

  Ruby had no time to duck. She took the full impact—she sailed over, a heavy body over top of her—the shroud burst free, landing in its folded heap—

  “You people!” someone roared. “You dirty, thieving—”

  A fist sailed.

  Ruby brought up her arm. She gasped at the impact.

  She launched a punch of her own.

  The man reared back.

  He donned a long crimson gown. A crest on the breast was just visible in the darkness: a stylised tree with drooping boughs.

  Abraham.

  Ruby swung an elbow. It landed in his face.

  She bounded for the shroud—

  Abraham caught her boot.

  She yelled. Hit dirt. Twisted to claw—

  Abraham was back on her. “You’re all thieves! Want what’s ours!”

  “You stole it first!”

  “It belongs to us! It belongs to me!”

  “It does not!”

  He swung another punch.

  She grunted as his fist met her face. Stars exploded across her vision.

  She blocked the next. Threw her own punch. Abraham dodged—she swung again; hit his neck—

  He choked.

  Ruby tore herself free.

  She danced up onto her feet.

  Abraham was already coming after.

  Ruby kicked.

  The old man cried as he went down.

  Ruby swung—

  He punched her arm out of the air. Not quite a block, but it set Ruby off-balance.

  He struck again. Her face. More stars. She reeled—

  Abraham kicked. “This—” He kicked again, and
Ruby staggered back— “shroud—” She ducked his fist; the other caught her under the chin; she yelped and stumbled, coughing a spray of blood— “is—” He stamped on her knee—Ruby gasped—she teetered—hit the ground— “mine!”

  Abraham’s foot landed hard on her chest.

  Ruby wheezed. All her breath escaped in one horrid gasp.

  Abraham’s eyes were manic.

  “You and your people are thieves,” he spat down at her. “And thieves pay.”

  He reached into his robes.

  When his hand came out, he held something short. There was no moon to glint off it, but Ruby knew it for what it was: a dagger.

  And she knew what he meant to do.

  She fought.

  Abraham pressed down harder—

  Ruby couldn’t breathe—

  “Farewell, thie—”

  CRACK!

  The old man said no more. He swayed … blood trickled from the corner of his lips … the dagger fell, and Ruby twisted just before it embedded in her neck and did the job anyway—

  Then Abraham crumpled in a dead heap.

  3

  Months had passed since Marcette de Fayre last saw Abraham. She had brought him his shroud, along with the mystery child in the red dress—and when he’d gone to hand over her payment, he’d sliced her throat with a dagger, put a bullet in La Vie’s computer, and left her for dead.

  But in spite of Abraham’s best attempts, Marcette had not died. She had come too far in this life. So when death came knocking, she did something uncharacteristically rare:

  She refused.

  It had taken all her wits to force functions out of her dying Pod. It was even more difficult with blood pouring out of her neck. She fashioned a tourniquet to staunch the flow, and that at least helped, though breathing came hard. Many times on her limping trip, blood loss and hard breaths whited her out. And every time, she had forced herself back.

  The sawbones she employed knew Marcette well.

  He told her how lucky she was. Abraham had missed her carotid artery by mere millimetres. Just a fraction to the left, and she would have greyed out and never woken up. The Pod would have spiralled to the lower limit of its Volum’s lift. Then either the craft would be spotted and picked up—or the Volum would starve to death, and her final grave would be at the bottom of one of Vomer’s oceans.

  The next few weeks were harrowing. Marcette had been stitched up—but then her stitches had become infected. The sawbones kept her in, not for the week Marcette wanted, but five. Five long weeks of waiting, unable to do anything while her body fought infection.

  If there was any silver lining, it was that Marcette had been allowed to think. To plan.

  She would not be bested by a fucking priest. No. The second she could, she would go back to New Calais and get revenge. Not for the money. That didn’t matter anymore. No, she would kill Abraham simply on principle.

  When she was finally fit to leave her doctor’s care, she had to fix La Vie. The Pod was barely functional, and she’d been able to do sweet fuck-all to remedy that laid up in a hospital bed. Before she could go back to New Calais, she needed to replace half its innards, then get Pierre back in working order. He would need extensive reprogramming before Marcette could make use of the voice recognition she found so useful.

  No matter. It only gave more time to think. More time for her anger to grow.

  And the more her anger grew, the more she would relish blowing Abraham’s head off.

  At last, everything was fixed. She was ready.

  That was two days ago.

  Marcette had headed straight off. She slept once on the way; a power nap that lasted little more than ninety minutes.

  When she finally arrived, it was the middle of the night. She would wait until the morning, of course—but what was this? Why were alarms blaring the entire span of the island?

  She had hopped out of her Pod, and sprinted to the central island. The alarm warbled all the way.

  And as she got close—

  A woman was running. She clutched something. And springing from the dark—

  Abraham.

  Marcette had watched their fight, stalking ever closer. Both were distracted. Neither could hear her come over the whining alarm. And neither thought to look beyond their immediate concern: each other. So they did not see as Marcette came nearer and nearer, her gun levelled, finger resting on the trigger … just waiting for the perfect moment …

  And it had come.

