Beauties of the Beast (The Yellow Hoods, #4): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale (9 page)

“Leave,” insisted Everett, raising his rifle.

Marcus pulled out his pocket-watch and stared at it pensively. “I don’t have time for this. Enough with trying to be pleasant. Understand that this will be the last time you’ll see me. You’ll be dealing with representatives of mine from here on out.”

Tsuruko stepped forward. “It was destroyed, long ago. I crashed out of the sky.”

“Did you invent it?” he asked.

She stared at Everett, who was shaking his head. “Yes.”

“And you piloted it over the Eastern Mountains on your own?” he pressed.

“No. I went through most of it. The Hotaru, it graces the wind, it moves well.”

“Tsu, you shouldn’t—” said Everett, but she waved him off.

“Impressive.” Marcus stared at the ground in thought. “You will build me one.”

Everett fired at Marcus’ chest, knocking him clean off his feet. The bullet bounced off the armor below his shirt and skipped off of his eye. 

Before Marcus could signal them to stop, one of the camel-men shot Everett in the shoulder, dropping him to the ground. Standing back up, his hand over his bleeding eye, Marcus glared at Tsuruko. “That will cost you dearly. There will be no opportunity for rebellion,” he said. He turned to the camel-men. “Take the boy.”

“No!” screamed Tsuruko. Two of the camel-men took aim at Amami and Everett, while the third scooped up Richy.

“You’ll get your son back
after
you’ve built me a working Hotaru,” said Marcus, taking a cloth from a saddle bag and putting it over his eye.

Tsuruko dropped to her knees, her hands clasped. “No! Please no! I cannot! I cannot build you a working one!”

“Do I need to kill your son, here, in front of you, to motivate you enough?” asked Marcus, his white shirt and beige pants wet with blood. 

“I cannot make the engine! I never made it. It was the part that was completely destroyed when I crashed. I know not how to make it, just how it made everything work. I built the body, not the heart.”

Marcus waved away the camel-men. “Fine. Everything else you need, you will have. You have one year, after which, I make no promises about your boy.”

“Riichi!” screamed Amami as he was bound and gagged.

Since the Lady in Red ordered Richy to be taken away, he had lost track of time. There were scratches from his clawing hands made in the jail cell’s wall before he'd given up on escaping. Rich had been there at least a few weeks.

He’d been trying to fall asleep in the hot, humid cell, but the rowdy guards down the hall were keeping him wide awake. The other three cells in the jail were empty, each equipped with the same straw mattress, stone walls and small windows at the back for air and light. Richy wondered if someone had made one jail design and copied it everywhere, because it looked exactly like the one in Minette.

Three crank lanterns hung from the middle of the room, over a desk which was only used when the guards put down their mugs of ale before tormenting him. Sometimes they’d throw water at him, sometimes they’d just call him names, and a few times they’d poked him with his own shock-sticks. He’d almost grabbed one once, and would have been more than happy to show them it was a lot more than a simple metal stick.

The door to the office never closed properly, and the day’s summer breeze was bringing their voices in all the more clearly.

“In the morning, I’ve got a meeting with the new magistrate. I hear he might be open to selling the exotic kid to the Kaban ambassador,” said a deep, aggressive voice Richy knew all too well. Bernardo was a short, heavily-bearded man with a huge, twisted personality. Though the youngest of the half dozen guards of the town, he’d become the ring-leader in recent weeks, taking advantage of the chaos and darker side of human nature. Richy’d heard there was a red-hooded advisor accompanying the new magistrate everywhere he went. He wondered if the Red Hood was connected to the Lady in Red. If so, she was much more powerful than he’d imagined.

Gunter scratched his old, tired face. He’d worked with Bernardo for years, and men just like him for decades. They played with fire until they got burned. “Bernardo, though you know well about such things, I think…”

“Yes?” asked Bernardo, the giant awaiting the advice of the mouse.

“Don’t you think that selling people is wrong? I mean, it’s slavery. We stopped that here in Laros a long, long time ago.” Gunter’s voice was laced with hopelessness, but the fragment of his noble soul that remained had to speak up. He’d always been the one to bring Richy a towel when they’d doused him with water, or give him the tray of food if Bernardo had left it just out of reach. 

“I’m surprised at you, Gunter,” said Bernardo condescendingly. “Do you really think that’s what the Kaban do? It isn’t slavery at all. They just allow people an opportunity to have purpose and fulfillment, while they earn their way to citizenship in that paradise.”

“But they have no freedom, no—”

Bernardo gave Gunter a shove. “Do any of us really have freedom? You have a home with a leaking roof and mold on the walls, I’ve seen it. Where is your freedom to get rid of that? Others are getting rich every day out there. What if you could trade this boy for some of that? For a house that didn’t leak, for food on the table every night? He’s young, he’ll survive. If he doesn’t, who’s to say that he wouldn’t have died on his own?” 

“I think—”

Grabbing Gunter by the collar, Bernardo growled at him. “I’m trying to make you feel better, old man. Careful you don’t end up on the cart to Kaban
with
the kid. Got it?”

“Yes… yes, I understand,” said Gunter, cowering.

