by S. C. Stokes
“Has anyone seen my hat?” I asked, resting my hands on my hips.
She gave me a lighthearted shove. “You are such a dork.”
“Worth it,” I replied, as Murdoch pushed open the door.
“Are you two done? I spoke with ground crew at Teterboro. They’re fueling her up as we speak and filing a flight plan. We can be wheels up in under an hour.”
Scooping up the duffel, I followed Murdoch through the parking garage to the elevator. Abandoning the truck was a win-win. Either it would take the police a day or two to find it, or someone would steal it and take it for a joyride, adding one more dud trail to be run down.
Riding the lift up to the next floor, Murdoch pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked a black BMW town car three bays from the lift. He took the front seat, while Dizzy and I slid into the back.
In no time, we were back in the traffic heading North-West toward Teterboro Private Airport. Rolling through Manhattan, I began to relax a little. The day had not gone at all as I had intended it, but truth be told, it seldom did.
Today had to be something of a record though, a heist on a museum of all places and it had still gone to hell in a hand basket. A CIA sponsored facility in the middle of Manhattan. It was a horrendous oversight on my part. I should have dug deeper. It seemed I was destined to make the same mistakes over and over again.
The world was changing, and I needed to adapt. In the wake of the attack on New York, the world was reacting to the presence of the supernatural, perhaps too quickly.
And Lara? A trained operative? How had I missed that? She was smart, funny, and so utterly obsessed with the ancient world that I had never even pondered the possibility. After all, with everything that had gone wrong, why doubt the thing that was most right in my life?
Well, it had been until today. It was difficult to tell where the cards would fall, but there was a solid chance I'd just burned my life in New York to the ground. The mask was the best shot at I'd ever had at learning more about my curse, but at what cost? Maybe my father was right. Maybe the future I wanted was just a dream. One that was destined to slip through my fingers.
At least I had the mask. That was something.
I squeezed my feet together, gripping the duffel between my legs.
The mask was the first tangible link to the Brujas de Sangre, and if my research was correct, it would be the key to entering their lost sanctuary and discovering what had truly occurred there. My father had a theory about why the curse had been laid upon us, but neither us, nor any of our forebears, had succeeded in finding someone who knew enough about blood magic to be able to lift the hex.
When it came to blood magic, it seemed the resident experts had all but disappeared soon after my forebear's last expedition to Panama in 1596. The timing was suspicious to say the least, but Spanish records of the colonies were spotty at best, and references to a cult of witches, if such records had ever existed, had long since been purged from their highly curated history.
Overhead, the skies were steadily darkening. The first raindrops struck the windshield with a gentle pitter-patter that was almost cathartic.
“Come off it,” Dizzy said. “I hate flying in a storm.”
“Don't worry, dearie,” Murdoch replied. “This is hardly a drizzle. You'll barely notice once we're airborne.”
Dizzy sank back into the leather seat, looking utterly unconvinced by Murdoch's reassurance. Her skepticism was justified. Murdoch considered anything less than a hurricane as perfectly suitable for flying. Hopefully, the weather would clear over the Atlantic and provide for a smooth run home.
Home. I tensed at the thought. It had been years since I'd been back there. After Rome, my father had made it only too clear that I was no longer welcome.
His thunderous words filled my mind. “You can’t have it both ways. Be a Caldwell, with all that comes with it. Or be nothing. I won’t shield you from your fate any longer. It’s high time you grow up.”
Rome had been my day of decision, and the last time my father and I had spoken. Now I was fleeing the CIA and looking for sanctuary. There was only one place in the world I knew could provide sanctuary, Weybridge Manor, the Caldwell family home.
My father’s wrath or a CIA black site. It should have been an easy decision, but it was hard not to feel like we might be leaving the frying pan in favor of the fire.
Frank Caldwell was a man of strong opinions on how I ought to spend my life. In the course of his, he had taken the dynastic wealth he had inherited and magnified it many fold. The Caldwell Group spanned the globe. With business interests in dozens of countries and partners in dozens more, there were few halls in which Frank Caldwell's opinion didn't rate a mention.
Our family were a force to be reckoned with. It had been so since my forebear won fame and fortune for the crown. His name was Francis Drake.
Yes, Sir Francis Drake.
As a sea captain, he had circumnavigated the world in a single expedition. He was second in command of the fleet that foiled the Spanish Armada and on receiving his letters of marque, became her majesty's personal privateer, plaguing the Spanish treasure fleets and voraciously hounding their interests in the New World.
History reads that he caught dysentery while anchored near Portobelo and died there, buried at sea in a lead-lined coffin that had never been seen again. But history was a well-known liar.
The journals Francis kept tell a different story. During his attempted overland invasion of Las Palmas, he discovered something that would change his life forever: a woman named Ellawaya, daughter of the high priestess of the Brujas de Sangre and a prominent witch in their order.
Ellawaya was destined to inherit her mother's title but longed for a different life. Francis and Ellawaya found a future in each other, the opportunity for a new life. After faking his death, the pair rendezvoused on shore, gathered provisions, and purchased transport to England. One weary warrior, one witch, and their unborn child.
