Chronicles of Steele: Raven: Episode 1 (2 page)

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed and gave a half nod. “It’s best if you remain silent.”

He slapped the handcuffs on, and the cold metal pinched her wrists. Raven winced but made no sound. The two thugs beside her lightened their grip, once her disarming and cuffing were complete. For his part, Red Band gripped the chain between the cuffs and pulled her forward like an ox.

She shuffled her feet, hearing the general murmur of disapproval in the crowd for the first time. For a moment she wondered if they condemned her or the arrest. She shrugged. What did she care? Red Band mounted a flesh horse and reached down for her. She smiled with relief at the small blessing–at least the thing wasn’t automated.

One of the thugs gripped her by the waist and lifted her to sit in front of Red Band. She was wrapped in the prison of his arms. A second black lacquered coach holding the boy moved away from the bridge. Although pulled by a brass horse, this carriage had Bowtie at the reins instead of an automaton. Her captor urged his horse after the coach.

Her hips swung with the motion of the horse’s walk, and she leaned against Red Band’s chest. She hoped her hair dripped on him and soaked through his brown suit. It made no sense for the Duke of New Haven’s Guard to wear brown. Brown might be a good color for a dirty job, but a bloody one? As a reaper, Raven wore black—the appropriate color for the purpose.

The barren branches of the few trees along the road stretched over their heads like skeletal hands. Fallen leaves crunched under the hooves of the horses. She took consolation in the fact that she at least still headed in the direction of Gregory’s house. Gooseflesh grew on her arms as a breeze picked up.

“What’s your name?” Red Band said softly in her ear. His voice sounded deep and soothing at the same time, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“I thought you told me to remain silent.”

He chuckled, and she could feel the up and down motion of his chest against her back. “Either way is fine.”

She considered keeping her mouth shut. She thought about lying. Finally she said, “Raven Steele.”

“The reaper’s daughter?” He sat a little taller and inhaled sharply.

“One and the same.”

“What are you doing in New Haven? We should have arrested you on sight.”

“If you had recognized me.”

“Dressed in reaper black and armed as you were, I think you’d have been hard to miss.”

Raven shrugged. “So what’s your name?”

“Captain Jack Grant.” His voice grew deep with pride and sounded as stiff as he sat.

Raven sighed. The skin on her face pulled taut uncomfortably as it dried. She licked the salt from her lips and rubbed her cheek on her shoulder.

They drew near the Duke of New Haven’s Court where silver zeppelins loomed in the sky over the center of the city, like a bouquet of balloons. High society took on a whole new, and quite literal, meaning there.

She looked longingly at the left turn she would have taken to Gregory’s house. Fallen leaves gathered in patches along the sides of the road, and a puddle filled a pothole. A tear welled and her shoulders fell as she pulled her gaze away.

The gates to the court swung open as the carriage ahead of them approached the entrance. The guards on each side of the gate bowed their heads.
Hadn't someone said the kid was a baron?

The three armed guards on horses ahead of Grant followed the carriage, and two more guards flanked her.

The iron gates clanged behind them with the finality of defeat.

Defeat is a state of mind.
The loser is not a person who fails, but one who gives up.
If one never gives up, lost ground can be easily recovered when the opportunity presents itself.
But if one's head hangs in shame, only the person’s feet can be seen.

R
AVEN SNEEZED AND her eyes watered. The dank, musty smell of the mold growing on the mortar between the smooth stones of the cell walls filled her nostrils. Her throat tightened, and she scratched at her forearm. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so miserable. The dry area of the dirt floor showed remnants of rat feces, and the straw pile in the corner smelled worse than the walls. Orange light from the setting sun trickled in through the small barred window overhead.

A steady sound of moaning came from a cell down the hallway. Someone else continued to sob. Raven hugged herself and continued her pacing in spite of her tired feet. An hour after she’d been led to the dungeon holding area, the outer door opened with a deep groan.

Raven stopped pacing. Booted footsteps marched purposefully past the first few cells. The sobbing stopped, and demands began in a begging tone. “You gotta let me out! I didn’t do it. I tell you, I’m innocent!”

She shook her head and stood on her tiptoes to peer through the bars above the flat iron front of her cell. A familiar mop of sandy hair and soft brown eyes greeted her at the window. “Step back, Miss Steele.”

Nodding to Sgt. Grant, Raven took three backward steps and sneezed. Her failed attempt at stifling the cry echoed off the stone walls.

The door swung toward her. Grant stepped in. “Will you cooperate? On your word, I’ll forego the cuffs.”

They had her weapons. She could get reasonably far with her bare hands, but not without injury. She clenched her teeth and nodded.

“Good. Follow me.” He turned and started his way up the stone steps to the main building of the Duke’s Court.

The gas lamps came on all at once as they entered the courtyard, signifying the closing of dusk. Happy to be leaving the musty, rancid cell, she took a deep breath. Her throat and lungs felt as though wool had grown on the sides.

Grant led her along the covered walkways surrounding the cobblestone center of the yard. A group of soldiers performed rifle drills. Raven studied the maneuver, like a dance, and raised an eyebrow at the off-timing of a few.

“New recruits?” she guessed.

Grant stopped suddenly, and she almost bumped into him. The smell of leather and horses filled her nostrils. She backed up a step to regain an appropriate distance. He peered down at her and nodded slightly. “Mostly the boys are from the Southern Province. They seem to be sending more boys up our way than ever before.”

