Firebird Rising: A romantic mafia fantasy (The Gray Dynasty Series Book 1) Read online

  FIREBIRD RISING: The Gray Dynasty Book 1

  Copyright © 2021 A. S. Marshall. All rights reserved.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-7779885-0-0 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-7779885-1-7 (ebook)

  Cover design and interior formatting by: Miblart

  Editing by: Sharon Honeycutt

  Proofreading by: Katie Elliot

  To all the women who’ve ever been told

  they couldn’t and then did it anyway.

  This one’s for you.

  Chapter 1

  If one paid any attention to the headlines of the day, they’d be convinced that women were delicate, inferior creatures to whom any slight inconvenience would be sure to trigger a fainting spell or even worse, death. Cartoons in the dreadful yellow journal depicted primped ladies who had brains full of fluffy kittens, fancy dress and sugary bon bons––evidence that women were best suited to a gentler speed, a life of low friction, provided first by her father and then by her husband.

  And yet, it would be remiss to think that the prison system in Fauland should show any favor toward a young lady. After all, they hanged women, didn’t they? Perhaps a favorable circumstance could be bought in Lanton, Fauland’s capital, where plenty of watchful eyes and loud voices depended on the wealthy for their livelihood. But in the poor shipping town of North Haverdale, the disgruntled, underpaid locals would be only too happy to see the daughter of businessman Harold Gray punished for her misdeeds.

  Celia was caged like a wild animal, shackled to a brick wall in the pit of North Haverdale’s women’s penitentiary. Her arms had long gone numb from being spread out on either side, as if she were about to be crucified. Worsening her pitiful state, she hadn’t been allowed to wash for a week. The only reprieve from her filth had come when they’d doused her with water and left her to shiver in the night; a murderer would have been treated less cruelly.

  The yellow lights in the hallway outside her cell flickered on one by one, casting sinister black shadows along the walls. Her head hung low, swaying from side to side as she drifted in and out of sleep––the only state that made her predicament remotely tolerable. If she weren’t under constant watch––or at the very least, had the use of her hands––they would have regretted torturing a Gray.

  The rattling of keys sounded from down the hall, accompanied by heavy boot steps. When the lock on her cell door clicked, Celia woke, lifting her head and groaning as she set eyes on an unwelcome face.

  Lieutenant James Wilson hobbled into her cell, supported by a wooden cane, with two armed guards by his side. He sported a fine wool coat whose silver buttons were unfastened against the bulge of his gut, revealing the pinstriped white shirt and gray pants he wore underneath. A brimmed hat cupped the top of his balding head, darkening his beady eyes.

  The two guards stood at the back of the cell, their hands firmly on their rifles, their expressions stern, like hardened, well-trained military men. Neither of them looked at Celia or the lieutenant; instead, they stared blankly at the wall ahead, as if they were statues, devoid of humanity.

  Wilson leaned on his cane, craning his head toward hers. He placed a hand on her matted auburn hair, petting her gently before sliding his calloused fingers down to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his. She grimaced at his touch.

  “Sleeping again, are we?” he asked in his tender, honeyed tone, a lure for unsuspecting jailbirds to spill their deepest regrets.

  Celia knew better than that. Other than his protruding belly, the man wasn’t soft, especially when it came to interrogating criminals.

  “There’s so much to do in here, a girl gets tired,” she said, rolling her eyes and sighing before lowering her gaze to the floor.

  “Are you going to tell me what I want to know today?” His fingers tightened against her jaw as he forced her eyes to meet his. He was searching for an answer that Celia wasn’t sure she had the strength left to withhold.

  “Remind me, what is it you want?” She looked up at him through her lashes and pouted her lips.

  Wilson shoved her face away and slammed the heel of his cane on the ground. One guard’s eye wandered to the commotion. He caught Celia’s gaze briefly before he stiffened and fixed his eyes on the wall again.

  “It’s been a week! Surely you want to be out of here. I can’t imagine that you’d prefer this to the luxuries you’ve grown accustomed to.” He ran a finger against a wet brick, raising it in the air to show her the soot, then wiped it on his coat.

  Clearing his throat, he put both hands on his hips and faced her again. “You must have forgotten how serious the charges are against you. Please let me offer you a reminder. You’re to stand trial for arson. We have several witnesses that can pinpoint you at the fire down by the wharf. You burned it minutes before the local authorities granted the permit to search it! That’s obstruction of justice. If you don’t cooperate with me, at best, you could spend your whole life here and never see the light of day again. At worst, the boys will dig a hole for you in the yard.”

  Celia looked over to the small window high atop the far wall of her cell. It was covered in a thick layer of muck. She could only be sure it was daylight if it was a cloudless, sunny day, relying mostly on the changing of the guards and the powering on of prison lights to mark time. Given that in Fauland it rained more often than it shone, she spent most of her days in perpetual darkness.