Free of his responsibilities to the crown, Francis began to go by a new name, Francis Caldwell the First. Using his vast experience and considerable means, Francis backed the East India Trading Company and funded England's expansion across the globe. At its height, it could truly be said that the sun never set on British soil, and Francis Caldwell had been a defining influence of the empire.
The couple had their child, Arthur, who survived his father, and reared a family of his own. Arthur inherited his father's wealth and his mother's arcane gifts. The half-blood wizard led a truly blessed existence but grew increasingly erratic until, at the age of sixty, he hurled himself from the balcony of his home and died ignominiously on the cobblestone street below. Mad Arthur, it seemed, would not measure up to his father's ambitions.
It wasn't until Arthur's son, Garrick, also took his own life, that our family began to recognize the truth. Francis Drake had brought more than magic back from Panama. He had brought the enduring wrath of the Brujas de Sangre and a curse that seemed determined to extinguish our bloodline once and for all.
So it has been through the years, successive heirs to the Caldwell empire, each trying desperately to raise a posterity to preserve their legacy before they themselves were driven to insanity by the curse. Many had tried and failed to cure the madness, but the curse still coursed through their veins. Fortunes had been made and spent, legions of arcane practitioners had been consulted, but when it came to blood magic, the Brujas de Sangre operated in a league of their own. One that had vanished without a trace.
Now it was my turn. My father Frank, named ambitiously for our forebear, had raised the family dynasty to new heights, wielding power that went well beyond the familial fortune. Frank was connected.
Unfortunately, he had spent most of his life pursuing power, rather than finding a cure for his affliction. After my birth, my parents had tried for a second child, but my younger brother, Adam, had died during childbirth.
Now the weight of the Caldwell empire rested on Frank's increa
singly unstable shoulders. I was his heir apparent but also his greatest disappointment. Unlike my forebears, I could not see the point in perpetuating this misery on a new generation. I resolved in my youth that I would not bring a child into this world unless I could do so without also handing him a death sentence courtesy of the ancient curse. I would not repeat my father’s mistakes.
Naturally, my parents took this declaration really well.
The resulting fallout had driven me to New York and a life abroad, but the separation had also given me the freedom to hunt for answers to the Caldwell Curse. After all, my time was running out. As long as my father survived, the curse seemed to focus its efforts on bringing about his demise, driving him insane as it had those before him. The day he passed, though, I would have to contend with it in earnest. It was a competition of wills my family had been losing for close to four-hundred years.
As I said, baggage.
My life had its perks, though. There wasn't a day I woke up a wizard that I didn't smile a little bit as I looked in the mirror. But it was power with a price that would one day come due for payment, and all the Caldwell money in the world wouldn't settle that debt.
Come what may, this disease would end with me. If I couldn’t stop it, the halfblood's hex would take its last life—mine.
I couldn't help but wonder what my father would say about the mask. It was more concrete evidence of the Brujas de Sangre than we had been able to find in years. The last clue of their existence, a Spanish doubloon rumored to contain coordinates of their lost temple, had been a forgery.
Now we had proof my forebear's journals weren't a fanciful recounting of his affairs in the New World. All we needed to do was find the temple, and uncover its secrets.
The BMW rolled up to the security gate at Teterboro Airfield. Unlike a normal commercial airfield, the exclusive facility was designed to accommodate luxury travel, freeing the larger nearby airports of the interruption of the smaller private planes. For those who could afford it, Teterboro was a godsend. Handling the ground support, refueling and administration of its customers, and sparing them the tedium of standing in airport security for hours on end. No more needing to show up hours before a flight was due to depart.
Murdoch flashed his ID and the guard waved us through, directing us toward the Meridian, Teterboro's executive terminal. The Meridian was practically a high-end gas station for private planes.
We pulled into the lot in front of it and left the car behind, racing for the terminal as the rain pelted down in sheets.
It was strange to travel so light. Of the three of us, I was carrying the only bag, with the mask, the plate, and the files I had looted from the museum. There simply hadn't been time to make any other arrangements. Fortunately, the plane had a few provisions that would tide us over until we made it home.
Murdoch led the charge through Teterboro's sliding glass door.
“Captain Murdoch!” an officious blond clerk called from behind the counter. Her narrow-rimmed glasses had slid down her nose so that she was looking over them. “It's good to see you again.”
Murdoch's lips widened into a grin. “Charlaine, my dear, always good to see you. I'm sorry to call on such short notice. You know how it is, business never sleeps.”
Charlaine gave a knowing nod. “Don't I ever. Fortunately, we've got a few openings on account of the storm. The boys are just finishing wheeling her out. You should be airborne in a matter of minutes.”
Murdoch leaned on the counter. “You’re an angel, Charlaine. What would I do without you?”
“You old rogue, I'm sure you say that to all the girls,” Charlaine replied, her fingers returning to the keyboard. “Head on through to the gate. She should be in Bay C waiting.”
“Thanks, Charlaine.” Murdoch flashed her a wide grin.
Ignoring the water that was running off our sodden clothes onto the carpet, we breezed through the Meridian and back out into the rain. There, facing the short taxiway, was our Gulfstream G550, Gladys. Our ticket to freedom.
