The Damnation Affair

  Still, he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all, so he had gone out that night and made sure the earth around the hasty grave was blessed as one of the Ordo Templis could make it. If he had enough grace to seal up that hole in the hill again, and enough to take care of the death-charm left on Catherine’s porch, then Robbie Browne was sleeping safely.

  Jack Gabriel’s head came up. The cold receded, its fingers scraping his shoulders and trickling down his spine.

  The thought of her just kept coming back. The exact sound of her steps, her point-toe boots clipping along with authority. The graceful lift of her arm as she pointed to the large slate board and helped a child along with a recitation. Her inviting Mercy Tiergale in to tea, as if it were no great shakes. And her holding Li Ang’s baby, a disbelieving smile like sunlight on her wan face as she looked at Jack Gabriel.

  A look like that could go straight through a man.

  The smudge on the horizon was Damnation, and Hathorn picked up her pace a little as the wind’s moan mounted. The simoun had just been taking a breather, not spent yet.

  If he made it back to town in time, he could see her. Might even tell Russ he’d take the wagon out himself, though with Hathorn’s gait that wasn’t too likely. It didn’t matter; Russ would see her home safe. One of the Bradford boys was riding the circuit with the chartermage tonight, so Gabe didn’t have to worry about that.

  And tonight was also their weekly game at the Lucky Star. Maybe his luck had changed.

  Gabe set his shoulders and rode on, the cold fading even as the hot rasping wind rose.

  Chapter 20

  Sleep hovered just out of reach, held off by little Jonathan’s fractious wailing and the wind scraping at the corners of the house. Pops and sparks of stray mancy danced in the charged air, and Cat’s nerves were worn clear through.

  She rolled over, pushing down the sheet. At least she had returned to her own bed; Li Ang’s cot and the new crib were both in the small room down the hall. The evening was stifling, clammy-hot even though the dust sucked moisture from every blessed thing under its lash. Her hair was misbehaving as well, curls springing free instead of lying in a sleek decorous braid.

  The locket was warm against her breastbone. It would rest under her dress, the mended chain longer to accommodate Robbie’s larger frame, and the secret of its presence was oddly comforting. After the sun had reached a comfortable distance above the horizon, she could unleash her Practicality on the metal; a simple finding-charm would at least show her what direction to take.

  If Robbie had moved on to another town, well, Damnation would be missing its new schoolmarm. She suspected the town would be relieved, and no doubt Cat herself would share that relief. This was not what she had expected.

  Well, honestly, what had she expected? To come sailing into town and find Robbie in some small bit of foolish trouble, and to have everything smoothed over by teatime? An adventure from a novel, full of Virtue overcoming Vice and rescuing the Foolish? A penitent Robert Heath Edward Barrowe-Browne, ready to return home to Boston to take up the reins of the family fortune and, not so incidentally, take some of the onus of being In Society from the shoulders of his younger sister?

  Cat sighed, moved restlessly again. Jonathan’s cries vanished under the sound of the grit-laden moan of simoun, and she understood now what Mr. Overton had said about becoming crazed by the wind. It was certainly possible.

  Poison wind. What a terrible name.

  It was no use. Whether it was the locket against her skin or the baby’s fussing, the wind’s sliding scrape or the heat, sleep was impossible. No matter if she would need it for whatever tomorrow held.

  There was a thumping rattle from downstairs, and baby Jonathan set up another thin cry. This one sounded frantic, and Cat sighed. Perhaps Li Ang had dropped something. In any case, she was awake; she might as well go downstairs.

  At least the Chinoise girl was company. Cat was beginning to suspect Li Ang knew far more of Cat’s own mother tongue than she employed, too. There was a steely glint in Li Ang’s gaze, a certain something in the way she held her shoulders now, that seemed to say so.

  Cat drew a blue silken robe over her nightgown and sighed afresh, sliding her feet into well-worn slippers. Shuffling down the stairs, she yawned hugely, and there was another thumping from the kitchen.

  What on earth is she doing? Throwing the crockery? I would not be surprised.

  It was, she reflected, dreadfully uncivilized here. She outright hated it. And yet, there was a certain freedom to her daily routine that would have been unthinkable in Boston. Was that not why Robbie had left? It stifles me here, sister dear. His wide grin as she bade him farewell at the train station—Mother would not come, and Father had not seen fit to leave his club that day. Don’t you worry. I’ll send for you soon.

  But he never had.

  Cat wiped at her cheek. She pushed the kitchen door open, soft lamplight filling the hall and her slippers noiseless as she stepped through.

  Her greeting died on her lips.

