Even his arms were bandy and tense. Jack was struck with the idea that perhaps the man’s color had made him accustomed to taking fighting the world as a given, much as Jack’s natural stubbornness had.
Such thoughts occurred to a man out West, he supposed. “Just got jumped by the walkin’ dead, Russ. Charter was solid this morning; what the hell?”
Russ’s palms clapped together, shorting the mancy. It died in a cascade of heatless iridescence, and he was already rolling his sleeves down and reaching for his coat. “Where?”
At least the man didn’t drag his feet. “The schoolhouse. They’re not rising again, but we need to find the breach. God damn it, Russ.”
“There is no breach. We rode this morning.” Russ’s eyes closed, briefly. “All the compass markers are in place. I can feel them. Gabe…” He licked his lips, a quick nervous flicker of a dry-leaf tongue. “The schoolhouse, you said. Did any of them—”
“She’s safe.” Gabe folded his arms, glaring. “Goddamn good thing I was there, instead of a passel of kids.”
Russ paled further at the thought. It was nightmarish, and Gabe normally wouldn’t have said such a thing. But damn it, if that first undead had sunk its teeth into Miss Barrowe…
Well, it didn’t bear thinking of. And he didn’t like the sinking, empty sensation in his gut when he thought about it. So he wouldn’t, would he? There were plenty of other things to think about at the moment.
He could ignore that sinking sensation. Sure he could.
Russ grabbed his gunbelt, hung over a sturdy wooden chair. Papers stirred on a stray breeze, ruffling as the mancy-laden atmosphere twitched inside the narrow office at Gabe’s back, full of shelves of bits and herbs and other things, charmer’s books stacked haphazardly on a taboret near the desk. He buckled the belt with quick habitual movements. “I meant to ask if any of them looked familiar.”
Oh, for the love of… He could have cheerfully throttled the man. “I didn’t stop to ask their names. But no, none of ’em looked familiar. Bunch of strangers around here anyway.”
“Gabe.” Russ halted, his black Gladstone clutched in one hand. His hat was askew, and his blue eyes were shadowed. “What if it’s…that?”
A cool fingertip touched Gabe’s nape. “We sealed that claim up solid. And nobody’s been showing up with marked bars recently. Dust and nuggets, but no bars.”
“But what if—”
“It’s gone. And that stupid kid, too.” What was his name? Face like a blank slate, you could forget it in a heartbeat. The eyes had just slid right over him, and sometimes Gabe wondered if it was a type of mancy that had made the kid so forgettable.
“Well, the markers are all in place, and the charterstone’s solid.” Russ shook his head, straightened his hat. “Let’s go.”
Gabe held the door. Russ stamped, his bow-legged gait just like a clockwork toy’s. He was through the office and out onto the porch in a heartbeat.
Sweeping the workroom door closed, the sheriff had to shake his head, thinking of Miss Barrowe’s wide dark eyes, swimming with tears and terror. The unsteady feeling hit him again, like a fist to the gut.
Then he remembered the kid’s name.
“Robert Browne.” He actually said it out loud, but Russ was outside already and didn’t hear. It was a damn good thing, too.
Because a chartermage wouldn’t take kindly to having a dead man’s name breathed in his office. Jack Gabriel shook his head, ran his fingers over the butt of a gun, and hurried to catch up.
Chapter 6
Cat stared at her front door. She had her gloves on, and carried her second-best parasol, the one with fringe that quivered as she walked. Her yellow silk was quite cheerful, and had the not-inconsiderable advantage of being almost comfortable. Her hair was perfection itself, and she had clasped her mother’s pearls about her neck. Her boots were buttoned firmly, and there was just a breath of rosewater remaining from her toilette.
But there was the front door, and here she stood, unwilling to open it.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered. “You’re being ridiculous.” How Robbie would laugh.
But that was just it. No Robbie. Her plans had come to fruition; she was here, hundreds of miles from civilization, and she had not the faintest clue of how to go about finding him. She had thought it a dead certainty he would find her.