  “What do you want, Wilson?”

  “Your father. You need to tell me what his connection was to the warehouse you burned. What goods did he smuggle into the port? Weapons? Liquor? Gold?” His eyes narrowed as he tried to spot the slightest tremble on her face. “He hasn’t sent a lawyer for you, Celia. He’s left you here to rot. I can’t imagine that you’d still want to protect him.”

  Celia considered his statement. Why had she been left here for so long? Why didn’t anyone come for her––or at the very least, send a letter? Maybe her father had meant what he said. Maybe this time, she was truly on her own.

  Her features softened as she turned to him, water welling in her large doe eyes. “Y-you can get me out of here?”

  “If you give me information that leads to your father’s arrest and conviction, I can see that you walk free.” Wilson’s voice strengthened with determination.

  Celia hung her head again, thoughts burning in the back of her mind. Was protecting her father worth sacrificing her own freedom? Would her loyalty make a difference, after everything that happened? The image of the last time she saw him flashed before her eyes,
a tear threatened to break free and escape down her cheek. She blinked it away, then turned to Wilson.

  “Okay,” she said, a lump forming in her throat. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  Wilson raised his furry brows in surprise and intrigue. Undoubtedly, a feeling of satisfaction brewed within him as he believed himself to be the first person to have broken the spirit of a Gray.

  “What was in the warehouse?”

  Celia’s eyes were distant, seemingly lost in memory. “It was quite rare. He’d gone through great lengths to acquire it.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was big . . . priceless. I’m not certain how he got it here or where he got it from.”

  “Big? Priceless? Go on, you can tell me.” He leaned in, tilting an ear toward her so as to be sure not to miss a word.

  “Four legs. Hooves. Gleaming white.”

  “Horses? He brought over illegal horses? To race?”

  “No. Not horses.”

  “What then? Mules? Oxen?”

  “Unicorns! Ones with big bushy rainbow tails that poop cotton candy!”

  A brief look of astonishment and confusion rippled across his face before it was replaced with seething rage. Celia rolled her head backwards and laughed hysterically. The guard that caught her eye earlier stifled a snicker with his hand and then instantly straightened as Wilson shot him an angry look.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Wilson sighed and then buttoned his coat. “Have it your way.” He scowled, jabbing the tip of his cane at her. “We’ll see how much energy you have for joking when I’m through with you.” He turned to the guards and barked, “Don’t bring her anything to eat or drink until I say so.”

  “Yessir!” They both nodded in unison.

  The rusty hinges on her cell door creaked as he opened it and walked through. The guard that stood outside her cell locked it once more, and they disappeared down the hallway.

  Night had rolled in, and Celia was all alone. Drooping her head to one side, she closed her eyes. And waited.

  *

  A gentle clanging of keys sounded in the hallway. Celia awakened to see yet another familiar face entering her cell. It was the guard that caught her eye earlier, and she was immediately relieved.

  “Darren,” she whispered as he came over to her.

  Darren Edelman stood nearly six feet tall, his uniform dutifully pressed with perfect creases in his pant legs. He wore his hat low on his face, hiding the flush appearance of his youthful, freckled skin. Darren was unusually good natured and naive for the line of work he found himself in, virtues Celia was only too pleased to discover when the young man was tasked with guarding her cell one night.

  He pulled another set of keys out of his jacket, glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway, and then quickly unlocked her shackles. Celia’s arms fell to her sides, her skin prickling like a thousand hot needles were piercing her veins. Wrapping her in his arms, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her deeply. She leaned into him, feeling his warm lips smother hers.

  “Are you hurt?” He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She nodded, her head resting on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I had to let him treat you like that, my beautiful rose.”

  “It’s alright. After tonight, he won’t get to do that anymore.” She took his hand in hers. “Is everything set?”

  “The guards in this wing are on break. They’ve left me to watch until quarter past.” Sweat beaded at his temples as he looked over his shoulder again. “I’ve got a car parked on the next block over. We have to leave right now.”

  With his arms around her shoulders, he ushered Celia into the corridor. The two were careful not to make any sound as they wound their way through the prison’s underbelly. They hid in the shadows, their backs skimming the walls, out of sight from any stray guard that might have wandered in. Finding their way up a set of rickety wooden stairs, Celia stood on the platform behind him as he pushed open the doors and checked to ensure it was clear. Then he signaled her to follow.

  The crisp autumn air blew through the weave of her blouse, raising her skin. Plumes of grayish-black smoke billowed from chimney stacks, releasing the earthy musk of burning firewood. The courtyard was bare, except for a couple transport trucks parked beside the gates. Celia had been shoved into the back of one with fifteen other detainees after her arrest. She could still remember the pungent stench of sweat, alcohol and urine wafting from her fellow inmates. The memory made her stomach churn.

