Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (24 page)

“Would it not be better to have your prey come to you?” the woman countered. “Have the advantage over them?”

The idea appealed, hating having to chase the Blades, but Staunton was cautious. “How do you know where they are heading?”

“I was once a member of the Earth Spirits' tribe,” the woman said, and her words grew bitter. “My brother, Winter Wolf, and I. We sought to keep the tribe's territory free of all outsiders, to protect the tribe from polluting strangers. Earth Spirits are the favored children of the Great Spirit. We should not have to endure the filth of ordinary folk. It is an insult!” Her copper cheeks grew dark with rage and hate gleamed in her eyes.

Everyone edged backward, even imperturbable marksman Milbourne, instinctively fearing this lone woman.

“Winter Wolf and I patrolled the boundaries of the Earth Spirits' lands,” she continued, regaining some composure. “Other members of the tribe patrolled, but none had the courage as my brother and I. They simply chased the interlopers away. But we knew we had a duty to preserve our purity. Whatever unlucky fool stumbled into our path, Winter Wolf and I killed. We could not tolerate anything less than complete destruction of outsiders. And for that, for
that,
” she spit, “Winter Wolf and I were exiled.”

Staunton could understand the squaw's need to preserve the integrity of her tribe, even if they were just a bunch of red-skinned heathens. Magical heathens, but still only savages. “But you were trying to protect your tribe,” he said.

“Yes,” the woman said, her teeth predatory as she snarled her frustration. “Yet the tribe did not see it that way. The chief felt we went too far, were,” she jeered, “
cruel.
Iron Wolf cast us out. And the rest of the tribe agreed. They drove us from our lands, our home.”

“Is your brother here?” asked Staunton. Having a wolf shape changer would be most useful, even if it wasn't Lesperance.

Raw sorrow marked the woman's face. “He is dead. Trappers murdered him when he had taken the form of a wolf. Now Iron Wolf and the other Earth Spirits owe me his life.”

Too bad about the wolf changer. He would have been a good pawn. “Revenge, then,” Staunton said. “You will guide us to gain retribution against those who wronged you.”

“Justice, not revenge,” the woman snapped.

Semantics, as far as Staunton was concerned. He eyed the woman, the severe set of her mouth, her hands curled with the need for vengeance. How trustworthy was she? He had no desire to wake up with a knife in his eye.

Perhaps Bracebridge could work up a spell to determine whether the squaw spoke the truth. Trouble with lies, though, was that many people were so strongly ensnared in their falsehoods, they believed their own fabrications.

Yet the idea of finally leading this chase, rather than lurching after Astrid Bramfield and her Native friend, held immense appeal. The Heirs of Albion were encouraged to exploit any advantage.

“She seems willing to help outsiders,” Milbourne noted. “Even though she was banished for killing them.”

A good point, and one Staunton wished he had thought of.

“Since my exile I have no people,” the woman said. “No allegiances. Everyone is an outsider, as am I. My hand is raised only to extract retribution from those who were once my own.”

“Very well,” Staunton said, eager to retake command of the discussion. “You may guide us. But, be warned”—he jabbed a finger—“anything suspicious, and I'll set loose my men. They've been waiting patiently.”

The mountain men grunted their approval, but quieted when the woman shot them a gaze filled with unadulterated contempt.

“They may try,” she said. Her hand rested on the hilt of her knife. “But I'd advise against it, if they value their stones.”

The mountain men slid protective hands between their legs.

Staunton smiled. Even though she was an Indian, he rather liked this icy-hearted bitch. She possessed the precise attitudes valued in Heirs.

“Your name?” he demanded.

“Swift Cloud Woman,” she answered.

He inclined his head. “You follow on foot, Swift Cloud Woman.”

She nodded, as if expecting this.

“It's ready,” Bracebridge called. “The spell is ready.”

“Then get to it,” Staunton yelled back without breaking his gaze from the woman. “It's time to take charge of this mission.”

 

“You know which Blades are coming.”

