by Shirl Anders
Aye, he thought of her now. He thought about their carriage ride earlier that now seemed a lifetime ago. The thought helped him endure the eerie close company of Hellion. Brynmore made certain his cloak was lying open and the ruby showed above his britches for Hellion to see. Added incentive, you bastard, Brynmore thought, to keep Hellion moving right where they wanted him to go. It was going to be tricky as hell, however he believed completely in Drummond who predicted reactions and had so far pinned Hellion’s down in a way that was uncanny.
Hellion was so caught up in his deity manifestations that he was not questioning anything, but rather giving his own brand of future predicting credit for it. Brynmore knew Drummond would say one word about this, “Superb.”
Unfortunately, he still had an incredibly long carriage ride to get through with Hellion, meanwhile he had to maintain his fictitious persona. He would have to be the master at concocting conversation about things that did not exist. He admitted it was his weak point, especially with Hellion whom he could not fathom most times. Radford was the expert at flummoxing conversations. The man could wax poetic and believable on all types of things he never had knowledge of. Radford could create identities with entirely believable stories created out of thin air. Brynmore knew one thing in his own favor was he’d admitted the trepidation of his skill for this phase of the plan. That was the way the Archangels were, one reason he believed they were so successful in the past. Not one of them hesitated or tried to hide their shortcomings.
They all knew from past experience that each other’s lives depended on them and they could not let false pride get in the way of that. He’d told them his misgivings and Radford had spent several hours working with him. Then Harrison had also come along to lend a hand. It had helped. They had created a play for the life of this character he was acting out. He used it with Hellion and it was working as they talked. He was bloody well glad, because the things Hellion talked about were unnatural, alien concepts. Brynmore noticed that Hellion was also shrewd in his own way. Hellion asked him in what seemed innocent ways about his association with the Prince, how that had come about. Always, Hellion’s pink eyes piercing his answers.
“The Prince came to be interested in the idea of blood sex. He has large curiosity and tastes. It was just a chance encounter, at first. One of his close mates asked me to attend one of the Prince’s lusty weekend parties he’s famous for.”
“I knew it was because of the blood,” Hellion said.
The more and more Brynmore talked, he noticed Hellion expressing to all, “I knew that.” Until Hellion said, “Your Prince will be impressed with the way I can predict the future, his future. The future of all.”
Brynmore nodded. “I’m impressed. I dinna really accept before last night what power I was bringing to my patron, the Prince.”
A wicked smile spread Hellion’s thin bloodless lips. “Power meets power and can only make the God of all Gods.”
The carriage began to slow and rattled to a halt. They’d entered the city thirty minutes ago and Brynmore earlier explained to Hellion that the Prince had a military procession to oversee in the streets of London. Afterward they would attend the Prince at his private pavilion on the Thames River. Quickly, to distract Hellion from the carriage halting, Brynmore voiced something he’d been saving for this moment. “You’ll not be able to bring, Lord Rushborn or his son, nor any of yer servants inside when you meet the Prince. His orders are strictly a private meeting.”
“I knew that,” Hellion said distractedly, looking at the closed curtains on the windows as if he could see through them. “Why is this carriage stopped?” he demanded.
“Tis likely the soldiers procession I spoke of clogging the streets,” Brynmore offered.
“I will check, my lord.”
Brynmore flinched at Lord Rushborn’s son’s voice. It was on the side of his bad ear, but still he thought... The son’s hand opened the carriage door. “I’ll be looking with you. I’ve some influence,” Brynmore said, quickly following. “Wait here, Lord Hellion. I be apologizing for the inconvenience,” Brynmore added over his shoulder as he jumped down from the carriage and turned to shut the door.
The second it was shut, Brynmore placed a small metal bar he’d been carrying in his inner pocket through the door handles. He knew that the Archangels were doing the same to the door on the other side. No one was getting out of the carriage now, because with the doors barred, the windows were too small for a full-sized man like Hellion to fit through. Hellion was now a captive inside the carriage. Wasting no time, Brynmore leaped after Lord Rushborn’s son. The unknown quantity.
