by S. C. Stokes
“Yes, Mom,” I answered, feeling like I was twelve once more.
I didn’t have a clue how I was to accomplish such a task, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. I was a better man for having her in my life.
Reaching into the bag, I lifted out the unbreakable plate from the museum.
“Before I forget, I got you something.”
Her eyes perked up as she took the plate from me.
“It's unbreakable. Rumor has it that it comes from a set in the White House, quite the history and utterly irreplaceable. I thought you might like it for your collection.”
She admired the plate before fixing me with a stare. “You know, some mothers might be upset if their sons brought them stolen goods.”
“What else do you get the woman that has everything?” I asked. “I can put it back if you like?”
She tucked the plate under her arm with a smile. “No need, I’m sure I can find a spot for it here. I’ll forgive you this time, but mark my words, Seth, if I don’t get an invite, there will be nowhere on Earth you can hide from me.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Mom. I wouldn’t dare.”
She smoothed her dress with her free hand. “Good. Consider yourself warned.”
“I’d love to sit and chat, but I have to jump in the shower. Dad is organizing a meeting for me in town. I can’t be late for it.
“Don't you be getting yourself in any more trouble—you just got home,” Mom said over her shoulder as she made her way to the door.
“I’ll consider myself duly warned,” I replied, as she let herself out of the room.
That had gone better than expected. I had no idea how I was meant to persuade Lara to meet my parents. I'd be lucky if she didn't take my head off the next time she saw it. Next time. That was a pleasant thought. Hope was a powerful motivator, and I wasn't going to give up on us. Continents apart though we might be, there was always a chance that things would work out. I just had to survive the wrath of the Inquisition, a clandestine CIA branch, and the omnipresent Brotherhood that was capable of destabilizing a democracy before breakfast.
But first I had to survive a meeting with the connoisseur of crime, Edward Knight. Someone with the resources to defy the Brotherhood. I was going to need to know more about how he had managed that. Perhaps he had some leverage that my father wasn't familiar with. He could potentially be a potent ally.
Stripping off my tattered clothes, I made my way into the bathroom and tossed them in the laundry hamper. They really would have been better off in the trash. Stepping into the shower, I turned the tap on. The first blast of icy cold water hit my face, jolting me awake and sending a shiver that shook my whole body. After a moment, the heater kicked in, raising the temperature to a far more bearable level.
Grabbing the soap, I went to work in an attempt to make myself presentable. A futile effort on the best of days. After rinsing off, I killed the water, stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a towel. Looking in the mirror, I contemplated shaving but decided against it. This was a rendezvous, not a date, and the stubble added a few years to my face.
I searched my wardrobe, finding a gray suit that would serve. I pulled it off the hanger, along with a shirt, and slipped into them. The sleeves were a little tight, evidence that I'd put on a little weight during my time in New York. Not surprising; I was definitely going to miss the food. New Yorkers knew how to eat.
Grabbing a set of black wingtips, I slid into them and made my way back into the bathroom in search of a comb to try and wrangle my hair into place. After a few seconds, I abandoned the effort, weighed my reflection in the mirror, and decided it would have to do.
At my desk, I replaced the images of Benjamin Franklin with that of the Queen in my wallet, then made for my father’s study downstairs.
Frank sat behind his desk, the mask resting off to one side, while he flipped through an old leather-bound notebook.
His eyes rose from the book and focused on me.
“I think you found it, Seth. This mask is from their temple.”
I nodded as I sank into one of the leather chairs before his desk. I had thought as much but was eager to know what made him so sure.
“How do you know? When you called the plane, you were convinced it was a wild goose chase.”
“That was before I held it in my hand,” he said. “I can feel the power. It's familiar, enticing, dangerous.”
I gripped the armrests. I'd felt the same. The flush of power that came with picking up the mask was intoxicating. The allure was disconcerting, and likely dangerous.
