Master of Myth (The Antigone's Wrath Series Book 1)

by Starla Huchton

  Hopping onto the floor, Iris crossed the room to her specially designed medicine cabinet. Made from the husk of an old wardrobe, the doors contained bright brass expanding shelves holding jars of all sorts of things. Every receptacle had a fixed spot with a specifically molded recess. Any container out of place would easily jostle, tumble, and break during travel. Some of her collected herbs, flowers, and spices would make the wealthiest of apothecaries envious. One benefit to constant travel was the access to rare plants grown in the farthest reaches of the world. She selected two jars, removing bits of dried, gray-green leaves from each. The components selected, she crushed them lightly with a mortar and pestle and poured the contents into a small linen bag.

  She set the pouch down on the work area and flipped a switch at the rear of the cabinet, a bubbling sound telling her the mechanism was working. A one-inch pipe running through the wall, into the wardrobe, and down the inside backing, shuddered as boiling water filled it. Iris removed the lid from the brass teapot and opened the spigot above it. When it was half full, she closed the tap, placed the bag inside her favorite teacup and poured the scalding liquid over it. This installation had been a birthday gift from Rachel a few years ago. Iris didn’t want to think about how much it probably cost her.

  The mild brew of pennyroyal and eyebright boosted her spirits considerably. Their restorative properties strengthened her resolve and the warmth of the tea helped to chase away the aftereffects of her recurring nightmare. In another hour or so, she needed to pick up Rachel’s trail. A few hours could make a huge difference in the position of a moving object. However, a clear head was required for those workings and time was the only cure for scattered thoughts.

  After finishing her tea, she set her cup aside and noted with a sigh that she was still wearing her clothing from the night before. On a whim, she considered a proper dress, but comfort would be key to her work today. She stood and walked to her dresser. Unlocking the drawers, she selected her favorite sari; the last her mother gave her before she joined the crew of the Antigone’s Wrath. The soft, crimson fabric always gave her the feeling of home. The emotional support would be welcome today.

  By the time she was dressed, groomed and topside, the normal activities of the ship were going full speed. She was surprised to discover the crew preparing to shine the brightworks. Gas masks piled against the masts and the crate containing the caustic polish was being pried open. It seemed the men had a mind to go into battle looking their best.

  Iris climbed the stairs to the pilothouse. Danton was giving orders to a crewman while another manned the wheel. When he saw her, he looked relieved. He finished his conversation and stepped out onto the landing to speak with her.

  “How are you feeling?” He touched her elbow, concerned.

  She shrugged. “Fair, all things considered. Has Jiao woken yet? I’ll be needing an assistant this morning, and I imagine you’re in need of some sleep.”

  “There are a few things I need to take care of first, mostly in the galley, but after that, oui.” He yawned and worked a crick out of his neck. It popped loudly, and she noted how much older he seemed these last few weeks. The crisis weighed heavily on everyone.

  She smiled in an effort to cover her worry. “Try not to be too long, Monsieur DuSalle. I can’t have my master-at-arms an exhausted wreck. You’ll be no use to me then.”

  Danton chuckled. “Aye aye, Madame le Capitaine,” he said with a wink and headed down the stairs, but turned to added one last thing. “I shall roust the Princess from slumber and send her to you.”

  With that, he was gone. After taking a glance inside the pilothouse, Iris nodded satisfactorily at the happenings before heading to the captain’s quarters. When she entered the passageway to Rachel’s rooms, she jumped at seeing Jiao already standing there waiting.

  “Good morning, Miss Singh.” Jiao bowed politely. “Did you sleep well?”

  Iris stared at her. “Not particularly, no, but that isn’t unusual.” She sighed and proceeded to unlock the door. “Are you prepared to assist me this morning?”

  Jiao held up a small notebook and fountain pen as her answer. “Do you require anything else of me?”

  Giving the girl a sidelong glance, she opened the door and admitted her. “Have you ever called a circle before?”

  Jiao looked crestfallen. “No, Miss. My limited teachings never reached those heights.”

  “Then what do you know?”

