Alkimiya - A Fantasy Mystery Series

Prologue Part 2 - Heart of the Nation

"It's a big one," said Ricky Dickson in reference, no doubt, to the scale of the heist he had planned.

"You know I'm the best. This job better be worth the risk."

Ricky drew a long drag from his cigarette. He gave James' shabby state a very obvious once over. "You've been starving yourself again, Jaimsie. Giving all you got to your little sister, eh? Must have been a real shock to her. There she was, supporting you both with a steady income and then bam! She's outta work and you're outta work, and Stig comes knocking."

James' jaw clamped shut. From a single, stifled conversation, Ricky knew just how desperate he was to have a job. He and Rosemary were in danger of starvation. Any food he managed to scrounge up went straight to his sister, who was well on her way to becoming a skeleton.

"Docks haven't been hiring since summer," James admitted at last. "It's been rougher than usual."

Ricky puffed on his roll. "Escapes me why the poor are always grouped under one broad classification. Poverty...it's got levels, Jaimsie. Once you find yourself at the bottom, it's nigh on impossible to climb up without help. Do you think those in the middle or upper class know that?"

James' jaw loosened a bit more. "All I know is that dirt has more going for it than we do. Are we going to talk about the weather next or this life-altering job you mentioned yesterday?"

Ricky glanced up the dead-end alley for eavesdroppers before handing the newspaper over. "Have you read the paper today? Front page is always full of rich folks."

James let the newspaper unfold in his grimy hands. A photo of the most famous woman in the nation stared back. Though her image splashed across the front page at least once a week, he caught himself scanning her shapely chest and wide hips.

Though bestowed with feminine beauty, thick, masculine eyebrows were the most prominent feature on the young woman's face. Voluminous black hair was swept into a bun at the back of her head, as it had been for the past three years, but a few loose strands dangled around her pale neck. Large eyes the color of hazy gray rain appeared almost purple from the light exploding from the reporters' flashers.

The headline read:

FROM CADET TO CONSTABLE: THE COUNTDOWN BEGINS!

Zenetra Noire, 19, beginning her last year of CF training.

His eyes swept over the normal jargon that rehashed the Noire family history, including bits like "...great-grandfather, who led this nation out of a brutal regime that sought to eradicate all magic from the world," and, "...inherited her grandmother's stunning Phaedrian beauty," until the last few sentences, which were set as questions for the readers to ponder, caught his attention.

Has Zenetra Noire set her sights on her late grandfather's position as Commissioner of the Constabulary Force? Or will she take over Noire Transport, a company her mother built from the ground up and whose father currently runs? Better yet! Does she dare dream of a position like her great-grandfather, the venerated first Prime Minister of the United Democratic Federation, Áki Noire?

"Zenetra Noire," James said dumbly. "You want to rob the Noire family? What are you smoking, Ricky?"

"Is there a problem?"

"There sure is! Áki Noire ended the Guild and here you are plotting to rob his only living descendant." James folded up the paper and the image of the pretty constable-in-training disappeared into the creases. "No way, Ricky. The Noires have been through enough."