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

by Robert Adauto III

  She spotted something. There. Something needed to get jammed into the spot where the pistons were if this engine was to be stopped. Though she was wearing a helmet and face mask, the heat was too intense. She shielded her face and searched the floor for a tool, a spare rod, a box of tools. Something heavy. A collection of shovels was near the belt. She grabbed one and, using careful aim, threw it where the pistons slammed up and down. The wood splintered into a hundred pieces and she ducked as the metal spade flew past.

  The pistons continued their violent cadence. She looked for something heavier. An ax lay nearby, but she thought better of it after the results with the shovel. She walked a few paces away and found an iron rod the length of her body. The weight of it almost pulled her over. She pulled off her mask, helmet and goggles and tried again. With a grunt, she lifted the rod up to her knees before stepping backward. She took another step and another, the other end dragging a long, thin line into the metal floor. Smoke and hot air burned her throat, and she coughed. A quick glance behind showed the fiery engine was only a few paces away. Damp hair was pasted across her face. Sweat stung her eyes. Her hands, legs and back ached, but she refused to let go. She squinted and heaved the rod closer to the engine. She looked over her shoulder, waves of heat slamming into her face. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. This was it. She had to find the strength to lift and throw the rod. Gritting her teeth, she lifted the rod. Her back and legs and arms taught with as much strength as she could put together.

  With a shout, she swung the rod with all her might and felt it slam into something. She opened her eyes and stumbled backward.

  Bolt was standing between her and the engine. His eyes were slits of anger, and his lips tightened into an ugly smile.

  He held the iron rod with one hand.

  Chapter 31

  Lower engine platforms

  Dawn’s Edge

  Bolt’s eyes flickered. The glowing flames framed his silhouette, and he resembled a massive demon coming to collect his due. He pointed his chin at her and swung the rod over his shoulder as if it were an umbrella. Coyle fell on her backside.

  “I say,” she said. “It’s so good to see you, Bolt. Where... are the others?”

  He stepped closer. “There are no others. The detectives are dead. I set small charges in each of your pods, but obviously you’re still alive. Everyone in the hangar is dead. And everyone believed you to be dead until recently.”

  “You’re working for Moreci.”

  “He pays better.”

  “Why would you work for a madman?”

  “Because I’m smart, and you’re not. I didn’t like what I saw the first time I laid eyes on you. Not one bit. You’re too progressive. You want things for yourself that are only meant for a man’s world. Look where it got ya. Lying on the floor, helpless. Typical.”

  Her hand shot up into a fist. The metal studs covering her wrist and glove popped and snapped before a small puff of smoke coughed from her knuckles. But there were no threads of deadly electricity.

  “Power at minimal level. Please wait until fully charged to use again,” the mechanical voice chimed.

  His head tilted. “Trick of some kind? You trying to outsmart me?”

  She pulled herself up. There was no talking herself out of this situation. Adrenaline rushed into her hands and feet, dulling the pain. Her hands balled into fists, and her feet spread apart in a boxer’s stance.

  “Bolt, I will not let you circumvent my investigation with wild guesses and chauvinistic insinuations. I’m investigating multiple crimes aboard this ship. Either you assist me or stay out of my way.”

  “Ah! There’s what I was looking for.” He grinned and held the rod across his body. “Now I get the fight from the little girl.”

  He shifted his weight and swung. The rod blurred through the air. Coyle lunged. Air rushed past, and sparks flew as the rod slammed into the floor. She pulled herself into a crouch. He swung again, and the bar zipped over her head. She charged and used his knee to launch into him, grabbed hold of his ears and smashed her knee into his face. His body shuddered and she leapt off his wide chest, landed on her side, and rolled like a block of wood.

  A trail of blood ran down his grease-stained shirt. The rod banged onto the floor. She lowered her shoulders and charged again. This time, he caught her around the waist and threw her aside. She crashed into a pile of tools.

  He smeared the blood off his proud face. She turned and reached for something, anything. Her hand wrapped around a wooden handle. The axe! Bolt roared and slammed his foot down. The handle snapped, leaving her with a club. She swung, but he caught her wrist. He leaned into her, rage and sweat dripping from his skin.

  “You’re a whole bit of trouble, hey?” He swung his fist into her body. Air exploded from her lungs. She gasped, trying to catch her breath. Bile filled her mouth. She was dizzy, her eyes watery. She didn’t want to be here anymore.

  Bolt punched her again. She couldn’t move. She retched, coughing blood. He picked her up and tossed her to the side. She curled herself into a ball, trying to breathe. Trying to live.

  “I tell you what, lass,” he panted. “You gave me a good round there, but it looks like you may be down for the count. Now I have to decide what to do with the body.”

  Every bone and muscle screamed, but finally, her lungs filled with air. She glanced at him. He was bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Blood streamed from his nose.

  I did that much, at least.

  The thought of running away was still in her mind. Then again, it wasn’t. She was past all that now. She wanted to change things. For her. She stood on wobbly knees and clenched her fists. Her hand-to-hand combat training breathing life into her weak muscles.