Brynmore grabbed the slightly shorter man from behind with one arm locked over his windpipe to forestall the man from yelling and warning anyone. His other hand grabbed the man’s arm wrenching it backward. Brynmore pushed the man forward a few paces away from the carriage as his peripheral vision caught the actions of other Archangels around the carriage.
The hilly street was not very crowded, picked for that purpose and the people around were more interested in the procession of brightly uniformed soldiers marching in the street below. No one paid much attention to Brynmore who shoved the man he clutched up against one of the avenue’s gas lantern poles used to light the streets at night.
Brynmore knew how critical time was, it seemed to be moving slowly, yet only a few seconds had passed when he reached upward and tore down the man’s hood. Even through the adrenalin rush, his thought noted and wondered about the man not struggling.
“Ash,” Brynmore hissed, tossing Ash around to face him, grabbing the collar of Ash’s robe and lifting as he shoved Ash’s body into the pole. Brynmore thrust his face into Ash’s. The only thing he could think of at the shocked moment flew with a rage from his mouth. “You let that young man die! You stood by and watched him bleed to death and told us nothing!” Each word Brynmore used was punctuated with a shove.
“He lives,” Ash blurted tersely. “I saved him and many others. There is no time for this if we do not continue acting now, we will lose Hellion.”
Brynmore hissed in anger and he would admit to astounded confusion as his gaze swept back to the carriage. Harrison was up top now from where he’d hidden shortly after the carriage pulled away from Rushborn’s estate. Harrison had knocked out the driver and taken up his task on top. Now he tied off the reins of the horses so if the carriage were moving they would gallop straight. Wyndham was helping Harrison lower the tied and gagged driver down from the driver’s seat. They all were trying to work swiftly, but also trying not to jostle the carriage as much as possible.
Saxon was at the boot of the carriage with Joelle beside him. They worked to lift a crate inside but needed his help. Saxon looked at him in confusion mouthing the name, “Ash?”
Brynmore let go of Ash, and hissed, “I will fucking kill you if you make one wrong move,” even as he was moving to the boot of the carriage.
“I will explain later,” Ash offered tightly moving to follow.
Brynmore reached the crate, grabbing one end to lift it into the boot with Joelle and Saxon on its opposite end. They were extremely careful to let it down as gently as they were able, then at the same moment Brynmore heard Ash say loudly, “Lord Hellion, the procession should be only another few minutes, but the horses are restless.”
The partially opened crate met the bottom of the boot with only a small sway at about the same moment that Hellion complained, “This is inconvenient, find another way around now!”
“Yes, Lord Hellion, right away.”
Ash sprinted over to Brynmore. “Hurry we must get this carriage moving!”
Joelle sparked a flint and touched it to a fuse coming out of the crate as Saxon sprinted to the side of the carriage, raising his arm high. It was the signal for Harrison and Wyndham on the opposite sides of the horses to set them into galloping by sticking hat pins into the flanks of the leading two horses. The horses leaped forward into a headlong rushing gallop down the hill, while a
rather impressive display of sparks lit the back of the carriage flying in every direction.
The five from around the carriage stood in the middle of the street watching as the carriage raced down the hill toward the procession. At the bottom of the hill on both sides of the street, Drummond, Gabriella, Chloe, Orelan, Nia, Radford and Kit spread out in different areas, began shouting, “Runaway carriage, get out of the way! Move! Move! Runaway carriage!”
It was an amazing sight as people ran out of the way along with the soldiers. In the pandemonium, no one saw the block tossed beneath one of the careening carriage wheels so that at the bottom of the street, just one hundred yards from the podium where the Prince of Wales sat presiding over the procession, the carriage overturned onto its side.
The horses still tried to gallop forward, even twisted in the reins as they were, they managed to drag it onto its side for another fifty feet before the soldiers caught them and stopped them. When the whole twisted conveyance stopped, it could not have happened better, it was as if the hand of God directed it, because the crate in the boot fell free, sparks still flying. Soldiers rushed to stamp out the sparks and discovered the broken crate with gunpowder spilling out of it.
