Phantoms In Philadelphia

by Amalie Vantana

  Fenrir’s mask of a wolf face and his name both came from Norse mythology about the father of wolves. When Jericho wore the mask, he became a wolf, but when he was not wearing a mask, he was both kind and entertaining. Good looking, too. At eighteen, he stood taller than the rest of the team, with rich blond hair and a face that turned many maidens’ heads.

  Jericho smiled as he picked up his glass. “I propose a toast. To Bess,” his brown eyes lowered in sure sign of mischief, “a far prettier woman than Jack could ever hope to be.”

  Laughter spilled across the room as they raised their glasses to me. On one of our missions, we had needed three women, so Jack, being the shortest, and the others absolutely refusing, donned the role. He had made a fetching girl in a brown wig.

  “Those petticoats were the devil. I do not know how you women do it,” Jack interposed.

  Jericho chuckled and Leo, who was silent most of the time, smiled.

  Jack was saying something, and Mariah laughed, her sweet voice ringing out. My gaze moved to her, a smile touching my lips. When my father had formed the Phantoms, he had gone in search of children, orphans without family, declaring that no one would ever suspect children of being spies. Mariah was the first orphan my father brought home. He trained her along with Jack and I in weapons and self defense, and my mother taught her all the skills necessary to be a lady’s maid. Mariah worked as my personal maid back home in Philadelphia when not on a mission. Something Jack said made her head go back as her soft laughter filled the room.

  When meal was through, and everyone was moving out of the dining parlor, Levi, the youngest of our team at fifteen, stopped beside me. He held his hand out and dropped a smooth stone onto my open palm. He had painted a raven taking flight on the surface. I thanked him by rising and throwing my arms around his neck. He was the same height as Jack and could have been our brother, and was, in a sense. He had been given the surname of Martin when my father brought him home as a young boy of eight. He and Jack looked alike with their dark hair and narrow faces, but Levi’s eyes were green. Levi was the wild one on the team, and his name of Hades fit.

  When Jack and I were alone, I watched him as he drained his wine. A lock of his thick, black hair fell across his brow, as it always did, making me think of our mother. She had the same dark hair and they each had blue eyes, but Jack’s were so light they were nearly gray. She was also the one that Jack received his small stature from, while I was taller like my father had been.

  Before we had moved to Philadelphia, we had lived in Savannah for a year so that my parents could test their acting skills in society. My father bought a plantation and set us up as a family of great means supposedly arrived from France. We had moved to the much larger and grander Philadelphia after my parents thrived in the ranks of high society and were confident in their deception. We were thought to be a wealthy family who owned a large plantation in Savannah. We did own the plantation, but the wealthy part was questionable.

  After Jack signed up to fight in the war when he was fifteen, my father assigned me to Baltimore, and my parents told their society friends that they had sent me to live with cousins for the duration of the war. Since the end of the war, my mother told her friends that I was traveling, but it was a lie. I had been living outside the city, dressing as a man and working to protect the good people of Philadelphia from dangers that they did not know threatened them. Not all of the threats left when we won the war.

  Jack left the house a little while later, and I had some time alone to think. Now that my mother’s two year mourning period had ended, and she would soon return to Philadelphia from her trip to Savannah, she expected me to return home. As the only daughter of the house, it was my duty to marry well. It sounded simple, but I was not like other young girls and my life was anything but simple.

  An hour had passed when Jack arrived back at the house carrying a letter for me. He sat across from me as I broke the seal and read the single sheet. The letter was dated 5 June, which gave me my first clue. As it was only May, it meant that every fifth word was the real message.

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  The carriage ride was the longest hateful mile of my wretched life. To find that Sarah’s beautiful orchard is part of Henry’s grown over property is reprehensible. Leads one to ponder if the heart does indeed give way. Guard your own heart.

  P.

  Ride mile to orchard grown leads the way. P could only mean one person.

  “What is it?” Jack asked.