  In such a small town, the detainees were mostly local drunks and petty thieves, all of whom were sleeping at this hour. So, at break time, no guards lingered in the courtyard. Darren had informed her that they preferred to take their cigarette breaks on the eastern side, overlooking the Wyrn River, save for the watchtower guard who was fast asleep at his post.

  It was a short sprint to the gates where Celia could make out the slumped body of an unexpected guard with his hat lowered over his eyes.

  “Sedative?” she asked as they drew near.

  “Just one in his whiskey, not too strong. He’ll wake in a couple hours.” Darren pulled another set of keys from his jacket.

  Celia couldn’t hide her admiration for a scheme well executed. Although they mulled over this plan for a couple days and she was its primary architect, she was pleasantly surprised by his ability to improvise under pressure.

  Darren turned a key in the padlock, the latch popped open, and he began unravelling the thick chain. From behind them, the slapping of boots on cobblestone caught their attention. Celia cursed under her breath.

  “Darren! What’s going on?” a guard shouted after them from the far end of the yard.

  “Stop them! They’re trying to escape!” Another appeared behind the first.

  “We’re done for. They’ll catch us or kill us!” Darren’s breathing labored as the reality of what he’d done and its dire consequences set in.

  “Follow the plan. Get to the car and don’t turn back. If I don’t make it there in ten minutes, leave,” she ordered as the chain fell and the gates flung open. Darren obeyed and bolted through the gates without a second look at Celia.

  In an instant, a blinding white spotlight shone down on her, and a screeching siren blared. The courtyard was now dotted with a dozen guards, their weapons drawn, inching nearer.

  “Stop right there! Don’t move or we’ll shoot!” a guard who stood in front of the pack yelled from behind the barrel of his gun.

  “Put your hands up!” another belted.

  Celia’s back brushed against the cool, wrought-iron gates. She could see only half the men; the trucks parked near her blocked her view of the others. Her eyes narrowed as she stared into the eyes of the one closest to her.

  “Put your hands up where we can see them!” His face was red with rage.

  “Okay. Okay. I will.” She clasped her hands and then rubbed her palms together. Come on. Come on, she urged herself, yearning for a familiar feeling to radiate through them, but nothing happened. Damnation! Now is not the time to be shy.

  Celia dropped both hands to her sides and ran behind the nearest truck. Immediately, the guards opened fire, bullet holes piercing the metal cabin. She ducked low. Her heart thundered in her chest as the image of her bullet riddled body being dumped into an unmarked grave flashed before her eyes. What a horrid outcome from an equally horrible situation, she thought.

  Suddenly, as if triggered from an instinctual mechanism deep in her brain, a heat began coursing through her. Its warmth enveloped her being, sending a rush of blood through every vein in her body as it settled between her palms, pulsating in fiery intensity. Holding her hands out in front of her, she saw tiny sparks erupting from her fingers. A wicked smile spread across her lips. Finally, debts have come due. It paid to be a Gray.

  A bullet whooshed by her shoulder, then another
. The air around her palms sweltered until hot, angry flames ignited from their centers. Curling her palms around each other as if she were packing a snowball, she pelted an orange ball under the belly of the truck. It exploded onto the pavement, covering the ground in a bed of fire. Guards shrieked and dove out of the way, some firing aimlessly as they clambered backward.

  Staying low to the ground, she aimed for the gas tank of the truck parked one space over and then dashed toward the gates. In seconds, the tank erupted in a deafening explosion, shattering the windows of the vehicles beside it. Screams of terror sounded from beyond the wall of flames, and the unmistakable scent of burning hair and flesh filled the air.

  Above the crackling fire and sirens, a hoard of angry yelling came from inside the prison.

  “The prisoners are revolting! We need men to subdue them!”

  “Get inside now! Stop them from breaking out!”

  Celia smirked. Even the best-laid plans could benefit from some divine intervention. At least she couldn’t stand accused of not helping her fellow man. Stray bullets whizzed past her as she cleared the gates. She turned to ensure no one could follow, but that’s when she saw a guard jump from the second story, steady himself on the ground and limp toward her. His gun was pointed at her forehead.

  “Nowhere to run now.” He stood on the other side of the gates, panting, sweat streaming from his brow bone to his jaw. “It’s over. Hands where I can see them. Don’t try anything funny or I’ll shoot you dead, lady.”

  Feeling her pulse thumping in her neck, Celia reached into her pocket.

  “I said hands where I can see them!” He cocked his gun. “I’m not playing around with you!”

  “It’s only a twig. It’s nothing,” she said, showing him a brownish-red stick lying flat on her palm. She’d found the hardy stick on her first night and thought it might be useful to pick the lock on her cell, not expecting that she’d be shackled, rendering all hope of escape useless . . . until she met Darren.

  “Drop it and put your hands up!”