Page 10 of The Lost Empress

He nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. “I do. But I don’t see what’s wrong with investigating the things you’re picking up on your radar. Just because you find something, doesn’t mean you have to act on it. You could turn the information over to your boss. You could turn it over to other Rogue Riders. And just by searching for the truth, well, I think you’ll find that you’re fulfilling a part of your purpose.”

“You think, sir?” Gen asked, staring up at the man, surprised he was telling her to do what she wanted. And even more surprised and impressed that she could do that while also doing what Dwayne expected of her.

“I know the Beaufonts,” Hiker began, a fondness in his eyes. “I know that if there’s something wrong, it wakes Sophia up in the middle of the night. Also, she will annoy me for hours until I believe her and give her the resources to look into it more. And I also know that her instinct is always right. Beaufonts are compelled by two things, the pursuit of justice and the protection of truth. Do what you’re told, Gen, by your boss and by your instinct. One might be corrupt. I really can’t attest one way or another. But the other, your instinct, it will never be wrong.”

Gen smiled brightly, grateful for the advice. “Thank you, sir.”

“But one more thing,” he added, his light expression fading.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Although your instinct won’t be wrong, prepare for it to get you in trouble,” he warned in a low voice. “It always gets a Beaufont in trouble, because when they follow it, they usually find something dangerous that needs to be erased.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE SEVERED WINGS OF EMOTION

The Fantastical Armory, Roya Lane, London, England, United Kingdom

When Gen entered the strange shop of oddities and weapons, she halted both because of the strange sounds and sights around the Fantastical Armory. Violin music filled the air, creating both an enchanting and haunting tone to the place. But even weirder was that Father Time was standing on a paint-splattered tarp in front of an easel with a canvas. The tall man known as Papa Creola, who had created space and time and governed both, was holding a brush and palette and studying the painting before him.

Gen glanced at Mother Nature who was working behind a nearby counter, mixing what appeared to be herbs. She didn’t look up, intently focused on her work. Gen’s gaze flickered to Papa Creola and then his assistant, Subner, the Protector of Weapons. Both men, similar to Mama Jamba, didn’t acknowledge Gen, one continuing to paint and the other reading his book, per usual.

Stepping forward, even with the handsome man with silver hair and a distinguished appearance, Gen looked sideways at Papa Creola. “Ummm…what are you doing?”

“He’s painting,” Subner answered in a dull voice, not looking up from his book. He was positioned where he could almost always be found, sitting on his stool behind the glass counter at the back of the Fantastical Armory.

Gen’s eyelashes fluttered with annoyance, used to Subner’s bad attitude since she’d spent the first week here at the Fantastical Armory when dropped into this timeline. That was when her modern-day family were trying to put her back in the 15th century, but it didn’t work because she apparently was never meant to go back. During that time, Gen was confined to the Fantastical Armory and spent all her time with the Protector of Weapons, Mother Nature and Father Time. As if her life hadn’t already gotten hugely bizarre with the new timeline, she had the company of two gods and a demi-god.

“I might be new to the modern world, but I know what painting looks like,” she replied to the man with shoulder-length greasy black hair.

When Father Time did the hard reset to try to put Gen back on her timeline, he and his assistant and also the Protector of Wealth’s appearances changed. However, despite going from being an elf to a fairy, Subner still had managed to keep his appearance by getting rid of his wings.

Papa Creola however, went from looking like a long-haired elf to a handsome halfling, sharing both the qualities of a magician and a fairy. He appeared both charming with his intriguing smile and twinkling eyes and intelligent with his studious nature.

“I don’t know what you know,” Subner muttered. “And you asked a question and I answered it.”

Gen cleared her throat, looking just at Papa Creola who was tilting his head and regarding the canvas with a concentrated expression. “I guess my question is, why are you painting?”

“To express myself,” Papa Creola replied brushing blue paint across the canvas. “To experience my creative side. To give color to my emotions.”

Subner looked up from his book. “Because he’s half fairy and they are compelled by their feelings. It’s really gross.”

“You’re full fairy,” Gen pointed out.

“I severed my wings before they could poison me with emotions,” Subner replied.

“Yeah, that seems sane,” Gen mused. “That had to be incredibly painful.”

“It was excruciating,” he answered. “And I’d do it a thousand times over to not be clouded by repulsive feelings that compel us to create artwork or sing songs.”

“Yeah, that would be horrible,” Gen said dryly, turning her attention back to Papa Creola and his painting. “So what are you making?”

“The heart only knows to express itself, not what its expressions will become,” Papa Creola answered, smearing more blue paint across the canvas.

“Right,” Gen said, drawing out the word and turning her attention to Mama Jamba working at the glass counter, curious what she was doing. The old woman with a head full of bluish gray curls and wearing a pink velvet track suit was smashing herbs with a pestle into a mortar. “And what are you doing?”

“I’m making new colors for Papa’s paintings,” Mama Jamba chimed in her thick Southern accent.

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