Captain Moxley and the Embers of the Empire Page 3

  She watched him fall for a second or two. Just enough to make sure he didn’t somehow survive and chase after them. Then, wiping a gloved hand across her lip and glaring at the crimson streak that came with it, she pushed herself back towards the cockpit.

  Only to look up in horror as the young pilot cried out.

  “Captaaaaaain!”

  Beyond him, through the windshield, the other dragonman had appeared. Wings spread outward. Flying backwards before the plane.

  Raising his gun towards the boy.

  The windshield burst open in an explosion of bullets and wind. Sam could only throw her arm up against the deadly debris as she leapt forward. Catching a glimpse of the holes ripping through the back of the young pilot’s seat.

  He shuddered within it.

  “No!” she screamed with fury as she raced forward, feeling the plane tilt beneath her feet.

  This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t the boy’s fight.

  “Can’t… control…” he groaned as she reached him. But not fast enough to prevent him collapsing against the yoke and pulling it hard left.

  Their entire world of existence shifted to its side and dipped dangerously towards the ground. The boy fell against the cracked side window, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She couldn’t hear it beneath the roar of the wind through the plane, but rather felt it under her fingers as one hand fought to keep them airborne and the other sought to see how badly he’d been hit.

  “Hold on, Charlie,” she yelled above the din, digging her knees into the back of the seat to stop herself falling onto him. “Stay with me, kid. Don’t let g–”

  The glass that held his weight cracked and shattered outwards.

  And with a look of silent horror he fell through.

  She clutched the seat as his shadow disappeared from view beneath the plane. Towards the line of police cars she could see snaking after them through the traffic below. His scream already lost beneath the steady roar of wind and the whine of the plane as it began to dip.

  My fault.

  She blinked, feeling her stomach churn. But it wasn’t the dangerous descent. It was the thought that once again she was taking the burden of blame when it lay with others.

  Wrestling the yoke, she slipped onto the torn fabric of the seat and brought the aircraft level again as it continued blasting through the streets, towards Midtown. Then she looked up, fixed her glare on the dragonman flying backwards in front of the plane.

  A trick of the light, maybe. But she could almost see a devious smile flit through his otherwise intact and misty helmet.

  And it made her angry as hell.

  She reached for the handle of the harpoon gun she’d seen wedged down the side of the seat. The kid had told her he’d gone fishing with it in the Hudson once, pulled out half a shark. Didn’t matter if it was true or not. She believed him.

  No, not my fault at all.

  The New York night raged through the shattered windscreen as she lifted the loaded weapon over the dashboard – and fired.

  Yours.

  The bolt burst through the dragonman’s back and hit the gas tanks. His helmet lit up first, a beautiful ball of flame encased in glass – before the rest of him erupted in a giant orange explosion that blossomed out and out and out. Until he was just a flailing shadow of melting arms, legs and wings.

  Without a thought, Sam jammed the gun under the seat. Wedging it firmly within the metal bars.

  Just in time.

  The rope went taught as the impaled body fell from the sky. It was a pretty unorthodox way to bring them both down to earth. Her old wingman Jenkins would have scoffed in that affable manner of his, had he survived the war to witness this – but he would definitely have approved.

  “Darned good idea, Sam,” he would have said, “but let’s hope he had a heavy last meal, eh?”

  The rope strained against the frame of the shattered cockpit window. It groaned with the force of the corpse’s weight outside. But the gun beneath the seat held tight.

  The plane began to tilt down, bringing more of the city street into view.

  And there it was ahead.

  Central Park.

  “Thank fuck,” Sam gasped, as she held fast to the stick, unwilling to let them drop too fast if she could help it. The streets were full beneath them, but the park held enough green soft landing space to make surviving this night without killing anyone else a possibility at least. In fact, she could just about see the glint of moonlight on one of the lakes through the trees as they dipped further towards the ground. There was a shiver of memory. She held it at bay at they descended sharply, bursting from between the buildings, and she made one last course correction towards the water.

  “At least it’s not the English Channel this time, I guess,” she said. Then closed her eyes and braced.