  As I folded the letter, I replied, “Nothing of importance. A note from Penelope only.”

  Jack accepted my reply without question, and we discussed our plans to go home within the next few days, and then I took myself off to bed, but not to sleep, I had a meeting to prepare for.

  ***

  When I set out the following morning, the sky was gray, and the sun had yet to rise. I was dressed in black boots, breeches, shirt, coat, and hat. My mask was tucked safely in my pocket, and my pistols were in my belt. I went first to the stable where we kept our horses, then set off to the only orchard that I knew of.

  Jack would not be pleased when he discovered that I had gone off without him, but as his presence was not requested in the letter, I would not take him along. The man who had sent that letter was an informant who had sold information first to my father and after his death, to me. Pierre could be trusted to know everything that was happening in the city.

  Riding a mile outside of the city as the letter directed, I reached the orchard. Looking around, there was an overgrown lane that was barely visible due to a fresh set of horse tracks. Turning down the lane, I rode through the trees until the lane split in two. The lane to the right had the fresh horse tracks, so that was the path I followed.

  There was a bend in the lane before it stopped at the steps to an old building. The white stones were molding; grass was tall around the exterior, but it had signs of once beautiful craftsmanship. The building was square with a raised dome colored with stained glass. Two large doors were shut tight, and no windows covered the walls. All was quiet in the stillness of the early morning. To all outward appearances, the building looked to be deserted, all except for a single mount that was standing in a copse of trees.

  Once my own horse was hidden in the copse of trees, I put on my mask and walked to the building.

  Pillars flanked the front doors, as I stepped up the two stone steps. Pierre had led me there which meant that whatever was on the inside he wanted me to see. I rapped on the door with a brass ring.

  “What’s the password?” A deep voice called from the other side of the door.

  “Écouter,” I replied immediately, knowing it was the correct thing to say. Pierre and I used the password at our every meeting.

  Bolts were drawn back, and I was greeted by the long barrel of a musket, a pair of black eyes appearing over the gun. As soon as he saw my mask, his eyes widened before he threw the door open fully.

  “Come in, come in.” He grabbed my arm, pulling me into the inner room. He released me to bolt the door, but my focus was on the room in which I stood.

  Leaves and twigs covered the floor, and a pile of broken chairs covered one corner of the room, but it was the raised platform that drew my gaze. There was a single pedestal in the center, and on top of it was a black velvet pillow. Nestled on the pillow was a black, odd-shaped object with many points and with symbols engraved in gold covering all of the points.

  The door to the right of the platform opened. A small man, dirty and rotund with a long gray beard that was matted together and hung to his waist, came through followed by another small man with a short, black beard. Pierre.

  “Raven,” Pierre said, as he came toward me.

  “Salutations, Pierre.” I shook his hand then looked at the two old men who were staring at me intently.

  “Raven, these are my brothers. Zacchaeus,” he motioned toward the one who had opened the door, “and Jeremiah.” The man with the long beard grunted a greeting.


  “A pleasure,” I said before turning my attention to Pierre. “My friend, it is unlike you to want to meet during the daylight hours.”

  Pierre laughed, but it sounded strained. “Sit, there is much to explain.” Zacchaeus pulled over the only unbroken chair, and I sat.

  Pierre handed me a thick packet which I tucked away in the hidden inner pocket of my coat.

  “First, Ma belle will be delivered on time,” Pierre said, causing excitement to burst in my chest.

  “When? Have you seen her?”

  We had first heard about Ma belle during the war. The same men who had attacked me in that alley were attacking a woman on one of the back streets of Baltimore. To say that they were not above killing to find Ma belle was an understatement. They had robbed me of Ben, my betrothed, so I was determined to take Ma belle from them. When I had her, then I would find out what they wanted with her.

  “Soon,” Pierre said, forcing me to pull my thoughts away from the past.

  Feeling in my gut that he knew more than he was willing to say, I asked, “But you know who she is?”

