Ava’s Revenge (An Unbounded Novella) (8 page)

It took a few more moments to extract myself from his exuberant thanks, but the more time that passed without alarms being raised, the more likelihood that Ritter and Locke had managed to get James and the children free. Now if I could do the same for Frances, we’d be in the clear.

I didn’t fool myself that Johansson wouldn’t eventually notice five missing “slaves,” and Cardiff was even less likely to let it slide. But my plans for disrupting Johansson’s entire operation had to wait now that there was an Emporium agent in charge. We’d need more Renegade agents and deeper intel on their operation before we moved on them, because in all probability, this was only a small percentage of his business, and we would need to bring it all down to save even more people.

Tenika Vasco of the New York Renegades was descended from Angolan Unbounded, and she’d be more than happy to pose as a slave to infiltrate his operation. Her ability was called hypnosuggestion, and she could talk any but the most resistant to coming around to her way of thinking. Plus, she was a strong soldier, so she’d be safe enough if we kept an eye on her. I didn’t like the idea of delaying anything, especially in light of the other people stolen from the North, but that couldn’t be helped. Unless I could come up with another plan—and fast.

My thoughts scattered when I realized Frances wasn’t waiting where I’d first found her. The tarp was still there, but the tattered bag of belongings was not. Anxiously, I searched the area. Had she found her way to the original escape point?

I leaned over and touched a huddled form, and a man uncurled to look at me. “The woman who was here with her family, a sick little girl. Did you see where she went?”

“No, Massa.” When I nodded my thanks, he curled back up and closed his eyes.

“I see her go,” a little boy spoke up, rising with a blanket wrapped around his thin shoulders. “With my momma. De boss man take ’em. He havin’ a party and need some workers. Her girl wasn’t with her.”

“He chose Miss Frances?” I knew slavers claimed they could barely tell one slave from another, but it was odd that he’d chosen her when he knew I would be bringing back her child.

“No, she jest follow de others that was taken.”

Getting out one way or the other—I had to admire Frances’s ingenuity. She must have expected me to leave with Mabel and figured that following the other slaves out of the pen was her only chance to join her family. But escaping on her own put her at higher risk of being caught. I had to get to her before she made the attempt.

I nodded at the child and turned away.

“Massa,” he asked, “is my momma comin’ back?” He looked frightened as he bent in on himself.

“I think so.” For all the good it would do him tomorrow. He looked about Mabel’s age and according to law that was old enough for separation.

Swallowing the bitter lump in my throat, I hurried to the wide gate and escaped. Relief filled me as I left the hopelessness and anguish behind.

A whistled signal drew me to the shadows near the rendezvous point, where Ritter waited. In his arms, he cradled Mabel, now wrapped in an additional blanket from our supplies, her face partially covered so no one could see her color.

At the question in his eyes, I shook my head. “Frances is with an Unbounded I met earlier in the courtyard. Name’s Cardiff, and apparently Johansson works for him. He’s got to be Emporium. We don’t have much time.” If we were going to save her, I meant, but I wouldn’t voice it aloud because of the child, who might not be asleep.

He nodded. “I’ll go.”

“No. You’d better get her to Locke. She needs attention.” I was strong and quick, but Ritter could move faster than any combat Unbounded I’d met, even Eva when she’d been alive. “I’ll track down Frances.”

The muscles in his jaw worked. Clearly, Ritter wanted to protest but didn’t because he knew I was right. I was also his leader, and he knew how to follow a leader he believed in. It was why I could trust him with my life.

He gave a sharp nod. “I’ll meet you when I’m finished.”

RITTER VANISHED INTO THE NIGHT
to catch up with Locke and the others, while I exchanged my crate for an oversized bag of weapons and disguises. I had to be prepared for anything. It was barely past the normal dinner hour, but darkness lay heavily on the cold streets.

After a little asking around, I located Cardiff’s residence. In typical Emporium fashion—and Renegade as well—he apparently owned a two-story, red-brick house on the south edge of town, using it only when he was here on business. No wonder he needed additional slaves for his event. No doubt he would be entertaining other slavers and local leaders, and the staff who normally kept his house wouldn’t be enough for a large event.

Cardiff’s house was set back from the road, with a large space for carriage parking, as though he entertained often. A cobblestone walkway, huge white columns, and a second-floor veranda over the entry testified of his wealth and privilege. Bright lights burned from every window, making the house gleam like an evil jack-o’-lantern on All Hallows’ Eve, contrasting sharply with the happy, playful music that floated on the cool night air.

Couples had already begun arriving at the house, dressed in their finest clothing. A stableboy directed the drivers where to park after delivering their wealthy cargo, and three drivers already stood in a group near one of the parked carriages, smoking and mumbling in low voices.

I skirted the house, pausing only to look into the windows. I saw white servants dressed in uniforms, arranging platters of food. No slaves there. Apparently Cardiff didn’t like his slaves to have direct contact with his guests. I’d have better luck around back.

Sure enough, the kitchens at the rear of the house were alive with activity. A dozen women, their dark faces lean and unsmiling, hurried about their business. Such a contrast from my plantation where laughter often rose over the clatter of pots and pans. Most of the women wore the standard clothing issued by slavers before a sale, but a few wore uniforms and seemed to be directing the others.

None of the women were Frances. Had she already tried to run away? If so, she could be lying in a ditch somewhere, and I was risking her family and myself for nothing by looking for her. I pushed the thoughts to a corner of my mind with the other dark thoughts that haunted my past.