A gunshot, and then another, cracked the night. Richy sprang to his feet and crossed the cell. He grabbed the bars and strained to listen. Several more shots rang out down the corridor. He could hear Bernardo cursing and struggling with someone. “Don’t hurt the old man!” yelled Richy. “Is that you, Bakon? Eg? I’m over here! Don’t hurt the old man, though!” His heart was racing.

He grabbed his yellow cloak and put it on, hoping that any stray bullets would find it instead of him. Suddenly, a lantern shattered, and then another. 

“Eg? Bakon?” called Richy, worried. His almond-shaped blue eyes squinted in the dim light as he backed up. Reflexively, he reached into the pockets of his cloak, only to be reminded his shock-sticks weren’t there. Something was moving in the shadows. The moonlight bounced off of two long blades. “Who are you? What do you want?” 

A female voice asked something forcefully.

“I don’t understand. Do you speak Frelish?” asked Richy, his hands in tight fists.

“Dragon?”

“What? Who are you? Why are you here?” asked Richy.

The silhouette unlocked his cell door and gently pushed it open. She was about the same size as him, her head and body hidden behind a dark hood and cloak. She raised empty hands.

“Your hood, pull it back,” said the woman in angry Frelish. “I mean you no harm, but I must see your face. I need to know if you are the blue-eyed dragon.”

“What? I’m just a kid,” he said, glancing around.

“Show me your face, please,” she asked.

With a deep breath, he pulled back his hood and looked at her.

“Riichi!” she said, leaping forward and hugging him.

Without a thought, a name long forgotten rocketed out of him, “Amami!”

CHAPTER TEN

Lost Beauties

“Belly! Belly! Banging! Banging at the door!” yelled a terrified little Selvin. He shook his sleeping older brother as vigorously as he could. “Wake up!”

Beldon sat up, squinting. “You were just having a nightmare, Skelly. It’s dark. Go back to bed.” 

“Scary,” said the second outline beside his bed.

“It’s okay, Bore,” said Beldon, patting his little brother on the head. Then he stiffened as he heard screams coming from downstairs. “What’s that?”

“Don’t know,” said little Selvin.

“Okay,” said Beldon, slipping out of his bed and tip-toeing to their bedroom door. Opening it a crack, he peeked out. He saw smoke and people running about.

He stared at his brothers, trying to hide his panic. Selvin was still looking sickly, having nearly drowned a second time two weeks ago. 

“Mama?” asked Bore.

“That’s what I’m thinking, Bore,” said Beldon. “Maybe she needs our help.”

“We go help?” asked Selvin.

Beldon nodded.

Holding their hands in a chain, they opened the door.

An hour later, Caterina stumbled up to the boys’ room, the ruined manor still alive with the sounds of fighting and a raging fire. She dropped her mother’s short sword, covered in the blood of her husband, and stared at the broken lock on the bedroom door. She stepped into the room, her eyes darting about. “Boys?!” she screamed, as she ran from bed to bed. She squinted in the meager light, hunting around for a lantern to crank. With lantern in hand, she checked under each bed and behind the curtains. “Bel? Sel? Bore? Come out, Mama’s not playing.”

Wiping her tears, she picked up the blade and ran down the corridor, checking every bedroom and screaming for her boys until the smoke became too thick to speak. As she retreated to the back of the manor, she searched every nook and cranny along the way, her voice becoming hoarse in the process. Stepping over bodies and fending off angry peasants at each turn, she found herself regretting much of her life.

She’d followed her father’s plan, ever the dutiful daughter, even though she thought it insane. She’d never dreamed it could cost her the life of her sons. She’d never questioned her beliefs and life until now. His plan to have her home stormed by an angry mob was intended to drive a permanent wedge of fear between the Ahemian royals and the Piemans.

The next morning, Gaston found her standing among the ashes of their once beautiful home. She was dressed in the tatters from the night before, filthy from head to foot. She twitched at the sound of his malevolent voice as he went on about necessary sacrifices and how the leaders of the One True Fare, as he called it, were pleased with her. He droned on about the destiny one is given versus the life we hope to have. As he reached to put his arm on her shoulder, she stabbed him through the heart with her mother’s short sword. She quickly pulled the sword out and stabbed him several more times, screaming.

She glared up at the Fare representatives, all standing about with looks of shock and horror. They turned to one another, some gesturing to their coaches while others pointing at her.

Finally, one short and sheepish man stepped forward. He tried to remove his spectacles, only to drop them to the ground. Nervously he groped about for them. He stood slowly, as if any sudden action might cause Caterina to strike.

 “Duchess Catherine, you look cold,” he said, trying his best not to stare at Gaston’s body or her bloody sword.

She stared at him blankly.

The man turned and gestured to a servant, who quickly brought him a folded new, red cloak. He walked over to hand it to her and froze as he realized he’d stepped in a puddle of Gaston’s blood. 

Caterina reached out and took the cloak from him. She watched as the man bolted back to his pack. She noticed the embroidery on the cloak, and immediately recognized it denoted the wearer as a Fare leader who reported directly to the Fare’s council. She looked up at her audience with a new respect and understanding.