  “All will be revealed in time.”

  My eyes slid shut for a moment. It was what my father used to say.

  “A matter of urgency has arisen.” He was frowning when I looked at him. “George was captured last week. Taken from his carriage. To be a sacrifice.”

  Disbelief had struck me for a moment before it was replaced by a sudden fear.

  George Crawford was one of the four founders of our spy organization. Whoever had him surely knew who he was, for why else would anyone want to capture an attorney. George was not the most cautious of men, but neither was he a deputy of the Phantoms. He was the financier of our group. He was also like an uncle to us.

  “A sacrifice? For what?” We were not living in the middle ages nor were we living near savages who sent up sacrifices to their gods. This was America, and we were civilized people; well, we tried our best.

  “Levitas.” When I looked blankly at him, he whispered, “The lightning bolt through the pyramid.”

  I was rendered speechless. During the war, my father had been searching for a group who were selling secrets and munitions to the British. They knew we were after them, so they started taunting us, marking their path with the bodies of people who had either discovered who they were or crossed them. There was always a brand on their back; a pyramid with a lightning bolt through the center. We had found seven people with such a mark upon them, but we had never been quick enough to save them nor had we discovered who they were or the name of their organization. But now I knew. The last body was left in January of 1815, and we had not heard from Levitas since.

  “Levitas is seeking Ma belle. You must stop them before they find her. Now you must go.” As he walked me to the door, he handed me a pouch. “Give this to Loutaire. Tell him to use it well.”

  Pierre had only met with Jack a handful of times, but they acted as if they were longtime friends. I turned toward the door, but before I could draw back the bolts, there was a pounding on the brass knocker.

  Zacchaeus came forward with his musket and called out, “What’s the password?”

  “Écouter,” returned a deep voice.

  Pierre pulled me over to the pile of broken chairs. “You must not be seen.”

  I did not question his command. Getting on my knees behind the pile of chairs, Pierre and Jeremiah stood on the platform, flanking the pedestal with the odd shape. The iron bolts were drawn back, but when Zacchaeus opened the door, he cursed and tried to slam it shut. The heavy door struck something hard. A large hand reached in and wrapped around his throat, and he was pulled roughly outside. Jeremiah ran toward the door grabbing the musket. He leveled it, but before he pulled the trigger, shots rang out, and he stumbled back, red quickly seeping into his dirty shirt.

  Hunching down, I started to load my pistol with shaking hands. Inwardly I was cursing myself for not bringing Jack along. I was not afraid so much as worried. I only had two pistols, and I knew not how many men were outside.

  A twig snapped. I looked up.

  A giant no less than seven feet tall stood inside the temple. Fear slammed through me, leaving me gaping and panicked.

  He was not looking at me; did not even sense my presence as he walked toward Pierre. Pierre was terrified; I could see it in his eyes, but he remained where he was. The giant snapped his sausage fingers and four men rushed into the temple, ran onto the platform, and grabbed Pierre. In my shock, I did not react, did not move as they carried him from the room ignoring all of his shouts and curses. I heard a door slam outside, and a whip snap followed by hooves moving away.

  The giant raised his large paws in the air looking toward the stained glass dome while his voice spouted an incantation.

  His voice was deep, almost scratchy sounding. I could only hear a few of the rhythmic words he was saying, but it was enough to know he was speaking Greek. He said the words gods of thunder and lightning. He stepped up on the platform, and it creaked under his weight. Both of his hands reached out, and he gently picked up the black shape and placed it in a gold bag that was covered in the same kind of symbols that were engraved on the shape.

  My mind was traveling fast trying to form a plan. I could not let him leave with that shape, but I could not take him on by myself. He looked like it would take more than the shots in my pistols to stop him.

  He did not look to the right or the left as he moved away from the platform, but at the door he stopped. I held my breath, not moving, not blinking; my palms sweating. My heart hurt from the rapidity of the beatings. If he looked to his right, he would see me. His head tilted to the side, as if he were listening for something. I was sure he could hear the beating of my heart. After a long moment, he ducked his head and went out of the temple.

