The Art of Piracy

Chapter 1-2

Luc de Marcels, the late Marquis de Monceau, had not shuffled off the mortal coil in an airship accident, as was generally assumed. While he didn't mind the anonymity his presumed death had granted, he did resent having to lurk around his home like a ghost. Especially since it felt like something watched him.

At the moment, from the relatively hidden vantage point of a painting's eyeholes, he observed a dreadfully composed young woman direct a group of ruffians to pack up his art in crates destined for who-knew-where. Paintings that had hung in the library for generations were being taken down and packed away like so much bric-a-brac. He would have stopped them but dared not be seen, for many reasons. There had already been one close call when the girl had examined the painting he hid behind, and he had almost not replaced the strip with the portrait's oil-painted eyes quickly enough.

The woman had taste, he'd give her that. She passed over paintings and statues he knew to be less valuable. Not that he had any sort of natural eye for art, but family lore had specified which works were to be taken if the chateau needed to be evacuated quickly. Admiration warred with irritation as he observed her. And while he was no longer a gambling man—his last wager had cost him an eye and his good looks—he bet one of the paintings that ended up in the straw-packed crates would be the one he sought.

He again cursed his father for not giving him specifics as to which painting would unlock the Monceau legacy, a legendary magical force originally harnessed by a wizard in the dark ages. He didn't need to sell any of the art. No, to do so would mark him as a thief and expose his true identity, which would lead to his being tried for treason.

They were almost finished, but she paused by one of the few pictures in standing frames, this one a painting of Luc's great grandfather as a boy. Or at least that's what he'd always been told. It had been painted by some no-name peasant artist and had little worth beyond family sentiment and history, but she lingered over it. What was she playing at? Did she truly not know what she sought?

Or, worse, did she? Could she know something, be more aware than he? It was possible, he conceded as he stepped back. He'd seen the artwork in the library so many times he'd ceased to see it. She looked at it for the first time, and he couldn't help but envy her.

A crash made him jump backward, and he guessed the portrait he'd been looking through had fallen. Icy sweat covered his skin. Something in the house wasn't happy about its desecration, and the sound of fluttering wings made him dash through the secret passages and down into the kitchen, behind which he'd tied his horse. He cursed at himself under his breath for his foolishness but didn't linger inside.

Those sounds and the constant feeling of being observed by something that had just awoken hungry had driven him from his home in the first place and on to that cursed airship. He suspected what he'd seen in the library indicated that Mademoiselle Art Thief would be departing France on a nice steamship. He'd have to follow her and find out.

His horse, Noir, made no sound as he approached. He'd trained the animal well, and together they quietly picked their way through the now-overgrown gardens. Seeing the estate's gradual decay made his heart hurt—his mother had been so proud of the grounds especially. He paused to watch the men load the crates into a carriage, and the crew arranged themselves, ready to depart. The young woman had just climbed on to the driver's bench beside the burly gentleman Luc had identified as the crew's foreman when a dark shadow painted the scene in shades of tar. He looked up to see the bulk of an airship descending, figures dressed in black dangling from ropes. Dark cloths covered the bottom halves of their faces, and each wore a black cap.

Now Luc cursed audibly and mounted his horse.

"Go, you fools!" he shouted at the woman and her crew, and they didn't hesitate. The carriage lurched forward, the man yelling at the horses to move their lazy rumps. The airship pursued them, and Luc calculated their odds. If the carriage made it down the drive across the lawn and into the Forêt de Monceau, the trees would protect them. Luc only needed to keep the pirates from landing on the conveyance.

Luc held Noir's reins with one hand and urged his stallion forward. Noir obeyed, his burst of speed telling Luc the horse had been cooped up for too long. Luc unholstered his pistol, took quick aim, and shot at the pirate who was closest to the carriage. He prayed his shot would be high enough not to hit the carriage's drivers or occupants, and when the pirate fell, he knew his aim had been true. For once. He would deal later with the sickening certainty that if the bullet hadn't killed the man, the fall surely had.

Halfway to the forest, the carriage wobbled, and Luc sucked in a breath—would it lose a wheel? No time to worry about that problem. A bullet whizzed by his ear, and he urged Noir forward so they'd be under the airship and in its shadow, hopefully harder to target. He shot at the next closest pirate to the carriage and missed. That one fired back at him, but the motion of the airship made the ropes sway and twirl, and his bullet went wide. Still, Luc tried again.

Triumphant shouts brought his attention forward, and he saw the carriage disappear into the shadows of the trees. The pirates ascended their ropes, and Luc guessed—hoped—they'd given up. With one last burst of speed, Noir entered the forest, and its coolness enveloped them.