Moseh's Staff

by A. W. Exley

  Wanli was rumoured to keep the last phoenix in existence hidden in his private garden in the Forbidden City. There, in an artificial cherry tree with crystal blooms, the last phoenix lived out its long life, while the Emperor drank a tea distilled from a single feather to prolong his own.

  Poor bird. No others of its kind, no mate and kept in confinement. She stroked its painted fiery feathers with a fingertip. “I know how you felt.”

  The text went on to narrate a curious incident in the late sixteenth century that caused outrage in the Forbidden City. An Englishman travelled to China and became a curiosity at the Emperor’s court with his height and fair colouring. He quickly learned enough Chinese to entertain the emperor. Such was his favour, he became the only Westerner to ever see the phoenix. Then one day, he stole a great treasure from the emperor and disappeared. Outraged, Wanli put a price on the man’s head and that of all his descendants. The bounty to stay in place in perpetua, until the treasure was returned to the Forbidden City.

  Rumours flew and many whispered the Westerner had grasped the phoenix by the tail and stolen its plumage. Opinions were divided about the man’s fate. Some muttered that the thief fled back to England, and others said that the guards caught him and he was put to death, sealed in a vat of boiling oil.

  The final line of the story sent chills down Cara’s spine and she rose out of her seat as she read the ending. No one knows what became of the treacherous nobleman or the handful of feathers he risked his life to steal. Yet the bounty remains in place from that day to this, a price on the head of any child from the house of Morton.

  “Bloody hell.” She dropped the book on the table. The name bounced around her mind. “Nate will love this. I call him the larcenous one, and turns out my family has been at it for far longer. The Earl of Morton cozied up to the only known phoenix and ripped out its arse feathers.” She smacked the palm of her hand to her forehead. Numerous little details from their lives took on a whole new meaning. Like the family mascot and their motto, I will arise.

  That earl stole a clutch of phoenix feathers and our crest announces it to the world. Or to those who know about the artifacts.

  She paced three strides, turned and took three strides back as her mind reeled at the implications. That also explains why no one in our family has ever journeyed to China as part of their grand expedition, and why Nan sent her to India instead.

  More ideas jostled for space in her cramped mind. They spun so fast, she had trouble grabbing hold of just one. What if Lucas didn’t have the feather because her grandfather held it? Would he have used it to resurrect his beloved daughter? Did Father never mention it in his books because he knew where it was all along? The phoenix was emblazoned on every item in her family home from the enormous piece of carved marble over the front portico to the miniature ones on the teaspoons. Just how many feathers did that earl steal? Did they have a feather duster made of golden feathers stashed in a hall cupboard? If they had more than one, they could satisfy the Curator and still resurrect Bella. We could bring back my mother.

  Her heart jumped at the unbidden thought. She could bring back the mother she never knew and give her a second chance at life. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheek.

  “Bloody hell.” She dropped back into the chair. She was repeating herself, but it seemed appropriate. She tried to race through the rest of the translated notes, but the tiny script slowed her down. Sleep deprivation and too much coffee made the text jump and wriggle on the page.

  The phoenix, or fenghuang, was ideally pared with the dragon. The fenghuang represented the Empress, the dragon the Emperor, together they symbolised the union of ying and yang, light and dark. Each needed the other to live. Everything in harmony and when in perfect balance, capable of resurrecting the dead. The shiver ran along her skin and tingled over her scalp. Within the description lay something of vast significance, but what?

  The drawn out rattle announced a visitor and Csenger glided into the room.

  “Everything to your satisfaction?” He folded his hands into the voluminous sleeves.

  She frowned. “No. I specifically asked for a room with a view.”

  The cold smile spread over his face, but a tick pulled the skin by his lip. “I do enjoy our banter. How do your studies progress? Is there any point of translation you would like to discuss with me?”

