Prologue
January 11,1862
The streets of London were wrapped in a frigid blanket of yellow ice. A cold relentless wind swept trash down the dirty street, seeming to almost pass through the people curled up in the gutters and corners, bringing them closer to their final breath. A wearied man's eyes barely opened as hooves almost trampled him, only dragging himself slowly across the ice when the carriage driver screamed curses down on him. The old bones pushed themselves into a nook between a busy tavern and a brothel, taking a last gulp of life before eyes rested on a black carriage pulling away into the starless night, and saw no more.
Unaware of the small tragedy outside,
a man sat in the carriage studying white papers, furrowing his dark brow as he read. His expression made his face look older, though he was only twenty eight. A elegant gloved hand swept back raven black hair, hand clenching into a fist as he read something he didn't like. He was handsome, with high cheekbones an elegant nose and tan skin, as if he had been out in the sun. Dark chocolate brown eyes that were almost black surveyed the scene before him, almost matching his hair.
"Damm." He whispered. Fifty people in the building wounded, ten dead, and only two of their men had escaped with their lives. How did this happen? The plan was to poison an french ambassador's wine with a slow acting poison with no taste or smell that would take an hour to act, letting it go beneath the noses of any taste or smell testers. How had anyone besides the ambassador or anyone in that room gotten hurt? With guns? His answer came in the next page:
The gift was not received by the Ambassador-a team later
found the deliverer incompacicated, with means by a fire poker in the throat.
We think the deliverer was killed between nine and ten am.
In the main library, a third unknown party consisting of about ten men fired twenty shots killing and wounding
members of our group and people who worked in the building. Our group fired several shots back before they
were cut down.
We see this as a reason to say that the third party is apart from the Ambassador's, because
of the unlikeliness of the party shooting their own. We later discovered a coin in the inside pocket of a dead man
in the third party, killed by two of our men's shots. It depicts a image of a trident with it's base on top of a dead
man. and only a hand is visible holding it.
We hope you, Damon , can figure it out.
Two men have been found alive, one is with us now, the other fled at our presence. We now have evidence that
this man betrayed our team. We have also found letters to an anonymous group in Paris. They contain the
names and addresses of some members in our group. We have already moved most to a safe location. Some
who we did not get to in time were killed. This leads us to believe that they are using the letters as a "hit list".
We regret to inform you that your dear cousin William A. Price is dead of yesterday, January 2, 1863. The traitor
who is responsible for these deaths was also sadly one of your close friends,
J. Smith .
Damon's face crumpled and then turned to a look of hellish anger,
and he punched the seat for his cousin who had dared die on him, and he punched even harder for the best friend that had killed him, for all the secrets they shared, for the best friend that had betrayed him. When the carriage stopped, he flung the door open, and stomped through the cold dreary snow, towards his home, clutching the now wrinkled papers in a fist, not caring, not wanting to know anymore. He flung the elbony french doors open, stomping past an startled looking butler. I have no one in the world now, he thought, everyone I love is dead or has betrayed me. No, he stopped in the middle of the grande hall, I have not lost everyone. The cold marble floor seemed to go through his shoes, making his feet feel as if he were still outside in the snow. He hung his dark head. He still had L... "Liza!"
His head shot up and his eyes focused on his head housekeeper, Mrs. Gradmore, whose face was fixed in a terror such as if a gargoyle had come to life in front of her.
"Damon, it's Liza!" She yelled in a frenzy. She never who call him or Liza that, it was against one of her unspoken rules.
"What's wrong ?"
"It's Liza, she's having a baby!"His mind seemed to stop, and he went utterly still, in a shock that only fathers could ever have. Then his body seemed to start moving without his order, running up the long spiral staircase to his and Liza's room,sprinting to her side in the master bed. Liza's beautiful willow bark brown hair was plastered to her head in sweat, and her skin was shiny and seemed drained of all color. Her eyelids barely lifted up, and she gave a weak smile as she saw him, her sapphire blue eyes murky. "Damon." She whispered.
He mouthed words, but could not seem to say them. She gave a weak laugh, and pointed to the crib that he and his father had spent so much time carving, the waves, moons, and stars seemed to cradle whatever was laid in it. "She's over there."
He walked over, and looked upon one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. The baby did seem to be floating in the waves, moons and stars. But it was the face that drew attention. The face already held so much character, of her mother's caring nature, of her father's stubbornness, and the will of someone much older. The angelic features of two beautiful people graced her face, the high arching cheekbones and raven black hair, her mother's lips, and a elegant female nose entirely her own. Damon leaned down and picked the baby up like she was a piece of the finest china. He held her close to his chest and looked over at his wife. "What's her name?"
