Knights of Black Swan, Books 7-9 (Knights of Black Swan Box Set Book 3)

by Victoria Danann

  The idea had come to me that we could combine checkin’ in on him with providin’ an education that could prove useful. For instance, Ren O’Malley’s family had been craftin’ fine bows and arrows for two hundred years. On days when Ren was assigned to make the trip and look in on young Rammel, he would stay long enough to teach the boy a thing or two about archery. Truth be told, the mention of the wolf pack concerned me more than I’d admitted to the king. It would no’ hurt the lad to have some weapons and know how to use them.

  Of course gun powder and the like were no’ allowed in the Preserve, but that did no’ mean he should be altogether defenseless.

  Since Gordy Darnell was the one who first spotted the boy, ‘twas only fittin’ that he be the one to teach huntin’ skills. The Widow Brennan was an authority on plants. She could teach him which ones were to be left alone and which ones would be good for everything from cookin’ to the soothing of rashes. If the boy should prove to be interested in playin’ stringed instruments, Cleary Dothan would make a right royal tutor. And so on and so on.

  I, myself, made plans to go twice a week, take a book, and perhaps discuss the book I’d brought before. Mrs. O’Torvall was insistin’ that she go along on one of my semi-weekly sojourns so she could see for herself that Ram was hale and hardy. How could I say no? E’en after so much time together, I still enjoyed her company.

  CHAPTER 2

  Ram

  I was thirteen years old when Black Swan came callin’. ‘Twas none too soon. I’d spent a chunk of childhood alone in a tiny cottage in the New Forest. I was the next thing to a feral child and liked it that way.

  My father, the king, was an asshole. At least I thought so at the time. Still, he was a sweetheart of a man compared to my prick of an older brother, who was nothin’ less than insufferable. My parents tolerated the unusual arrangement of bein’ a ten-year-old hermit because I made things difficult, shall we say, when I was home.

  I figured out early that, if I did my utmost to try and raise Hades up through the palace foundation, they’d be glad to see my hind view headed out the door. I felt bad for my poor mother because I knew she loved me and wanted me home. To some extent I also felt guilty about leavin’ my little sister without backup for long stretches of time, but everyone loved her so I knew she’d do alright.

  Once I’d learned to fish and hunt for myself, Liam and Moira O’Torvall made sure my diet was complemented with vegetables and bread. And pie. All in all I was well fed and no’ so dirty that disease was imminent.

  So far as education went, I got crash tutorin’ crammed into short visits to Derry. And, although I would no’ have wanted it known at the time, I did no’ completely waste my time in the Forest. I acquired skills that included extreme woodscraft, bow huntin’, and guitar. I even read books. A lot of them. For a little village lost in time, collectively they have a lot of books and Liam had something to say about every one of them. I did no’ object too much. ‘Tis a law of nature that hours have to be filled with something.

  One cool and rainy day I was doin’ just that, readin’ a book brought by Liam with an implied promise that he would be askin’ me for my thoughts two days hence. I was just gettin’ to a part where a fairy was found hidin’ in a cellar when there was a knock at my door. The rain had covered the sound of someone approachin’ the cottage, so I was startled to say the least. I had already been visited earlier in the day and was no’ expectin’ anyone.

  A stranger was standin’ on the other side of the door with rain pourin’ off the brim of his hat. I practically had to crane my neck to look up at him because I had no’ yet experienced a growth spurt. My first thought was to wonder how he’d managed to get inside the Preserve wall. My second thought was to assume he was lost.

  “Are ye lost?” I asked.

  I saw the ghost of a smile crinkle the small lines near his eyes. “Indeed not, Rammel Hawking. I’m here for you.”

  I do no’ know if you have ever had the experience of hearin’ someone speak your name followed by those exact words. But when a large stranger dressed in black comes out of nowhere and presents himself in a pourin’ rain sayin’, ‘Rammel Hawking. I’m here for you’, it’s near paralyzin’. Especially when the message is delivered with an English accent.