Brynmore huffed a huge breath of victory, but quickly turned his mind and gaze from the amazing spectacle toward Ash.
“God damn it. Bloody balls!” Brynmore swore. Ash was gone...
Several weeks later . . .
“I did not know,” Drummond said to Brynmore and Kit as they sat in his study. “I had asked discreetly for a volunteer. Ash came.” Drummond sighed. “Apparently, Ash, is part of an extremely secret underground section of England’s own varied covert operations that I had not heard of, only had hints of from time to time.”
“So he is not Rushborn’s son?” Brynmore asked.
“No, Ash, sent me a message explaining as best he could and I might add against the rules he must live by to not expose himself. So we are privileged to get this or any information about him at all,” Drummond advised.
Both Brynmore and Kit nodded. Not all the Archangels were going to hear the details of this, only the overview; it seemed Ash had specifically requested in his missive that Kit and Brynmore be privy to it all.
“It seems that Rushborn owed Ash a large favor from years ago when Ash broke up Rushborn’s nefarious club of virgin defilers. At the time, Ash kept Rushborn out of the Gaol with Rushborn’s promises to repent, but more important to Ash, Rushborn agreed to compensate the victims with cash to improve their broken lives. However, that gets ahead of ourselves.”
Drummond turned his gaze out the window in contemplation, as he said softly, “Ash’s connection to Hellion and his cult starts with the disappearance and subsequent murder of Ash’s brother by the cult. Ash’s brother was Marco Remior.”
Kit gasped. Brynmore grasped her hand leaning forward with Drummond’s gaze returning to them. “Marco Remior, was a real person and not just a name that, Incubus, made up?” Brynmore asked.
“It appears so. According to, Ash, that is Incubus’s style. He never takes fictitious names, only ones of real people that are dead.”
“Then the love letter I found from, Marco, to my brother was real? Not from Incubus?” Kit asked.
“Yes, Ash wanted you to know, Kit, that the love affair between Clay and Marco was very real and very deeply felt.”
“Oh my lord,” Kit said, dabbing at her tearing eyes.
“Another part of the story we might get from Ash if our paths should cross again someday, is how it all came about. How Clay and Marco became involved with the cult. Ash only said he began trailing the money. That was what was in the trunks. He followed it to Hellion.”
“But why would he not tell us to begin with?” Brynmore demanded.
Drummond raised a hand, then lowered it. “I will get to that shortly. One thing you both need to know is that Ash had only infiltrated The Order a short time before we did, and before he knew we were even there. The night at The Satyr Whip Club he was there, but he did not know about us yet. It appears his following the cult was not something his superiors had sanctioned, he was doing it on his own without their knowledge.”
Drummond paused, seeming to let that sink in, then his knuckles rapped the tabletop once. “We told Ash more than he’d been able to discover about the cult yet. However, his main focus was and will be Incubus. Because where we felt just destroying the order was enough Ash is after the name of every person The Order murdered and the name of the killer. Incubus has that.”
“He is going after Incubus?” Brynmore punctuated the question with surprise.
“Yes, as we speak.”
“I’m glad,” Kit declared, still dabbing her eyes.
“Although, I will tell you I believe Ash’s superiors think he has gone rogue and that will be a good deal of trouble for him. Even though I understand why he cannot tell them, and I cannot reveal his reasons.
“Even though he busted my blimey balls over this,” Brynmore said. “I’m wagering on Ash.”
Drummond nodded. “I tend to also. As for why he did not tell us, I can only speculate. Timing was one factor, trust another. Ash has a lot to lose should his superiors find out he was working on something personal on his own. They are still not certain what he is about. Only that he is missing. I have only said that he helped us admirably, and then he disappeared.
“Fact is we could not have done as well without him.” Brynmore admitted grudgingly.