Murdoch raced over to the ground crew to check the final preparations and I pointed to the mobile stairway. “Ladies first.”
“Don't mind if I do,” Dizzy replied. She hurried up the aluminum steps to the open door of the jet.
As I stepped into the plane, I found Dizzy reclining her leather seat back. Gladys had a number of unusual features. The first was that half its seats had been removed, making room for a workbench and cabinetry along one side of the aircraft. Beyond the bench were the aircraft's amenities and storage lockers. The plane had enough tactical equipment to outfit a small militia and an array of technology that was years away from being commercially available.
The perks of Caldwell money.
More often than not, Gladys served as our mobile base of operations, our home away from home. She wasn’t the newest plane on the market, but Gladys had got us out of more than one tight spot over the years.
I placed the duffel on the workbench for now but had every intention of taking a closer look at the mask, once we were airborne.
Murdoch bounded into the plane and shut the door, water running off him in tiny rivers.
“How are you feeling about the rain now?” Dizzy asked.
Murdoch winked, “Like I said, just a drizzle. We're clear for takeoff. So seatbelts on, folks.”
He raced into the cockpit and set himself down.
Following him in, I plonked down in the co-pilot's chair. Not that I had any delusions of flying the plane; I just preferred to see my death approaching.
I expected to find Murdoch readying the plane. Instead, he crossed himself and whispered feverishly, “Our Father, who art in heaven.”
“Murdoch?”
He raised his finger. “Not while I'm praying.”
I knew better than to argue with him. Murdoch was a man of faith, habit, and superstition, and while he might have walked the knife's blade between oblivion and insanity from time to time, he did so on his terms.
Murdoch finished his prayer, and fired up the plane's engines.
“More concerned about the storm than you're letting on?” I asked, as he eased the plane onto the taxiway.
“Not at all. I just never take off without a quick prayer,” he replied, putting on his headset. “Well, almost never.”
“Oh, yeah?” I lifted on my headset.
“Just once. Back in Iraq, and I spent three days in the bleeding desert. Never again.”
Equal parts superstition and faith, that was Murdoch.
“Meridian Tower, this is Gulfstream G-007 ready for takeoff. Over.”
“Roger that, G-007, the runway is yours. Safe travels out there. We hope to see you again soon. Over.”
“Roger that, Meridian, proceeding to takeoff, over and out.”
Murdoch taxied the craft onto Teterboro's runway and gave me a nod. Before I could respond, the plane launched forward, hurtling down the runway. Rain fell in sheets as the airplane's nose rose, lifting it into the air.
Faster than any bird could fly, we rose through the air, sailing over New Jersey before wheeling left and heading out over the Atlantic.
Free and clear, I let out a breath of relief. Patting Murdoch on the shoulder, I rose from the seat determined to take a look at the mask before stealing a few hours of sleep.
I'd only made it a few steps into the cabin when Murdoch shouted, “Seth. You're going to want to take a look at this.”
“Still just a drizzle?” Dizzy asked, biting her lip.
Murdoch ripped off his headset. “Ah, now it’s fairly pissing down.”
I ducked back into the cockpit only to find the view much unchanged. The storm beat on the aircraft but we continued to rise.
“What am I looking for?” I asked, squinting into the distance.
“Not out there, over there.” He pointed off to Gladys' left flank.
There, matching the Gulfstream's path and speed, was a F/A-18 Hornet fighter jet. A glance to the right revealed a seco
nd plane, flying escort.
So much for being home free. Gladys was being flanked by the pair of fighters as it rose toward the clouds.
“Where did they come from?” I groaned as a pit formed in my stomach.
Murdoch shook his head. “No idea, boss, but they want to speak to you.”
5
The fighter jets held steady, silver darts following Gladys as she rose into the storm-split sky. The sight of them had my heart pounding in my chest. I’d thought we had gotten away clean. How had they found us so easily?
“What do you mean they want to speak to me?” I asked Murdoch. “You're the pilot.”
“They’re broadcasting on the commercial frequency and they asked for you by name,” Murdoch replied. “It’s him.”
A shiver ran down my spine as I looked at the headset. It wasn't like I had a choice. Gladys was a private jet. She had no real combat capabilities. The FA-18's were lords of the sky.
With nowhere to run and fewer places to hide, we were sitting ducks.
I groaned. We were mere minutes from freedom. I leaned on the dashboard, trying to get a better look at the planes. My magic was little help here. What practice I had dueling was simply not designed to go toe to toe with Sidewinder missiles. Even if I could bring them down, they were pilots just doing their job, following orders. Taking innocent lives was a price I couldn't abide, even if it cost me my own. I was desperate, but I had a code.
“Hold your course, Murdoch. Let's see if we can't stall them out,” I said picking up the headset and pushing the transmit button. “This is Seth.”
“Aw, Seth.” The thick Texan drawl practically oozed through the headset. “Here we were just starting to get to know each other and all y'all are fixin' to flee the country. I figured there must be some kind of mistake, as you still appear to have my mask in your possession. I thought I’d give you one last opportunity to return it.”
The director seemed almost giddy with delight. He was far too pleased with himself and it showed in every syllable.
