From the Ashes (Ravenwood Mysteries #1)

The Dreaming Detective

ZEPHANIAH RAVENWOOD SAT ON his throne, impassive as ever, watching his partner shuffle a deck of cards without his customary finesse. It would make the second deck he ruined this evening.

Atticus Riot was neither impassive nor calm. While the former was regrettably commonplace, the latter was incongruous, and therefore, troubling to Ravenwood.

"The deck will remain the same no matter how many times you shuffle. It will still contain fifty-two cards."

Riot stopped his restless shuffling. He looked into the humorless eyes across from him. The light from the fire danced in their dark reflection. As always, Ravenwood's words held deeper significance. Riot tapped his abused deck square, stood, and placed it on the mantel.

"You are angry," Ravenwood noted dryly. The severe man interlaced his long fingers in thought. "We solved a case, brought a murderer to justice, and yet you appear dissatisfied. Usually you are eager to celebrate, while I am not. I need no company, my boy, go do whatever it is you do—I suspect women."

"There's no cause to celebrate," Riot murmured.

"As I have been saying these past twenty years."

Riot bestowed annoyance on his partner. "With this case," he clarified, knowing full well that Ravenwood knew it too. "As you said, 'no matter how many times I shuffle the deck, it won't change the cards."

"Not my precise words but—"

"We haven't changed a thing, Ravenwood. Those children are still dead!"

The large man in his throne was unruffled by Riot's frustration. "The dead have been avenged."

"It doesn't change a thing," Riot repeated, running a hand over his face. "I'm tired."

"Sleep would remedy your ailment."

"Of this—of finding the killer after the fact."

"We have, on occasion, prevented a crime—including murder."

Riot closed his eyes briefly. There was truth in his words, but today, of all days, truth wasn't enough. He took a calming breath and resumed his seat.

"You will recall, I am sure, the day we met."

"Don't patronize me, my boy."

"I had a certain reputation as a gambler: The Undertaker's Friend. You said if I was a friend to death, then you were his avenger. Well, I'm tired of avenging. I'd rather save people while they're still breathing."

"We took a brutal murderer off the streets. He'll soon hang due to our efforts. Preventable measures have their own rewards."

"And what of the others?" Riot asked. "All those children being peddled like cattle."

"You can join Father Caraher's war and attempt to blockade the brothels and cow-yards. You'll be the first ex-gambler, ex-detective turned preacher."

"Don't mock me, Ravenwood," he warned.

"We are detectives, we see to justice; we don't change the world. That's a job for the preachers, police, and politicians."

"They're not doing their jobs."

"Have they ever?" Ravenwood asked, gripping the armrests and leaning forward. He resembled a snowy owl about to swoop on its prey. "You are allowing emotion to cloud judgment. As I have often reminded you through the course of our partnership—that is never wise."

"No, I'm tired of finding mutilated corpses of children thrown into the bay."

"While I admit, this last case had a number of unpleasant aspects, balance has been restored. The rest of this—" Ravenwood waved an impatient hand at his partner. "Is clearly a personal vendetta."

"It's not personal."

"Your history strongly indicates otherwise."

"My mother has nothing to do with this," Riot said through his teeth.

"Did I mention your mother?"

If there was one man who never failed to get under his skin, it was Zephaniah Ravenwood. Riot stared at his partner, resisting the urge to pummel him with his walking stick. Instead, he stood, recovered his deck of cards, and resumed his shuffling. This time the cards whispered in his skilled hands.

"I'll humor you, Riot," Ravenwood stated, leaning back in his chair. "Let's consider your proposal. The Tongs run the slavery and opium markets. Both lucrative, both supported by politicians and police officials who benefit from graft. Chinatown's own Six Companies have long worked against the slave trade and vice, providing police with needed information about criminals, but the police only make token raids, as money finds its way into their pockets."

It was the bitter truth, and Riot had no answer.

"I'll say again, we are not lawmen; we are detectives. Have you forgotten why we left Pinkerton's?"

"This isn't about strike-breaking."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Sever the head," Riot stated cooly.

"It's a twelve headed beast. Sever one and another will take its place."

"Then I'll bring them all down."

"Alone?"

"I'll find honest patrolmen."

"It's a dangerous game."

"Life is full of risks."

✥

Atticus Riot sat straight up in the narrow bed. His heart was galloping. The darkness unnerved him. He tossed his sweat soaked blankets aside and hurried over to the windows. Shoving the curtains aside, he fought with the latch, and threw the window open.

Cool, biting air slapped him into the present. He clutched the windowsill and took great gulps of air. His temple throbbed.

Riot closed his eyes, focusing on breathing. Silvery fog touched his skin with a cooling caress. He was grateful for its comfort.

The dream was never ending, repeating night after night. It was always the beginning of a nightmare—one he had lived. He had survived while his best friend and partner had not.