  He stood, flexed his hands, and spat blood on the floor. So did she. He swung first. She dropped to a crouch and swung hard into his groin. He yelped. She pulled and swung at his face. The metal knuckles dug troughs through his skin. Blood gushed across his face. She swung again, connected, and he tripped backward, landing with a thud. His eyes went wide. He muttered something, rolled himself up and charged. She crumpled under his power, and they crashed to the floor. He pushed himself up and swung into her. Her arms came up, guarding her face. His fists hammered into her arms and head, every blow making her weaker.

  Her hands and arms softened until they were useless. He stopped and stood over her. The world blurred in front of her eyes. He stepped away and turned his head to the firebox. He spat and pulled on her leg. Words dribbled from her lips, her head bouncing along the rough metal floor.

  He yanked, and heat rushed over her. She covered her face. He grabbed her, lifted her up. He shouted something. Heat flared. She mumbled and squeezed her eyes shut.

  And then she fell. Flames tangled in the air. Her body melted. Strong hands grabbed her, but different this time. Careful, gentle, powerful.

  Blood bubbled from her lips as she was carried away from the flames. Bolt’s body lay face down, the back of his head torn apart. She looked up.

  It was her.

  “You’ll thank me later,” Fang said.

  Chapter 32

  Lower engine platforms

  Dawn’s Edge

  Fang carried Coyle down a hallway and into a large office. She lay Coyle on the floor and fashioned a coat for a pillow. Then she closed the blinds and peeked outside.

  Coyle’s breathing was loose and shallow. Fang pressed two fingers into the hollow beside the trachea. Her vitals were very good considering the trauma she had fought through. But at a glance, Coyle was also an absolute mess. Her left eye was bruised, almost swollen shut. There were small cuts to her upper lip. Drying blood streaked one side of her face.

  Fang had arrived just as Bolt was about to toss her into the fires. She used her cable baton, pierced the back of his head, and pulled his brains out. She had no qualms taking a life, especially when necessary. Coyle, on the other hand...

  A dark bruise ran do
wn Coyle’s neck. Fang debated cutting through Coyle’s leathers. It would be quicker, of course, but the material was made by Treece and would most likely deflect the edge of a blade. As it was, her uniform was covered in scratches. It had held together despite the bony claws of the Turned.

  She pulled the straps apart and found smaller, less threatening contusions. She also noticed the long, jagged, pink scar near her collarbones. She pulled away the leathers and followed the scar down to just below her navel. It was old.

  She tilted her head back and thought. The injury was precise, straight—a scalpel’s blade. Typically incised for the purpose of forensic science, something Fang had learned through her training with combat medicine. Had someone mistaken Coyle for dead, and then she’d come back to life? No, she had been left for dead. That meant someone had done this purposely. Someone had cut her open. But who?

  Her eyes were studying the ceiling when the idea flashed into her mind. She’d seen wounds like this before. She’d read the reports, in fact, and was just about to be put on a mission to find him.

  The Ripper.

  So this was why Coyle wanted to become a detective. She’d been attacked by him. But that didn’t make sense either. He never left his victims alive. What motive would he have to not kill Coyle? Did they know each other?

  “What is it?”

  “Not now, Embeth.”

  “But what’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing, Embeth. Just trying to think.”

  Embeth gasped.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She’ll be fine. It’s just some bruises. A few cuts...”

  “Is she hurt?”

  “Yes, but not bad. She’ll be fine.” Fang pulled out her medical kit and retrieved gauze and alcohol.

  “It looks like someone sewed her all up. Was she broken?”

  “Some of us are, Embeth,” Fang answered without thinking.

  Embeth frowned. “Am I too?”

  Fang brushed Embeth’s bangs out of her eyes.

  “No. Not you. You’re perfect.”

  “How about her?”

  They looked down at Coyle. Her chest rose and fell. Gloved hands rested by her hips. Pink, bleeding lips mumbled incoherent words.

  “Where did she get that...” Embeth’s finger dragged down her own chest.

  “Scar. She has a scar.”

  “Where did she get that scar? “

  “Someone hurt her. A long time ago.”

  “Who? Who hurt her?”

  “Someone... stronger. More dangerous.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Maybe your friend needs help finding them.”

  “Yes. I think she does.”

  “She’s waking up.”

  Chapter 33

  Lower engine platforms

  Manager’s office

  Dawn’s Edge

  Coyle moaned and shifted on the floor. With a start, she cried out and grabbed her chest, panting. Pain tore through her body. Her insides were on fire. She groaned and held her belly. Fang handed her a rag to spit into. Coyle rubbed her eyes and looked up into the blurry face kneeling beside her.

  “We don’t have much time,” Fang said. “Are you with me?”

  Coyle tried to sit up, but her abdomen resisted with flares of shooting pain. She winced and lay back down, and her mind spun. She had heard another name mentioned. Embeth? It sounded familiar.

  “You may have a couple of fractured ribs, strained muscles and ligaments, a mild concussion, numerous lacerations and contusions. Nothing life-threatening.”

  “Are you a doctor as well as a vampire?” Coyle asked.