  She shook her head. He must have made the connection himself. Perhaps he even undertook the original translations. Was that why he approached Lucas in the first place, because he was married to the Earl of Morton’s daughter? She doubted turning up on Gideon’s doorstep and asking would have resulted in the feather being handed over, perhaps he employed subterfuge to lay his parchment hands on it. The Curator played a long game, with pieces set in motion decades ago. Perhaps he even made Bella die so Lucas would seek out the means of her resurrection.

  She bit back the gasp that rose on that thought. She couldn’t wander too far down that road. The man had burrowed into her life like woodworm and she risked letting his presence rot inside her. He threw a net around her life and now, he trapped her within it. Has he been there from before I was born?

  “I bring you a missive from Nathaniel.” He held out a slip of paper.

  She pounced on the sheet and scurried away to her bed, not wanting to share the moment with her captor. She imagined Nate at his desk as he wrote to her. If she closed her eyes, she could curl up in his lap, as they often did late at night.

  “I shall return in an hour with your dinner and collect your reply.”

  She didn’t hear him, her gaze fixed on the bold writing and the confidence displayed in each sweep of the pen.

  Cara mia,

  Nothing at the house. Helene has moved in to keep it company. Where next?

  I am a shade without you,

  N

  She kissed the letter and dropped her head against the wall. How could she set Nate to questioning Nan about her family’s past? She closed her eyes and held Nate’s words to her heart while she constructed and abandoned sentences as she sought the right phrasing.

  amp from ice leeched through the tweed of Fraser’s trousers and soaked his knees. A tiny part of his mind registered the bite of cold, but the rest of him didn’t notice, too busy chasing a dancing sprite among skeletal trees. He dipped and soared like a hawk, wings spread wide as he rode an air current. His prey giggled and hid behind a trunk.

  “I will capture you,” he whispered as he folded his wings and dived.

  Ebony hair fanned out against white snow as she whirled around. Bright red lips like plump droplets of blood parted as more rich laughter erupted from her slender throat. A dark promise sparkled in her eyes as she ran. Arms outstretched, he reached for her.

  One tiny caress and her body split apart, flesh dissolved from her limbs and her ruby pout parted in a primal scream. He slammed to the ground, crying her name as he grabbed for her. Her eyelids fluttered closed, her neck ended in a jagged spinal column. The white bone of her ribs gleamed against the remaining tendons and tissue as he gathered up what remained of her and clutched it to his chest. A sob tore from his throat as he cried hot tears over her ruined body. Around them, her bones lay scattered in the clearing, stripped clean of flesh as though boiled and scrubbed.

  A heavy hand rested on his shoulder and tried to pull him away from Faith. He howled and snarled, refusing to hand her over. The grasp tightened and a shadow loomed above him.

  “Come on, let’s get you home and in dry clothes,” a male voice said.

  “No,” he sobbed. “I won’t leave her.”

  “You have to catch him though, and to do that, you need to leave her here.”

  The logic centre of his brain whirred back to life. Catch him. Yes. Little by little, he regained control; he remembered someone was responsible for her destruction. He wiped his face against the harsh wool of his jacket sleeve.

  “Put her down,” the voice said.

  Connor, his mind identi
fied his shadow. Large hands took his beloved’s head from him.

  With blue fingers, he wiped his eyes and then looked down. Connor placed a smoothed rock on the ground, next to a headstone. At some point he had shovelled snow up into his lap and most of his clothing was soaked through. A shiver ran over his body as the chill bit deep.

  “I will catch the puppet master who set the creature free.” In his heart, he believed that Lyons crafted the Grinder and set him loose to terrorise the girls of London, perhaps to drive them to pay protection money to the Rookery. As he stood, the world spun on its axis, and Connor caught his elbow before he tumbled back to the ground.

  “You’re frozen through,” the sergeant said as he dropped a warm greatcoat over his shoulders.

  “I didn’t notice.” His gaze stayed fixed on the carved granite while Connor fussed with pulling the wool closed over his shaking chest. A name and a date, all that was left of the most vibrant woman he ever met.

  “You never do when your mind is with her, one day it’ll kill you.” The closest Connor came to a censure of his inspector’s actions.

