Chapter 1
Silver mist on the bay
Golden haired invaders at the prow
Of ships burned leaving no return
She steps forth carrying their book
-ancient Celtic chant from A History of the Celts
-Bennington Dacey-
December 1
The house is burning. A fiery snap of sparks releases one of the main beams and it tumbles down in a shroud of smoke, carrying most of the second story with it. Bennington Dacey can still hear the shatter of glass when the torches plummeted through the windows earlier, each oil-soaked piece landing with a dull thud on the hardwood floors. Now the flames lick higher and higher, tossing pieces of glowing detritus deep into the Cornish skies where they float, however briefly, among the stars.
He’s bleeding, can taste the salt of his blood as he staggers around the side hedges and into the front yard. The sound of the house collapsing fades into a high-pitched ring as an old poem plays through his mind.
The fury of a jet black eagle. His fall means our destruction. His plummet from heaven ends us absolutely.
“Skylar!” Bennington cries, voice hoarse from the smoke.
Dark are the designs of the bird of Caraman, his thoughts are twisted – to follow is to succumb to a poison deeper than bloodbane.
Shit. The entire upper story was about to give out.
Bennington drops to his knees, covering his exposed head with his arms as a gust of broiling air is released from the imploding structure. He peers through the lattice of his fingers, hoping to see her form moving across the garden. The wind kicks up without warning, a vehement sea breeze rippling through the garden and washing across the inferno pulsing less than thirty meters away. The salt air whips through the vines and flower beds like fingers combing through a tangled knot and embers rest on the frozen azalea beds – the same azaleas Skylar had planted last spring.
And then she appears, dress rippling, a saber clutched in her hands. A heavy leather messenger bag beats a tattoo against her back as she runs towards him. He catches her as she falls to the ground.
“They didn’t have to set it on fire,” she says, wiping a layer of ash from her cheeks. “They didn’t have to act like monsters, for once.”
A large gash is barely visible on her shoulder, its dark center line punctuated by the delicate edge of her cream dress. Bennington stares dumbly as her blood diffuses across the silk in a watercolor of dark reds. Her head is raised defiantly, her teeth glinting in the light from the blaze as she bares her teeth in pain and cold fury. Feeling comes back gradually as he realizes he’s clutching at his own saber. An 18th century hanger sword – light enough to be favored by cavalry, deadly enough to slice through tendon and bone. He’d felt it meet bone a few short minutes before when he struck one them in the arm, the assailant’s scream cut short by the rumble of the first support beam giving out.
The intruders had searched the house, giving it a quick once over but paying special attention to the library where they knew it might be.
Dark as midnight, the eagle falls. Talons of flame rake the ground. Searching for an elusive prize.
The closest sound is Skylar’s ragged breathing and Bennington tries to focus on it, slightly nauseated by the choke of ash and black, black smoke. They sit on the very edge of the warmth, the winter chill at their backs. “What do we do now?” he finally asks. Because in the absence of Price, her word is final in all matters regarding the agency. She is in effect, Garrick Price. Mysterious, odd, brilliantly enigmatic Price. The glow of the fire reflects in her eyes. He can see it there with the faintest tremor of fear. Their next move is entirely her call.
The eagle is swift, but the raven is clever. To forget this is to deny yourselves hope.
“Bennington,” she says, letting the sword fall onto the icy ground so she can pull back her mane of mahogany hair and pull the heavy messenger bag from her shoulder. “You need to take this to London. And find my sister.”
He sidles a fraction of an inch closer as she hands it off like a babe, failing to pull back until she’s sure he’s got it. The thing they so desperately wanted.
“Go with my blessing,” she says, her dark eyes capturing mine. “And Price’s.”
He could give a damn about Price’s blessing to be bloody honest. Not that he’s about to tell her that. But Skylar’s blessing on the other hand…
He wants to ask her where she’s going next, but Bennington ole’ boy, he thinks bitterly, why would you be asking questions you already know the answer to? The agency is a well thought up enterprise.
“What do I tell your sister?”
He gasps slightly as her hands find his, jolting him back to the freezing Cornish night. She smells like jasmine and breakfast tea. She whispers in his ear. “Everything.”
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Bennington Dacey takes an Uber out to London. Being driven around by a stranger makes him feel even more alone if that’s possible.
The lights of London flash by as he listlessly combs through a forgotten magazine he’d found on the back seat, the driver singing along to Crocodile Rock on the FM. He sounds truly awful, not quite something that could send cats to yowling in the back alleys, but definitely off-putting. He finally pulls out his phone, a froth of anxiety pooling in his fingertips as he lightly brushes the glass to reveal the latest text message.
On my way to the new house. You okay?
You okay? Those words clump up like driftwood against the rest of the emotional garbage that’s had been piling up for more than a year now. He listens to a couple more verses of Elton John before typing back.
I’m fine. Just happy you weren’t killed
The screen lights up instantly. Ditto :) those bastards put up a fight.
I care about you. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.
He lets the phone fall back into his backpack.
“Soho, right?” The driver finally asks once the radio fades into a commercial. “Going to the parties?”
“What parties? It’s a Tuesday night.”
He sees a single brown eye topped by a feathery eyebrow appear in the rearview mirror. “What’s that got to do with it?” the driver’s tone slightly puzzled. “Don’t matter to them what day of the week it is.” Bennington opens his mouth to ask what about work and school and normal things that normal people do (He’s just assuming here) and shoves his one and only granola bar in his mouth instead. “You’ve got country written all over you,” the driver remarks at last, before taking a dangerously close left turn.
And you’re an old tosser who can’t drive.
Feeling the magnetic pull of the silenced phone from the dredges of his backpack, he pulls one leg up onto cigarette stained upholstery and slips a hand inside to fish it out.
Does he really want to know?
The blue light hurts his vision. It’s a short reply.
It’s a little late for that.
He wonders what he expected, letting the phone slip onto the seat next to him, his focus now on the bag she entrusted to him. There’s a jacket rolled up inside, a pull-over sweater wrapped around itself and wedged so tightly inside that he pulls at it a couple times to get it loose. A silver chain slips out with a delicate, glittering sound, pulled by a circular medallion. He holds it up, only daring to grasp it with the barest bit of fingertip as he turns the medallion, his eyes tracing the Celtic knot of ravens lining the edges. The ravens’ wingtips all touch, their feet brushing a crystal embedded in the center of the medallion which has been polished into a clear, glass plane. Light from the passing streetlights outside filters in through the window and falls on the necklace, filling the internal fractures and imperfections within the crystal with a soft light.