Raven nodded and watched the drill for a moment longer.

The captain bent his arm and offered her his elbow. “Madam, if we could continue?”

She raised an eyebrow at him and smirked. “Would you have me take your arm like a lady of court?”

His kind eyes twinkled, and his smile widened, his perfectly straight white teeth flashing in the gaslight. “You are in court, milady.”

A shout went up from the recruits and they disbanded. Raven’s eyes unfocused and she sighed. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about being a lady,” she mumbled. Then she straightened and met eyes with Grant. “My father raised me to be a reaper, not a lady.”

Grant’s brow furrowed. “What about your mother?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and tightened her jaw. Ignoring his elbow, she marched in the general direction they’d been going. He caught up and she slowed a tick to allow him to lead again. Soon he brought her to a tall set of red doors. She shook her head in wonder. The palace of the Duke of New Haven?

The guards opened the doors upon Grant’s nod. He led her into the marble foyer, and Raven suddenly felt shy. She stifled the urge to hide behind Grant. White salt lines were drawn in the wrinkles of her clothes, and she couldn’t get rid of the taut feeling in her skin. Why had she been brought here?

Grant put his hands behind his back and lifted his chin toward a servant girl. “This is the woman who saved the young baron.”

The maid nodded to Raven without looking. The girl’s blond hair pulled against her temples in a tight braid. Her uniform’s pleats were pressed in sharp creases, and Raven wondered if it felt stiff when the girl moved. Her eyes were slightly almond shaped, but their color remained hidden under long lashes. She turned on her heel. “Follow me, please.”

Grant swung an arm in the direction of the girl when she started up the stairs. In the wavering light of the gas-lit foyer, the white of a scar stood out on the line of his square jaw. His half-smile seemed playful. He leaned in and whispered, “See you around, Raven Steele.”

She met his brown eyes and saw a hint of humor in them. He turned for the door before she could respond. With a shrug, she started up the stairs after the maid.

The disapproving, pupil-less eyes of ivory busts in the alcoves of the stairwell condemned her for her flaws. Her palms grew sweaty and she found no comfort in the luxuriant red carpet that cushioned each step of her tired feet.

Once the servant reached the top of the steps, she turned to the left. Raven ventured a glance at the limitless hallway of oak doors and wondered what a right turn would bring.

Rich, colorful tapestries lined the walls. Instead of growing faint with time, each hanging had grown darker, more shaded. The souls of the departed seemed to be held within the portraits. She shook the thoughts from her head.

The servant stopped at a door. They all looked the same to Raven; nothing signified one from the other.

“Here you are. A bath has been drawn for you, and I will leave you with a dinner gown. Your clothes will be laundered and returned to you after the meal.”

Raven raised an eyebrow quizzically. She stepped into the room and found a lush beige patterned rug covering most of the hardwood floor. Gauze-like curtains danced lightly in the breeze from the open top window. Autumn leaves rustled just outside. An ornate fleur-de-lis design in the lavender wallpaper accentuated the lavender scent from the bathwater. Huge columns of scrolled timber stood as stalwart sentries at each corner of the oversized bed. Even the wardrobe had an elaborate wooded scene carved into the cedar.

The blond servant girl closed the window and stood still while Raven surveyed the room. The girl managed to stare at her without meeting her eyes, a strange talent. Raven needed to learn that one. Then she realized the girl waited for an answer.

“Oh, right.”

The servant turned on her heel and headed for a cedar-lined walk-in closet. After a moment, she returned with a purple gown and held it up in Raven’s general direction.

“This should fit. I used water pumped directly from the hot house, and it should be cooled enough by now if you’d like to disrobe behind the dressing screen?” A tall screen of canvas and wood stood near the porcelain tub. Inviting steam rose from the water. The servant girl laid the purple dress on the bed and stood outside the canvas screen, waiting for the salt-soiled clothing.

With a shrug, Raven headed for the dressing screen and stripped her stiff, black moleskin breeches, the leather corset, and her cropped purple jacket. Each item disappeared the moment she placed them over the top of the screen. She stood awkwardly for a moment, rubbing her elbows, unsure if she could stride out bare for the tub.

“I will return in three quarters of an hour to collect you for dinner.”

“All right.”

When the door clicked closed, Raven padded barefoot across the cold hardwood. An elbow in the tub found it almost too hot to bear. Just the way she preferred. She stepped into the tub and felt each of her muscles relax as she sank into the almost scorching liquid.

The purple dress fit perfectly; the servant girl had a good eye. Raven smiled in appreciation before the full-length mirror. It had been a long time since she’d worn a dress. Men generally held her post as reaper and bodyguard. Out of necessity, she wore the same clothes they did. The moleskin breeches were tougher than anything she could find in a shop for women, and the linen jacket breathed better. The only feminine item she refused to part with was her leather corset. The utility value of the harness within the black laced leather and the magnets sewn in the back made it indispensible. She smiled and lifted the ankle-length skirt. The dress didn’t look half bad with her knee-high riding boots.

Her wet hair made the shoulders of the dress a slightly darker shade of purple. She stepped over to the drying vent on the wall and turned the crank. The brass horn expelled hot air in an upward direction and she held her black hair over it. After a minute or two of continued drying, she lowered the vent slightly so that she could hold her shoulders and back over it in the hopes of drying the dress.