The Forgotten Story

by Michelle E Lowe

  “Rob?” he croaked just above a whisper before approaching him.

  He kneeled beside his friend, placing his pistol on the ground.

  Robert’s clothing was drenched in blood, his head turned away. Pierce bit down on his knuckle while hot tears burned his eyes.

  “Shite,” he cursed, twisting around.

  Robert Blackbird—his friend, his brother—was dead. Unlike the Sea Warriors, Pierce had been unable to save him.

  “I’m so sorry, Rob,” he whispered.

  “Pierce?”

  Had he gone mad? Was the spirit of his deceased mate speaking to him from the beyond?

  “Is it you, Pierce?”

  He slowly turned, and there sat Robert, covered in blood, staring right at him.

  “Christ!” he shrieked, falling and slamming the back of his head against the stall wall.

  “Shush!” Robert hissed, cupping his hands over Pierce’s mouth. “If you get us caught, we’re both goners, got it?”

  “I tot ye wur a goner,” Pierce muttered under Robert’s hands.

  Robert removed them and grabbed Pierce’s coat collar. His expression was a cross between mystified, curious, and shocked.

  “Bloody hell. It is you. What are you doing here?”

  Still reeling from his own shock of having his deceased friend speaking to him, Pierce could only stare at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Was that you in the field?” Robert asked, ignoring his question. “Jesus, Pierce, we believed you were a hunter trying to stop us.”

  The barn doors opened and in walked the kidnapper. Pierce had no time to reach for his pistol before he appeared.

  “It’s safe now, mon seigneur,” Robert’s footman, Eric, assured him. When he spotted Pierce with his master, his eyes bulged. “Landcross?”

  “’Ello, Eric. Don’t shoot me in the balls, eh?”

  “Why on earth would he do that?” Robert asked.

  Pierce shook his head and stood. “Long story.”

  Robert stood up with him. “I believe we both have long stories to tell, my old friend. Meet me at my home. I have some packing left to do.”

  To keep up appearances that Robert was dead, his servant wrapped him in a blanket and placed him in the bed of the wagon with the dogs that were, in fact, Robert’s own mutts. They weren’t actually attacking him in the field but merely playing with him. After Eric tethered his horse to the wagon, he drove it away. Pierce left the barn soon afterward and returned to his horse. On his way to the château, he had so many questions that it made his brain throb.

  When he arrived, he met with Robert in his bedchambers.

  The moment he entered the room, Pierce spouted off, “Fuckin’ hell, Rob, what’s going on?”

  “I’m in trouble,” he explained, shoving clothes in a rucksack.

  Pierce looked over to the bay windows, the same ones he’d escaped through when that Persian lieutenant, Darius Javan, was chasing after him. “What sort of trouble?”

  “I am under investigation. A few months ago, the authorities arrived at my door, asking questions about me. How I came to know Edgardo José, and how I’d acquired his fortune. Naturally, I had a solid cover story ready.”

  Pierce stepped over to the dresser where a framed daguerreotype sat. It was of Robert and the woman, Penelope Reine. He recognized her lovely face even without the mask she had worn on the night of Robert’s costume party. In this photograph, she and Robert were both dressed in wedding clothes.

  Pierce carried it over to him. “Got yourself hitched, eh?”

  Robert beamed. “Ah. Indeed, shortly after your . . . er, unwelcome arrival.”

  “Oi!”

  “Well, it was.”

  Pierce huffed.

  Robert took the daguerreotype and looked at it fondly. “Penelope is waiting for me in London with our sons, Charlot and Enzo.”

  “I got myself a wife, too,” Pierce boasted with a grin.

  He expected Robert to be amazed to learn that the wild and unpredictable Pierce Landcross had settled down with a woman of his own.

  “I know. I read the books,” Robert answered, placing the photograph in the bag.

  Pierce’s smirk fell. “You did, eh?”

  “Of course,” Robert admitted and then chuckled. “How could I not? I even assisted by providing the author with detailed information in Book Two.

