Master of Myth (The Antigone's Wrath Series Book 1)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One - The Ring

  Chapter Two - The Brotherhood

  Chapter Three - The Inventor

  Chapter Four - The Cheval Rouge

  Chapter Five - The Encounter

  Chapter Six - The Arrangements

  Chapter Seven - The Agreement

  Chapter Eight - The Cargo

  Chapter Nine - The Passengers

  Chapter Ten - The Situation

  Chapter Eleven - The Book

  Chapter Twelve - The Conference

  Chapter Thirteen - The Retreat

  Chapter Fourteen - The Hookah Bar

  Chapter Fifteen - The Raggedy Fleet

  Chapter Sixteen - The Gangster

  Chapter Seventeen - The Flight North

  Chapter Eighteen - The Monastery

  Chapter Nineteen - The Attack

  Chapter Twenty - The Captives

  Chapter Twenty-One - The Hunt

  Chapter Twenty-Two - The Island

  Chapter Twenty-Three - The Darkness

  Chapter Twenty-Four - The Lights

  Chapter Twenty-Five - The Machine

  Chapter Twenty-Six - The Consequences

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Parting

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Starla Huchton

  To those who loved this book long before it saw the light of day,

  She flies with the wind you put in her sails.

  Chapter One

  The Ring

  “It is time, Brother.” He drifted into the room without so much as a warning knock on the door, brushing back the hood of his black cloak to reveal silver-white hair. His steps were soundless against the black metal floors, an irritating feat most men could not achieve. Stopping near the end of the iron cot, he waited for acknowledgement.

  The occupant of the small quarters cast the younger man a glance, and then resumed scraping the straight razor over his chin. “Do come in, Matthias,” he said with a hint of derision, wiping the blade on the towel draped over his shoulder. “Have travel arrangements to Pevensey been made then?”

  The corners of the visitor’s mouth turned up almost imperceptibly. “There’s been a change of plans, I’m afraid. Brother Boldin was dispatched for that job, along with the book. Your services are required for retrieving the other item in Grimsby.”

  The man glared at his pale reflection and lowered the razor. His thick, black mustache twitched with irritation. “Surely there are other men capable of handling that task?”

  “Mmm. Yes, but you’ve been chosen for this errand specifically.” He opened his palms outward, to show this was a thing he had no control over. “I would hate to inform the others that you refuse to—”

  “Do not play that game with me, Matthias.” His voice dropped into a dangerous tone. “My loyalty to the Brotherhood is absolute.”

  A placating smile spread across Matthias’s face. “It certainly is, Brother. I only meant that displeasing news is not met well by your superiors. I trust we can leave the matter of the old woman in your capable hands then?”

  His mustache gave one last twitch, and he nodded at the self-satisfied messenger.

  “Very good. Your transport leaves in ten minutes. Try not to keep them waiting.” Matthais turned and left the way he came, the edges of his black robe brushing the steel doorframe.

  The straight razor clattered into the washbasin, a small rivulet of blood slipping into the foamy water. The man muttered a soft curse, aimed not entirely at the fresh nick below his chin. As he wiped the shaving soap from his face, he resigned himself. He would see to this child’s errand.

  After slipping his arms into his black overcoat, he placed his black bowler on his head and strode out the watertight door. How much trouble could one old woman be, anyway?

  “There you are, my lovely,” Captain Rachel Sterling whispered as she approached the grand ship docked in Grimsby, England’s commercial port. She took a moment, as she always did, to carefully inspect the exterior of the vessel. Her gaze drifted up the side of the steel plating to where the round hull stopped and gave way to the railing. Turned wood capped with bright brass gleamed in the early morning light.

  She smiled to herself as she looked up to the sails attached to the three thick masts, marveling at the sail configuration. These were not made of the humdrum canvas of Royal Navy watercraft. This material was far superior. Delicate filaments of steel had been spun and woven to create the thin mesh that made up the six sails and ballooning. The mesh was so fine it weighed the same as its fabric counterpart, but could still hold up to the pressure of the heated gases that filled it for flight. The layers were locked together by rigging for water travel, but as soon as the ropes were loosed, they could be inflated with gas the mast pipes pumped into them. The Antigone’s Wrath was a mighty vessel, and she boasted technology that turned Air Transport Authority officers unabashedly envious.