If he had moved on…but how likely was that, given what he’d written? No, there was another possibility, one she did not wish to think upon, but which must be faced nonetheless.
Foul play.
And here she stood, stupid as a toadstool, afraid to open her front door because of an irruption of undead. Quite reasonable, actually, given what a bite could do to one even if one had enough mancy to inoculate oneself against the worst effects. But there had been no harm done, because of Mr. Gabriel.
Who had called at the back door during breakfast, again, to express his hope that she was not too upset by recent events. She had reassured him with brittle calm that she did not intend to return to Boston with her tail tucked like a cur’s just yet. Maddeningly, the man had simply smiled, tipped his hat, and vanished.
Li Ang had said something in her native tongue that sounded like a curse, and Cat was forced to agree. The man was a nuisance, and entirely too sharp under that slow, sleepy drawl of his. She was even beginning to believe him of a quality, though he sought to hide it.
Yet he had been practical and helpful enough, when the situation required.
Catherine, you are being worse than ridiculous. You are, as a matter of fact, being a coward.
Which, for a Barrowe-Browne, could not be borne. That forced her to move another three steps toward the door. From the kitchen came the sound of splashing water and Li Ang’s odd atonal humming. The Chinoise girl was quiet, efficient, and discreet; there would be no trouble there.
You are being a coward—and Robbie needs you. If he has met with foul play, you are his only hope.
So much of life was merely doing what one was required to. It smoothed the way wonderfully to have no choice.
Another two steps, and her gloved hand played with the locks. The knob turned smoothly, easily, and a fresh morning breeze filled the hall behind her. Her reticule dangled. Her eyes opened, cautiously, and she saw the sun-drenched garden. It would, in all likelihood, be another incredibly, mind-numbingly hot day. She would have to be home before luncheon.
Then it’s best to get started, isn’t it? If the undead were in the town streets there would be more noise, one fancies.
While eminently logical, the thought was not as comforting as it could have been.
Chin raised, eyes flashing, palms sweating, and her dress rustling, Cat stepped over her threshold.
* * *
Damnation. A main street with others branching away at right angles, buildings sprawled in the dust and the heat, blowsy and blinking. Horses clopping along; men lounging in doorways, raising their hats automatically when the infrequent woman passed them. The men moved slowly in the heat; ragged children darted between hooves and ran before carts, and the few women in homespun or dark drab walked with chin-high determination.
In her bright yellow, Cat stood out far more than she’d thought possible. The men hurried to raise their hats, and she was greeted on all sides, hailed with an intensity that was a touch embarrassing. Had they never seen a schoolteacher before? Of course, she was a bright bird in a sea of dusty pigeons, and she would have been writhing with embarrassment had she not been so occupied in making polite gestures. Her mother’s Greet the Peasants smile had rarely been so useful.
She had not passed more than a few sun-bleached building fronts before Mr. Gabriel appeared, falling into step beside her with a tip of his hat. “Ma’am.”
“Mr. Gabriel.” She stared straight ahead. “You look well.”
“You haven’t looked at me enough to see, Miss Barrowe. But yes, I’m well. Pleasure to see you out and about.”
My, isn’t he chatty this mo
rning. “Thank you.”
“It ain’t much, but it strikes me you might want a guide. To show you, that is. Around town.”
If this were a civilized town, I could perhaps purchase a street map. Or hire a carriage, or…dear God, do you really think me so dim I cannot find my way about this collection of dingy little alleys? “A very kind offer.”
“Not to presume, but…it could be risky around here. For a woman.”
Indeed? “More hazardous than the walking dead?” She sounded archly amused, and congratulated herself upon as much.
He had the grace to cough slightly. “There’s some what might be worse.”
What an unprepossessing little phrase. Was it even grammatical? “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, look. You passed words with Tils, right? Short little man in a bowler hat, moustaches he waxes up? Red flannel?”