  She paused for a moment before responding. “I have a good working knowledge of plants and their uses, meditation and focus, spiritual history, and Aether Manipulation theory.”

  “But no spellcraft?”

  Jiao shook her head.

  “Well, it’s not a bad start. At least you’re aware of the ideas and safe practices. And your herbal knowledge is useful.” Iris stopped, turned and looked at Rachel’s desk, frowning. “Especially since I’ve forgotten a few things back in my room.”

  After giving Jiao a list of ingredients, she approached the makeshift altar and straightened her tools. The sage was nothing but a pile of ash; the same for the herbal mixture burned in ceremony. Salt was everywhere. She stretched her arms, cracked her knuckles, and got to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Island

  Mortimer Cross paced his quarters in irritation. He was under strict orders to keep Rachel Sterling alive and in good health. While he understood the reasoning for this, it did nothing to alleviate his desire to reduce her to a sobbing, sniveling shadow of her current conceited persona. He saw through her posturing when no one else did. Beneath the cocky flamboyance was a woman no different from any other: softhearted, weak-willed, and ignorant.

  Why she persisted in this masquerade was a mystery to him. He thought he made it perfectly clear she was utterly helpless and hopeless on his last visit. Any freedom she had was dictated by him. Despite the small kindness he showed her by letting some slack out of her chains, that streak of contempt and stubborn will remained. What was being done was to her benefit, to everyone’s benefit, couldn’t she see that?

  No, of course she couldn’t. Even if he explained the great work of the Brotherhood to her, the stupid cow would never understand.

  Brother Cross stared at his bookshelf and let his thoughts roam. Having her aboard the submarine was almost worse than tracking her halfway across the globe. Knowing she was so close, yet still untouchable, infuriated him. She needed to be broken.

  Unable to contain his annoyance, he stalked out of the room and down to the holding cell that contained the bane of his existence. Rather than question his presence, the posted guard snapped to and unlocked the door for him.

  She didn’t even look at him when he entered. Was she testing him? “Feeling well this evening?”

  The muscles in her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

  His hand flew at her face before he could control it. “Answer me!” He yelled as the force from his backhanded slap snapped her head back.

  Her head dropped forward, her chin resting on her chest. She still refused to speak. Mortimer gripped her chin so harshly he thought he heard it crack faintly. “I said—”

  Rachel spat at him, bright blood from a gash inside her cheek spewing onto his face. He sputtered and stumbled a few steps backwards before angrily wiping at the fluid. When he looked at her, she was grinning. Damn her, she was grinning!

  “I had no idea you cared so much for my welfare.” Her cheek was already beginning to swell, but she looked oblivious to the pain.

  He charged and slammed her against the wall by her throat. “I only ask to see if there might be more I can do to see you suffer,” he said through clenched teeth, barely an inch from her face.

  An impulse itched at the back of his skull as he stared into her eyes. Her lips, stained scarlet from her own blood, tempted him. What might she taste like, bruised and battered?

  Pure fury coursed through his veins like poison. How dare she attempt to bend his resolve— his need— to se
e her utterly broken before him? With his other hand under her chin, he ran his thumb along her bottom lip, smearing crimson over her skin. Even in the dark and cold, she was still on fire.

  After another brief squeeze of her windpipe, he released her, coughing and sputtering as she dropped to her knees. The sight sated him, for now. He slipped out of the cell, contented with her misery.

  Every breath burned. The sick, sadistic bastard wanted nothing more than to see her crawl. Rachel pounded a fist against cold metal. “Brother” Mortimer Cross was mad. Absolutely, irrefutably mad.

  Even more disturbing was the distinct feeling that the man thought to kiss her. If he wanted to make her suffer, that might push her over the edge completely. With one gentle touch, her level of fear exploded to new heights. The mere thought of his putrid mouth on hers churned her stomach. How much longer would this imprisonment last? Surely the Brotherhood would kill her soon and be done with it. After all, they had the ring. What did they need her for?

  Rachel sat back and pulled her knees to her chest. At least Iris was all right. It was also possible that Danton pulled through. And what of her ship? Had the Antigone’s Wrath survived along with them?