  “Have the men finish loading the shipment for La Rochelle and prepare for departure,” Rachel instructed the first mate as she boarded the ship. “I’ve some charts to draw up before we leave, so I’ll leave the details to you.”

  Iris Singh pushed back the hood of her cloak to tie back her dark curls. The crisp morning air brought a hint of color to her tanned skin. “Aye, Captain. I’ll see if Monsieur DuSalle won’t lend a hand after he’s arranged to collect the supplies from the market.” With a brisk nod, the first mate headed for the crewmen arranging crates on the deck.

  The captain watched for a moment before heading below. While there were, in fact, charts to be marked, something else demanded her attention.

  She reached the door to her quarters and inserted a cog-shaped key into its matching indention, turning it a full rotation clockwise. The gears inlaid in the exterior sprang to life, unlocking the portal as they rotated. After hanging her cloak and hat on the wall hooks, she removed a blue velvet pouch from her vest pocket and weighed it in her hand. Grasping it tightly, she flopped down onto the chair behind her desk and let out a heavy sigh. Including the tiny spray of althea flowers, birch, and celandine tied with cream-colored satin ribbon given to her this time, none of the trinkets Mrs. Tweed sold to her in the past were a fraction as valuable as the one Rachel held now. It was so strange for her friend to have such a thing that Rachel could think of little else after their meeting in the crowded street market of Grimsby. How had that woman, one now reduced to near poverty, come to own a piece of such master craftsmanship?

  The ring was warm and heavy between her fingers as she slipped it out of the cloth. Rachel held it at arms’ length, studying it as the light reflected off of the many ruby chips of its surface. As she rubbed her thumb over the gold band, a hum filled the air, like a machine rumbling to life, and the scent of burning grease accosted her nostrils. The hair on her arms stood up as a wave of electricity passed through her, and she dropped the thing on the desk, pushing away from it. That was no ordinary piece of jewelry.

  With no consideration for the money it would bring her, she scooped it back into its bag and shoved it in her pocket. She threw open the door and bolted out of her quarters. As she raced down the gangplank, Iris called to her, but Rachel had no time to waste. The ring had to go. She would simply return it to Mrs. Tweed and forget the whole thing happened. Why someone who knew her so well would even consider giving it to her was beyond Rachel’s comprehension. She detested all things related to Aether Manipulation. She would not allow it to remain in her possession. Iris would be livid when she learned of this, but Rachel’s tolerance of the first
mate’s obsession with paranormal relics did not extend to this degree. As the captain, it was her right to say what would and would not be on board her ship. The argument about the legality of transporting such things was hardly the issue. Nowhere in the twelve years she’d been captain had she run across such an item as this. No, she would not allow it this time.

  After nearly running over a porter on the dock, she slowed her pace to a reasonable, but brisk one. It wouldn’t do to cause any accidents that would delay her in ridding herself of the ring as quickly as possible. She retraced her steps through the loading docks and public houses until she was at the market again. A block before her destination, Rachel caught a glimpse of something suspicious. A group of four men dressed in black suits and bowler hats stood in a semi-circle around the old woman’s blanket. With a building at her back, Mrs. Tweed had no escape route. Rachel wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but from the terrified look on Mrs. Tweed’s face, whatever was happening was not a routine business transaction.

  Rachel crept closer, concealing herself behind a parked hansom cab a short distance from them in order to overhear what transpired. The matching attire of these men spoke of organization, maybe a gang of some sort, but they bore no insignia she could detect. As she leaned around the edge of the cab, she heard a snippet of the exchange.

  “I’m telling you the truth.” Mrs. Tweed’s chin jutted out. “I don’t have this thing you’re looking for. Search me all you like, but you won’t find anything like that.”

