by A. W. Exley
Sir John dismissed the assembled soldiers and told them to go home. It took two days to unload the troops already in the transporters. Two others were at sea and ordered to turn around and return to England. The people breathed a sigh of relief and dispersed, clutching their loved ones.
Winter descended early, hard on the heels of the unnatural rain, mimicking the cold atmosphere blanketing the country. The nation mourned the queen’s consort, believing he succumbed to a sudden illness. Only those who stood on the green that night knew the truth and only a few understood what actually happened.
Victoria took to her bed, overwhelmed by her grief. The Prime Minister continued the daily running of the country, allaying the fears of China and Russia and reassuring their treaty partners that England had no plans to invade her allies.
Days passed into weeks and the queen remained hidden behind black drapes. Nolton languished in the same Tower cell once occupied by Nate. Snow claimed London earlier than ever recorded and Cara wondered how the duke faired in the frigid cell.
The doors opened and the secretary looked up with a start. “Your Majesty.” He pushed his chair back and hurried to his feet to give a bow to his monarch.
Dressed head to toe in black, her blue gaze lighted on him. “Send for Sir John Fox.”
“Yes, ma’am. At once.”
The queen passed into her office and awaited the Constable of the Tower and his phonographic recording.
Nate pulled at his cravat, the fabric feeling tighter than usual, or it could be the sight of the noose swinging in the slight breeze constricting his breathing. The rain stopped, but the clouds lingered, sunlight filtering down to the green through a thick shroud. Only a few other men gathered to bear witness, loosely ranged around the wooden scaffolding, no one wanting to appear too eager by standing close.
The prisoner appeared around the corner flanked by soldiers, the priest walking at his side reading from the open bible in his palms. Nolton had shaved and donned a fresh suit of clothes. The wound in his leg healed as he walked toward his stage to meet his death in excellent health. His step faltered on the stairs, and the soldiers closed in as though expecting him to run.
Nate saw the shudder run through the other man’s form before he climbed higher and stepped under the waiting noose. The executioner approached with the black hood and Nolton waved the man away.
“No,” he said. His gaze found Nate as the rope tightened around his neck.
Sir John stepped forward. “Duke Grantham Nolton, you have been found guilty of the crime of treason and sentenced to be hanged until dead. Do you have any last words?”
A sneer pulled at his mouth. “I wouldn’t waste my breath on the likes of you.”
Sir John turned and descended the stairs. At the bottom, he gave a small nod to the black clad workman left on the platform.
Reaching out his right arm, he jerked hard on a lever. A clap sounded as the trap door flung open and smacked the underside of the floor. Then came a gasp, followed by a gurgle. The executioner had miscalculated the drop. There would be no easy dispatch for Granite Grantham as his soul fought against the grip of the hemp around his throat.
Nate waited until the struggles ceased before leaving the Tower grounds and climbing into the waiting carriage. Cara sat inside, a question in her eyes as he drew her into his embrace.
“It’s over, and his end mirrored what he did to Bubbles, Irina, and the other women.”
She let out a sigh and laid her head on his shoulder as the mechanical horses pulled the carriage to Buckingham Palace and the waiting queen.
The secretary pushed open the double doors and ushered Nate and Cara into the queen’s presence. He didn’t announce them and backed out quickly before he drew the attention of his mistress. Cara’s fingers intertwined with Nate’s as she dropped into a curtsey and he bowed.
Queen Victoria looked up from her desk, her face red from countless nights crying until she exhausted her tears. Her eyes were flat and lifeless, the joy and laughter taken from her. Clothed from head to foot in black, the colour drained from her face, she wore a new dour expression as though she would never smile again.
“Is it done?” Her tone chilled Cara to her toes.
God, I hope she’s not sending us to the Tower. Her fingers squeezed Nate’s larger hand, seeking reassurance that this wasn’t the end and if it were, they would face it together.
“Yes, ma’am. The matter is concluded.”
She nodded and laid down her fountain pen. “Through our own foolishness, we have lost the one person who meant the most to us. Me,” she whispered, rising from her desk. “The most important person in this world to me.” She dropped the third person for a rare glimpse at the heartbroken woman underneath. A deep breath and the moment moved on, the monarch returned. “We have a new position for the two of you. We are charging you with finding, and if possible, destroying these hell-spawned objects. You will be the royal artifact hunters. You may recruit two other individuals to assist you, so long as they can be trusted completely. No one must ever learn of your true mission.”
Cara glanced at Nate, his face unreadable. Instead of executing them, the queen had just offered them jobs.
“I had thought to retire to the countryside, ma’am, and to spend time with my wife.”
“You will oversee the construction of a facility hidden in the countryside if you so wish to house those artifacts which cannot be destroyed. I will personally oversee your budget, but rest assured it will be a deep one.”
“It has been a most trying time, ma’am.” Those words as close as Nate dared skate to mentioning his incarceration.
Cara chewed her lip. A royal payroll would be nice since she still hunted her father’s scattered artifacts and if her research was accurate, there were objects far more dangerous than the Collar.
Victoria snorted. “Come Nathaniel, we have a long association. You are not one to indulge in the idle pastimes of the wealthy and neither is your wife. We cannot imagine either of you taking to gardening or fishing.”