  “You are your people are thieves,” Abraham had said. “And thieves pay.”

  He’d reached into his robes and drawn out a dagger—a dagger Marcette remembered well—

  Her nostrils flared.

  He started to say something else—

  And then Marcette de Fayre pumped the trigger.

  4

  Ruby scrabbled away from Abraham’s body.

  Who had shot him? One of the workhands?

  But it was not Mikhail or the others who stepped out of the dark. It was a thin woman Ruby did not recognise, with a scowl on her pointed face.

  Ruby’s eyes darted to the gun in her hand.

  “Who are you?” she gasped.

  Marcette gave Abraham’s body a dark, satisfied look. “Someone he pissed off.” She stowed her gun, and stuck out a hand to Ruby.

  Ruby took it. Marcette pulled her up.

  “Thank you.”

  Marcette shrugged. “Fine.”

  She sauntered back the way she’d come.

  “Is—is that it then?” Ruby called.

  Marcette did not look back. “That’s it.”

  And without a word more, she was gone.

  Looking Out

  (Chapter Fifteen)

  1

  Scabbed and bruised, Ruby sat alone in her quarters.

  Her desk was normally covered in papers. A disordered mess, it was just as much a fixture of this room as the tricorne was on Ruby’s head.

  Tonight, the papers were clear. The only thing on the desk was a bundle of woven crimson cloth: the shroud.

  Ruby thought back to Grace.

  There’s something inside; I’ve been—keeping it safe. But it’s yours now.

  She turned the shroud over. She opened its thick folds with careful hands. Wider and wider it grew, covering the desk, then overhanging it …

  Finally, she came to the centre.

  Inside was a book. And halfway, the black string on which it hung acting like a bookmark, was a stone amulet.

  Ruby took the book in gentle hands.

  Calligraphic streaks filled its pages.

  She flipped through.

  Was this a diary?

  She squinted at the writing. If it even was writing. She had not seen text like this anywhere she could recall.

  Frowning, she opened to the page where the amulet hung.

  The text stopped abruptly. She parsed through the remaining half of the book, but every page was just as blank as the last.

  Whoever possessed this diary had ceased before finishing it.

  Ruby took the amulet. She held the pendant in her palm. Divots cut its edges on two sides in square jags.

  What did Grace mean when she said these things belonged to Ruby?

  The girl’s final words echoed: Follow what you see, Inheritor!

  But what to follow? She had seen so many flashes—flashes she did not understand, like so much else here.

  Then it came to her.

  One flash had been different. She had not seen it, but been thrown straight in. A snow-packed island. She had felt its chill.

  She had seen a ruin.

  Was that where she needed to go next?

  Ruby’s head spun in circles. But no matter how she thought, she could come no closer to understanding.

  She refolded the shroud. Only the shroud. This, she would return to Magnus Dwight. The book and amulet, though? There was no indication that anyone knew about them. Ruby would keep those to herself.

  O
nce her new belongings were safely locked in one of her desk drawers, and the shroud hidden away, she rose. Her back ached, but that was fine.

  Perhaps she would go out and get some fresh air.

  Francis might be there. He often went out onto the top deck to think. Ruby could accompany him. They could talk. Make jokes. Laugh.

  For the first time in days, she could smile.

  Yes, she decided. The first hint of a grin was already lifting her freckled cheeks. Fresh air would do her good.

  2

  Under evening sky, Francis stood alone.

  His whole face ached. Hanratty had been kind enough to break his nose again. Darrel had taped it up for the second time this year, but repeated his warning from the last: it might not ever look the same. Francis had breathed a laugh. No, maybe not. But he was alive. And he was home.

  ‘Home’. Francis frowned at the word.

  He sighed. That, and so much else, made him … uncomfortable?

  Yes. No.

  He didn’t know.

  The last few weeks swirled.

  He’d killed a man. Shot him.

  It had shocked him. But the way Baterman had beaten Brie … the way Abraham ordered all Francis’s friends dead, right in front of him … No. He would never regret pulling the trigger. Never.

  Brie.

  She’d come. Brie, of all the people he’d expected to rescue him. The workhands, surely. Ruby, almost certainly.

  But Ruby had not. She had gone for the shroud, Francis saw when she returned to the ship.

  Brie had rescued him.

  Brie had killed Hanratty.

  Francis closed his eyes.

  Remie’s sermon floated in his mind. The story she had told: Ife, and the little orphan boy whose cat had died.

  Our family comes from the bonds we form. Miles may separate us, but family is not just blood. It is our shared experience and love. It is our friendship that brings us together, not our genes.

  Francis frowned. Why hadn’t he been able to stop thinking about it?

  Something else, too.

  Hanratty had pressed a gun to his head. He’d been about to pull the trigger.

  Francis had not seen his life flash before his eyes; he suspected that was a one-time deal, for when he actually died. But he had seen the faces of the people he would most miss—the family he would never see again.