“The temple practiced blood magic, and the entire mask has been soaked in it. It has been painted in the life blood of generations of priestesses of the order, our ancestor among them.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“The voice has gone still,” he said. “It’s as if she can sense it.”
I grinned. “Then we’re on the right track. Look at the markings. The etchings on the front look like a puzzle. The symbols above it, they can't be an accident either. Three distinct non-symmetrical images. And consider the back. This language is meant to have no written dialect, no recorded history, but here it is in our hands as evidence that was not always the case. Brujas de Sangre had a written language and recorded it on this artifact. I wonder what it says?”
“Lear denales ma’le igualez,” Frank whispered, his voice quiet, almost reverential.
I shook my head in disbelief. “How can you know that? Can you read it? Is it a product of the curse?”
Frank set down the leather journal. “Nothing so convenient, I'm afraid. I learned the translation from these journals. It means ‘all fates are not equal.’ The real question is, why is it carved into the mask?”
“Perhaps it's a warning,” I said, thinking out loud.
“Maybe.” Frank ran his finger along the edges of the mask. “These other lines of script, I have no idea. Perhaps with the journals you might be able to translate them.”
“Where did the journal come from?” I asked, my eyes zeroing in on the well-worn leather journal my father had set on his desk.
“These,” he replied, tapping the old journal. “They belonged to Ellawaya, firstborn of Aleida, heir of the Brujas de Sangre and the bride of one Francis Drake. She recorded what she could of her youth, in the hope that she might one day teach her own children. My father taught me nothing of it, but the journal still contains a few of her notes and some stories of her time in the temple as well as the village she was born in. Fortunately, much of it is in old English with hints of Spanish influence.”
I shook my head in disbelief, my breath quickening as my temper flared. “You've had these the whole time and never told me? All my life I've been hunting for information on our curse, but I’ve been doing it with one hand tied behind my back. These journals could have helped me.”
“Don't get your knickers in a twist,” Frank replied. “I have been over every inch of them. Without the mask, there was nothing to translate. A few bits of history along with anecdotes about her life in Panama, and her training in the temple. It seems she had doubts and reservations about the obligations and responsibilities that were placed upon her. Sounds like someone I know.”
“Clearly a familial streak,” I replied. “Good thing too, otherwise we’d never have been born.”
“True,” Frank said, sliding the journal across the table. “Take that with you. Perhaps it will help us translate the inscriptions on the mask, and gain access to the temple.”
“No indication as to where it might be?” I asked, picking up the journal off the table.
“There are no clues as to its location.” Frank leaned back in his chair. “I scoured every inch of the journals, but there is no mention of it. Perhaps Ellawaya didn’t want her posterity to return there. We know that during his time in Panama, Francis attacked a number of Spanish forts. We know that ships were sunk off Portobello and that was the site he chose for his fake burial
at sea. I've always supposed that the temple couldn’t be too far from the old town. I even purchased an old goldmine there once in the hope that it might be nearby. The mine was dry, and I never found any signs of the temple. I sold it years ago and haven't heard word of anything of note in the area since.”
“Clearly the Inquisition know something we don't,” I replied, setting the journal in my lap.
He nodded. “Not surprising. Spanish Colonials dominated the region. It's possible that their archives contain clues that our records do not. After all, the Spanish presence in the region was devoted to finding gold to ferry back to Spain to fund its war effort, and we both know where the greatest repository of gold would have been found.”
I leaned back in my chair, as I connected the dots. “The temple of Brujas de Sangre. With the power of their bloodline the High Priestess could ensure they never ran out.”
Frank plucked a letter opener off the desk. The blade was a simple affair, stainless steel that narrowed to a point, sharp enough to open a letter, but not much else. Holding it in his hand, he began to whisper. I could feel the ebb and flow of power around him as he channeled his will into the letter opener. Starting at where it touched his fingers, the stainless steel glowed like the sun. The light moved steadily up the tool and as it faded, the stainless steel was gone. The letter opener had turned to solid gold.
