Nessy's Locket

by A. W. Exley

  One end of the small space held all the crates waiting to be inspected. Then she had open containers for items that had been examined, each crate labelled with its ultimate destination. She had one just for books that would go to Malachi. Larger items of furniture would be moved from one side to the other once she had determined their fate.

  “Better make a start,” she muttered to herself.

  Before he went in search of morning tea, Brick had dragged a crate forward and levered off the top for her. Cara laid her hands on the planks. With her eyes closed, she turned her attention to the wood under her palms and the items it enclosed.

  She hoped if she could detect the presence of an artifact within a crate this way, it would speed up the process. However, she didn’t trust herself enough and would go through every item anyway. Using this part of herself was a new experience, but she would never grow the skill if she didn’t try.

  A faint tickle brushed against her palms, and a surge of excitement rose through her. She had done it! Somewhere in the crate was an artifact.

  Any hope they had of finding all the artifacts the Curator acquired in one room or clearly labelled had vanished on the first peek at his compound. He cloaked himself in paranoia, and the items he collected over the decades were disguised. Things labelled as objects of power weren’t, and Cara found one artifact hidden in his sock drawer. If it hadn’t been for the tingle that ran over her skin, she would have thought she had picked up an ordinary marble. Its unusual nature was confirmed when the slitted green eye in the swirled centre had winked at her.

  Today’s crate looked like it came from the kitchen. Pots, pans, and glass jars of spices were crammed inside and resembled a magpie’s treasure trove. Dull copper was the base, against which rested glass that resembled unpolished diamonds, and spices in an array of colours from mustard yellow to paprika red were jewels dotted amongst everything. A rich fragrance that reminded her of an Indian marketplace wafted up as she moved items around.

  She reached into the crate blind for one item at a time, like a child selecting a prize from a lucky dip. After a moment’s contemplation to determine its true nature, she then walked it to another crate. Thankfully none of the pots were artifacts. Not that she could think what power a pan might impart, except guarantee you never burned a crepe again.

  Practical things, like kitchen utensils, went in a crate that would be donated to the Rookery. Cara put the spices to one side. While they looked like harmless spices, she didn’t want to inadvertently poison an entire family. The contents would either be tested before they were sprinkled on anyone’s dinner, or most likely they would be burned.

  As she neared the bottom of the crate, she found an odd assortment of objects, much like the bottom drawer of a chest in a boy’s room. Out came a handful of smooth stones, fragments of bone, and a slingshot. Next her fingers grabbed a flute, and she immediately dropped the thing when it buzzed against her skin.

  “Found you,” she whispered as she reached in again.

  Cara picked the little object up between thumb and forefinger. It looked ordinary and unremarkable. Boring, even. The wood was a pale colour like bamboo and the surface worn smooth. Only about six inches long, it was a scant half inch thick. One end had six identical holes marching along the side. The opposite end had a slightly rectangular hole to blow into.

  “I wonder what you do.” Part of her longed to raise it to her lips and give a little toot, but another part of her was realistic enough to know she might inadvertently raise an army of demons from hell. It would be too much to ask that the little musical instrument had the ability to soothe a fractious child to sleep.

  Knowledge about artifacts was fragmented and scattered around the world. Item by item, Cara and Malachi were building a codex that documented what each artifact they found did, its side effects, and where to find more information. It was slow going and frustrating work, which meant Malachi did the bulk of the work searching through thousands of books and scrolls for snippets of information.

  Cara did the dangerous work: finding and handling the objects and cleaning up whatever mess they had made.

  “What have you got there?” Brick asked. He dropped a steaming cup of tea on the table by the armchair along with a plate of savouries.

  She waggled the slender pipe at him. “An ordinary-looking flute that is making my fingers itch to try it out.”

  Brick fetched a metal cube with a hinged lid. Cara placed the flute inside, and Brick closed and locked the container. Once the solid steel lid slammed shut, the faint buzz rolling off the object diminished. Artifacts were removed to Lowestoft and Cara would give Malachi a description of what she found so he could start his research.

  “How many is that now that you’ve found?” Brick put the box to one side.

  “That makes eight so far. Nine if we include the poor unicorn that ended up as a wall hanging. But I feel like we are missing something. Given he spent two hundred years collecting them, I expected more.” Or the answer might be as simple as he spent decades hunting the beautiful unicorn and it distracted him from collecting other things.

  It wasn’t just the lack of artifacts that worried Cara, it was also the lack of information about one in particular. The obsidian box. He carried it at the end, and it must have had an intended purpose. For all her digging, Cara couldn’t find a single reference to it in any of the Curator’s books or correspondence.

  The box pressed like a cold weight on her mind. Nate was all for cracking it open, if they could figure out how, but the mere idea made her recoil. No one was going near it until she had a reasonable idea of what they would find within. What if it were like Pandora’s Box and she released misery or demons upon the world? That would require some explaining to the queen.

  No, better to be forewarned. Until she knew the history of the box, it was staying buried in the vault.

  11

  That morning, Nate woke early when the woman in his arms stirred. Tired lines radiated from Cara’s eyes, and he wished he could settle the demons that plagued her sleep. There was at least one problem he could solve today.