She frowned slightly, her parasol swaying. None of the other women here carried them, and she was beginning to feel a trifle ridiculous. Again. And yet, she was very glad of the shade. “Mr. Tilson? I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“He runs one of the three fancyhouses we have in town. The Lucky Star, and that’s more saloon than…the other. Though the two are the same. Mostly.” Did he sound uncomfortable? His stride didn’t alter, a long loping gait that meant a single step for every two of hers. “I’d warn you not to have too many words with him. Man’s outright dangerous. To women, that is.”
Her throat was suddenly, suspiciously dry. “I see.”
He didn’t sound convinced. “Then I don’t need to tell you to be careful where you step. People come out here for two reasons: They’re looking for trouble, or running away from it.”
“Really.” It was her turn to sound unconvinced. “I must disprove your theory, sir. I did not travel to this lovely town for either reason.” Robbie, I am going to pinch you. Twice.
Was it amusement in his tone? “Well now, that exercises my curiosity something fierce. I’ve been wondering why such a gentle miss came all the way out here.”
Why on earth did she feel menaced? A glitter caught her eye. Cat turned aside, finding herself before a window. How, in the name of charter, did they bring glass out here? Did it rattle by stagecoach, wrapped and shivering?
Shabby velvet and twinkling metal—it was a store of some kind, its brightest wares displayed prominently. Two silver-chased pistols, a fine set of them by the looks of it, with bone on their handles and carvings crawling with true-aim mancy, just as in novels of the Wild Westron. Pocketwatches, a fan of folded silk handkerchiefs. A few rings, tucked on tiny, moth-eaten purple pillows.
“This is Freedman Salt’s.” Mr. Gabriel’s tone was very even. “I’d tell you not to go in here, ma’am. It’s a pawnshop.”
I hardly think I shall faint at the news. “Indeed,” she murmured. “I am not blind, Mr. Gabriel. I can see as much.”
“Well, then I’ll tell you something you can’t see. Russ Overton’s our chartermage. People want respectable mancy, they go to him. But there’s people what want something different, and they come here. Haven’t quite figgered what Salt ran away from back East.” He stood beside her, thumbs hooked in his belt, his chin up, staring through the window as if he wished to shatter it with the force of his gaze alone. “When I do, it might be time for a Federal Marshal to come this way. But until then, I just watch.”
Well, he certainly received no points for grace or finesse. “I do believe that’s the most I’ve heard you speak so far, Mr. Gabriel.” And now I believe it’s time for this conversation to take a different course. “Your theory, I presume, must hold true for yourself. What trouble did you come Westron-ward to escape?”
He was silent for a long moment. Sweat collected under Cat’s arms, her lower back was soaked, and a thin trickle slid down from her hair. Even under the parasol’s shade and the awnings and porches extending from almost every building on this main thoroughfare, the entire town was oppressive. The dust was rising in creeping veils, too.
Still, she was cold all through, and a taste of bitter brass filled her mouth. A wave of shivering rippled down her back, and the fringe on her parasol trembled cheerily. She could not cease staring at the gleam that had caught her gaze.
There, on a pad of threadbare red velvet, lay a square locket. It was small, a golden shimmer, and the tau etched on its surface held a single tiny garnet in its center. The chain was a mellifluous spill, but it was broken, and as she gazed at it, another finger of sweat sliding down her neck, the ends of the break twitched as if the metal felt her nearness.
“Well now.” When the sheriff spoke, she almost started violently. She had all but forgotten him. “You start asking that question, and people are likely to get itchy.”
What question? She remembered, and had to swallow twice before she could speak. “I see.”
“Good.” He touched his hatbrim. “I’ll be around, should you want a guide. Or need help. Ma’am.”
And with that he was gone, those unhurried strides of his carrying him neatly across the crowded street and between the swinging doors of the Lucky Star Saloon. Even at this early hour there was tinny piano music coming from the ramshackle building’s depths. His shoulders were broad and his dun-colored coat blended with the dust; he did not precisely dodge the traffic. Rather, it seemed that it parted for him, and he waltzed through the chaos like a…she could not think of what, for a roaring noise had filled her head.