  “Oh, that isn’t necessary, my good woman.” The ringleader was pale and oily looking, with a handlebar mustache that twitched when he spoke. “I fully believe you don’t have the item in question. What I wish to know, is which of your patrons might be in possession of it now?”

  Mrs. Tweed chuckled. “You think an old biddy like me’d remember who bought some little trinket I don’t even recall owning? You overestimate my memory.”

  From her vantage point, Rachel saw Mr. Mustache’s fingers moving near a bulge under his coat, a blunt instrument of sorts. That did not bode well for Mrs. Tweed; these men were determined to cause violence. Rachel regretted her decision to come alone.

  “I shall ask you one more time.” His tone was threatening, and Rachel had to strain to hear his words. “Where is the ring?”

  Her heart skipped a beat when she heard that. There was no doubt in her mind which ring Mr. Mustache wanted. Mrs. Tweed would not have had anything else like it, and Rachel had a very good idea of why they wanted it. It would not end well.

  Rachel’s stomach clenched with dread. Should she step from concealment in defense of Mrs. Tweed, she would instantly mark herself as a target. Regardless of her prowess with blade or bullet, four-to-one odds were odds she didn’t like. Even if she managed to take out one or two, Mrs. Tweed would still likely be hurt by the remaining men. And there was no guarantee there wasn’t a man lurking somewhere she hadn’t spotted yet. Were she to be defeated, they would undoubtedly search her and find the ring. Despite her dislike of the object, she recoiled at the thought of handing it over to them.

  But she could not back away, not where Mrs. Tweed was concerned.

  One of the men pulled a knife from the inside of his coat. Before she could react, the blade left his hand and pinned Mrs. Tweed’s sleeve to the wall of the building behind her.

  The situation deteriorated quickly after that.

  Mr. Mustache produced a brass Billy club from inside his coat and snapped it down, extending it to its full length. Rachel slipped from her hiding place and dashed toward the scene as he raised the club. The other three men followed his lead.

  Breaking into a full run, Rachel knew without a doubt that she would be too late to stop several of the sickening blows from striking the elderly woman. Rage fueled her. With a flick of her wrist, the pistol strapped to the inside of her right arm was in her hand. She fired a shot directly through the neck of the man on the far left. He crumpled into a gurgling heap, the blood spurting between his fingers where he clawed at his throat. Her second shot landed in the back of the knife thrower, but the third missed its target when the last goon rolled to the pavement. With a click of her heel, her boot knife shot out, and she kicked fiercely. He swept a leg out toward her and met with sharpened steel, eliciting a scream of pain as he grabbed his knee. Even before the wound was certain, Rachel trained her gaze on Mr. Mustache. He watched her with stunned surprise, his club held mid-air. A drop of blood slipped off of the weapon to splatter on the cobblestones below.

  She aimed her pistol between his beady black eyes.

  Somewhere between the knife-throwing and the gunshots, the thoroughfare cleared of all people, only the bodies and the two opponents remaining on the street.

  “You shot my men in the back,” Mr. Mustache said with a sigh. His tone indicated this was merely an inconvenience.

  “After you beat an old woman. Do you intend to lecture me on cowardice and courtesy?”

  He sneered at her. “Not at all, but I would like to know the name of the woman who intends to kill me.”

  She kept the gun trained on him. “I’m quite sure you would, but I have no desire to kill you. Unlike you and yours, I do not find pleasure in the pain of others.” His gaze flickered to his fallen men. “But I will kill you if I must.”

  A smile played across his lips. “Then by all means, you have the upper hand. May I ask what it is you’d have me do now?”

  “You can start by dropping the weapon.” The club fell to the street with a clatter. “And now, I suggest you make yourself scarce.”

  His movements were slow, but he backed away. She didn’t risk lowering her gun until Mr. Mustache was out of sight. Her time was short, as someone in the dispersed crowd would have alerted the police. She needed to move quickly.