  Pierce was stunned. “You did? No bloody wonder it was so accurate. Who is this author, Jessamine Fairchild? When did you meet her?”

  “I never met her, idiot,” Robert retorted, walking over to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. “I wouldn’t expose myself like that. I wrote letters about our wild times together and sent them to her.”

  “How did you know where she lived?”

  “She took out an ad in the papers requesting any information about you and the people in your life. I thought—why the hell not?”

  “Well, cheers for clearing up that little mix-up about who stole the carriage with the baby in it.”

  Robert snorted. “I figured I owed it to you.”

  Robert opened the wardrobe and brought out a strongbox from the top shelf and a clean shirt. He carried them over to the bed and started pulling off his blood-soaked shirt.

  “What about this investigation?” Pierce pressed.

  “Aye, it turns out José had relatives, after all. A nephew down in Rodez found out about his deceased relation and decided to come and collect on what he believed was his.”

  “Was he that porky twit in the barn?”

  “Zacharie Defort. Indeed,” Robert answered, stepping over to the washbasin next to the dresser behind Pierce. “He shined a light on me to the authorities, demanding that an investigation be launched. When nothing suspicious could be found, he tried another way of getting rid of me so to claim the fortune.”

  Pierce twirled his finger over what he reckoned was animal blood on Robert’s chest. “Is that the reason for all of this?”

  “Aye,” Robert acknowledged, dipping a washrag into the basin. He wrung it out and began cleaning the mess off himself. “The investigation is still open. Apparently, my story wasn’t as convincing as I’d hoped, and the French government has seized my fortune until they get to the bottom of it.”

  “They took everything?”

  “All but my house and freedom,” Robert explained, drying off. “I am very lucky.” He turned on his heel and went around the bed. “It won’t be long, however, until they find out the truth about me. I had Fable and Eric pose as bounty hunters and Eric approached Zacharie with a deal to kill me off. With me out of the way, Zacharie could tell investigators that I’d fled, thereby earning the rights to the inheritance.”

  “You forked the fortune over to that fat bastard?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, slipping on his clean shirt. “In a few days, he will be arrested for murder.”

  “Whose? Yours?”

  Robert nodded as he buttoned up his shirt. “I needed to fake my death, and what better way than a murder? Fable is going to act as the witness to my killing.”

  “But didn’t that bloke Zacharie ‘hire’ him and Eric to assassinate you? Won’t that get Fable imprisoned, as well?”

  “Zacharie only met with Eric, who will be on his way to America soon.”

  “What evidence do you have against Zacharie?”

  “I had a daguerreotype taken of Zacharie in the stall, standing over my body. Eric is in my darkroom, developing it as we speak.”

  “That bloody well explains the camera,” Pierce recalled. “The twit actually allowed a photograph to be taken of him?”

  “Eric told him I was wanted in Romania. He wanted extra money besides what Zacharie paid him and needed a photograph as proof that he got me in order to collect the bounty on my head. He pretended to be getting the camera set up while Zacharie went into the stall to look at my body. Eric then snapped the photograph when Zacharie was inside.” He snorted. “Eric put on quite the performance,
pretending to be upset that he was in his shot. The twit, as you call him, completely fell for it.”

  Robert slipped into a vest and began buttoning it. “The photograph is to be mailed to the authorities by an anonymous sender, accompanied by a letter that’ll explain how Zacharie hired an assassin to kill me. Fable will come forward as the frightened huntsman who saw me gunned down in the field.”

  “S’pose the photograph is the next best thing to a body, eh?”

  “It should suffice. With Fable’s statement and Zacharie’s motive for killing me, a conviction ought to be certain.”

  Pierce was impressed. “That’s fantastic planning.”

  Robert tightened the thread of his rucksack. “I am not a vengeful person, but Zacharie has certainly put a wrinkle in what used to be a smooth life. I had to fire my entire staff this morning.”

  “Oh, aye. I have a message from Noel. He says you’re a very bad man for letting him go. He is a good servant.”