  My response was to stare and make no move whatever.

  “I’m Alder Rathbone. May I come in?”

  Well, I knew it was no’ well-mannered to leave a man waitin’ on my porch with the wet threatenin’ to soak through his skin, but his presence and his words raised questions in my mind about the prudence of lettin’ him in. Still, I was no’ inclined to admit, even to myself, that I might be afraid of anyone. I looked behind him and was about to say he could tend to his horse in the barn first, but there was no horse.

  Lookin’ down I saw his boots were soaked right through, which could only mean he’d walked. My eyes jerked up to his face. He must have been miserable with the chill and damp, but there was no mistakin’ that he was the sort of man who did no’ complain or feel sorry for himself.

  I stepped back and opened the door wider to let him in.

  As he began to take off his hat and coat, I said, “I’ll make tea and bring it by the fire.”

  He gave me a look that said he was impressed with my manners. “That would be nice.”

  I set the kettle close enough to the fire to boil the water then brought a tray with cups and sugar. Since the bugger had taken the liberty of sittin’ in my big chair, I moved the big chest closer to the fire. The tea service and I sat on the chest together, waitin’ for him to explain himself.

  He stared at me as if I was bein’ evaluated, for what reason I did no’ know, his brown eyes reflectin’ the firelight, since ‘twas a damnable dark day. After a time that seemed to drag by, he said, “I’m a recruiter. I work for a secret organization, which name I will not divulge until you agree that you would like to come to work for us.”

  “Work for you?” I scoffed. “I’m thirteen years old.” I laughed.

  “So you are,” he said. “It’s by design that I am here now. Not when you’re twelve or fourteen. But now.”

  I was beginnin’ to wonder if the fellow had any success at recruitin’ because, to my mind, he was doin’ a piss poor job of it. I decided to let it play out and hear what he had to say. Havin’ unexpected company was surprisin’ly entertainin’.

  He’d left his coat at the door, but no’ before retrievin’ a tube that he kept by his side. It was apparently designed to keep papers safe from weather. He opened the end of the tube and pulled out documents that had been rolled together.

  “I have a contract with me. It’s already been signed by your parents, but won’t be valid unless you sign as well. We propose to give you the best education available anywhere, not just academic. You’ll also learn a wide variety of fighting skills.”

  “You’re from the army?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “No. The organization I work for is not associated with government in any way. We’re more like a philanthropy. We protect those who cannot protect themselves.

  “I’d like you to consider giving us your next five years. At the end of that time you can choose to go to work for us or not. In the meantime you’ll be among others your age who have been judged by us to be potential elite.”

  “Elite?” I sneered. “I’m already elite. I’m a prince.”

  “If you come with me, you’ll leave your royalty at the door. All the boys we recruit are special, but no one is in any way more important than anyone else.”

  Something about that struck a chord in my heart. I was intrigued by the idea of bein’ like everyone else. Since my life to that date had been the exact opposite, that may have been just the carrot to make me reach for the stick. I suspect ‘twas part of the reason I found the solitude of the New Forest so appealin’.

  “How did you get into the Preserve?”

  He chuckled softly and a twinkle sprang to his eye that said he was unexpe
ctedly amused, as if he had no’ guessed askin’ how he came to be there would be the next question out of my mouth.

  “Walked through the gate. But what you really want to know is, why did they let me in?” He still looked amused. “I have my ways.”

  “Let me see the papers you’re guardin’ so carefully.”

  The tea kettle chose that moment to set off a howl. I quickly tended to my guest, fixed my own tea to my likin’ and settled down to read the stranger’s strange proposal.

  There were provisions for visitin’ my family from time to time, holidays and such. At that time I felt that I had two families, my blood who lived in the palace at Derry and the one comprised of simple villagers in Black-On-Tarry who seemed to accept and understand me for who I was. The fact that I was already thinkin’ ahead to where I would spend my time off meant that I was hooked. The man had known exactly what to say, that I would be with others like me and be treated just the same.