" Calla Alana Blackwell." He smiled and looked down on Calla.
"A beautiful name for a beautiful girl."
They all lay together after that, Calla between him and Liza, He the only one awake.
What did that last page say? What if it was something important? He carefully extracted himself from Liza's arms and put Calla back in her cradle. He tiptoed out of the room downstairs and picked the crumpled paper off the cold marble floor. He padded into the warm living room adjoining the great hall and sat down in one of the plush chairs next to the blazing reds,golds,and oranges in the magnificently carved marble fireplace that depicted tree nymphs in a beautiful forest.
Damon smoothed the paper out on his knees and re-reading the page he had read in the carriage before turning the page. When he read it his blood ran cold.
So far the deaths have been in order of those written in the letters.
We regret to inform you that you are next on the list. Please make haste and
leave at once. Your cousin was killed on the outskirts of Paris. They will have plenty of time to make it to your
home. Do not write back.
We Wish You The Best Of Luck,
The O.T.
Suddenly a glass smashed upstairs.
Damon dropped the paper and sprinted up the stairs like he was running for his life. He flung the door open and stopped. One of the nurse maids had smashed a bottle over Liza's head, streaking her brown hair with red. Right then he knew she was dead.
He followed the assassin's eyes to the cradle, and they both lunged for it, Calla luckily had rolled over towards Damon's side, and he swooped her up with one hand while his other pulled the antique sword off the wall and pointed it in the face of his wife's and almost child's murder. The assassin's eyes widened and she backed up against a table.
"Who do you work for!" he said vehemently. The assassin smiled and reached behind her back. Before Damon could have a chance to react she swung the knife downwards, cutting into his face an centimeter from his eye. He screamed in pain and was blinded by his own blood. As hands tried to pull the baby away from him he blindly stabbed forwards, and Calla rested in his arms. Mopping the blood away from his eye, he saw that he had stabbed her through the stomach. An unpleasant way to die. He stabbed her once again through the chest. He was no evil man. Looking at the scene before him he started to cry. Giving his beautiful dead wife one last glance he turned away, and ran out of the room. Loud male voices could be heard and he knew that he didn't know them. Hurrying to a painting of him and Liza, he pressed the angel on the left side of the frame. the painting swung open and he crawled inside, making sure to close the painting behind him. He ran down the secret passage way that he and Liza had found and made accessible. As he wound his way through the passages he heard footsteps running behind him. He quickly drew himself into a corner, pulling Calla close to his chest. When the footsteps stopped next to him he placed the blade of his sword against the neck of the intruder.
"Please don't hurt me" A familiar voice wailed. Damon stepped out of the shadows.
" Mrs. Gradmore?"
"Oh Master Blackwell, you're alive! Thank goodness! And little Miss Calla too."
"Barely"
"All the staff is captured, I only escaped because of Miss Liza showing me a entrance to this passage in the cupboard." Damon was immediately on alert.
"Is it hard to find?
"Very" She said. "It took me seven tries to get in, and I know how to. Speaking of which, where is Miss Liza?"
Damon's expression turned to sorrow, but only a one hundredth of what he was feeling inside.
"Oh, I am so very sorry Damon." Both their faces reflected their sorrow at Liza's passing until new voices could be heard. Damon grabbed Mrs. Gradmore's hand and ran towards the end of the tunnel.
They popped up in a graveyard surrounded by mist, the tombstones shadows strewn across the ground. Sneaking almost as silently as the dead, they went out of the grave yard and ran through a cotton field into a dark woods almost like that depicted on the fireplace in Damon's old house. How will we get away?He thought, then he looked down on his sleeping daughter. How will Calla ever survive? Suddenly he had an idea, but he didn't like it.
"Mrs. Gradmore, do you have any family in range?"
"Why yes, a sister."
Damon took a deep breath. "As your one final act of servitude, will you take Calla with you to live there?"
Mrs. Gradmore's grey eyes widened her great bosom expanding before she let out a weary sigh.
"I can't keep her with me," Damon said, "I need someone else to. They could find her too easily with me."
The old woman's cubby face stiffened then relaxed. "I would do anything for the daughter of my best friend."
Her ancient eyes were sad, and she reached out for Calla. Damon looked down on her face once more and whispered "Someday I will find you again my beautiful girl."
Calla yawned a meow as He kissed her forehead and placed her in Mrs. Gradmore's arms. Then the old lady turned and hobbled off into the night. Damon watched as the fog swallowed them up, then ran in the other direction.