  “He was not,” Robert quickly retorted. “I never did care for him.” Robert looked up from the rucksack. “I wonder how Zacharie found out about José’s death in the first place. José never spoke to any of his relatives when he was alive.”

  Pierce hissed and cringed. “I may know.”

  Robert looked over. “Oh?”

  “You’ll never believe me, but here it goes. A witch wants me fertilizing daisies so she can create some kind of powerful being. She needs me in England in order to break down my grandma’s protective spell, and so she has drawn me out by endangering my good mates—this means you, Rob.”

  Robert looked so perplexed, it was painful to watch him trying to sort it out. Giving up, he shook his head. “You’re joking, right?”

  “I wish. What makes matters worse is that her plan also involves my son, Joaquin.”

  “You didn’t bring your son along, did you?”

  “What? No, of course not. He’s safe at home.”

  “And this witch may be responsible for bringing Zacharie here?”

  Pierce nodded.

  “Bloody hell, Pierce. What have you done now?”

  “Nothing. I swear. She has been planning this for years before I was ever born.”

  Robert looked worried. “Are you going to England?”

  “Nope!” Pierce stated with confidence. “There’s nothing to make me to cross the Channel ’cause I’ll be sailing home soon enough. Care to join me in Le Havre?”

  “I can’t. I’ve already made arrangements to take me to London.”

  Pierce was disappointed. He’d wanted to spend time with his old friend before they parted ways. “What are you going to do now?”

  “First, be reunited with my family in London, as I told you. They’re staying in our flat in Gough Square. From there, we are traveling to New York City. We’ve already had some of our belongings sent over since the investigation started. Most of everything else will simply be abandoned.”

  “New York, eh?” Pierce said, intrigued. “How are you going to live now that you no longer have your loot?”

  “Penelope has established her own wealth over the years,” Robert explained with a grin. “She is the founder of Owl Eye Costumes. I suppose we have you to thank for that.”

  Pierce pointed to himself. “Me? What did I do?”

  “You suggested she open her own costume store, remember?”

  Pierce did recall. He’d made a casual suggestion that she should go into business making costumes after he’d complimented her on the costume she’d designed.

  “Penelope has made numerous costumes since,” Robert explained. “They’re all the rage in America. We plan to open a factory in Manhattan.”

  “That’s marvelous, mate. I’m happy for you. If you’re ever in the Pacific area, come to the island of Maui.”

  “Found your place under the sun, have you?”

  “That I did. And tomorrow, I’ll be headin’ back.”

  * * *

  “Anatolie Hagi has died,” Robert declared as they stood outside, looking at the château. “Robert Blackbird is now free.”

  “Will you miss it here?” Pierce asked.

  Robert took a moment to answer. “Not as much as I thought I would. And after the June Days Uprising, who knows what’ll happen?”

  “Eh? June Days Uprising?”

  “It’s when the latest revolution in France began,” Robert elaborated. “It started as most wars and rebellions do—politicians having cockfights with their little peckers over meaningless things—but it has grown to include grander issues.”

  “Ah, the Revolutionary Wave,” Pierce recalled. “I read about that. It’s spreading over Europe, I hear.”

  “I won’t miss this place,” Robert said, further answering his friend’s question. “Besides, I’d miss my wife and children if I no longer had them. I’m sure you can say the same about your own family.”

  They mounted up and shook hands. “Good luck, Pierce. I do hope to see you again someday. Stay the hell out of England.”

  Pierce snorted. “No need to tell me. You keep yourself out of trouble. If I have another vision about you, I can’t promise I’ll be there to warn you.”

  At the gate, the pair parted ways. Before they did, Robert gave him a hundred francs out of the four hundred Zacharie had given to Eric. He told Pierce, “Just in case.”

  When Pierce was on the road and alone with his thoughts, he wondered about his vision of Robert. He was never in danger, other than the investigation, which Robert had taken care of himself. Although the vision about the Sea Warriors proved true enough, Robert would have been just fine whether Pierce came for him or not. It was blatantly clear to him that this had been a ruse all along.