  There was the barest sound of a crack below as the dragonman’s body hit the ground, before the rope finally snapped – and the plane flipped over and splashed down into the lake on its roof.

  This time she was ready. As much as you can ever be for a ridiculously close call with death, but ready nonetheless. She went limp with the impact, then sprang into life as the dark, chill swirled around her. Through the shattered window she went, ignoring the glass biting and scraping at her skin. Pushing away from the cold metal frame and up, up, up… until she exploded from the surface and gasped in a lungful of the oil and fume-tainted air.

  A few weary strokes were all that was needed to reach the bank. But even then her sodden clothes grew heavier by the second – and she briefly wondered if it might be easier just to let go, slip beneath the water, and let the world move on without her.

  It would have been a relief, certainly. And perhaps part of her felt she deserved it.

  But then she thought of Jess and it was enough to keep her going. She could not leave her sister to the mercy of government. Not to Agent Taylor and his sneering sidekick Smith and their insidious monsters.

  Fingers found dirt and she pulled herself through weeds and moss, until she was on real land. Then she fell back onto her elbows and watched the still-burning dragonman scrape past her, as the plane sank into the lake and dragged him after it.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” she called over, as his charred wings disappeared beneath the water with a hiss of steam.

  Reaching into her jacket, she drew out the leaflet she had pocketed earlier, pulled the hair away from where it had plastered itself to her face, and read the wet, blotted words again.

  THE NEW YORK METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART INVITES YOU TO THE VIP UNVEILING OF THIS CENTURY’S MOST IMPORTANT DISCOVERY...

  Sam looked to her right. Beyond the lake, at the edge of the park, was the shadowy outline of a large, imposing building through the trees – the windows lit and figures gathered within. She could almost have cried with relief, had her lungs not been full of water and near-death.

  “I owe you one, Charlie,” she said, getting to her feet.

  Feeling like a swamp creature from one of those monster movies her dad kept trying to take her to at the local picture house, Sam wearily climbed the steps of the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. Bedraggled and unkempt, she left behind sodden, muddy footprints, along with a trail of moss and only-the-devil-knew-what from the lake.

  A man in a tilted grey hat gaped and dropped his pipe. Two women in blue polka dot dresses, arms linked, rushed on past, as if whatever had happened to Sam might be catching. Their black heels clicked furiously, like a typing pool under deadline, as they headed for the safety of the subway.

  More stares as she burst through the revolving door of the museum into a sweeping lobby full of the city’s brightest up-and-comers, all dressed in dinner suits and ballgowns. Heads turned, following the trail of water she dripped through their midst as she searched for the exhibition hall. Slipping through their finery, she caught a glimpse, in the reflection of a silver platter, of a tall attendant in a black suit and tie, guarding a set of double doors.


  The man’s thin moustache twitched as Sam approached, pushing her way roughly through a small gathering of old white men who were leering over a waitress.

  “Can I help you, miss?” The attendant asked, stepping in front of her.

  She slapped the wet invitation to his chest and strode past him, through the double doors and into the exhibition hall.

  Where she found her sister in the clutches of an ancient evil.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Night at the Museum

  The exhibition hall was a cavernous place, filled to its nineteenth-century rafters with all manner of terrifyingly weird and wonderful artefacts. Skulls and weapons. Death masks and figurines from the Yucatan. An imposing and fiercely detailed Aztec Calendar Stone. And three huge, snarling statues from Ancient Egypt waiting to scare someone’s britches off.

  But Sam’s focus was on the blonde white woman in the red ballgown, her pale face – compliments of the Lancashire sun, their father had always joked – contorted in mock anguish as she pretended to have been captured by a demonic Neo-Assyrian statue.

  A man laughed beside her, with slicked back hair like all the fashionable men these days. Tall, Asian American and slightly older than the woman – late twenties, perhaps – he wore a handsome smile and was dressed to kill in a white tuxedo.

  Yet, unlike every other man Sam had come across tonight, this Ivy Leaguer showed showed no signs of actually having killing on his mind. Rather, he was playing along with the woman’s joke.