“Well it seems when the question of why Hellion would remain in a carriage about to explode and kill the Prince of Wales, someone whispered in the Chancellor’s ear all about Hellion’s belief that he could ascend to become a God if he died at the same moment a person of royalty did. Hellion bellowed his denial, however our furious Prince is not listening and does not care.”
“Bravo,” Kit said quietly, looking up at Brynmore.
Brynmore lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles as he gazed at her. “Bravo, to you to, love. None of this would have been possible without you.”
The End.
Red Cloak Of Abandon
By Shirl Anders
Chapter One
The door suddenly burst open to Affinity’s bedchamber, causing her quill pen to slide dark ink across the letter she was writing to her brother James.
“I didn’t do it!” Anne Fotts, the Redgrift house chambermaid cried. Affinity leaned back quite taken by surprise at Anne’s unusual theatrics and uncommon entrance into her room. “I swear, Miss Affinity, on my dead mum’s grave. I didn’t do it!”
Affinity watched Anne sail toward her like a battleship stalwart on its course. The little maid, embroiled in her histrionics wasn’t going to stop, Affinity realized as she dropped the quill pen. The bouncing pen left a rather large blot on her letter, right on the part where she’d been explaining to James about the new Brown Bess marksman rifles. Affinity hastily turned in her chair, apparently thinking to catch the maid. How unusual; she couldn’t remember the last time she had embraced anyone.
Affinity was quite grateful a moment later when Anne fell to her knees instead of hysterically embracing her. Anne’s dramatic supplication came to a halt at Affinity’s feet, with Anne clutching Affinity’s skirts, while tears streamed down her normally pleasant face. Not knowing what else to do in her concern, Affinity patted one of Anne’s white knuckled hands gripping her skirts.
She peered over her writing spectacles at Aunt Fuchsia to see what effect the commotion was having on her, but of course Aunt Fuchsia was lost to the events happening around her as she hummed softly while rocking in a chair by the window. Aunt Fuchsia could barely hear any longer and her mind wandered lately more and more into her own fanciful world of events.
But Affinity thought surely Aunt Fuchsia would hear Anne’s crying screech. “You cannot let Lord Redgrift fire me, Miss Affinity. I’d never steal! I swear it!”
Ah oh. Affinity patted Anne’s hand more vigorously. She’d never believe An
ne of stealing. Anne was as loyal as they came, and that was implying a lot for a maid that was employed by her uncle, the frugal and waspish Lord Redgrift. However, Affinity understood sadly that she held absolutely no sway over her irritable old uncle in a domestic matter such as this, or truths be told, in any other matter.
Yet with her spine straight, the way she normally confronted life, she did offer her loyalty. “I will never believe you stole a crumb of bread, dear Anne. How could this come about?”
“It was John Hanson,” Anne sniffled with imploring eyes and a red nose. “I wouldn’t take his advances and the evil bastard done this to me. Lied, he did! So spiteful he was, saying I stole Lord Redgrift’s war medal!”
Affinity gasped, stealing herself as if her uncle’s vengeful wrath were present in the room right at that moment. John Hanson was more than merely spiteful, if this were true, he was abominable. There was no greater prize in all Lord Redgrift’s memorabilia than that medal. The entire household would pay dearly for that act of malice, and poor Anne the worst.
“I demand that strumpet thief out of my household at once!”
Affinity flinched at her uncle’s bellowing coming from the foyer, while Anne cried, “This will ruin me! I’ll never work again. I don’t know what I’ll do!”
Suddenly, tromping feet sounded in the hallway, and two of the Redgrift footmen appeared, coming with resolution through the open doorway. Affinity acutely felt the invasion arrow down her spine as Anne stood and she stood with her. The fact that she had to do something raced in Affinity’s thoughts, yet the way to do it, eluded her overturned mind.
Then suddenly, Affinity dragged the small opal ring she wore from her third finger, snatching Anne’s hand just as the footmen took hold of poor Anne from either side. Affinity managed to close Anne’s fingers around the ring right before the footmen began pulling a sobbing Anne from the room. It was Affinity’s mother’s ring, one of only two pieces she had left of her mother’s legacy.
