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

scenario, everything fell apart. She pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping the sharp pain digging into her skull would go away.

“You’re not cut out for this.”

Maybe Moreci was right. Maybe she wasn’t made to be a detective. Maybe she would never find the justice she sought. Detectives solve cases, one after another after another. Certainly, she could find difficult evidence and put things together in her head. But what else did it take to be a great detective? Because she didn’t have it.

And maybe I never will.

She rubbed her eyes and walked to the dresser, pulling a hairbrush through her thick brown-gold hair. She caught her reflection in the large window. Her hazel eyes stared back. She wasn’t sure when age lines usually appeared at the corners of women’s eyes, but she had them at twenty-two.

And what would she look like at thirty-two? Fifty-two? Would she find Ronan by then? And how many women would die while she tried to figure out her life?

She gazed at the slouch of her posture. It was, no doubt, the result of a lack of proper rest, but she had to wonder if the cost of bringing Ronan to justice was growing heavier on her, especially in light of her recent actions of immaturity.

And what was the secret she wanted to tell Poes? She paused, frowning at herself. Was it something she knew? Something he knew? She shook her head and continued. Nothing made sense. Not yet.

She finished brushing her hair and opened her luggage to find a handsome brown pantsuit and matching waistcoat fashioned from woolen tweed. Soft but firm black leather boots and gloves were set beside the clothes. She pulled them out and found another matching set underneath.

Treece had packed her a week’s worth of dress-work clothes. She opened another trunk and found two dresses in the latest fashion resting next to beautiful matching shoes. She checked for a manufacturer’s imprint but realized the shoes and clothes were all made in-house by Treece’s company. At this rate, she’d soon be owned and run by him as well.

A soft rap at the door diverted her attention. She went downstairs and opened the door.

“Yes?” she asked the attendant, giving the girl a quick once-over. She was young, late teens. Her face was pretty with baby-fat cheeks. Her mousy, brown eyes were both shy and curious. Shorter and a bit heavier than Coyle. Smudge on the left sleeve. Odor of cigars. Soft hands.

The girl hummed and handed her a handwritten card. It read, I have a note for your husband.

Coyle frowned. “I have no husband. Who is the note for?”

The girl frowned and looked at her notecard. She pulled out a pad of paper and wrote with a small pencil before handing over the pad. Coyle studied the paper. This is for Suite number 202.

“Are you deaf?” Coyle asked, tapping her own ear.

The girl’s cheeks flushed red, and she nodded. Her soft eyes shot to the floor before looking back up.

Coyle signed, <Do you know how to sign?>

The girl’s eyes and mouth opened slightly, but then she frowned. She signed something vaguely resembling, <Yes, I do>.

Coyle had learned American Sign Language from her deaf aunt and cousin, who were taught at a private school. But when she practiced signing with others during her travels, she sometimes had difficulty understanding them. When she questioned her aunt, her aunt explained deaf people could carry an “accent” of sorts depending on their friend group and the region they lived in. But she’d assured Coyle that for the most part, people eventually found enough similarities to hold a conversation.

Coyle wasn’t too interested in making new friends and decided to keep the conversation short and simple.

<Who is note for?> Coyle asked.

The girl handed the note to Coyle and gave a polite smile.

<Thank you,> Coyle signed before turning away.

<I’m sorry!> the girl said. She signed something else, but Coyle wasn’t too sure what was said.

Coyle nodded her head and shut the door. The note read, Meeting in Treece’s suite, seven o’clock. She glanced at the trunk with the dresses and sighed.

More opportunities to embarrass myself.

Her pipe hanging at the side of her mouth, she spent the rest of the day reading and rereading the journal she had found deep underground. The edges were torn, and some of the ink had melted into the pages from the seawater. But she read what she could and guessed what she couldn’t.

Most of it was written with constant misspellings and a shaky hand, making reading slow and even impossible at times. She could only guess the author was Trevin, but the journal also contained torn pages from someone else’s journal. This author’s writing indicated education and excellent penmanship.

She set the torn pages and reread them. The author wrote with a gentle though tortured heart. He and another unnamed cohort had been in charge of modifications within Project Archangel.

There were many entries pertaining to a girl, half-human, half-vamperion. She was brought in wearing a straitjacket. She had murdered her adoptive parents with a knife. The unnamed girl was full of rage, almost untamable. Time went on, and the experiments began. Eventually, they forced her into a semblance of control and gave her the codename Fang.

One entry, dated March 1868, read,

We learned she was born in 1649 in a hamlet near Buckinghamshire. By the age of ten, she had suffered a terrible tragedy during a ship’s voyage from England to New Amsterdam (now New York). After that, there is no history of her whereabouts other than the account of her murdered adopted parents. Where had she been for over two hundred years? And now she is mentally and spiritually dismantled.

It is with utmost care and delicacy the physician touches the deep wound. And only the Great Physician Himself could heal the wounds inflicted on her poor soul. Did she suffer them from our own hands? Or when she killed her younger sister? Or were they brought upon by the many deathly tasks for which she