  Nobody seemed in danger. He wasn’t holding her hostage. The statue was just a statue and these two were just a couple at ease in their surroundings, playing about, while white-coated museum assistants busied themselves making last minute polishes to the centrepiece display next to them.

  Sam bristled and shook, though through anger or hypothermia from standing here in her soaked clothes, she wasn’t sure. It brought back the time she and Jess had been exploring an abandoned house in their little old English town on the outskirts of Manchester, when they’d been younger. Sam’s idea, probably; it usually was. And to be fair it had all been fine until her little sister, who must have been about six, suddenly screamed her lungs off at the sight of a rat skeleton on the red and black tartan carpet. Of course, it was just a harmless little skeleton. But kids screams are contagious and before she knew it they were both scarpering down the stairs, trampling through the overgrown garden, and diving back out into the safety of the rain-soaked street – startling passers-by and falling about laughing and hugging in sheer relief at still being alive.

  As her mind raced through the variety of scenarios she had been imagining these last few days searching for her sister, Sam knew that none of them had ended so innocently. She knew she should be relieved to find Jessica here, safe and sound, surrounded by far more harmless skeletons. But she was so bloody tired and confused.

  And angry.

  “Jessica J. Moxley!”

  Her words thundered through the ancient collection, vibrating glass cases and causing every single head to turn her way. She shifted under their gaze, boots squelching loudly, but after the night she’d had did she really care about making a scene? They were lucky she hadn’t cursed like a goddamn sailor until the skylights above them shattered and rained glass upon them all.

  Her younger sister gaped in shock as the rest of the room grew silent. Then there was the barest flicker of the wide white grin Sam had once known so well.

  “Samantha?” Jessica’s American lilt was in direct contrast to Sam’s weary British accent. It was something Sam had never really got used to, although she was still glad to hear it., because it meant that all her sacrifices had been for something and her sister had found a life away from the horror show of the war many others hadn’t survived.

  Jess threw a quizzical glance at the man by her side, as though he might have had something to do with this, then turned fully to face the visitor in their midst. Her dress swished elegantly around her legs, drawing the gaze of most of the men in the room.

  Sam felt a pulling sensation in her gut. Even when taken by surprise, Jess held more grace and poise than she’d ever been able to muster.

  The two walked slowly towards each other. Sam, half-drowned, increasingly feeling her age and exhaustion, looked her glowing, younger sister up and down. Jess did the same, seemingly torn between concern and horror as she noted Sam’s blood-stained shirt and the puddles forming around her boots.

  Finally they stopped about a metre apart and pointed an accusing finger at one another.

  “What the hell happened to you?” they said in unison.

  Sam opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to find the words, but they wouldn’t come. Jessica simply laughed at the absurdity of what she saw and reached over to kiss her sister’s cheek.

  “You look like utter shit, sis, but it is so great to see you!”

  Jessica’s friend now appeared at her shoulder, a hint of alarm at Sam’s bedraggled appearance hidden behind his warm smile, but he maintained it nonetheless. His hand stretched out. “Am I to presume that we have standing before us Jessica’s infamous sister, Samantha? Honoured to finally meet you, Miss, and happy beyond measure you could be here tonight to share in our glory. I’m Doctor William Sandford, curator at the museum, and acquirer of ancient antiquities, lost or otherwise.”

  He wriggled his fingers, as if Sam might have missed the offer of a handshake. She ignored it as the water continued to pool at her feet. “You know, Dr Sandford, only my mother really ever called me Samantha. And the troublesome Jesse James here, when she’s trying to act like my mother.”

  His handsome face crinkled in a delightfully puzzled way. “Jesse James?”

  Jessica rubbed the back of her neck. “I was a bit of an outlaw at school.”

  “I’ll say,” Sam teased.

  She was rewarded with a hint of mischief in her sister’s eyes. But Dr Sandford was oblivious to the sisterly dynamics and simply turned back to Sam, hand still outstretched. “Jesse James it is then. But, please, no need for professionalism here. We’re almost family after all! You may call me Will.”