Astrid swallowed hard at Nathan's statement. He knew her far too well to miss her signs of unease, no matter how hard she tried to force them under a barrier of stone. As they waited together at the top of the hill, looking for signs of the Blades' progress, she made herself stand still rather than nervously whittle on fallen branches. Nathan crouched nearby, his forearms braced on his thighs, hands loose.

“One of them,” she answered. “His name is Catullus Graves. English, like me. His family has long served with the Blades.” A small smile crept over her mouth. “The Graveses are…extraordinary.”

“Magic?”

“Intellectual magic. They are incredible inventors. The devices they create are beyond imagining. And Catullus may be the most brilliant of the whole clan. The things he can fashion, from seemingly ordinary objects.” She realized she was smiling.

“And what is he to you?”

His question was deliberately casual, but she sensed the edge beneath it.

“A friend,” she answered. “An old friend. Ten years now.”

“A long time,” he said, tight.

She saw in the hard angle of his jaw the unnamed, scarcely acknowledged fear. He never showed fear, not facing the prospect of death at the hands of the Earth Spirits, not against the huge ice wolf. Yet here, with her and the arrival of the Blades, was fear.

For the whole of Nathan's life, he had lived on the outside, not fully Native, not white. He belonged to no one and no place. Even the Earth Spirits had not truly been a home to him.

Yet
she
gave him a sense of belonging. He'd said so. His truest self emerged with her. A thought at once humbling and wonderful.

Now came Catullus, the embodiment of her past, of a world where she
did
belong. She might be lost to that world, that past. Lost to Nathan. The Blades were not his home, as they were to her. If she disappeared back into the Blades, what would become of Nathan? He might have no place, no home, granted once and then cruelly stolen away.

“You don't have to fight anyone for me,” she said.

“Except you.”

Oh, God. He leveled her with a few words and searing looks. She felt herself in a dizzying plunge, wanting the flight, worried about the landing. “I give as much as I am able,” she said.

“I know,” he answered.

Again, he demolished her. Such courage he had, to face uncertainty and the possibility of terrible hurt. She had not possessed the same, not for a long while. That was changing, however. In slow, tentative steps that might or might not be enough.

She began to speak, then stopped herself, frowning. She felt a change before seeing anything. Sticky cool moisture unspooled from the south, unlike anything she'd ever experienced here in the Northwest Territory—and she had been witness to many strange forms of weather.

“Look,” he said, pointing toward the south. A damp, cold miasma began to creep over the land, thick and yellow.

“That fog is decidedly…not normal.”

He inhaled. “Smells of…dirty river water and…coal smoke. No factories out here. Or coal-burning fires.”

Astrid drew in a breath, and memory assailed her, followed shortly by a bolt of alarm. “It's a London fog.”

Nathan scowled even as he started with amazement. “The Heirs' doing.”

They watched as the low-lying fog rolled toward them, smothering everything in an impenetrable murk. Within a minute, she and Nathan found themselves enveloped in a sulfurous, clammy gloom. Trees scarcely a few yards away disappeared. Even Nathan, just beside her, grew hazy. The sun could not penetrate the fog, leaving Nathan and her trapped in a world of tawny vapor.

Astrid pulled her gun. “The Heirs will likely try to attack us.”

“I can sniff them out,” said Nathan. “No surprises. We take cover.”

“We cannot. Catullus will be looking for us in this fog.”

“You said earlier, if he's got a Compass, he can find you.”

“I won't make it more difficult for him. He may have a Compass, but to him, this land is unknown. He hasn't got a wolf's senses to guide him. He could get badly hurt. I shan't allow that. And if you want to seek shelter, so be it, but I am staying.”

They stared hard at each other, enshrouded in the mixture of smoke and mist, two forceful people coming up against the unyielding surfaces of their wills. Both of them, balanced atop the precarious ridge of tension. She refused to leave. He did not want to stay. Would he concede, as Michael might have done? Would he try to force her to submit?

Suddenly, this decision became so much greater than simply staying or going.

Eyes narrowed, he gave a curt nod, but began pulling off his clothing. “I'm not leaving you. But don't light a fire, and don't expect conversation.” With that, he shifted into a wolf.