  “Any questions?” Mr. Rathbone had settled into my chair like he’d been sittin’ in it forever. Bastard.

  “Just one. Are you also recruitin’ girls?”

  I mean I’m no’ stupid. I’d recognized that I had a set of highly specialized equipment, and it was wakin’ up to the fact that it had its own destiny. And that destiny involved females. I was no’ precisely sure about the logistics, but I had seen enough of nature to get the idea. ‘Twas an experience about which I was keepin’ an open mind. To be sure.

  Rathbone smiled. “No, but we’ve been doing this long enough to know that it would be ill-advised to isolate our recruits from the gentler sex.”

  “Gentler sex?” I cocked my head, thinkin’ about that. “Is that what they are?”

  It had no’ been my experience that Moira or the Widow Brennan or my mother or sister were particularly gentle. So I wondered where the expression originated. I finished my second cup of tea and signed my name to the bottom of the document without askin’ further questions. That may seem foolhardy to some, but my intuition was insistin’ ‘twas the thing to do.

  ‘Twas plain to me that my parents had signed the papers. I knew the look of their handwritin’. So I signed under their signatures, handed him the document, and watched as he carefully rolled it up, put it back in the tube, and replaced the end cap, thereby sealin’ my fate or so it seemed. I remember thinkin’ it was such a performance that it might have been the devil after my soul.

  “When will I go?”

  “Seize the day, Mr. Hawking. There shall never be a better time than the present. Gather your things.”

  I looked ‘round the cottage. What would I want to take? The bow? No. I’d leave the bow. The books? No. From the sound of it, there were goin’ to be more books than I would want. The guitar? Oh aye.

  “Clothes?” I asked.

  “Up to you. You will be given a stipend with which to buy apparel and niceties not otherwise provided.”

  By the time I’d put my stuff in the duffel I’d brought from home three years before, I realized I was fairly mobile. Except for the guitar.

  I saddled the horse, laid the duffel over his rump behind the saddle and tied it down, then asked Mr. Rathbone if he’d like to ride. He looked up at the sky, which was gray, but no’ rainin’.

  “No. I’m happy to run.”

  I thought that was a curious thing at the time. Little did I know that in a few years, that would no’ begin to qualify as a curious thing.

  “In that case,” I said, holdin’ the guitar case in his direction, “would you mind handin’ this to me after I’m alight?”

  “Not at all.”

  When I was settled, he lifted the case to my waitin’ hand and we were off. I trotted the horse all the way to Black-On-Tarry and he kept up without lookin’ like he was breathing particularly hard. This was a fact that I found interestin’, considerin’ that he was ancient. Probably over thirty!

  I said goodbye to Liam and Moira and promised to visit. By the time we reached the gate I was beginnin’ to wonder if I was doin’ the right thing. I looked back to see the two of them standin’ in the middle of the street, holdin’ hands. I waved. When they waved back, it made me feel sad, like maybe I was leavin’ no’ just Black-On-Tarry, but my childhood behind.

  There was a sleek black car on the other side of the gate that reminded me of a royal motorcade, but the similarity ended when it stopped fifteen minutes away at a whisterport. I kept tellin’ myself that my parents would no’ have signed off on a deal to sell me into slavery and hoped to Paddy that ‘twas true.

  “Where are we goin’?” I asked Rathbone.

  “Germany.”

  “Germany?”

  He did no’ bother to answer. He just handed my guitar to the pilot to stow and settled into the co-pilot’s seat like he planned to travel sleepin’. My guitar was stowed in the rear, but the pilot gave my duffel a seat. Fastened the belt and everything.

  He grinned at me. “Balancing the weight. I figure it weighs about the same as you.” Then he laughed. I was a little insulted. I weighed a lot more than the stupid bag. “Flight will be about four hours. Snacks in the cooler behind you if you get hungry.”

  That was almost enough to make me forgive him for the impertinence because, as a matter of fact, I was hungry.