  Fang tilted her head. “I was trained in combat medicine. It does come in handy from time to time.” She stretched pieces of gauze across her lap and reached for scissors.

  Coyle rested her head. Soft light from a small lamp allowed her to see what was necessary. They were in a small room with rough, used furnishings. Almost everything was made out of metal. Desk. Chairs. File cabinets. The slightest odor of old rust and cigar smoke lingered. This was an engineer’s office, and she was lying on the floor. Cool air brushed over her skin.

  Her bare skin.

  Her hand went up to her chest, and she squinted at Fang.

  “Your suit got in the way of my assessment. Not to worry, though. I didn’t bite, and after I’m done wrapping your wounds, you can re-dress and be ready for the rest of our short adventure.”

  Coyle closed her eyes as she let the trained killer sew a cut on the back of her head. She winced at the pain. “Thank you.”

  “Been a while since I sutured someone beside myself. My business is wounding, not healing,” Fang said. “But I need you in tip-top shape.”

  “Again, thank you for... Why,” Coyle asked, “Why are you helping me? You could take out Moreci by yourself.”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question.” Fang bit the thread and pulled it tight. Then she picked up a long strip of gauze and measured it before using the scissors. “Roll toward me. There, now roll away. Perfect. Yes, yours is a complicated question.”

  “I love complicated questions and answers. They’re my bread and butter, as the saying goes.” Fang tightened the bandage and Coyle grunted. She reached up and tapped her side where it hurt. She was going to look like damaged goods when she got hold of a looking glass.

  “I’ve noticed. And in a small way, my appreciation of you and your work has increased. Tenacity. Attention to detail. Patience.”

  “Agency.”

  “Agency.” Fang nodded. “And while we may live and work on opposite sides of the proverbial railroad tracks, I see myself in your personality and habits.”

  “You’re helping me because you see some of me in you?”

  Fang stopped and looked at her. “I’m helping you because there is no one else on this ship I’d rather have at my side than someone like myself.”

  They remained silent, Fang on wound care, Coyle wondered if Fang wanted companionship. Or maybe just a one-time joining of abilities to solve the last few bits of this riddle. Working side by side with Fang seemed altogether beneficial and frightening at the same time. According to Fang, Coyle was someone worth rescuing.

  What was going to happen when Treece was finished with her? What was going to happen when Fang was finished with her? She shook her head. All of it had been a huge nightmare, and it all led to death.

  “I feel as though the world has been against me since the very beginning,” Coyle said.

  “Go on.”

  “My parents were never interested in me, mostly because of my inclination toward subjects that had nothing to do with being a lady. And then I fell in love—and that didn’t work out. And then I tried to become a detective. Now I’m working under Treece, and I’m still not sure how things will turn out. It’s obvious he’s using me to find and stop Moreci, but he doesn’t need me.”

  “You’re afraid Treece may eliminate you.”

  “Should I be concerned?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. He’s made mistakes, but he actually is a decent person trying to do his best to fix his wrongs.”

  Fang wrapped and tightened the bandage and stretched out another piece. Coyle watched her measure the cloth and hold the scissors. With a quick motion, the blades separated the cloth, and she pulled it taut around her left elbow. Coyle’s mind flashed to the still form of Bolt as Fang dragged her away from the firebox.

  “I’m not a killer, though,” Coyle said.

  “Not yet.”

  “I would never.”

  “Don’t be modest. Of course you would. Apparently, you and Bolt jumped into fisticuffs. Something made you fight, gave you the extra edge you needed to overcome the obstacle you faced. A modern twist on David and Goliath. You may have had him, but you obviously got too close. What was your intention in facing off against a man at least twice your size and obviously more skilled at brawling?”

  �
�He had to pay for what he did to our team. I intended to place him in custody,” Coyle said. “He was a criminal, and as the ship’s only law enforcement, it’s my duty.” Heat brushed through her face and chest.

  “Ah! There, you see? Feel that?” She tapped her fingers against Coyle’s chest. “Anger. Focused, unbent will. Do you think I’m any different? The only difference between us is I used lethal force. I stepped forward and pulled the trigger. I used my anger, focus and unbent will to save your life. We have the same qualities when it comes to our work. That’s what I admire about you. Now lie back down while I finish mending your pious frame.”

  “My unbent will is for the enforcement of the law, not vigilantism.”

  “Our wills are not so different, Coyle. We actually share the same occupation.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Rubbish collection. You remove the rubbish from the street to make things safer. Cleaner. Your work involved a lot of rules and the inevitability the trash would be released back onto the street. I do the same. But when I take out the rubbish, it’s gone for good. Into the incinerator. Pun intended.”

  “Only to be replaced by another.”

  “And that’s job security,” Fang said. “I end rubbish. Your survival alone should be enough evidence that my job is necessary.”

  “These are people, not rubbish. Human beings make mistakes, Fang. We can’t go around killing people just for the choices they make.”

  “They make the choice to be rubbish, to act like rubbish. To be thrown away like rubbish.”

  “Redemption, Fang. We have the courts and the law, which summon them to face the consequences of their actions. People can come back from their mistakes,” Coyle said.