I was debating whether to go in through the back door when a single scream pierced the night, barely distinguishable under the music. It cut off instantly, but the sound had come from the direction of the stables. I ran, keeping to the shadows. Pausing near the barn’s partially open double doors, I stashed my bags into some bushes and pushed out my thoughts. No life forces glowed near the entrance, but there were numerous life forces of animals. Deeper inside, I located people. Two, maybe, or three if two of them were very close together. They were deep enough inside the structure that the distance made it difficult to distinguish.

I slid inside, checking my pistol but knowing using it would be a last resort.

The inside of the barn was dim except for a glow at the end of a row of horse stalls. I moved stealthily past the stalls, aware of the animals watching me. I sent out a calming emotion, which generally worked with both animals and mortals. Not so well with Unbounded since they usually blocked their minds.

At the end of the stalls, I reached an open area, dimly illuminated by the light cast from a lantern that was hanging on a nail near a mound of flattened straw. A white male with a worn hat pulled low over his eyes had his arms around a woman with dark skin. She was weeping. Her back was toward me, but I could see her clothing was torn and disheveled, her hair full of straw. Her emotions told me she’d been violated.

Frances!

I launched myself at them, tearing the woman from the man’s grasp and throwing my fist into his face, even as a part of my brain registered that the woman wasn’t Frances after all.

Pain exploded in my cheek as the man lashed out at me. I’d almost expected Cardiff when I’d first heard the scream, but this man wasn’t Unbounded and he dressed like a common slaver. Maybe Johansson then? But wouldn’t he be over at his boss’s party?

I ducked his next punch, and spun, landing a kick on his thigh that made him cry out. I slammed him twice more, then blocked one jab and took another on the shoulder. Not a hard hit, and it put me into a good position. I pulled back for the finishing blow. He rushed me, his heavier weight giving him advantage as he knocked me to the straw-carpeted ground. I twisted free as we hit, my hat flying and taking my brown wig with it.

I struck hard before he could manage to pin me. Something in his face gave, and blood spurted between us. I jumped to my feet while he was still on his knees and pressed forward, punching hard and taking another blow, so I could whip around and put him in a headlock. My chin knocked his hat to the ground.

“Move and you die,” I growled, pressing my knife against his throat.

“Stop!” the woman shouted. “Stop!”

I looked to my side to see her grabbing a pitch fork, then twirling it so the prongs pointed at my head. “What?” I said, not relinquishing my hold. “I’m trying to save you!”

The woman jabbed the pitchfork closer. “He saved me!” she said at the same moment the man asked, “
You’re
trying to save her?”

I craned my neck to see the man’s face. His eyes, now unhidden by his hat, stared back at me, bright blue and familiar. “You!” I whispered, my hold loosening. Gone were the expensive clothes, and he’d definitely done something to fake that hair sprouting from his face because he’d been clean-shaven in the hotel dining room only a few hours ago.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” he said, his voice teasing as it had been at the hotel, as though the entire brawl had amused him. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

I was relieved he didn’t recognize me, though my hat was gone and my blond hair, pinned tightly to my head, was obviously more abundant than that of a typical male. Before I could respond, I became aware of another life force behind several bales of hay. Two life forces, I had thought when I’d entered the barn, but the man and woman had been too close and I should have counted them separately. The other life force was lying motionless but still burning strong.

The man’s eyes flicked over to the bale, following my stare. “I see you located the real perpetrator.”

I blinked because he couldn’t possibly know that I could sense the unconscious man behind the hay. Could he? Then I spied a boot emerging from behind the bale; it had to be what the man thought had drawn my attention.

“I assume that means there’s a man attached to that boot,” I said, still using a deep voice that I hoped would continue to hide my identity despite the loss of my hat and wig. “All right. I’m going to step back now.”

“Please do,” he said dryly. To the woman, he added, “I think you can put that down now.”

She nodded, her eyes bulging slightly, and lowered the pitchfork but didn’t drop it entirely. Who could blame her?

In a swift move, I released the man and stood, still gripping the knife just in case, placing him between me and the pitchfork. He arose, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and began wiping the blood from his face. He was taller than I was, though not by much, but he had a good thirty pounds on me, at least. Even with the disguise, he was attractive, and I didn’t like the way something in me reacted to him.

“Who are you?” I asked.

One brow arched. “Who are you?”

Mortals were so tedious at times. I hoped I wouldn’t have to knock them both out and remove their memories before I could continue looking for Frances. “You first,” I said, pulling out my pistol, though I had no intention of using it and alerting those in the house to my presence.

“Hold it,” he said, his hands out in front of him. “I am here only because I heard Lucias Johansson illegally enslaved free Negroes. I plan to stop him, so I talked to a few people I know, found out where he was, and followed him to the house. I was waiting for my contacts when he took a liking to this woman”—he dipped his head respectfully in her direction—“and I had to take action.” To her, he added. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stop him sooner.” He was telling the truth on both accounts, I sensed.

“Then we are essentially on the same side.” I put away the gun.

The woman gave a sob, her face crumpling. “I want to go home to my family.” Finally, she let go of the pitchfork.

“Are you from the North?” I asked. She sounded younger than I’d first thought. Not a woman, really, but a girl. It was hard to tell sometimes when children often worked in the fields under the hot sun. Whatever her former occupation, she was both pretty and curvaceous, which was probably why Johansson had targeted her.

She shook her head. “Petersburg.”

Virginia. A slave, ripped from her family. Not illegally. Her emotions were all over the place, and I had to block them before the despair made me desperate.

The man averted his gaze, taking a step in my direction and reaching out a hand. “You can call me Smith.” For the first time he was telling me an untruth, but as I wasn’t about to share my identity, I didn’t hold it against him. If I needed, I could get it from his thoughts, but more pressing matters demanded my attention.