Coyle and Fang: Curse of Shadows (Coyle and Fang Adventure Series Book 1)

by Robert Adauto III

  God, no!

  Adrenaline rushed through her, and panic flickered through her mind. She gripped the papers, and the lights flickered back to life. Breath escaped her lips, and her damp, trembling hands smoothed out the papers. She looked around the room again. Two cabinets stood next to each other. She pulled out the drawers. There were loads of files, all filled with notes of machines and devices. She tried to keep an eye out for names and locations, but nothing was useful. She looked down at the blueprints again before she left the room and walked down the hall to the next room.

  Poes sat on the floor, silent, examining a picture. Coyle glanced over his shoulder. It was a portrait of a young girl and a smiling man with kind eyes. The girl was about ten years old with thin, pale, dark hair and a pretty face. Her eyes looked drawn, heavy, as if she had just finished crying. Coyle stepped in the room, making Poes shift.

  “That’s not Trevin, is it?” Coyle asked.

  Poes dragged his finger across the picture. He shook his head and stared for a few moments before answering. “I haven’t seen... I don’t know who they are.”

  “Do they remind you of anyone?” Coyle asked. She noticed Poes’s eyes no longer held the hard edge but were instead soft, deep in thought.

  “I have a relative I haven’t seen in so long. A niece.”

  “Is there anything on the back? Date or place? Names?” Coyle asked.

  “No,” he said. He tossed the picture onto the overturned desk. The room was a small study, but papers were scattered everywhere. “Someone’s already been through here.”

  Coyle remembered Moreci’s words: “We thought it was in Trevin’s home.”

  “Moreci was here,” she said.

  “Ah, yes. With Fang, looking for the device.”

  She nodded, despite knowing Fang’s involvement was different. They both looked around at the mess. Drawers had been emptied and tossed. File folders were thrown everywhere. Furniture was broken apart.

  “I wonder if there’s anything else to find.” Coyle asked. She picked up another picture. Two men shook hands and faced the camera. Creases and age obscured most of the image, making identification impossible. She tossed the picture on the table and scanned the papers. After a few moments, she found something familiar.

  “A lot of these papers have the same heading: Project Archangel.”

  “I noticed,” Poes said. “Along with the Templar’s crest.”

  “So Trevin was working for Dawn Industries,” Coyle said. “But apparently he had something to do with this Archangel project, too.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to, but I agree with your observation.” Poes said. “And now we need to find out why.”

  They sat on the floor, rifling through papers. Each with their stack of notes, memos, reports. Both were mumbling as they sifted through folders, setting papers aside and stacking others.

  Together.

  Coyle’s heart had settled into a normal rhythm. Her hands no longer shook. She was back in her investigative mode where she was comfortable, safe. Happy.

  Her eyes scanned as much as she could, but most of the information was blotted out with black ink. She set her stack aside and gathered a new stack from the floor.

  “Here’s something. A name,” Poes said. “A telegraph. Let’s see. Inspector Mortis Burngrove wrote a telegraph to... someone blocked it out. Let’s see...”

  Coyle half listened, sorting out what she had in her hands, until something caught her eye. She read it quietly to herself.

  Memo to: [redacted] Date: May 9, 1874

  From: Prof. Moreci

  Re: Project: Archangel

  I have received three more potential subjects, though all were human. We understand testing is necessary for all species, but after discussions, we had agreed humans are too quickly diminished through the extended regimen. I have repeatedly requested more fae and vamperion, especially after our marked progress with Subject 0120, aptly code-named Fang. Thus far, she has responded to the program with exceeding merit and would be a remarkable presentation next spring. Our next meeting concerning new protocols and safety measures will be [redacted].

  Please speak with [redacted] regarding more appropriate acquisitions. We must also consider a viable method for the disposition of the failed experiments. After one of the bodies was discovered on the shore, we can no longer assume “burial at sea” will be adequate.

  “Well, here’s something very interesting. Moreci was quite involved in the Archangel project,” Coyle said. “Along with someone else.”