  Her cell door opened and she tensed for a moment. It was the “doctor” again. Whatever her tormentor did to her, he always sent the healer to clean up his mess. Rachel reasoned he must be on orders to deliver her unmarked. The thought did not sit well with her. Whatever madness they needed her for, they wanted all of her for it. If she outlasted this business, she would not only encourage Danton, but join him in his quest to eradicate the lot of them.

  Wordlessly as always, the healer worked his magic and departed. No sooner was the man gone than the now-familiar tingle of Iris’s presence draped over her like a warmed blanket. Only now did she allow herself tears. Here, in those moments with the comfort of her friend to shelter her, was she vulnerable. She rested her forehead on her knees and closed her eyes.

  “Find me, Iris,” she whispered as exhaustion overtook her.

  Silas lifted the face shield and looked around, confused, when the double blast of the ship’s alarm startled him from his work. Welding a piece like this was delicate work. Any jarring would ruin it and that would be the end for him, no question. He needed the machine to work, if only for a short period of time. He doubted the Brotherhood needed a reason to kill him, but if they were distracted by the Machine, there could be time to sneak away.

  “Why the alarm?” Silas asked the ever-present guard.

  The man looked down at his watch before answering. “Docking.”

  “Docking?” Silas panicked. “I was told ten days. It’s only been—”

  “Ten days,” the guard finished, looking annoyed with the inventor.

  “Are you certain? I was quite sure I had more time.” Silas glanced at the man, who told him with a look that he had been counting the minutes and seconds until he was rid of this tedious duty. “It seems not. Rather a good thing I’m moments away from finishing, then, isn’t it?” He gave a nervous laugh.

  Before he could return to work, the floor lurched beneath his feet. The vessel groaned in protest as momentum urged them onwards. Grateful he waited to restart the blowtorch, Silas paused a few seconds more to ensure the ship was still, then slammed down the face shield and completed the welding. Mere moments later, the workshop door opened with a clang. Brother Mortimer Cross entered, a pack of bowler-hatted men behind him in the passageway.

  “Your time is up, Mr. Jensen,” he said with finality. “I do hope you’ve completed our project on schedule.”

  Silas nodded grimly. “Minus one piece.”

  Cross approached the workbench to admire the machine. As he circled it, he punctuated the silence with hems and haws, but ultimately deemed it worthy. “You understand if I ask you to stay for the inaugural demonstration, yes?”

  “I wasn’t aware I had a choice in the matter,” Silas answered. He expected at least this much. The question was, would they release him when it seemed to run as it should, or dispatch him without a second thought? He remembered the monk and scribe from the monastery with a shudder.

  “Shall we, then?” Brother Cross motioned him out of the room.

  Silas fell into step with the group of men awaiting him as they tromped through the corridors of the underwater craft. The low rumble of the idling engines grew stronger as they progressed aftwards. They came to a halt in front of a guarded door, and he held his breath. His suspicions about the room were confirmed when a slightly ragged, but still defiant, Rachel was hauled out. When her eyes caught Silas’s, she tossed him a wink before they pushed her to the front of the group. He shook his head and smiled half-heartedly. That might have been the nicest exchange they’d had since he boarded the Antigone’s Wrath. It was a sad victory, but he cherished it nonetheless.

  The assembly set off again, this time stopping in front of a thick, watertight door. Just to the left of the hinge, a pneumatic pump idled. To the right of the wheeled handle, a control box with two vertical levers and a row of three lit buttons awaited operation. A gray periscope protruded from the wall above the controls. A crewman stepped to the box, planted his face in front of the viewer, and pushed the top button. Silas heard the pneumatics hiss as the crewman maneuvered something on the outside of the ship. After a minute or two of this, there was a loud clang and the middle button was pressed. Double checking the outside, the sailor seemed satisfied with the progress and hit the bottom button. The sound of rushing water came through the thick metal door. Had they surfaced?

  The sailor saluted sharply. “All go to disembark, sir.”

  Mortimer Cross waved him off. “Fine, fine. Just open the door.”

  As directed, the young man turned the wheel. Silas fought back a surge of panic. Surely they wouldn’t open a door to the outside on a submarine while it was submerged.