  Breakfast was served in what had become a dragon hospital. Pavlin was awake and by Amy’s assessment, looked a little better. Rachel tried to encourage the injured creature to drink by offering her honeyed water. The dragon’s tongue lapped at the liquid before she dropped her head to the straw again.

  Cara seemed pale, and he concentrated on their bond to assure himself that she wasn’t hurt from the hard ride to aid Pavlin or from the encounter with the bounty hunters. If he had things his way, she would stop riding entirely. But it was pointless to forbid it, and he would have to wait until she realised she couldn’t swing her changed body into the saddle as lightly as before.

  “Stop fussing,” she murmured. “I have found that in my current state I don’t eat much in the mornings, but I’ll make up for it later in the day.”

  “Make sure Rachel eats today.” He kissed Cara and gestured for Jackson to follow him.

  His enemies must think he had gone soft, to so brazenly attack the dragons on his estate. An assumption he intended to correct now that he had seen to his family.

  Some thought Cara was his weakness, that she made him vulnerable. But the opposite was true. She made him stronger, and he fought all the fiercer for having something so precious to protect. Cara had seen the darkness in his soul and embraced it, which allowed him the freedom to do whatever had to be done.

  Jackson joined him as they walked towards the old cellar housing the two bounty hunters. Nate pounded his chest with a fist and emitted a burp that startled birds in a nearby tree.

  His second snorted. “Some fancy lord you are. What was that?”

  The tight feeling in Nate’s gut dissipated somewhat. “Pregnancy gives Cara reflux, burping helps, and men are better at belching. I do what I can to alleviate her symptoms.”

  Jackson shook his head. “You going to need me to hold your hair out of the way while you throw
up?”

  Nate chuckled softly. His long history with Jackson allowed his second a certain amount of latitude in needling him. “Not today. But our guests should be worried about my mood swings.”

  That made Jackson bark in laughter. “You with a mood swing would be an arched brow instead of your usual stony face. Speaking of our guests, what’s the plan?”

  Nate glanced at the rising sun and cloudless day. There would be excellent visibility aloft today. “Prepare the Hellcat. We’re going to take a little jaunt and admire the countryside.”

  Jackson veered towards the field where the airship rested. Now that Loki captained the long-range airship between England and his home in New Zealand, the smaller vessel that was once Loki’s was now moored at Lowestoft.

  Nate rolled his tight shoulders. They had spent the night in the barn, snatching what sleep they could on impromptu beds made of hay, and had only gone inside to change clothes. He needed a soak in a hot bath to relax his muscles, not that he would admit it out loud. There was business to take care of before he contemplated what, or rather who, he’d like to get hot and soapy later on.

  Nate watched as his men hauled the bounty hunters out of the cellar. He led the way onto the Hellcat and around the side of the main cabin. Up on the prow observation deck, he nodded to his second. Jackson kicked the men’s feet out from under them, and they dropped to the hard planks. Both men were dirty and their clothing torn from the fight that erupted during their capture. They stank of filth, blood, and the sharp bite of urine.

  One had a bullet hole courtesy of Cara. Fortunately for him, the wound was a through-and-through in his upper arm, and dirt and blood crusted over the hole. Nate wasn’t going to waste his time and effort on medical attention for the man. Infection was the bounty hunter’s problem.

  “What are you going to do with us?” Mr Bullet Hole asked. His nose had made a satisfying crunch under Nate’s fist, and a black bruise had bloomed overnight to run under both his eyes.

  Nate glared at him. The man didn’t warrant a response. He turned on his heel and strode to the bridge. He took the helm as the ties were released and the airship rose into the air.

  “Course, cap’n?” the navigator asked once they reached a cruising altitude.

  “Northwest. Set a leisurely course over the rural countryside, but avoid any villages or populated areas.” As green paddocks rolled underneath, Nate relinquished the helm and went out onto the deck.

  The two men were slumped back to back, each keeping the other upright. More of Nate’s men kept guard, rifles slung over their shoulders.

  Nate contemplated his options. He knew what his gut wanted to do with the men, but maintaining his reputation required a certain application of theatrics. He couldn’t just kill them and dump the bodies because that would leave speculation to fill the vacuum of what happened to them. He needed to send a message, one that bounty hunters the world over would hear and understand.

  And a message required a messenger.

  The men had spent the night languishing in the cold cellar on the Lowestoft estate while Nate considered what to do with them. His primary concern had been the injured dragon and the depth of Rachel’s grief that Pavlin might not survive. The secondary issue was his anger at an attack on his land.

  He couldn’t have everyone converging on Lowestoft trying to claim a dragon-head trophy. Quite apart from the fact that his wife and adopted daughter adored the dragons, Victoria had made him personally responsible for their well-being. He had already spent time at her Majesty’s pleasure in the Tower and had no intention of repeating the experience.

  Thanks to the actions of men like this, it was imperative that he appear in the House of Lords to champion the dragon legislation. He’d rather fight a dozen hard men with his bare hands than face fat, lazy lords and parry words in Parliament.

  “Which one of you shot the dragon?” Nate asked.

  Two heads swivelled as they sought to stare at each other.