  I wondered where in Germany we were headed, but decided I was no’ goin’ to give Rathbone the satisfaction of appearin’ anxious by askin’ too many questions. Whisters fly low enough to make a super visual ride, but it was gettin’ dark by then and I knew I would no’ see much.

  Since the light was fadin’ I unbuckled and dug into the cooler to have a look at what they packed while I could still see.

  “Is this just for me or am I sharin’ with you?” I asked the two men in the front.

  They looked at each other and shared a chuckle. “It’s just for you, kid,” said the pilot, who had yet to properly introduce himself.

  That was music to my ears because dividin’ the food into thirds just simply would no’ do.

  I pulled out a weinerschnitzel sandwich, crisps, and something called a root beer. My thirteen-year-old self was very pleased to see they were providin’ beer. I was prematurely congratulatin’ myself on makin’ a good decision.

  I woke up when I felt the whister touch down and looked around. We were on top of a buildin’ that appeared to be about the same age as the palace at Derry, but no’ nearly as large and no’ nearly as grand. ‘Twas surrounded by a high wall, lights spotlightin’ the surroundin’ area which seemed to be a dense forest.

  “Welcome to Grunewald Unit, Mr. Hawking.”

  The pilot gave me a salute and winked, which to tell the truth, was a little unsettlin’.

  I followed Rathbone down a flight of stairs that looked far too modern for the exterior of the buildin’. The same was true of the hallway down which we turned, appearin’ for all ‘twas worth like a dormitory or some such. We stopped at the fourth door on the left. It bore an engraved plate that read ‘Rammel Hawking’.

  “Great Paddy,” I said. “’Tis my name.”

  “It is indeed, Mr. Hawking. You’ll need to watch the language. You’ll find your teachers object to extraneous dialogue and swearing is at the top of the hit list.” He opened the door for me, but did no’ enter. “Move yourself in and get a good night’s sleep. Someone will be here at five in the morning to take you to breakfast, show you around, and go over the rules.”

  “Five?!?” I thought I saw a ghost of a smile flit across his angular face, but could no’ be sure.

  “And not a minute later. There’s an alarm next to your bed. You’ll find things will be much more pleasant if you learn how to use it. Good night.”

  “Wait.” He stopped and turned back. “What’s the name of this outfit I signed on with?”

  “The Order of the Black Swan.”

  At that he turned and left, leavin’ me thinkin’, What kind of fuckin’ name is that?

  CHAPTER 3 Five years later

  Lan />
  I had finished my education and chosen to sign on with Black Swan. The ink wasn’t dry on the paper before I was out the door. First assignment was Grunewald, the unit that serviced Berlin. It was close enough by whister to patrol, but far enough away to be secluded. The building was a renovation, or adaptation really, of an eighteenth century grand house, set in the middle of a forest preserve that was off limits to anyone not Black Swan.

  I had seen a lot of the world by then, but had never been to Berlin. I knew why we had a unit there. Because wherever you find prevalent nightlife, you find active nests of vampire. I didn’t have any personal experience with leeches at that time. But you don’t have to experience a thing personally to believe people when they tell you it’s nasty.

  I had never heard anything about vampire until six months ago. They trained our minds and bodies to be precision instruments and occasionally said something vague about protecting the innocent. But crap on a croissant. We had no idea we were preparing to be the only barrier between humanity and monsters that turned out to be real. When we met civilian juvies, we told them that we were in military school. Hel. Close enough. Right?

  Anyway, six months ago they clued me in. There are vampire out there. I had two choices when I turned eighteen. I could sign on as a vampire hunter or go home and keep my mouth shut about everything I’d learned. I was told that, if I chose the first option, I’d find that my training hadn’t even begun. I didn’t believe that. I mean how much harder could it be? Really.

  They said they took the mouth shut part of option two very seriously. No threat was spelled out, but it was certainly implied. I had six months to decide. So. Sure. I thought about it. A lot.