  The lock disengaged and the door opened outward with a rush of air. On the other side was a steel tunnel that ended against a wet stone door. The far end of the shaft rested inside a metal ring that was fused to the rock around it. Mortimer Cross stepped through the portal without hesitation, then grabbed Rachel’s arm, pulling her after him. A nudge to his ribs from something hard urged Silas forward. His throat tightened, thinking about the pounds of pressure pushing in on him from all sides. When he reached the end, Brother Cross was already unlocking the door. It was a combination of some sort, requiring small, inset stones be pushed in a certain order. The sequence finished and rock ground against rock as the path opened up.

  A long, dark hall stretched before them. The other men pushed Silas through the doorway until they could get around him. From the lefthand wall, several kerosene lamps waited to be lit. With this dim light, Silas could see the intricate, geometric patterns of the tightly fit tiled floor.

  They did not spare Silas a lantern, so he was forced to squint through the shadows of other men and hope he didn’t trip over his own feet. The illumination stopped before reaching the walls, and there was no way to see what lay beyond the dim procession. Their footfalls echoed into the distance. Whatever awaited them in this place, Silas decided it was most certainly nothing good.

  “There.” Danton pointed to the island in the distance. “That should be the location.”

  Iris squinted at the mass. “You must be right. It’s hard to believe that tiny place is the final destination.” They turned from the railing and headed up to the pilothouse. “There’s no dock, and from the looks of that coastline, it would be ill-advised to bring the ship too close. We’d run the rocks for certain.”

  “I’ll have the men ready the boats for going ashore.” Danton excused himself and set about issuing orders.

  Nothing ran as smoothly without Rachel, most notably the operations at the wheel. The process lacked the fluidity she’d come to appreciate more in Rachel’s absence. The men aboard ship were adequately trained, but none of them read the water or sky as the captain did.

  A mile from shore, the
Antigone’s Wrath set anchor. Five other ships followed suit, and soon the water was filled with longboats carrying heavily armed men. Iris regarded them from her perch in the lead boat. Would they be enough? With no estimation of what awaited them, all they could do was hope for the best.

  She narrowed her eyes at Jiao and Eddie, sitting ahead of her. Both insisted on coming along. Although she was impressed and confident in Jiao’s combat abilities, Eddie presented another challenge. With only a year’s difference in age between them, Iris had little in the way of an argument to prevent him from assisting in the rescue. Danton, in a stroke of brilliance, attempted to lock the boy in his room, but, being both crafty and mechanically inclined, Eddie made short work of the door. Furious about the slight, he shot a crewman as “proof of concept” for a compact particle gun he built. The man survived without damage, except being unconscious for over an hour. Unwilling to risk more temporary casualties, not to mention admiring his nerve and ingenuity, Iris allowed him to come along on the condition that he stay with her at all times. He rigged a pack on his back to act as a portable charger for his weapon, but it was cumbersome. While the weapon was effective, the extra weight would slow him down in a fight. She hoped she wouldn’t regret bringing him along.

  Jumping out of the longboat, she was up to her knees in water. Fortunately, she’d borrowed a pair of breeches from Rachel and wasn’t bogged down in wet skirts. She didn’t think the captain would mind, given the circumstances. It was an odd sensation, however. Men’s clothes never appealed to her. The situation called for it, though. She had to admit, her freedom of movement was greatly increased. It made sense that Rachel dressed this way.

  It wasn’t as much the breeches that made her uncomfortable as it was the leather harness strapped around her torso. While searching for trousers in Rachel’s wardrobe, Iris came across it. Covered in loops and holsters, the harness could carry dozens of potion vials, small knives, bullets, and small explosives. Though the equipment was quite useful, the way it cinched her ribcage displayed her curves in a manner she was unaccustomed to. It required all of her concentration to ignore the bulging eyes of the crew. Even Danton, normally the pinnacle of sailor’s chivalry, couldn’t hide his sidelong glances. Despite the heat and humidity of the Southern Pacific, Iris opted to wear a cloak along with her mask of hostility. The last thing she needed was a group of simpering, drooling boys to lead into battle.