  Fraser’s sense of balance returned to numb legs along with the tingle from too long sitting. He patted Connor’s arm. “I will catch him. For her.”

  He only leaned a little as they walked away. His strength returned with each step.

  “I know you will. And then we’ll have a whisky at his graveside while you dance a jig.”

  He laughed; he liked that image. He would dance with Faith in his arms over Lyons’ cold carcass.

  Sobriety was overrated. A drummer beat a regular tattoo in his head and his eyes burned with gunpowder residue. Or perhaps it was just the beginnings of a head cold from rolling around in the snow. Either way, a few drops of elixir from the sun kissed poppy fields would fix it right up. If only he hadn’t promised Connor it would not pass his lips for at least two days. They both knew a week was an eternity for his addiction. A decision loomed before him; either wean himself from his dependency on the dragon or embrace death.

  Death was looking like the preferred option this morning.

  He stared into his mug. For once, the tea was the appropriate temperature. Tiny swirls rose and tempted his nose. If he closed his eyes, he could remember the joy of sipping tea in India during his stint in the army. Sitting in a sun-warmed spot with the fresh spice of bergamot teasing his senses was a highlight of his time, before the horror and brutality of war overtook them all. He took a sip and sighed. Not quite what his brain needed, but an adequate start. Another slurp and the warmth spread through his limbs and his brain reported for duty. He turned his attention to the crow’s nest of paper scattered over his desk.

  The files, notes, and photographs were the sum total of his evidence against Lyons. He faced an uphill climb in bringing the villainous viscount to justice, but a matter of odds never stopped him before. Fanny Brandt was eager for her day in court, to point her finger at the man who slid a blade between her father’s ribs and into his heart. Her testimony would be chilling as she narrated how Lyons watched her father bleed out at his feet. Never a flicker of emotion passed over his face as the other man’s life faded.

  She gave him the lead on two more witnesses present that night. He bought the drinks on a regular basis as they oscillated about their positions. It made him grind his teeth that people wouldn’t come forward until the case was practically won, such was their fear of the man. He needed to find more people like Fanny, with the eager glint of greed who saw far more to be gained than lost, by speaking up against Lyons.

  He crafted a compelling case from the slim pieces he could prove. The magistrate was familiar with the peculiar subculture of the Rookery, where everything, words and bodies, remained within its haphazard boundary. The lack of Brandt’s body was easy to explain, spirited away and buried in private by his mourning friends and family. Who needed a body when he had a room full of pub patrons who saw the overlord slump to the floor and bleed out amongst the beer stains and spittle?

  The assaults at the Thames and again in the coroner’s office only added fuel to his fire. It revealed a man out of control under the frozen façade. Lyons slipped, and Fraser pounced. He would ensure his nemesis went down and never surfaced by showing the superintendent the man was a danger to the citizens of London. Unpredictable, Lyons could strike out at any time, at anyone, unless stopped.

  He gathered the papers together and shoved them back into their folder, and then tucked it under his arm. Trepidation dogged his steps as he walked upstairs to the superintendent’s office. He ran through arguments in his head, he needed the super’s permission to arrest Lyons. No peer was to be touched without his express approval. It grated. Justice should be for all, regardless of station. No man should be able to hide behind the accident of his birth. He could not fail now, not so close to achieving his end.

  He paused at the carved door and stiffened his spine before rapping sharply.

  “Enter,” a voice boomed from the other side.

  He pushed into the super’s plush domain, more gentleman’s club than Enforcer’s office with its opulent chesterfield sofas, book lined walls and expensive Persian rugs. The super looked up from his paper. Today, he sat by the fire taking his tea and catching up on the news, no doubt before the arduous task of a meeting at his actual club, Red’s.

  Fraser stopped two paces away. Ingrained military training caught him before he stood at attention, to wait for the order to relax his pose. Instead, he clutched the file in both hands.

  His superior officer frowned over the brim of a delicate teacup. His moustache adorned the edge like a reclining walrus on a painted rock. “You have that look, Fraser.”

