The Damnation Affair (7 page)
Read The Damnation Affair Online
Authors: Lilith Saintcrow
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 retr
acing 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.
T
hose 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 sometimes, 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 Fmpeut lo 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.
“Well now.” Gabe rested a hand on a pistol butt. If he had been back East, it would have been a knife instead. He restrained the urge to shake the memory away. “What have we here?”
“Sheriff Gabriel.” Salt’s thin lip curled. “Pleasure, as always.”
“Not fixin’ to be. Dead bodies inside the charter this morning, Salt. Start explainin’.”
“Since when do dead bodies have shit-all to do with
me
?” As if butter wouldn’t melt in his lying mouth.
“These were walkin’ around.” Gabe eyed the walls, rough boards covered with an intaglio of twisted, slurred charter-symbols. Even the dust in here reeked of blood. “Ridin’ the circuit again put me in a bad mood, and the charter was solid. Which means I’m lookin’ real hard at you, Salt.”
A mockery of innocent shock twisted the chartershadow’s lean face. “Me? Maybe you need a better chartermage. That one you got is all tarbrush and no talent.”
“So are you,
Freedman
.” It was a sure way to nettle the man, and Gabe almost regretted it as soon as Salt’s face suffused with ugly maroon.
“I ain’t no—”
Gabe’s free hand flicked forward, the charm biting and fizzing in midair. Salt backpedaled, his boots smearing unfixed charter-symbols. A twinge of satisfaction burned Gabe’s chest just as the choking chartershadow managed to get about half a syllable out. The curse went wide, splashing against the wall and punching a fist-sized hole.
Then Gabe had the man down on the floor, the gun cocked and pressed right behind Salt’s ear. This close, he could see the dark roots of the man’s charm-bleached hair, and also smell the faint smoke and slippery wetroot rot of the lean lanky body as the bad mancy kept twisting him, one slow increment at a time. Salt’s hair frayed, chalked charter-symbols on the flooring writhing as Gabe scrubbed the shadow’s face across them.
There was, he reflected, almost too much enjoyment to be had in terrorizing the wicked. The Order did not precisely
frown
on such enjoyment…but it was dangerous.
“Settle down.”
Or so help me, I will settle you. That curse could have taken my face off.
The only problem was, Salt’s replacement was likely to be worse. Every town, no matter how small, had at least one chartershadow. Even when there wasn’t a respectable mage to be found, the shadows crept in.
Harsh breathing. The tips of Salt’s boots scrabbled against the planking before he went still. Gabe knew better than to think he’d given up.
But for right now, it was enough. “Now.” He didn’t relax. “You been doing something that brings walkin’ corpses into Damnation, this’n your chance to tell me.”
“Would I be so stupid?” The words were muffled by the floor. At least he wasn’t writhing anymore. “I got a nice li’l nest here,
Sheriff
. Except’n you, it’s a bed of fucking roses.”
There’s always a thorn somewhere, isn’t there.
“Well now. Mighty suspicious, then, that I’ Ken,ses.m the one who ran across walkin’ dead.”
Still, if Salt had brought the corpses in or charmed them, he would have been ready for Gabe to come through his door, and would have had a lot worse than a half-measure of curse waiting.
“I don’t know. It warn’t me.” Half-hysterical now, with the edge of a whine underneath the words. Salt could have been a reasonably employable chartermage with enough application and discipline, but he was both lazy and a coward.
And mancy—or grace—didn’t forgive cowardice easily.
Am I a coward now? How would I know?
“You sure, Salt? You don’t sound too convinced.”
“It warn’t me, dammit!”
He eased up a little. “And of course you wouldn’t know anything about it, would you.”
The chartershadow began to struggle again, heaving under him. “First time I’ve heard, now
leggo!
”
Gabe did. He was on his feet and observing a cautious distance by the time Salt heaved himself up, his face choked with dust and bright beads of blood from several scrapes. The gun was back in Gabe’s holster—but his hand still itched for it.
“Evenin’, then, Mr. Salt.” He touched the brim of his hat.
“What, you ain’t gonna shoot me? Threaten me some more?”
“No point. I discover you ain’t been honest, it’s easy to find you. You havin’ such a nice little nest and all.”
Salt actually paled, his wasted frame visibly trembling. Whether it was rage or fear was an open question. He wore no guns, but Gabe was sure there was a knife or two handy. It would be just like the little bastard to slit someone in a dark alley.
He would have to be more careful now. Why had he drawn a gun, for God’s sake? Salt wasn’t enough of a threat to justify that.
Sir, your head is none too organized right now.
He imagined Miss Barrowe’s clipped, cultured tones, how a single eyebrow would lift fractionally, but those dark eyes would hold a different message. She likely thought she was hard to read, the schoolmarm, but those eyes were windows straight down to the bottom of a clear pond.
Windows to the soul, Jack? Just like Annie’s.
The door was still open, a night breeze redolent of horse, dust, and Damnation breathing into the chartershadow’s room.
“Sheriff?” Salt wiped away the blood around his thin lips. “I saw a new face out my window today. Dressed in yellow, and pretty as a picture.”
A cold hand clenched in Jack’s guts.
“Wonder if she saw anything she liked,” Salt continued.
He kept his expression a mask. “Not likely.” And with that he was gone, but the sweat on the back of his neck and the tension in his fists were unwelcome symptoms.
It’s nothing. People love to gossip, and they’ll stop talking if you don’t give them anything to talk about. Just leave it alone, Jack.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure he could. And that was almost as worrying as a Chinois sneaking into a chartershadow’s workroom late at night and asking for mancy. Jack headed for Russ Overton
s lodgings for the fourth time that day, the shapes of the twisted charter-symbols he’d seen in Salt’s back room fresh in his memory.