  He was a block away before he broke into a run. Obviously not accustomed to the activity, his lanky form looked very odd swaying down the street. The man with the destroyed knee managed to drag himself away as well, leaving her with two dead men and a barely breathing Mrs. Tweed. When she was sure it was clear, Rachel knelt to assess the damage to the old woman.

  Mrs. Tweed’s jaw had been smashed with a fierce strike, and dark pink foam oozed from the side of her mouth onto the disheveled blanket. Rachel grasped the knife that held the woman’s sleeve and yanked it free, the limp arm dropping to Mrs. Tweed’s side. After sliding the dagger into the top of her boot, Rachel brushed the hair from the dying woman’s face and tried to comfort her a little. There was nothing anyone could do now. Had she moved a little faster, been a little closer, acted more decisively… Regret washed over her as she met the woman’s glassy-eyed stare.

  “You shouldn’t… have let… him live…” The words sounded bubbly with forced air from her blood-filled lungs.

  “Hush. You mustn’t speak,” Rachel said, reaching to brush away another hair.

  “No!” She grabbed Rachel’s hand and squeezed. “Listen… to me. That ring… keep it safe. Its power… It’s beyond anything you can imagine. They must… not get it.”

  Rachel held her hand tightly. “Please don’t speak. You’ll be fine, but you must be silent. Help is on the way.”

  A rasping chuckle escaped her lips. “Must have been… fate… that you came to me… today. That ring was… your mother’s, dear one.”

  Rachel would not have been more stunned if Mrs. Tweed stood up and slapped her. “My— my mother’s ring? But how?”

  “Keep…” Her breath was even more labored now. “Keep… safe.”

  “Did she give it to you? Why? Did my father know about it?” Mrs. Tweed’s eyes closed, and panic gripped Rachel’s heart. “Mrs. Tweed! Please! I have to know!”

  “Safe…” was the last thing the old woman managed to say as her final breath rattled free from her chest.

  Rachel’s eyes welled with tears of frustration and sadness. Mrs. Tweed was dead, and there was nothing she could do now. Not only could she not get answers to her questio
ns, but she didn’t even know where the woman lived. She would be unable to pass condolences to her family or beg forgiveness for her own failure to act in time.

  The shrill screech of a police whistle ripped her from mourning. Her time was up. Rachel scanned the street. Constables ran toward her from the south end of the market. It would look suspicious if she bolted, but that was the likely outcome even if she stayed. It mattered little that she’d been defending a helpless old woman being beaten to death. She killed two other people in the process and wounded another, and who knew what sort of political ties they had. Organized thugs always did.

  So, she ran.

  It was not her first time dodging police. She caused as much chaos in her wake as she could, dumping barrels in the street and slapping the occasional horse on the rear end to spur it suddenly forward. One animal was so badly startled that it overturned a cart in the middle of the road. Fruits and vegetables spilled onto the cobblestones and were trampled beneath hooves and shoes, creating a slippery mess. She glanced back as one of her pursuers crashed to the ground. Another tripped over the first, creating a tangle that halted the constabulary’s progress entirely.

  She wound her way from the market back to the docks. Rachel was confident she had a good lead, but it would all be for naught if the Antigone’s Wrath were not ready to leave immediately.

  When she saw the ship, steam billowing from the exhaust port of the center mast, the knot in her stomach loosened. Iris and Danton had done their jobs well, as she knew they would.

  She took the steps of the gangplank by two, all the time barking orders. “First Mate, get us out of here now!” Rachel burst through the door to the pilothouse and answered the puzzled look on her friend’s face. “Iris, don’t ask. Just go!”

  Rachel grimaced. Emergency departures weren’t unheard of, but weren’t altogether common. There was a protocol, however, and Iris followed each step with practiced precision. They would set off on the water, taking to the air as soon as it was feasible to do so. The plan was a little tricky, as it would mean getting underway, then immediately inflating the six sails and leaving the water. Rachel hated putting her beloved ship through this sort of rough treatment, but she was confident the vessel could handle it.