The Heirs of New Bristol (Lila Randolph Book 1)

by Wren Weston

  As commander, Sutton ran security for the New Bristol estate, having the last word unless Lila overruled her, which Lila rarely did. She needed someone like Sutton, someone she could trust with such responsibility, for Lila’s time was split among a dozen other commanders and properties in Saxony. The family compound was merely the crown jewel.

  An image of the empty hotel entered Lila’s mind, and her regard for Sutton rose. The commander would never do anything like that to Lila, to the family, nor to the estate. Not only was Sutton good at her job, but her adopted mother had been an heir once, one of the fifteen women in each generation who might become the family’s chairwoman by birthright. Even though there was no hope of the frail Edith Randolph ever becoming the chairwoman now—short of a particularly fatal epidemic or an ill-advised murder spree—the woman’s wealth and position made it very unlikely that Sutton would ever betray their matron.

  That and her temperament. If the commander suspected what Lila had really been up to that night, she would have dragged her in handcuffs to Chief Shaw’s office herself. Sutton’s brain was composed of laws and codes; no gray permeated her heart. It made her predictable. Lila could bend that trait to her advantage, and she frequently did.

  “Your people looked good tonight, commander. You’ve done well with them,” Lila said as they kept to the shadows and skirted around the estate’s mail facility.

  Beyond the structure, Lila spied the Randolph family’s great house, a sprawling mansion that housed the chairwoman’s family and assorted staff members assigned to their security or care. Elegant and palatial, the neoclassical building boasted a fountain out front, commissioned from the great artist Frederic Batholdi. Four gray wolves sprang out from the center, impatient to conquer from all sides, similar to the family’s coat of arms. The fountain and the building, called Villanueva House after its architect, were the first things anyone saw when entering the estate from the south entrance. That and the security office. Both were intended to overwhelm, rather than welcome.

  The pair saw little of the famous building. Instead, Commander Sutton passed a keycard through a security panel. The dog’s claws clicked against the linoleum floor as they entered the mail facility’s back entrance and shuffled down a hallway. The group soon passed through another locked door, descended a staircase, and crossed into the basement level, gaining entry into the extensive tunnel system below the estate.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without an officer’s uniform, Commander Sutton. Not in my entire life, except on nights like this.” Lila’s voice echoed against the concrete, competing with the jingle of the dog’s leash. The group stepped through the tunnels, the air smelling of soil and grease, the constant plink of dripping water surrounded them as they walked. Lila had always liked the tunnels despite the smell and noise. She found them restful, perhaps because she had spent so much time getting lost in them and finding her way out again as a child.

  “Well, I rarely see you in the clothes of a workborn, except on nights like this.”

  Lila smoothed the breast of her peacoat, the absence of her family’s coat of arms tugging at her once again. It was as if someone used to slumbering under thick blankets had been given only a dirty sheet to pass the night. At least the coat of arms had not been on her when the sergeant had begun his arrest. Every single man under his command would have known instantly that she was a Randolph and a highborn on sight.

  That wasn’t her only worry. Did Zephyr have proof of her actions in the BIRD? Would the snoop figure out Prolix’s true identity? Had she destroyed the DNA pen quickly enough, or was Bullstow matching her DNA at that very moment? Were government blackcoats already on the way to intercept her and throw her into a holding cell? Had her client heard about the explosion yet? Were Tristan and his people laughing at how they had used her as a distraction?

  It would be a long day finding out the answers.

  “How about this weather? Shouldn’t be so cold in October,” Sutton said suddenly, tugging uncomfortably at her collar.

  “This is New Bristol, commander. If you don’t like the weather, just wait fifteen minutes. I’m sure we’ll be back to sweating by the weekend. Unless it decides to rain.”

  Sutton nodded.

  The pair walked down another stretch of tunnel in silence.

  “Is everything okay, chief?”