Cat turned back to the window. Her stays dug in, and she had to force herself to breathe. The glass was streaked with dust, humming with carnivorous mancy. Her charing-charm had gone chill against her throat, again.
Danger, Catherine.
Robbie’s locket winked knowingly at her. He would never have pawned it, would he? The chain was broken. How had that happened? He wore his charing on the same chain—double the safety, he had always joked. For if Mother found out bad mancy had been lodged near an heirloom, there would be an Incident of Temper.
His charing was not in evidence—of course, if some dire fate had befallen him, it would be broken. Or perhaps he had found another means of securing his charing to his person, and had been forced to sell the locket? And yet that was ridiculous; he had left with plenty of money. What would make him give up an heirloom, especially one he had worn since childhood?
If she could hold the locket in her bare hand, perhaps she could find Robbie. Her Practicality would certainly stretch that far. Further, indeed, if she pricked her finger, for blood always told—though blood-work was bad mancy, and not something a respectable lady would dare.
I have already done something no respectable young lady would do, coming here. She sought to collect her wits, failed, tried again.
There were too many people about. She was hardly discreet, and who was to say Mr. Gabriel was not still watching her?
The pawnshop’s door had a bell attached. It tinkled, and a man stumbled out onto the raw-lumber walkway. He was unshaven, bleary-eyed, and smelled powerfully of rancid liquor. His hat was askew, and he held guns in both callused, dirty hands.
Cat turned and walked briskly away. Her skirts snapped, her parasol fluttered, and she hardly remembered retracing her steps to the tiny cottage behind its freshly painted gate.
She was, as Robbie would have no doubt recognized were he present, far too occupied with scheming.
Chapter 7
Those with true business didn’t visit the shop by day.
Every once in a while, Gabe would settle in a patch of shadow near the mouth of a dusty alley, and watch the chartershadow’s back door. It was useful to see who was visiting Salt. It was also useful to see how they approached—swaggering or creeping, desperate or slinking.
Very rarely, Gabe found himself collaring one of the desperate and telling them to go elsewhere. It wasn’t his business, and Salt didn’t need to know how closely he was watched. In fact, the less Salt knew about anything involving the sheriff, the better.
But sometime
s, some nights, he couldn’t stop himself.
Tonight was not one of those nights. He watched, noting who came creeping down the alley. And while he waited, he thought things over.
Here came thin, dried-up Mandy Carrick, keeping to the shadows and paying who knew what for protection when he decided to jump another claim out in the hills, stealing some other man’s rightful work. That was outside Gabe’s jurisdiction, certainly, but he still took note of it. Struthers slithered down the alley, a blur of fawn coat and stickpin flashing, looking for cheat-card mancy. A Chinois man was closeted inside the back of the pawnshop for quite a while, and Gabe didn’t like the looks of that. Their mancy was different, even if it lived comfortably within charter, and he wondered just what one of them would want with Salt.
It was late by the time the trickle to the chartershadow’s door dried up. The saloons would be rollicking, and there had been a few crackling gunshots. Nothing out of the ordinary here in Damnation. He’d made sure the schoolteacher’s house was in a quieter part of town. Respectable, almost.
As respectable as you could get, out here.
Will you stop? Irritated with himself, he took a deep breath and slid out of concealment. She’s just a Boston miss a long way from home, and you’re a goddamn idiot.
He smacked the unlocked door open without even a courtesy knock, almost allowing himself to grin with satisfaction when it banged and Freedman Salt, his lean scarecrow body seeming put together from spare parts and his thick white wooly hair shocking atop such a wasted face, actually jumped.
This back room was low and indifferently lit, and the chalked charter-symbols on the floor were all subtly skewed. Some were scuffed and others redrawn—Salt had been a busy little boy tonight. He wasn’t quite a sorcerer, or a chartermage; the man didn’t have the discipline. Instead, the twisted drained bodies of small furry things lay at certain points within the diagram, false-iron nails driven through skulls, paws, tails. It stank of spoiled mancy and clotted-thick rust.