It was the bloodline gift and the greatest secret of the bloodline of the Brujas de Sangre.
It was the gift that came hand in hand with our curse. The High Priestess had been a source of unending wealth for her people, and her daughter Ellawaya had been set to take her mother’s place. Their gift had prospered their village for countless generations. Gold had been a commodity for trade and crafting long before the Spanish arrived. The ability to transmute other matter into gold had ensured her village prospered.
But rather than follow in her mother’s footsteps, Ellawaya had taken her gift and fled, abandoning the temple and her people to start a new life with the charismatic captain. Francis Drake had been a wealthy man, but when he returned to England as Francis Caldwell, Ellawaya’s gift meant he would never need to work again.
For the last four hundred years, Caldwell descendants had used that same talent to curry power and favor throughout the world. The Caldwell gift had built a dynasty, bolstered the flagging British Empire, and given birth to the Brotherhood.
Unfortunately, the high priestess had taken her daughter's abandonment as a bitter betrayal and had used her power to curse her and her posterity, in an unending blood curse that still afflicted them—us.
Frank set down the golden letter opener. The creases at the corner of his eyes seemed a little deeper than they had been a moment ago.
He sighed. “I ought not to do that as much as I do. But aside from the mask, it’s the only thing that seems to shut up this voice in my head. I feel like an addict feeding an addiction, but the voice always comes back. Perhaps it’s my mind, but it always seems stronger, keen to exact a price for my use of her gifts.”
“It's not like we chose this,” I replied, clutching the journal. “The choices were made by others hundreds of years before we were born. Now we bear the consequences for their actions.”
Frank picked up the mask. “All fates are not equal. We have our burden, but we also have the power. What we do with it will define how we are remembered.”
“I need to do a lot more living before I can be remembered,” I replied, picking a piece of lint off my suit. “Did you have any luck with the Red Knight?”
Frank drummed his fingers on the desk. “I did.”
I leaned forward in anticipation. “What did he say? Does he know anything about the Inquisition?”
“I wasn’t that specific. I didn't want to scare him off. But he has agreed to meet you. He'll see you at the Royal Albert Hall at three, but be careful.”
“I know. I’ll be wary,” I replied, considering carefully exactly what I might ask the Red Knight. I needed answers and I needed them as soon as possible.
Frank rested his head on his hand. “You’ll need to be more than wary. Edward sounded excited to hear from me. It was unsettling. There is a mutual respect between our organization and his, but there is something else afoot and I don't know what it is. You must tread carefully. Everyone has their own agenda. Make the deal and get out.”
I racked my brain for potential pitfalls. “You don't think he'd sell me to the Inquisition, do you? He could be in league with them?”
Frank considered that for a moment. “It's possible but to hand you over to them would be tantamount to declaring war on the Brotherhood and Edward Knight is a businessman, not a warmonger. War is bad for business and the bottom line. There must be something else at play. Find out what you can of the temple’s location and let him move on with his day. Whatever happens, don't let him drag you into his web.”
I nodded. I might moonlight as a thief, but I had no desire to apprentice to a criminal overlord. As I contemplated the coming meeting, I had to hope Knight’s price was one I would be able to pay.
“I'll do my best, but I’m not leaving empty handed. If the meeting is at three, when do we leave?”
“Charles is already in the car waiting for you. I'll stay here and work on the mask. We’ll get together tonight and compare notes.”
I rose from the chair and made for the door. As my hand touched the handle, I paused. “Thanks, Dad.”
“For what?” he asked, leaning heavily on the desk.
“I guess I didn't realize how much time and effort you had put into chasing this curse. I always figured you were indifferent.”
He frowned. “Not indifferent, just without hope. I have thrown everything I could at this curse until I simply ran out of options. Until today. The mask changes things. It changes everything.”