  Lila realized that she had said nothing for most of their journey. Usually, she filled all interactions on the estate with militia chatter, endless questions of protocol and procedure, double-checking arrangements for whatever security nightmare the matron had planned next. Lila typically had a thousand things to do and only ten minutes to do them, and Sutton bore the brunt of such attention. “Everything is fine, commander. I’m just tired.”

  The commander unlocked the door into the dim basement of the great house, and Lila retrieved her own set of keys from behind a stack of boxes. “Enjoy your day off, chief.” Sutton bowed slightly, concern evident in every wrinkle.

  Lila pulled off her thermal hood and slipped through the scullery and into the kitchen. A stout, middle-aged woman stood at the counter, wearing a flour-dusted apron. She skipped through her pop music playlist, too busy to notice when Lila skulked through the room behind her. The muffled warbling of some overpaid and autotuned singer, desperate to make a hit, leaked from around Chef’s earphones. The smell of bacon hung in the air.

  Chef was up early, and Lila didn’t know what it meant.

  She quickly put it out of her mind once she reached her bedroom on the top floor. If the cameras in the hallway had recorded her movements at all that night, they would only prove that Lila had exited her chamber at one in the morning and returned at half past six.

  There were spies everywhere on the estate, especially in the great house.

  Not in her bedroom, though. She made sure of it.

  Lila snatched her palm computer from her desk. It was little more than a palm-sized touchscreen display only five millimeters thick, made of flimsy waterproof rubber and black plastic. The metal and circuits inside could slide and adjust when bent, making it virtually indestructible. Though it possessed only eighty percent of the power of her desktop computer, it was much more flexible in its capabilities, much like its frame.

  Lila set the device to search for the telltale signals of bugs and waved it along the dark gray and white walls. She eyed the screen while she aimed it at the few pieces of furniture in her room: a bed with black blankets and a pop of crimson, a long black couch with one stray red pillow, a coffee table, a chest of drawers with photographs of her family and friends arranged on top, a bedside table, and a massive desk. Artisans had carved each piece from ebony and stained it to the blackest black. Despite the room’s large size, Lila had never possessed the time or inclination to fill it with anything more, and its minimalist style made sweeping for bugs so much easier. In fact, the only decoration in her room was a silver Randolph coat of arms, hung above the couch.

  Finding nothing in the sweep, Lila dropped her palm on her desk, yawned, and kicked off her boots. She stuffed her peacoat, clothes, thermal suit, and the remains of the DNA pen into a canvas sports bag and hid it inside a secret compartment in the closet. She tossed the cigars in a drawer and slipped the star drive into a hidden panel in her desk for later processing. Then she hopped into the welcoming embrace of a hot shower, stripping off layer after layer of smoke, gasoline, and ash. The last layer she scrubbed away was Canidae, created to erase its wearer’s scent from the purview of nosy dogs. Randolph researchers had concocted the recipe, and she had tested it for the first time that very same night. Perhaps it had helped cover the scent of gas and smoke.

  Once Lila was in the shower, it was hard for her to step out again. She had spent the last several hours cold and wet, and warmth was now a welcome friend. After a good scrub with apple-scented shampoo, Lila turned the water off and dressed in a thick w
hite robe, stitched with the family coat of arms on the left breast. She felt more like herself with its return, and glanced longingly at her bed.

  Unfortunately, there was no time for sleep. The first order of business would be a mug of hot chocolate and a pain pill for her pounding headache, followed closely by a stroll through Bullstow’s computer network. She needed to see what the DNA pen had managed to transmit before it had been smashed under her boot.

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  Lila stepped to the door and peeked through the peephole. “It’s barely six o’clock, Alex,” she muttered. The slave’s crisp white blouse and skirt had not a wrinkle anywhere, and her blonde hair was styled perfectly, even at such an early hour.

  As soon as Lila opened the door, Alex lifted her silver tray and bowed deeply, exposing a tiny scar on her neck from her slave incision. Lodged deep inside was an identity chip and homing beacon, placed far too near her arteries and veins for all but the most competent of medical professionals to dig out again. Not that it stopped some from trying, and dying in the attempt.