  “I won’t be asking a second time.” He drew black gloves from his jacket pocket and pulled them on, smoothing the fine leather over each finger.

  “I did. And its hide should be mine,” the taller of the two said.

  Apart from being taller, the talker was also uglier, with a black eye courtesy of Jackson. He spat blood, and a loose tooth lost its battle to remain in his mouth and scuttled across the deck.

  He met Nate’s gaze through puffy eyes and kept his defiance. “The authorities are going to hear of this.”

  Nate’s mask stayed in place even though he laughed on the inside. Fools. “I am the authorities. You made an error in judgement, and I’m going to help you remedy that.”

  “You don’t own the dragons. I trapped it, and I claim the kill.” He spat again, and this time a thick wad of phlegm landed close to Nate’s polished black boot.

  His face remained impassive even as he added to the man’s transgressions. A calm face and deep even breaths allowed him to remain in control of his demons. If he lost control and unleashed them, he would destroy half the countryside. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a dragon, one of my men, or the daisies in my lawn. You don’t touch something under my protection without my express permission.”

  The man tilted his head back and squinted into the sun. “You’ve gone soft. We all hear the rumours. That red-headed bitch has you on a short lead and keeps your balls in her pocket.”

  The smack sounded as Nate stared at the man from under half-lidded eyes. Jackson struck fast and the man’s head knocked back into his comrade.

  “No one talks about Lady Lyons like that,” Jackson hissed into the man’s face. “Except for me,” he added with a nod to Nate.

  Fresh blood spurted from the hunter’s nose, and the man screwed his eyes shut and opened them again. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a wheeze that escaped between the gaps in his teeth.

  “You can’t touch us, or the queen will hear about this.” The shorter man spoke up. He tried bluff and bluster, but it lost its effect when he had to raise his voice higher in pitch to compensate for the wind rushing over the open deck.

  “Left or right?” Nate spoke quietly, making the men strain to hear him.

  “Captain?” one of the crew asked.

  “Remind me. Which wing did he break on the dragon?” His attention dropped to his boots. There was a splash of saliva on one, and the high polish was marred by the bounty hunter’s spittle.

  “Right,” the crewman replied.

  Nate grabbed the collar of the tall bounty hunter’s jacket and hauled him to unsteady feet. Nate dragged him along the deck to where a hatch sat open. He pushed the man to the ground and kicked his right arm over the hole below.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the prone man yelled as Jackson placed a boot in the small of his back to keep him on the ground.

  “Improvising, since I don’t want a harpoon holes in the deck.” Nate slammed the metal hatch shut and then stomped on it. The crack splintered across the deck and was snatched by the wind. At the same time, the man screamed in pain.

  “Now what?” Jackson asked as he lifted his boot and stepped backwards.

  A crewman opened the hatch, and another hauled the man to one side. His breathing came in short puffs as he cradled his broken arm to his side. The hunter’s nostrils flared and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fought unconsciousness.

  Nate leaned on the brass railing and stared at the farms passing below. The boundary hedges reminded him of the lines crossing Pavlin’s wing. The dragon would bear permanent scars of what the bounty hunters did to her. “He gets the same chance as Pavlin, and he better hope both of them can fly with only one wing.”

  The man scooted backwards across the deck until he hit the hard side, and he hunkered into the slight curve. He gestured with his head towards his accomplice. “What about him? We’re in this together, you know.”

  Nate glanced to the shorter man, who seemed to think that if he kept
quiet, they might forget he was there. His eyes widened as attention fell on him, and he shook his head and mouthed No.

  In his years as a privateer and through his dealings in favours and blackmail, Nate had learned a few things about human behaviour. Men who claimed to be friends through thick and thin would turn on each other like rabid dogs in circumstances where only one could survive. Others, who you thought would crack like a thin twig under the slightest pressure, would prove resolute and not utter a whimper under the worst torture. Which type of men were these two?

  He pulled the peak of his cap down to shade his eyes against the harsh sunlight. “You’re right, you are comrades in this. Tie them together with thirty feet of rope between them.”

  His crew did as they were told, and the two men were lashed together at either end of a long rope. Coils sat on the deck between them. The taller one kept up a steady stream of curses as he clutched his damaged arm. The other man had a visible tremble through his torso and didn’t seem so brave without a harpoon.

  The crewmen awaited their orders.

  Nate grabbed the man who shot Pavlin by the scruff of his jacket and hauled him up until he leaned over the railing.

  “Are you sorry for what you did?” It was a whispered question, and he hoped the answer was no so they could get to the more interesting part of the day.

  “Get buggered.” The man spat in his face.

  No one could say Nate hadn’t offered the man a chance to repent. While he fixed the man with a stare, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the spittle from the side of his face.

  “Ancient Egyptians believed that in their underworld, Anubis would weigh your heart against the feather of Ma’at, the goddess of justice. Your crimes will sit heavily upon you. Which is a shame, really, because in your current circumstance, being lighter than a feather would have been quite an advantage.” Nate pushed the damp handkerchief back into his pocket.

  The man tried to adopt a casual pose as he leaned on the brass rail. “Oh yeah? And what circumstance is that?”