  I let out a silent breath and leaned over, my arms resting on the dirty floor. Breathing in and out, I tried to slow the too fast pace of my heart. I had seen many unusual people in my years as a Phantom, but that man’s height, and build was a new frightening sight for me.

  When I heard a horse whinny, I rose and moved to the door. He was riding away atop the largest horse I had ever laid eyes on, but it would have had to be large to carry the boulder upon its back.

  “You,” a soft voice called out, and I turned. Jeremiah’s hand was raised above his stomach. I went to him, dropping down to kneel beside him.

  “Must retrieve box,” he said with his black eyes staring directly into my eyes. “Must...retrieve...box.”

  “The black box? You want me to go after the giant and get the box back?”

  Jeremiah nodded.

  “What do I do with the box once I have it? Whom do I give it to?”

  Jeremiah tried to reach into his coat, but his hands were trembling. I reached into his coat gently, feeling around for a pocket. My fingers touched a piece of paper, so I pulled it out, placing it in his hand. His fingers closed around it, and his eyes slid closed, as if he were relieved to touch it.

  He took my hand, pressing the paper against my palm. “Ma belle.”

  I flinched. What did the black box have to do with Ma belle? I tried to question Jeremiah further, but I could not rouse him again. I laid my ear against his chest, and I could hear his heart beating faintly. A twig snapped to my right, and I turned, raising my loaded pistol.

  Chapter 2

  Jack

  Would you mind lowering the pistol, Raven?” I asked as I stood in the doorway to the building that I now knew was some kind of temple.

  Bess sagged forward and lowered the pistol. She was relieved, but then she scowled at me, and I knew what was coming.

  “You went through my belongings,” she accused.

  I shrugged as I stepped further into the temple. “When I awoke this morning, I remembered that Penelope does not know our address.”

  Bess pushed to her feet, a grim expression on her face. “Now that you are here you may help me.”

  She strode to
the door, and after another glance around the room, I followed. I helped her carry the body of a small, but heavy man into the temple, placing him next to the other. Whoever those little men were; they were not the enemy.

  We went out of the temple shutting the doors, and she ran around the building, disappearing into a copse of trees only to emerge again with her horse Pegasus. I went to my horse Brutus and mounted him. She did not say a word as we rode through the trees. It was not until we reached the main road that she spoke.

  A dark cloud descended upon me as I listened to what had happened at that temple. Giant’s, incantations, and mysterious black boxes were stories usually belonging to fairy tales. Pierre being captured was a great loss for us, but Bess was determined to find those responsible. Then she told me that George had been taken. For a moment, I could only stare at her in disbelief.

  “What is the plan?” I demanded when I realized she was not jesting.

  “First, we find the giant and retrieve the black box and then I will send a note to the Washington Phantoms and set them onto locating Pierre. After that, we will go home and find George and the people who took him,” Bess said, removing her mask before riding onto the main road heading toward the city. “I do not see the giant, so we will trot and wait for him to overtake us.”

  It was only a few minutes before we heard another rider coming up behind us. When he passed us, I had to keep my jaw from sagging. The man was a beast. I glanced at Bess, who nodded, but said nothing. The giant was riding at a canter, so we picked up pace following him into the busy city streets.

  We rode past where the President’s house had been burned by the British during the war in 1814. The exterior sandstone walls still stood, but the fire had destroyed the interior, both floors and walls. Congress discussed rebuilding the President’s house in another city, but President James Madison wanted the house to be built exactly as it looked before the war, to symbolize America’s determination, that both the nation and government were here to stay. The same man who drew the designs for the original structure was hired to oversee the rebuilding of the President’s house. Workers were busy with the reconstruction. President Madison still lived on Pennsylvania Avenue, but in a townhouse down the road.