The Thief and the Skull

Loralie was her name, a name that danced in her memories like a melody. Loralie Van-Ander—something—something. Why couldn’t she recall her last name? Amber stood under the dim glow of the kitchen light and stared into the grime-streaked window, the city lights dulling the distant stars. Loralie Rose Van-Anderson… that was her name. It reverberated in the silence, a haunting reminder of a past she had fought hard to suppress. Time obscured her name, but would never remove the shadows of sorrow and neglect, devoid of the joy and warmth it should have held. “Poor, innocent Loralie Rose Van-Anderson,” Amber mumbled quietly, trying to hold back tears. Loralie’s story had left a deep mark on Amber’s soul, a tapestry intricately woven with threads of abandonment and cruelty. She tapped the chest pocket of the faded leather jacket she wore—the one that had once belonged to her father, Lionel—and felt the familiar outline of the worn photograph inside. The photo captured Loralie and Lionel’s last shared moment, showcasing their matching golden hair, brilliant blue eyes, and crooked smiles. “You’ll always be here.” Before Loralie’s mother, Ruby, left and Lionel succumbed to his alcoholic demons, before the foster homes, and the accusations of ‘thief’, her life had been a picture-perfect dream, just like that photograph. Now, only the photograph and Lucile remained. “Lucile,” Amber’s gaze drifted towards the sleek red and chrome motorbike that dominated her cramped floor-level apartment. Lucile, her father’s legacy—a motorbike restored from rust to glory. Lionel found comfort in the machine’s complex mechanisms, a passion Loralie inherited. Despite the instability of foster care, Lucile remained a steadfast presence, a tangible connection to her loving father. Loralie had shown Lucile more love and loyalty than the foster cares had shown her. Loralie Van-Anderson. Those places were a litany of horrors. First, the Roberts beat the childish joy out of her. A month later, the Masters accused her of stealing tools from a locked shed to fix Lucile. The Morns were the worst. They starved her for borrowing fuel for the same beloved bike that kept her grounded. Each transgression, driven by a child’s yearning to mend what she loved, resulted in the same brutal label—thief. Thief! The word resonated with Amber, bringing back memories of Loralie’s suffering. “Loralie was not a thief!” Amber tightened her fists, then gradually relaxed them. Loralie… An image flashed through her mind—a fleeting memory of the frail Mrs. Zimmermann. The elderly woman, surrounded by a horde of cats, her face etched with deep-set wrinkles, had been Loralie’s last foster mother. Mrs. Zimmermann would enchant her with tales of fanciful lords, magic, curses, and a hero to rescue them. For a while, the elderly lady had been the answer she needed. The respite was brief. A year after moving in with Mrs. Zimmermann, she came home from school to discover her lifeless body. And just like that, Loralie was gone, and Amber was born. Now, at twenty-four, Amber carried the weight of Loralie’s existence but hid it well. She’d built a life on the unforgiving streets of Eagle Hill, a fighter, a protector of the innocent, her once blonde hair now a fiery red, her blue eyes dull with the ghosts of wounds that refused to heal. Why was Loralie resurfacing now? Her birthday was approaching. Was that why? With a sigh, Amber pushed the thoughts of Loralie from her mind. She faced more pressing concerns. She had a job lined up, and plans to coax Lucile back to her former glory. The bike was falling apart, held together by duct tape and sheer will. She needed new tires, a thorough clean, a chance to make her shine again. Yet, beneath the layers of grime and decay, the engine still purred with a powerful resonance. When Amber heard it, a fleeting connection to Loralie flickered within her. She had to keep that glimmer alive. Her gaze flittered around her apartment. The place was nothing more than a converted garage on the floor level of a dilapidated building that no one loved. Far from luxurious! But at least the rent is cheap! Amber had lived there since she had outgrown the foster care system. She was part of the minority of young people no one paid attention to. So, no one ever came knocking. The wrinkled, hunched landlord left her alone, provided rent arrived every two weeks. His lack of care gave Lucile a haven. The bike stood like a monument, a testament to resilience in the face of adversity. Amber’s yellow, condiment stained work apron had been draped over Lucile’s handlebars. For years, Amber had endured her soul-crushing job at Karol’s Diner, a greasy corner restaurant run by Sandra, a boss as worn down and faded as the establishment itself. If only she could afford to help the kind lady who had taken her under her wing. But living off minimal payment led to a minimal life in a city of bright lights and noise. “Things are going to change, Lucile,” Amber said as she returned to the murky apartment window, her view of the city that never slept. “Just you wait…” Eagle Hill pulsed with a frenetic energy. Hurried figures scurried in the moonlight, dwarfed by the towering buildings that scraped the sky. The city was named for the dramatic, twin, eagle-shaped mountain overhang that guarded the entrance to the surrounding woods. A vast, natural monument, its open wings, and stony eyes watched over the city, a silent judge of all who lived within its walls. Amber was thankful she hadn’t always called this bustling metropolis home. She had come here as a testament to Mrs. Zimmermann, fuelled by whispered stories passed down from Loralie. Tales of the woods beyond the eagles, a realm of magic and mystery, where lords ruled over four territories, forever searching for a cure for a curse. But the fantastical stories had faded with Loralie, becoming a distant echo in Amber’s mind. Now, the eagles were the only sight that held her attention, just visible from the dusty window. They symbolised freedom, a longing that both Amber and the tiny spark of Loralie’s legacy within her craved. Freedom she yearned to feel on the back of Lucile. Amber put aside Mrs. Zimmermann’s fanciful stories and her darker recollections of Loralie, focusing on the task before her. Tonight, her destiny awaited her beneath the mighty open wings of the twin eagles. This was the meeting place with Oakley Weatherby, the enigmatic stranger who’d generously pay for a delivery, enough to secure Lucile’s success and Amber’s comfortable future. That delivery hinged on one audacious act—sneaking into the prestigious Regal Eagle Museum and stealing the famed Amerist Crown. Some lower-level thieves would have deemed the feat impossible. But not Amber. She lived for the adrenaline, for the excitement. After all, Loralie had been branded a thief, a crime she never committed. But Amber, well, Amber could harness that ability. Yes, at midnight, as the city plunged into its inky sleep, Amber would steal the crown and live the life she deserved. Amber glanced at her watch. A quarter to twelve. “Perfect!” She snatched Lucile’s keys from the outdated, off-green bench by the door, zipped up her leather jacket, and turned towards her escape. “Are you ready, girl?” She asked as she ran a tender hand across Lucile’s handlebars, a familiar comfort grounding her. With a deep breath, she inhaled oil and gasoline, a reassuring promise of freedom and escape. Scooping up her weathered helmet, she slipped it over her messy red hair. She was ready to fulfill her destiny. “It’s time to fly.” Loralie Van-Anderson, that was her name.