He nodded his head. “Your Majesty is too generous and we will not fail you.”
“See that you don’t. We will not have these items loose in the world. They cause too much pain and grief.” Tears glistened anew in her eyes. Her gaze lowered while she regained her composure. “There is the outstanding matter of our dragon.”
“Lost, ma’am, in the depths of Siberia. Duke Nolton pursued the creature, so we let it loose rather than have it fall into his hands.” Nate never blinked, the half-truth rising easily to his lips.
Her gaze met Nate’s. Red rimmed the blue iris and gave an unsettling effect. Cara looked away to study the map covering the wall. Her heart pounded and she held her breath, praying the little dragons would remain hidden from the world.
“Very well. Find a suitable location to house the artifacts and report back to us.”
She dismissed them with a wave of her hand and Nate drew Cara from the royal presence.
Nate worked late in his study, the aethergram a constant tick to accompany the scratch of his pen over the ledgers. Cara stood behind and slid her arms around his torso, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I’m nearly finished here,” he said, tidying away the last of his paperwork. “My family country estate will meet Victoria’s requirements. It has a natural harbour and an extensive network of caves in the nearby cliffs.”
A smile played over her face at the mention of caves and sea access. “Let me guess, long ago, it was used for smuggling?”
He pulled on her arm, drawing her body around and onto his lap. The rare wolfish smile lit his face. “What do you mean was used for smuggling? It still returns a healthy profit for the region.” His hands slid around her waist. “I have something for you.”
He leaned down and pulled open the large bottom drawer and extracted a wooden box about eight inches square and secured with a cream ribbon.
“What is it?” Her curiosity jumped up and down, de
manding immediate satisfaction. Christmas and her birthday were still a couple of weeks away and she hoped he wouldn’t make her wait.
“Open it and see.” He laid the package on her knees.
Her fingers pulled the cream silk bow loose and the ribbon tumbled away. She lifted the lid and peered inside.
“It’s a miniature dragon egg.” She gently freed it from the box. It appeared to be made of porcelain and had the same mottled oval surface as the dragon eggs. Grooves and furrows ran around the surface with the telltale red vein of a male egg. It was cool, though, whereas the others had been warm and living. Her fingertips found one groove that neatly encircled the middle of the egg. She held it up to the light of the fire and through the flames could see the outline of something within. She flicked a curious glance to Nate.
“It opens.” He laid his hands over hers and gave a tug. The egg separated into two halves on a hidden golden hinge. A tiny dragon rose up from its nest on a platform and spread gossamer thin wings.
“Oh.” Cara breathed in surprise and wonder. The creature was a perfect facsimile of little male they released into the forests of Siberia.
“I had it commissioned three months ago, and Sergei supplied the final drawings. Fabergé has taken over from his father and is quite taken with the idea of making eggs containing hidden surprises; he is making one for the tsar. Look closer at this one.”
Cara turned the creature in her hands, studying the way the master jeweller had carved the miniature dragon. Her eyes roamed over its powerful haunches, each iridescent scale unique in colour, hue, shape, or texture from its neighbours. The slender neck rose from the muscular body tapering to the triangular head. And between its jaws, it clutched the ring. The large emerald cut diamond set in platinum.
Her fingertip stroked the back of the facsimile dragon. “So much has happened in the last two months, it seems a lifetime since the little dragon dropped this into my palm.”
His hand stroked up her spine. “You never did give me an answer. I’m still waiting for your refusal.”
She raised her eyes to his. “You used a dragon to propose to me. What woman could refuse an offer from a mythical creature?”
“You’ll be my wife?” Hope flared in his crystal blue eyes.
“We’re already married and had a honeymoon in St. Petersburg, so yes. I will be your wife.”
He pulled her tighter against his chest, dipped his head, and his lips slid over her mouth to seal the deal.
A big shout out to Claire of Tanglefoot Lane Photography. I have an aversion to cameras and I defy anyone to find a photo of me in which I’m not hiding behind something. When Claire found out I planned to use a photo of my horse as my author photo she leapt into action and dragged me in front of the camera. Personally I think she didn’t do too bad a job with this old nag ;)
Thanks to my weird family who have adapted to a writer in their midst and who think it is perfectly normal to discuss the zombie apocalypse at dinner time. Or maybe writing was a secret ploy to get out of housework and cooking, although I’m sure my future daughters-in-law will be impressed with the skills my boys are learning! I have to say sorry to Thomas, my son and eleven year old writing buddy who will be gutted when he finds out I didn’t blow anything up (his favourite plot device).
This book would never have made it into your hands without the help of Chrystal, wonder editor, who dropped everything and managed to have her passes waiting in my inbox each morning. Matt is the most fantastic proof reader who stopped the Hellcat from having scones attached to the walls.
Finally, a thank you to Lisa, Eugene, and the CQ team for bringing this book to life and doing their behind the scenes witchery.