  Stupid witch. He was still miles from Britain, and unless she found him in France, broke down his protective shield, and killed him before tomorrow, all her efforts were for nothing.

  Evening arrived by the time Pierce returned the horse to the Cherry Blossom Stables. Thankfully, the siblings weren’t there. He went to the docks, hungry and ready for a night of rest before starting the long journey home in the morning.

  “It’ll cost how much to repair the ship?” he asked as he stood on the deck of the Ekta.

  “Five thousand,” Waves of Strength answered brusquely. “And that comes after the work we already put into it. There is internal damage, and the sails are in tatters and need to be replaced. Not to mention the damage done to the fans.”

  Pierce honestly didn’t know if her anger was directed at him or the situation.

  “You’re the legendary bloody Sea Warriors,” Pierce argued. “Can’t the French repair the fuckin’ vessel without charge?”

  “You’re out of your mind, Landcross,” Waves of Strength snapped. “It is a lot of money, and the repairs will not be easy, considering the age of this ship.”

  It was a pretty old ship. Chief Sea Wind had decided not to update his vessel to a steam-powered ship because he disliked the black smoke pouring into the great blue sky.

  “Nico has offered to go to his father for the money,” said Chief Sea Wind.

  Pierce shifted his eyes to his cousin. The mournful expression on the lad’s face told of the sacrifice he would be making by returning home to his controlling father. It would be especially hard since he would be asking for a loan. By returning, Nico would be losing out on all he desired. He would be forced into running hotels again. The lad had, indeed, ventured far, but he had many more miles to go, and would most likely never stop until he found his own spot in the world. And wherever that place was, it most certainly wasn’t inside a hotel lobby, dealing with snooty guests.

  Pierce touched the dragonfly key hanging from his neck next to Taisia’s wedding band.

  “No worries, lad,” he sighed. “We’ll figure something out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’m Dead

  The stony corridors were just as cold and dark as he remembered as a child. Was he a child? Everything was so large and frighten
ing. His stepfather’s castle in Gera. He hated this place. His stepfather had a passion for medieval living. His Icelandic mother had married her lover before death had had cooled her husband’s body. He suspected his mother and stepfather had poisoned his father, but what could a mere boy do about it? He was almost surprised that his mother hadn’t changed her son’s name, for he was named after the man she despised. Maybe it would have drawn suspicion. Maybe it was because it was a good, strong German name. Or, perhaps it was because she had also planned to kill her son.

  Whatever the reason, it did not change how he’d hated these corridors. He feared he’d become lost in them, especially at night.

  He seemed lost now. The hallways stretched on and then went in other directions. There were so many twists and turns with no escape route.

  He had already been here, had he not? He had been lost within these halls before, hadn’t he?

  This was his reoccurring nightmare.

  He should be able to locate a way out this time. The narrow stone passageways continued. There were no windows or doors, only the dreadful portraits of his late father following him with disappointed eyes. He could hear the dead man whispering, You did nothing.

  The lights from the wall lamps flickered. That hopeless horror filled him with a frigid cold that started in his stomach and crystallized his entire body. He wanted to cry out for help, cry out for forgiveness to his father for doing nothing. Cry out to anyone.

  Don’t be afraid, came a voice that echoed in the never-ending halls.

  The boy stopped and looked around.

  Go right.

  He did not understand. There was no right or left, only straight ahead. He steered himself to the wall while it sank into the darkness.

  Follow it.

  His feet moved before his mind did. He ran down a hall that became darker the farther he went. Soon, he could no longer see.

  Don’t stop.

  A light emerged, weak at first, but then growing larger the closer he got to it. It momentarily blinded him. He believed he had finally died. Then images began forming—soft, gentle images of plants and wildlife. The sweet scent of flowers perfumed the crisp air. He had stepped into some sort of garden full of life and color. The light of the bright day burned off the fear and dread that had iced his very core inside the hallways.