  “I couldn’t find anything useful with this one,” Poes said. “There’s so many redactions.”

  “They’re all copies. Everything here is copies of originals. Come to think of it, why would someone redact their own work?”

  “True,” Poes said. “So who else are we supposed to investigate?”

  Coyle squinted. “How about that Inspector Burngrove you mentioned?”

  “He was killed at the dinner party.”

  “No good, then,” Coyle said and looked at the ceiling. Finding clues that led to other clues could be disheartening. But it also invited a broader method of approach to a narrow search. Coyle loved it and smiled inside herself. All these puzzle pieces were strewn across the room, and she was in the middle. Her favorite place to be.

  She looked at Poes. “Do you like puzzles?”

  “Do I like puzzles? In a sense. When I was younger, there was a game I used to play with my friends. An adult would show us a rabbit, and we would note the shade of fur, the length of ears and feet. While we were inside the cabin, the rabbit was released in the woods, and we had to find that exact rabbit, right down to the bushiness of its tail. It had to be the same. The other children were excited and ran off in every direction, searching under rocks and bushes, yelling and cracking sticks against the trees. I was patient, though. I looked for places the rabbit had run through, noticing a trail of fur here and a footprint there. I always found the rabbit. Always the exact one.”

  “So you’re a hunter?” Coyle asked.

  He smiled. “I hunt for the truth. I ask the right questions, find out where someone has been and what paths they took to get there. And then, when they’re discovered, I bury them under enough evidence that they can never get back out.”

  There was a fire deep in his eyes, but it wasn’t aimed at her this time. It was a passion for his work. The same kind of passion she had for hers. Maybe he wasn’t as bad a chap as she originally perceived. “And you? Do you like puzzles?”

  “Some girls played with dolls,” Coyle said. “I tried to study fingerprints as best I could. I would try to guess the weight of dinner guests and when I became too accurate, I was told to leave.” They shared a laugh. “But, yes, I do love puzzles. They give me something to work towards, pieces fall into place when you least expect them to.” She shared a long glance at Poes. She wanted to enjoy the moment, yet—she couldn’t. She barely knew the man and yet she wanted to know him, that much was sure. And yet again, she wasn’t sure if there was any room in her life for—

  “What did you find in the other room?” Poes asked.

  “Blueprints of ships,” Coyle said. “Airships.”

  “As in dirigibles?” Poes asked.

  “Here,” Coyle said as Poes helped her up. “Let me get a few, and we can sort them out.”

  Coyle walked down the hall and had the distinct feeling of being watched. She turned, expecting Vonteg or maybe—

  Fang?

  The vampire would surely be down here, wouldn’t she? She’d promised to stay in touch. What better meeting place than a hidden network of tunnels? Her eyes were playing with her and she swore there was a shape—a shadow—there. In the corner. Watching her. Coyle’s heart thrummed in her ears. Her fingers grasped her dress. She should say something, but then Fang would be discovered. What was she to do? She took a step closer when something creaked and she turned away and snapped her head back around to the corner. She took the few steps and reac
hed out into the darkened corner.

  Nothing was there.

  The lights flickered again, and she hurried to the workshop. With nerves on edge, she walked into the room and grabbed a handful of papers, but before leaving, her eyes spotted a small wooden box with a curious brass piece on top. She set the papers aside and placed the wooden device on the table. There, a word stamped across the top: “Kinetoscope.” A small red button sat next to a raised, brass peephole. Edison had been recently showing off this invention: moving pictures in a box. She pushed the button and heard a series of clicks and whirs that made the wood vibrate as she looked into the lighted eyepiece. There was no audio, only a soft mechanical whirring and the sound of her steady breathing.

  The pictures were choppy and distorted before they cleared. Rooms full of young men and women, no older than fifteen, all wearing the same dark gray clothes. Men walked around them in lab coats. She stopped.

  “Humans are too quickly diminished through the extended regimen.”

  She wanted to leave. And she wanted to stay, but not out of morbid curiosity. Out of duty. She clenched her jaw and pressed the button.