It was maybe time to do a little book-learning.
M
iss Bowdler’s books had said nothing about
this.
It was hot as Hade Nen,se>
There were too many of them to count, and she still had not managed a semblance of a roll call. More than half the tiny savages had no shoes, and could not sit still for more than a moment or two. Less than a quarter had seen some version of soap and water in the last fortnight, and she had the suspicion none of them were literate or numerate even in the most basic sense. The older savages bullied the younger unmercifully until Cat lost her temper and her Practicality sparked. The novelty of an adult throwing mancy in a classroom bought her precious moments to compose herself, and she thought grimly that her mother’s experiences with Charity Work and the Noblesse Oblige of a Lady were going to stand her in better stead than
any
d—ned book, as Robbie would say.
At least while she was corralling a group of tiny uncivilized animals, she did not think of Robbie’s locket in the pawnshop window, and how to obtain such an item without the entire town remarking upon her movements.
“That is
quite
enough,” she informed the group of boys who had been tormenting a younger child. “You are to sit
there
, sir, and you
there
.” She pointed, despite it being unmannerly.
“What if I don’t?” the largest of them—an oafish blond lump who bore a startling resemblance to the small pug-nosed dogs she had seen in quite a few fashionable drawing-rooms last year—actually
sneered
, and Cat’s temper almost frayed. Stray mancy crackled on her fingertip, and she drew herself up. A shadow slid over the room, and each tiny savage she was responsible for civilizing drew a deep breath.
“Then I haul you down to the jail and tell your mother you’re sassin’ the marm, Dwight Caffrey,” a deep voice drawled from the propped-open door. “Afternoon, Miss Barrowe.”
The mancy on her fingers died.
What is he doing here?
“Mr. Gabriel.” She managed a nod, tucking a stray dark curl up and back.
Have you come to laugh at me?
“What a pleasant surprise.”
The spark in his gaze told her the lie was perhaps audible. However, he merely shouldered the door aside and swept his hat from his dusty dark head, and his presence had the most astonishing effect.
Every little savage in the room quieted. The girls grinned and whispered; the boys stared with round eyes. The sheriff moved easily to the last row of benches, and loomed a trifle awkwardly over their occupants. “Thought I’d come out and visit.” He halted, gazing at her most curiously. “First day of school and all.”
And good heavens, but did the man sound
nervous
? Surely not. Catherine gathered the shreds of her temper and found herself standing at her desk, the attendance book lying open and the pen beside it. “Yes. Well, we have been having a most interesting time all seeking to speak at once and determining whether or not I am serious when I demand a certain measure of decorum.”
“I see.” Was that a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth? She decided that it was, indeed. “I could tell ’em you’re serious, ma’am, but I doubt they’d listen.”
They’re listening now.
“I have not yet had the opportunity to inform them that any of their number who misbehaves shall be visiting
you
.”
“Well now, that would fill the jail right up, wouldn’t it? I might be forced to keep a few in the pigsty.” And yes, that was a gleam in his gaze she had seen before in Robbie’s.
He looked, now that she thought about it, downright
mischievous
.
One of the younger boys—it was the small blond miscreant who ha Scred been responsible for so much excitement on the occasion of her arrival, little Tommy Hammis—let out a small sound approximating a whimper. Jack Gabriel tucked his thumbs in his belt and stood, looming in a manner that suggested practice at using his size to enforce some manners upon the unruly.
Take note of that, Catherine. Perhaps you can do likewise, even though you are not nearly as tall.
“I certainly hope we may avoid that.” Cat settled herself in the rickety, uncomfortable chair behind her desk, sweeping her skirts underneath her with a practiced motion. This brown stuff was the dowdiest and most severe dress she owned, but it was still of painfully higher quality than any rag the children possessed. She uncapped the ink, dipped her pen, and glanced up to find every eye in the schoolhouse upon her and the entire room disturbingly silent. “Now, let us be about our business. Mr. Gabriel, if you would be so good as to pause for a short while? When I have given my students their first small lesson, I should be glad of the opportunity to converse with you.”
Please tell me you have business elsewhere, and merely came to make certain there are no corpses lurking under the floorboards.
“I’m here all afternoon, ma’am.”
She hoped the children could not sense the amusement loitering beneath Mr. Gabriel’s straight mouth and dusty brow. Her own mouth twitched, traitorously, until she steeled herself and fixed the far-left student in the first row—a thin girl of no more than six with messily braided wheat-gold hair, the lone girl on the boys’ side of the schoolhouse—with a steady, stern, but kind (she hoped) glance. “State your name please, young lady.”
“M-M-M-M—” The child, blushing, stuttered, and a sudden swift guilt pierced Cat’s chest.
“That’s Mercy Gibbons, ma’am.” Jack Gabriel’s tone had gentled. “Right next to her is her brother Patrick. The Gibbonses are a mite shy.”
“Very good.” Catherine wrote, swiftly but neatly. “We shall continue down the row, and should you find it difficult to say your name, Mr. Gabriel will help.” She did
not
bite her lip, though the urge was almost overwhelming. She did, however, glance at the girl and hazard a small smile. “The first day of school is always trying, I daresay.”
“Reckon so, ma’am.” The sheriff’s tone still held that queer gentleness.
“Jordie Crane!” a gangly redhead next to Patrick Gibbons almost-shouted, fidgeting. “This is Sammy next to me. Samuel, I mean. Sam Thibodeau.”
Oh, dear God, how do I spell that?
She decided to merely approximate, for the moment. “Thank you, Mr. Crane. You will allow Mr. Thibodeau the chance to speak for himself next time.”
* * *