I let myself out of the study. I certainly hoped the discovery would lead to a cure. It was good to see some hope in my father’s face again. Life without hope was a cruel fate.
We still needed to find the temple though, but the whereabouts had eluded my father for his entire life. As I bounded down the stairs to the waiting Jaguar, I couldn’t help but feel we were closer than we had ever been to answers. Unfortunately, one deadly obstacle still loomed between me and the knowledge I needed.
Edward Knight, the connoisseur of crime.
10
The low rumbling growl from my stomach warned me that it was past the time when sensible people ate lunch, but the narrow window given to us by Edward Knight left no room for such luxuries. Standing outside Royal Albert Hall, Charles and I waited in silence.
Charles was one of my father's most loyal confidants, but I found talking to him was like speaking to a brick wall. In the twenty minutes we'd been waiting, I'd hardly got more than a grunt out of him.
Conversational shortcomings aside, he was a wall of muscle and manpower, and I was glad to have in my corner.
I admired the national treasure that was Royal Albert Hall. The weathered red brick was more than a century and a half old. Named for Queen Victoria’s late husband, it was now managed by a trust and hosted hundreds of grand spectacles each year, from Cirque du Soleil to Adele.
A wintry breeze cut through the streets of London but in spite of the cold, Hyde Park was thronged with Londoners out for a stroll. The hall was closed, but seemed to be gearing up for an evening performance of Romeo and Juliet. Located in the northern fringe of Kensington, the hall made for an unusually crowded rendezvous for someone like Knight, a well-established resident of the world's most wanted lists.
A charcoal black sedan peeled out of traffic and pulled into the bus stop in front of the hall.
Its passenger door opened, and a lean man emerged. His head was shaved smooth, and he was of Asian descent. His suit was Italian, with a sharp cut and well fitted enough to show the bulge beneath his arm where a holster rested. His eyes swept over us before scanning the street, and the fringe of the park. Seemingly satisfied, he t
urned and opened the back door of the sedan.
A man in his late forties emerged in a three-piece suit, clutching a cream fedora in hand. His graying hair had been cut back to stubble but left enough indication of a hairline to know it was beating a hasty retreat.
His oxfords hit the pavement and he straightened up. “Thank you, Tan. Keep an eye out, will you? We won't be long.”
Edward Knight, the underworld's connoisseur of crime, wasn't nearly as tall as I had imagined. Five foot six and a little rotund in the center, he was clearly possessed of a love of the finer things in life. As he slipped on the hat, I couldn't help but smile. At least we had one thing in common: the love of a good hat. With the biting cold they were as functional as they were fashionable.
Edward Knight strode toward us, extending his right hand. “Seth Caldwell, as I live and breathe.”
I shook his hand. “Edward Knight, your reputation precedes you.”
He made a dismissive wave with his hand. “Yes, yes, but you can call me Red. All my friends do.” Placing one hand on his chest, he leaned closer, his voice little more than a conspiratorial whisper. “And I dearly hope we're going to be friends, Seth.”
“As do I,” I replied, fighting the urge to take a step away from him. His face had a warmth to it, but his small dark eyes were cold and hard.
“I must say, your father’s call intrigued me. It’s not every day that I get a call from Frank Caldwell looking for a chat and a favor. In fact, it’s unprecedented. I must admit it stoked my curiosity, a situation that was only inflamed when I discovered that it was you that I'd be meeting. Some might be offended that Frank didn't have the time in his busy schedule to come himself.” His voice rose with indignation.
I raised a hand.
“It's not like that, Red,” I said, my voice not nearly as firm as I had hoped. “It’s me that needs the favor. I asked my father to broker the introduction.”
“As I said, fascinating.” His furrowed brow relaxed, as his mouth flared up into a smile. “I'd heard you were in New York, Seth. Or at least you were. I must say your escapades there have created quite a stir, my young friend. For a short while, you were even more popular with law enforcement than I, and that's an achievement to be commended.”