Quarry: 1. n a place, typically a large pit, from which stone may be extracted. 2. n a person being chased or sought.
ain, sun, or hurricane, Watchers stood guard, eyes always open, and ears forever listening. He never moved from his position with claws curled around the building parapet. He didn’t mind the rain so much; at least it washed away the excrement left by perching birds. Down below, his favorite show pulled into the car park and his eyes tracked the sweet piece of booty that emerged from the Maserati. He’d watched her for the last five years, ever since the spring day she moved into the apartment building. She arrived as a twenty-one year old graduate, embarking on her career. Back then, she dressed like a flirty Audrey Hepburn, with capris and white cotton shirts. As her career and confidence grew, she morphed into a sexed up Rita Hayworth with tight wiggle skirts and seamed stockings.
As the years passed, suspicion nagged at him. He noticed little things, like when she pinched the bridge of her nose, fending off a headache. Or when a person crossed her path, and she shook her head, as though clearing double vision. Other days, she focused her gaze on empty space, seeing something invisible to those around her.
Under his watch, Jema Johnson blossomed into the courtroom diva. She earned her rep not because of her antics, but because she looked like a 1940s pin-up. While her opponents wiped drool off their briefs, she wiped the courtroom floor with them. She had the most impressive win ratio of any city defense attorney. Keeping his ears open through the network, rumors circulated that she possessed a sixth sense, capable of discerning which clients told the truth, and who lied through their teeth.
Rumors piled on top of suspicions, making a heap too large to ignore. Connecting his mind to the network, he passed his intel about the pinup girl higher up the food chain, to Jacob Deacon, head Warden in the city.
He was about to shut down his mind for a well-deserved time out when he received manna from heaven. As she pulled files from the back of her car, something small hit the ground.
Oh yeah, baby, you dropped something. Bend over and pick it up.
he tiny flash drive made a soft thud as it slid from the file and hit the concrete. JJ swore under her breath and clutching the numerous files to her chest before bending at the waist to retrieve the drive. A shiver ran down her spine as though some pervert gawked at her arse. Straightening, she turned, and her gaze roamed over the high walls enclosing the car park.
Nothing. No one. Weird.
Shaking off her unease, she locked the car and headed to the back entrance of the apartment block. Built in the 1920s with the clean, simple lines of the art deco movement, the red brick was highlighted with bold cream lines. The only blemish on the grand dame was the thing the architect had for gargoyles. They were plastered all over the building: crawling up drainpipes, clinging to stone parapets, even invading the foyer and hallways.
No wonder I think I’m being watched. Those beady, little eyes are everywhere.
Wrangling the files, her handbag, a shopping tote, and her keys, she managed to make it through the door of her second floor apartment without dropping anything. She hit the light switch with her shoulder and dumped her armload on the large table around the corner in the study nook.
She took a deep breath and let calm wash through her bones. The apartment came courtesy of her first clients. Distant relatives wanted to shove the dying woman in a hospice, separate her from her soul mate, and take control of her fortune. JJ fought, and won, for Marta’s right to die on her own terms. Marta died in her home, along with her devoted nurse and lover, Lily. Cancer took one, a bottle of pills the other.
Her friends thought her mad, living in the apartment where two people died, but JJ sensed only deep love emitted by the previous occupants and absorbed into the very walls. Lily cared for Marta until the end, telling her every day she was beautiful, long after the chemo took her hair and the cancer wasted her frame. Then Lily swallowed the pills, phoned the doctor, and lay down to join Marta in eternal sleep. Marta left the apartment to JJ, along with a trust of sufficient size to fund her fledgling practice. Lily bequeathed her Maserati.
Every day, JJ thanked the women who gave her the freedom to follow her own course, and an apartment that sheltered her from the chaos and noise of the city.
She toed off her h
igh heels, padded in her stockings to the kitchen, and dropped the tote on the bench. Reaching into the bag, she pulled out a bottle of Pinot Noir and then twisted off the screw cap.
She poured the deep, burgundy liquid into a large glass. Another Friday night with her files, laptop, and a yellow legal pad for company. Not that JJ minded. Taking underdog cases wouldn’t make her rich, but it eased something in her soul. She levelled the playing field in a city where the justice you received depended on the lawyers you could afford. The downside meant she spent evenings plotting strategies and combing through evidence reports, looking for hairline fractures she could rupture.
Her current case, Mandy Simpson, had unfortunate taste in men and picked one that liked to use her as a punching bag. Until one night when Mandy’s scrabbling fingers curled around something while he tried to cave her face in, and she struck back. She plunged a kitchen knife up into his gut and, by sheer fluke, pierced his heart. The abuser’s powerful father threw all his weight, and fortune, behind having the shattered woman tried for murder.
The prosecution’s case hinged on painting Mandy as a knife-wielding, ninja assassin intent on killing the heir of the most powerful man in the city. JJ argued self-defense. One glance at the stack of police reports for the domestic call outs, and JJ knew she championed the right side. The haunted look in the other woman’s eyes confirmed her decision and hardened her resolve.
A few hours later, and a rough outline for the case took form on her legal pad. The wine glass sat empty when her phone gave a cricket shrill. She glanced at the screen before answering.
“What have you done, Ariel?”
Laughter and music garbled over the line before the voice answered. “Grab a pen, I’m giving you an address, it’s a rescue mission.”