  The children, seemingly selected from all walks of life, appeared normal. And then abnormalities were shown. Thick patches of coarse hair, and long nails that resembled eagle’s claws. Others stood in pools, displaying webbed hands and feet, their faces sallow and thin, their genitalia missing. Still others had long, distorted arms and legs. Men in lab coats assisted them to stand and walk across the room in front of the camera.

  A girl was brought into view or what Coyle assumed from the shape of her body. But the girl’s face was smooth, without features. She had only slits for eyes, nostrils and a lipless mouth. Her skin shifted, and her appearance changed to that of an older lady, complete with shaggy, white hair and thin, wrinkled skin. She changed again to a beautiful young woman with lush lips, full cheeks and thin, arching eyebrows. She sat in the lap of a man in a lab coat and smiled. The man looked at the camera—there was something familiar about his eyes. But, her focus returned to the girl.

  Coyle remembered the roto-display in Treece’s workshop. The assassin’s features had changed in the light, shifting into someone else. This had to be the same person, the one who had disguised herself as Fang. She looked into the box.

  An operating table appeared with the body of a woman on it. Coyle winced and looked away as someone pulled a scalpel down the center of her body, dissecting her. Coyle grabbed her own chest, took a breath and looked again. The photographer focused on the woman’s mouth. A rod was placed under her upper teeth, displaying long, sharp fangs. Her skin was covered in horrible welts and burns.

  The following pictures showed rows of operating tables, all filled with bodies, all of them with their chest cavities opened, organs set aside, men digging through their flesh. Coyle’s gut squirmed.

  The pictures changed to a girl no older than thirteen, with short dark hair and eyes, pacing in a small, padded room, screaming, crying. Madness and confusion etched her face as she pleaded with the camera operator.

  Fang.

  Coyle gasped. Fang was tied to a bed, and a robed priest sprinkled holy water over her nude body before displaying a large silver cross and pressing it into her skin. But nothing happened. Her haunted eyes stared into the camera, and Coyle’s heart ached.

  The pictures changed, and the camera peered into a padded room. Fang was a disheveled form, dressed in torn rags. She paced the room, glanced at the camera and looked away, her fingers picking at her skin. And then she rocked back and forth on her knees, talking and laughing to herself. In another set of pictures, she leaned down, hands on her knees, whispering to the air in front of her before hugging herself. Men in lab coats shook their heads and made notes, arguing with each other.

  The pictures changed; they were outside. Men escorted Fang into bright sunlight with the tall, white lighthouse of Fort Alcatraz just behind them. A scientist displayed one of her arms and smiled. Her pale skin appeared untouched by the rays of the sun.

  Then she was inside a concrete jail cell, pacing. Wild, wet eyes shifted back and forth at the men outside, and she shook her head and mumbled. Men held rifles. Someone in a lab coat gave them directions before he stepped away. The riflemen raised their weapons at her. Fang froze and backed against the wall, raising her thin, trembling hands. Her lips quivered and moved soundlessly. But Coyle could read lips.

  “Not again.”

  They opened fire. Coyle gasped. The girl screamed, covering her face and body, but the monsters kept firing. Blood sprayed out, staining her gown dark, her skin tearing apart. She curled into a ball, seemingly about to die. But no! Fang glared at them with fire in her eyes. With broken fists clenched, she burst into a dark-purple vapor and slipped between the bars. Shock washed over the riflemen’s faces. The cameraman backed away.

  Violence ensued.

  Rifles were snapped, limbs were torn off, blood gushed from necks, and within seconds, four of the men were corpses. Others rushed into view and struck her with rods with glowing orange tips. She fell down and writhed and screamed. Bile crept into Coyle’s throat.

  The pictures changed, scratched and distorted, but she could make out two men in suits congratulating each other. Coyle couldn’t quite see who they were no matter how hard she tried. But she had to guess one of them was Moreci. He may have been in charge of creating these horrid experiments—and, ultimately, Fang.