Another rampart within her gave way. Compromise. Astrid ran her fingers through the warm, soft fur at his neck. He rumbled under her touch.

She settled herself onto the damp ground, gun in hand, rifle across her lap, and prepared to wait for Catullus. But not alone. Nathan paced in alert circles around her, a sentry. Between the two of them, she felt they could face anything.

 

“What the hell?” Quinn's amazement penetrated the deep fog blanketing them.

“Son-of-a-bitch Heirs,” Catullus muttered. “Brought some of the Thames with them.”

The horses, unfamiliar with the sickly, unique properties of a proper London fog, whinnied and danced in fear. Both Catullus and Quinn held tight to the reins to keep the animals under command.

“Think they know we're here?”

“Hard to tell.” Catullus removed his moisture-slicked spectacles and wiped them on a cambric handkerchief. “Even if they don't, we must get to Astrid as soon as possible.”

“Don't know how we can do that without breaking our necks. We've got our Compasses, but they might lead us right into a gully—or worse.”

Catullus's mind hummed with an idea. Of course, his mind
always
hummed with ideas, a family trait that caused most Graves kin to sleep only a few hours at a stretch and ensured grumpy spouses. Catullus hadn't a spouse, much to his father's vexation, and seldom had a woman in his bed for longer than it took for both him and the woman to secure several hours of pleasure. He generally preferred to use the woman's bed for lovemaking, since it enabled him to return home and go straight back to his workshop. His lovers all knew this, and none tried the Sisyphean task of trying to make him stay. Still, he wished some woman, at some point, desired his presence enough to make the attempt. But that would then mean having to talk with them, connect with them in a way beyond the physical. And then…that's where his intellect failed him.

His brain could unlock any puzzle. Yet he could not solve the mystery of the hearts and minds of women.

He should consider himself lucky. He was unencumbered. Free to work as much or as long as he pleased. Free to go on missions without fretting about someone at home, worrying about him. If only he wasn't so damned lonely.

But that was inconsequential now. He and Quinn had to get to Astrid, and quickly.

Dismounting, Catullus held the reins of his jumpy horse and rifled through a bag on the packhorse. His fingers brushed an assortment of things—brass fixtures, tubing and wire, lengths of specially treated canvas. The usual organized jumble that composed his traveling equipage. One never knew what one might encounter when on a mission. At last, he found what he sought.

He pulled a length of what appeared to be ordinary chain from the bag. It resembled in thickness and material the kind of chain that might be used to counterbalance a large clock. A round lead weight was attached at one end of the chain.

Quinn eyed him with curiosity. “Going to chain up the fog?”

Catullus led his horse to Quinn and gave him the reins. “I can't do this too close to the animals. It will likely frighten them.” He stepped away, putting distance between himself and the horses.

“Do what?”

Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, Catullus began to swing the chain in a circle in front of him. A low whistle sounded as the chain cleaved the air. The weight on the end of the chain kept its momentum.

“Something I have been working on,” he explained to Quinn as he increased his speed. The fog around him swirled. “The metal in the links is a special alloy and shaped just right, like little funnels. Took me months to get the proper combination. It has the strength of regular iron, but it propels air with greater ability. Observe.”

“Jezebel's drawers! Look at that!”

The haze through which Catullus spun the chain began to eddy, and then, gradually, the fog dissipated, forming a cylinder of clear air as wide as the chain's diameter.

“You're coring the fog like an apple,” Quinn marveled.

“It's not absolute clarity,” Catullus said, “but it should provide enough visibility to travel the mile between us and Astrid.”

“Do I want to know why you had that in your bag?” Quinn asked drily.

“The chain creates wind,” answered Catullus. “I thought we might need it, if we tried to sail on becalmed waters. I can lead us to clear a path, but you'll have to use your Compass to guide me.”

“Can do. And we can trade places, when your arm gets tired.” Quinn chuckled. “They said to me, ‘Max, that Graves fellow, he's an odd one, but smart as a fresh dollar bill.' And they were right.”