Coyle and Fang: Curse of Shadows (Coyle and Fang Adventure Series Book 1) by Robert III (great books for teens .txt) 📗

usually received. She liked her pipe. Other ladies liked... whatever tickled their fancy. To each their own.

A few dirigibles—bloated constructs filled with gas and propelled by small steam engines—floated through the blue sky. Their colors varied depending on their use: Silver and blue for passengers, gray for the US Navy, white for cargo, dark gray with red glass cabins for private use. They all followed their predetermined paths, traveling to their destinations as safely as possible. She had never ridden on one and preferred staying close to the ground. If people were meant to be in the air, God would have given them wings.

She inhaled the chilled, June air and regretted it. The reek of nearby slaughterhouses and Chinese shrimping boats resting in the sun made her pull her hand to her nose. She couldn’t wait until this was over. Both the stench and her nerves were driving her mad. Nearby church bells rang out two o’clock. She had been on the grounds since five that morning.

Chatter about the latest body found in a Chicago-area brothel perked her ears. She took a step closer their group and inspected her fingernails as they described the crime scene: hands tied to the bedposts, a vertical incision from the neck to the lower abdomen. Vital organs had been removed, set aside and carefully dissected. The latest victim of the Ripper.

A cold tingling sensation grew in her belly. She could envision the scene all too well, and if she didn’t take this detective spot, the bodies would keep piling up. Every corpse the Ripper left behind was a testament to the promise he’d made to her.

An unoiled door snapped everyone’s attention to a wide gate yawning open. A frumpy applicant limped out, holding his elbow. His expression was sour under bunches of straw-colored hair. Smears of dirt ran along one side of his uniform. A pair of men followed. The tall one, built like a scarecrow, was marking a stack of papers in his hand.

“Maybe next year, eh, Constable Marston?” The tall man chuckled and pushed thin-wired frames up his bent nose. He glanced down at his papers and mumbled something the students couldn’t hear. He shared a word with a colleague and tapped his pencil against the papers before calling out, “Constable Sherlyn Coyle, front and center!”

“Here, sir!” she said, her skin tingling, throat dry and knees wobbling.

This is it.

She dabbed her forehead with a kerchief, took a deep breath and let it out through parched lips. She smoothed away the wrinkles of her uniform dress and walked to the tall man, Master Detective Meys, with a lively step. Someone bumped into her and mumbled an apology. She didn’t bother to respond.

She stepped up to the master detective and cleared her throat.

Was that too loud?

He ignored her arrival, burying his nose in the stack of papers. She stood at attention, the best she could without looking like she was wracked with nerves.

“Well, then,” Meys said. “Constable Coyle?” His tone was condescending, abrupt.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. Sweat dripped down her back. Her eyes were riveted in his direction.

“You ready?”

“I am, sir.”

He forced a half smile.

She swallowed.

“Gentlemen, let me introduce Constable Sherlyn Coyle. She has slight bruising across her nose, the result of her recent tussle with some of the local gang. She has no problem using her fists when provoked. You may have noticed the lack of trousers on this one,” Meys said. “Hopefully, you also noticed this constable chose to wear perfume and not cologne this morning. Part and parcel of her feminine charm, we assume. Though she may want to reconsider her choice of eau de toilette because she’s still not married.”

Coughs and chuckles peppered the air. She stared past the men toward the jagged edges of the growing city skyline. San Francisco, the “Golden Gate City.” Were the gleaming opportunities designed specifically for men in this city? It certainly seemed like it. This morning she hoped to change that. But she was very aware of the heat in her cheeks. And, of course, everyone was looking at her.

“Constable Coyle,” Meys continued, “is the first woman to enter the San Francisco Academy of Investigation, an establishment that has produced the bravest, finest law enforcement detectives our city has to offer. This institution serves our communities faithfully and produces tactical-minded men who work with strength, endurance, and a reverent duty to protect and serve. Constable Coyle has decided to ignore her state of being: her God-given duty to bear children and the gift of providing a home for a husband.”

There were more than a few sneers and shakes of heads. Coyle kept her chin up while sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She did see the irony of it all, though: her desire to pass this test and work alongside men who wouldn’t appreciate her skill or hard work. They would only ever see a dress.

“It is against our code of ethics to allow a woman to join our estimable ranks. However, she hired an attorney who found a loophole in our policies, and the courts folded in her favor,” he said.

Hisses and grunts tumbled from behind bushy beards and mustaches. She glanced to the side and caught the master detective’s smirk. He was a showman, and she was the show. She slowly balled her hands into fists and relaxed them. She couldn’t, however, act on her base impulses. She had to apply her energy and attention to the matter at hand: the detective position.

And not the urge to land her fist on his beak.

“Each of you is here because you completed your studies and passed the necessary written examinations to participate in the final scenarios, which, if completed successfully, lead to the promotion of detective. All of you are competing for that title, but there are only three positions to fill, and so far Constable Mueller has taken the first. That leaves...” He eyed Coyle.

She cleared her throat. “Two, sir.”

“She knows her math, gentlemen,” Meys said. He waited for the