  “What look, sir?” Not the opening he expected. He hoped the horrible pounding headache wasn’t visible from the outside.

  “The one that says I’m not going to like what you are about to deposit on my scone.” He indicated the morsel in his hand where a swirl of cream sat atop a layer of strawberry jam.

  “This is a delicate matter, sir. One we have discussed previously.”

  The super replaced the cup on its saucer but kept hold of his scone. “Out with it then.”

  Fraser crunched the edge of the file between clenched fingers. “I seek your permission to arrest Viscount Lyons on a charge of murder.”

  The super’s face turned redder than his strawberry jam. Fraser thought how lucky the man had already swallowed his drink, otherwise it would have sprayed all over his food. He waited for the spluttering to subside before he continued.

  “I have a witness who saw him murder Saul Brandt in cold blood.”

  The busy eyebrows shot up. “Rookery business, Fraser.” He made the statement as though that should be the end of the matter, the subtext, let them deal with their own affairs. “You sure you want to wade into this?”

  He kept twisting the file, torturing the edges until one tore. Only then did his fingers cease their restless actions. “Justice demands it, sir. Or is she to be blindfolded because of a murderer’s rank?”

  The super sucked in his lower lip, which made the walrus moustache dance a jig while the moustache-wearer continued to think.

  “Since the loss of his wife, the man is growing unstable, sir,” he murmured, seeding doubt.

  The walrus twitched. “Nasty business that, drowning under ice. Men at the club have observed he isn’t taking it well. Handed control of his business over to some boxer.” The forgotten scone dropped onto the plate. “Imagine letting a thug make financial decisions, it’s not cricket.”

  “He assaulted me when I tried to offer our condolences.” A slight understatement of the encounter. The man lunged at him like an attacking tiger when he pointed out Lady Lyons was dead.

  “What?” The moustache nearly disappeared up the super’s nose in outrage, and the jam colouring crept back up his cheeks. “Laid hands on a member of Her Majesty’s Enforcers?”

  “I didn’t want to press matters, given the viscount’s bereave
d state and all, but after the second incident in the coroner’s office…” He trailed off and hoped the super would leap down the garden path after the ball he threw.

  “Twice!” The superintendent jerked to his feet to pace back and forth in front of the fire. He only lasted three lengths before he stopped and had to catch his breath. “This cannot go on, even if the man is a peer. He must be brought to heel.”

  “Quite.” The super followed his trail of breadcrumbs. Things were going swimmingly. “Imagine if he next attacks a peer?”

  Apoplexy nearly cut off the super’s breathing at the very thought of a rogue noble preying on his own. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he swallowed enough air to work free the words. “Go ahead, you have my permission to arrest the man and add the two assault charges.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Fraser bowed and exited the room before the enormous grin on his face revealed his delight. He lobbed the file at his desk from the door on the way past and then raced down the stairs. He ducked and dove between uniforms as his mind whirred ahead and planned the execution of the operation. He had spent long hours doodling on paper, imagining this moment, figuring out where and how he would take down Lyons. With permission given, he would not delay a second longer.

  He found Connor in the main room. The cavernous space where a multitude of uniforms sat to process those arrested and to complete the necessary paperwork. The noise overwhelmed the senses as though all of Noah’s animals were crammed in the space. Plus, there was the noxious odour from the unwashed bodies of some of the arrested.

  He halted at Connor’s desk. “We have the nod from upstairs. Pick ten of the best men and tell them to suit up and another twenty as foot reinforcements, nothing can go wrong today.”

  rick only had to ask and Clarence, Lord Dennington, was delighted to have a role to play in the search for Cara. He also confirmed Nate’s suspicion, the silent partner in the underground was indeed Csenger Csezneky and in his position, he was given copies of the tunnel route. Clarence agreed to meet them at his office, where he held detailed schematics covering every inch of tunnel running below London. Nate wanted to overlay the information he and McToon dug up about properties owned by the Curator. If there was any intersection, it might pinpoint a possible place where he could hide Cara.