  She looked up at the ceiling, rubbing her eyes, hoping to erase the evil she witnessed. For the first time, she wanted to help Fang, the poor creature. No one deserved to be put through that. She sighed before gathering the papers and moving-picture box. She never heard the shapeshifting Veiul approaching from behind.

  ***

  Poes leaned over and sifted through Coyle’s pile. Every paper contained notes regarding the physical and physiological training of young men and women.

  “What were they getting at?” Poes asked himself. “What were they looking to do?”

  The silence from the other room had been drawn out too long, and Poes listened intently for a long few moments.

  Nothing.

  “Coyle?” Poes got up and dusted off his trousers. “Coyle? Are you–”

  “Hello,” Veiul said, brushing her hair back. “Sorry, I got a little lost there.” She stood in the doorway with her hands behind her back. Her disguise was perfectly complete, able to fool the Templars.

  “Coyle, good heavens, you were gone for a bit longer than I thought. Where are the blueprints?”

  “Ah,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll need them. A lot of them didn’t make sense to me. Engineers could make sense of all that, but not us.”

  Poes frowned. “I thought that’s why we had Bolt. He’s the aeronautical engineer.”

  “Ah,” Veiul smiled. “That’s right. That’s right. So what did you find here?”

  Poes glanced behind him. “Well, that’s what we were about to talk about. Wait. What’s that smell?”

  There was a shout, and Poes saw flames licking the ceiling at the opposite end of the hallway. Vonteg ran up to them, coughing.

  “There’s a fire! We need to get out of here!” he shouted.

  “Back up to the house, quickly!” Poes shouted as hot, smoky air rushed toward them. Spouts of flame leapt from another room as they ran down the hall and up the staircase. They pushed open the bookshelf and discovered tongues of flame licking the ceiling and walls.

  The three of them rushed outside into the yard. Vonteg and Poes were coughing through their hands, the heated smoke nearly killing them in their escape. Veiul waved at the arriving soldiers.

  In moments, soldiers and federal prisoners were dousing the remaining timbers with fire hoses and pails of water. Vonteg, Poes, and Veiul sat on a low wall, catching their breath.

  “You three are lucky to be alive,” Sergeant Tanner said.

  “We appreciate all the help, sir.” Veiul smiled. “But we really need to get back
to our people and sort everything out.”

  “One thing at a time, miss,” the soldier replied. “One thing at a time.”

  And as soon as I get all of them together, I will slice their throats. One neck at a time. Veiul smiled.

  ***

  She breathed him in...

  He smelled of manic sweat. The air was filled with impatient purpose and madness.

  “My wrists hurt, Ronan,” Coyle said, tugging at the restraints. “I thought you were going to make love to me, not tie me up for the asylum.”

  “Hush,” he said, extinguishing the candles one by one until only the faintest glow from the streetlamps reached through the dark. Ronan’s face was tinged with cold light, his visage becoming a nightmarish phantom. His eyes studied her as if she were an experiment. He held something in his hand. Small and bright. Sharp and deadly.

  “What’s that in your hand? Ronan, let me go. What’s happening?”

  The eerie dark collided with rising panic in her mind, creating terrors she had never experienced and yet, she knew, would never leave her. With every tug and pull, she became overwhelmed by the obvious: there was no escape, and she was going to die. He shoved a rag in her mouth.

  “Stop fussing. I just want to give you my reason, understand? I respect you, and now you will respect me.”

  He thumbed the scalpel while her muscles strained against the leather wraps. Her hands and feet were cool and numb, but her chest, neck and face were blazing hot. He sat next to her in the shadows, his voice nothing more than an echo in the dark.

  “I’ve always been curious as to how my mother carried so much power. Everyone, including my father, respected her. Gave her the attention she deserved. She was like that ever since she spit me out. So much power, respect, fear. And, like I said, I was curious where her power came from and guessed it was from something inside. Deep inside. I had to find the answer to this mystery, right? If it was inside, I just needed to find it, and then I could have it too.