  Keeping her back low, Alex tilted her head up at Lila. “I assumed you were asleep,” she whispered, still obediently bent at the waist.

  “I assumed you know by now that I am unpredictable.”

  “Who was he?” Alex said, a twinkle in her eye. “Is he still here?”

  “He?”

  “She, then? My, my, my, I suppose things really have changed since university.”

  “Shut up, Alex.”

  “As you wish, Chief Randolph.” The slave bowed deeper, her face the very model of seriousness and propriety, except for a slight sarcastic twist on one side of her mouth.

  Lila tugged Alex into her room. It was such a quick movement that the slave nearly tripped over her heels. She barely managed to avoid dropping the silver tray.

  “Would you knock it off?” Lila growled once the door had closed.

  Alex surveyed the room, even peeking into the closet and the bathroom. Lila drew the line at her old friend checking under the bed. “There’s no one here.”

  “Then you went out? I’m glad to hear it. You’ve been starved for months. The staff was beginning to worry. I thought I might have to work my old contacts and lure some highborn scoundrel here for you to devour. I still know several who would meet your requirements.”

  Lila tried not to think about the truth in Alex’s pronouncement. She was a bit starved. She hadn’t been with a man in over a year, which she knew was far too long. If the staff of the great house was already beginning to whisper about it, the family would be sure to follow. Things would get awkward if that happened.

  As if she needed one more thing to worry about.

  Lila put it on her list of things to do. One, figure out if Bullstow had matched her DNA. Two, find Zephyr. Three, find and kill Tristan. Four, send a report to R&D about the Canidae trial run. Five, invite a man over for dinner and a show.

  Six, avoid contacting her client until she had sorted out what had happened at Bullstow.

  “I’m not starved, and I didn’t go anywhere,” she lied, somewhat amused at Alex’s rather accurate description of her past lovers. But at least wastrel sons of insignificant highborn families never wanted to get her pregnant. It would please their mothers and matrons too much. “I’ve been home all night.”

  “Fibber. I know you were with someone because you have that post-sex glow about you—”

  “That’s gas.”

  “Plus you’re awake at an ungodly hour of the morning, at least for you—”

  “I had insomnia.”

  “And you just got out of the shower,” the slave finished, as though it were the end of some magic trifecta, condemning Lila to some post-coital state.

  “I do bathe occasionally, Alex.”

  “Yes, but all three of those things at once are not a coincidence. Who’s responsible for your rosy cheeks and lazy smile?”

  “A warm shower will do that for you.”

  “Oh really?”

  Lila snatched up the missive on the silver tray.

  “I suppose sometimes you just have to take matters into your own hands. I’ll find those numbers for you this weekend.”

  Lila crushed the letter in her fist. “Damn it, Alex, I don’t need—”

  “Okay, I’ll make that tonight, Chief Fussy.”

  “You’re impossible, Alex,” Lila said as she flopped on the couch.

  Alex laughed and sat onto the cushion beside her. “Did the blast wake you?”

  Lila tapped the envelope against her thigh. “Did anyone sleep through it?”

  “Not likely. I bet half the city is awake.”

  “It wasn’t a train this time,” Lila said, tearing the envelope open. “Just a gas explosion.”

  Alex leaned back into the couch. “So what does the chairwoman want? Has she ordered you to run around the compound five times, shouting, ‘Glory to the Randolphs’?”

  “It’s more likely a summons. And you should mind your tongue before someone overhears it waggling.” Lila dug into the envelope and read the request for an early breakfast in the morning room. The rest of her plans would have to wait. “Tell Chairwoman Randolph that I shall arrive with great anticipation in fifteen minutes.”

  “Great anticipation?”

  “Yeah, make it sound sincere if you can.”

  The slave gathered up the tray once more and paused at the door. “What do you think she wants?”