  Sam straightened, trying not to shiver as her sodden shirt stuck to her back. She did, however, finally take Will’s hand and give it a strong, wet shake.

  “And you may call me Captain,” she said with a wry smile. “I happen to enjoy a bit of professionalism.”

  Jessica harrumphed good-naturedly under her breath. “Last time I checked, Captain Professional, most normal people take cabs when they go out for the night.” She gently ushered Will back to her side as the lake seeping out of Sam’s clothes spread across the floor. “Did you swim here?”

  “I had an unavoidable detour through a lake.”

  “Figures. Like that time when we went cycling around the Dark Peak and you ended up freewheeling down that hill? Oh, gosh, I still laugh at that one.”

  Sam’s smile grew, remembering the terror and the excitement and the inevitability of knowing her fate, once she’d realised her brakes had failed. Yet all too soon the smile faded and she cleared her throat.

  “There will be plenty of time to talk about my travel habits and reminisce over silly things I’ve done in the past,” she said. “But I’m afraid we need to go, Jess.”

  “Go?” Jess replied, her perfect nose wrinkled in that way it always did when someone said something quite ridiculous.

  “Go?” Will repeated, just as incredulous. “You can’t go! Take a look around you, Captain. We only returned from our expedition earlier today and have been flat out trying to finish getting this display ready for the city. We have our mighty fine guests outside, some refreshments on standby, and of course we now have our prized artefact.”

  He stepped aside with a flourish to reveal the centrepiece pillar behind him. Atop it sat a stunning gold crescent moon of an artefact, subtly decorated with obsidian and lapis lazuli stars.

  “The Isis Amulet!” his voice boomed theatrically. He may have been a mus
eum curator, but Sam could tell he had a knack for the dramatic. “It’s what they refer to in the ancient Mayan scripts as the Amulet of Life. And Jessica here helped me recover it, after years of searching. So what makes you think I’d let you steal her away from me tonight, just as we’re about to unveil it?”

  Jess tilted her head as she stared up at her sister. “He’s not wrong, you know. Do you understand what I had to do to bring that piece home? Sailing down the Amazon, running from natives, basically risking my life on a daily basis. Surely you of all people can appreciate that I can’t let that all be for nothing?”

  “Did you ever think that maybe the ‘natives’ you speak of didn’t want you stealing their culture?” Sam replied. “That perhaps you’ve pulled the old colonial trick of discovering what wasn’t lost in the first place and then claiming ownership of it for the good of all mankind?”

  “Oh don’t start that again. You might never have liked what I studied, but archaeology–”

  “Archaeology is wonderful, yes, I know and I don’t disagree. I love the study of what makes us tick and I love the feel of history in your hands and the knowledge that the last time someone held that artefact was hundreds or thousands of years ago.” Sam found her gaze drifting to the amulet, unable to help the quiver of excitement – or was it something else? – as she wondered just where the thing had come from. She frowned and continued, “Trust me, Jessica, I know that feeling more than you could possibly understand. But there are ways and means to these things. You can’t just be wandering around, trespassing in people’s lives. There is a matter of consent.”

  Her sister waited with folded arms.

  “Have you quite finished?”

  Sam hadn’t, but she felt the heat of everyone’s gaze on her again. She shrugged and said, “Sorry, but you know how I feel about such things.”

  Jess sighed patiently and walked over to tug at Sam’s arm, pulling her closer to the display. “Ours is a noble pursuit, Sam. A cause of enlightenment, even if we may accidentally tread on some toes along the way. But–” Jessica held up her hand before Sam could argue, “–in this case you’ll be pleased to note that the locals were only custodians of the piece, not the owners, and most of them were willing to part with it in the end because they knew it wasn’t originally theirs. I mean, look at the markings. It’s not like any artefact ever found in the Americas, or many other places, to be fair. Without a shadow of a doubt this thing originated elsewhere. Although how and why it ended up in the Amazon is a mystery that we intend to find out.”