  “Security for the Wabash Fundraiser next week, I suppose.” Lila’s easy tone belied her anxious stomach. The summons so soon after the botched job worried her, especially if the chairwoman was awake at such an early hour. The Randolph family was not known to be early risers. The estate was only six or seven kilometers away from Bullstow, though. It was likely the blast, and nothing more, that had woken the chairwoman.

  “Are you going?”

  “I’ll send a security team for the chairwoman and another if Jewel plans to attend, but I’m staying here. That’s the nice part about being the boss. You can delegate unpleasant tasks.”

  Alex fingered the tray. “Sometimes I hate you for that, you know. You’re a highborn. You could still be a part of it all if you wanted. The dances, the season, the balls.”

  Lila joined her at the door. “You turned your back on it long before you ended up in this situation, Alex. Don’t make me a part of your disappointments and regrets. It’s not fair.”

  “I don’t have regrets. Not really. What happened was my own fault. I never wanted to be an old woman, stuck at the end of my life, wondering ‘what if.’ That has to be worse than slavery, don’t you think?”

  “You’ve done well for yourself here,” Lila said, squeezing her shoulder. “The chairwoman respects you well enough to keep you in the great house, and your new coat of arms is much better than the old.”

  “The chairwoman only wants me close so that I can be watched.”

  “Do you think it’s any different with me? You might be a fallen heir from another family, but you are a highborn nonetheless. You know our ways, and you can be trusted. I suspect you’ll keep moving up if you want such things.”

  “Well, if I want such things, I should probably get back to work before I’m accused of sloth.” Alex waved goodbye with the silver tray and closed the bedroom door.

  Chapter 4

  Lila dried her dark hair, arranged it into a loose wave, and then donned her uniform. The black woolen trousers, white cotton blouse, and red officer’s jacket hugged her figure, yet stretched well enough for her to run or fight should the occasion arise. Her militia blackcoat, trimmed with red piping, went over it and skimmed her calves. Lila felt like herself again under so much leather, and she hummed under her breath while she finished dressing.

  Tucking her trousers into her boots, she considered pagin
g Isabel. The leather could do with a bit of a polishing, but there was no time for it. Instead, she swiped a towel over her boots and called the job done. She then holstered her backup Colt at her hip, slid her officer’s short sword into the scabbard on the opposite side, and rammed her knife into a sheath in her boot. Before leaving, she glanced in the mirror one last time and brushed off the four silver stars on her collar.

  Tugging on her black gloves, Lila descended the main staircase and passed through the main hall. It had been paneled in mahogany and adorned with crimson silk tapestries. The silver Randolph coat of arms hung on the wall, made by Jewel Randolph, painter, sculptor, and prime heir to the Randolphs. Portraits of the family surrounded it, spanning backward into the eighteenth century. The heirs’ crimson ball gowns had hardly changed much at all in that time. Neither had the men’s tailored coats and breaches.

  Lila stepped deeper into the house and entered the morning room. It should have been called the room of windows, for three of its walls had been built of glass. The rising sun streamed into the room, casting beams of light on a table, heavy with platters of pancakes and syrup, eggs, bacon, toast, yogurt, and blackberries. A bottle of Gregorie and a pitcher of orange juice peeked over the food. A male slave stood in the corner, dressed in crimson breeches, tights, and a matching coat, waiting for instructions.

  The chairwoman studied Lila. Her silver hair had been styled into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Though the matron claimed the hue was natural, Lila knew it had been dyed. Most people likely assumed it, for the woman was only forty-six years old. The color matched her coat, which bore the family coat of arms in crimson thread. The silvercoat was cut more stylishly than Lila’s militia jacket, but it still retained a regal and military air, as did her high-fashion boots of the same shade. She wore a flowing sheath dress in crimson underneath, and her body had been liberally dotted with rose-scented perfume.

  “Chief,” the chairwoman said by way of greeting, gesturing at the chair across from her.