  Baby Jonathan, in his wicker basket on the table, set up a furious howling. The wind screamed. A man had Li Ang by the throat, pressed against the bar on the back door, and the Chinoise girl’s face was plummy-red as she struggled. The man had a long black braid bisecting his blue-cotton-clad back, and odd slipper-shoes, and Cat Barrowe clapped her lips shut over a scream.

  There was no time for reflection. Mancy crackled on her fingers, and the stinging burst of bright blue-white hit the man squarely in the back. He yelped with surprise, dropping Li Ang, and Cat had enough time to think Why, he’s Chinois too…

  …before the man was somehow right in front of her, and a stunning blow to her midsection robbed her of breath. She stumbled back, clipping her shoulder on the kitchen door, and went down in a heap, the table jolting and little Jonathan sending up a fresh wail at the indignity of being bumped about so. Stars exploded inside Cat’s skull as the Chinois man struck her again, and her Practicality, uncontrolled, bit hard, striking through her charing-charm in self-defense.

  He made no sound, but the mancy flung him back. Li Ang choked, and the baby screeched. The table waltzed dangerously as the attacker fell against it, and Cat’s belly gave a flare of agonized red pain as she scrambled, her fingernails tearing against rough planks. The basket spun, the baby howled, and there was a queer meaty thunking sound.

  Li Ang’s scream rose, matching the poison wind’s fury. Another meaty thumping, with a crack at the end. The basket was heavy, and its wicker bit Cat’s fingers. She hit the ground in a useless lump, all her breath stolen, and baby Jonathan waved one tiny fist as if hurling an imprecation at Heaven. It would have been quite amusing to witness such fury, but Cat could not breathe; her body refused and darkness crawled over her vision, spots of unhealthy foxfire dancing in the sudden gloom. She curled around the basket, its fall to the floor arrested by her own body. Some instinct deeper than reason had forced her unwilling flesh to move, to save the tiny newborn thing.

  There was a sudden, ugly stench, and Li Ang’s face loomed through the dark. Cat tried to gasp, but her lungs would not obey her.

  There was a creak, Li Ang’s fingers striking her abused midsection in a peculiar manner, and Cat whooped in a grateful, unending breath. The air sobbed out, and she found her cheeks wet and her entire body shaking as if with palsy. Li Ang crouched, pulling the wicker basket toward her, then collapsed. The two women lay, the basket between their bellies, and the baby screamed as they stared at each other, nose-to-nose. Cat’s breath mingled with the Chinoise girl’s, and the spark in Li Ang’s pupils found a matching flare in hers.

  * * *

  Her wind returned in small sips and a fit of wretched coughing. The stench did not fade. It was a privy stink, and the moment Cat’s nose wrinkled she decided she could, indeed, push herself up on shaky arms. The locket swung free of her chest, sparks dancing on the metal as it struck against her charing, and she could not even clutch at it, being fully o
ccupied with heaving her reluctant body upright.

  As if her movement had broken a paralyzing charm, Li Ang moved too. She scooped the baby from his basket. The little thing quieted, his lips smacking a little as he fought for breath as well. Li Ang sat amid the shattered table and unbuttoned the top half of her dress. Her breast, luminous gold in the single lamp’s glow, rose like a moon, and the baby latched on.

  Cat surveyed the kitchen. The stove was sullenly giving forth heat, and the shelves near the washbasin were knocked askew. The table would be useless unless she could find a mending-charm for two of its four legs, and the chairs were matchwood. A bottle of dyspepsia syrup had broken on the floor, and a sticky red tide spread under the Chinois man, who lay with his head—or what was left of it—cocked at an odd angle, the stain on the seat of his threadbare blue breeches announcing where the reek originated from. The cast-iron skillet propped in the ruins of what had been his skull further announced what Li Ang had hit him with.

  Cat found her shoulders against the wall. Next to her, Li Ang crooned to Jonathan, who had fallen silent, suckling and content. The Chinoise girl’s hair hung in her face, strands of black ink, and she was sweating. Great pearly pale drops of water stood out on her skin. Crockery lay smashed across the floor, other implements were scattered, and the largest knife their household possessed was rammed into the barred back door, its wooden hilt still quivering from whatever violence had sunk it into thick wood.

  Her head lolled a little, and she found herself staring at Li Ang, who was regarding her with narrowed, black Chinoise eyes. Cat swallowed several times, seeking to clear her throat.

  “Li Ang.” Husky, the name dropped into the kitchen’s hush. Outside, the wind mounted another notch.

  “Bad man.” Perfectly reasonable pronunciation, too. “He come for baby.”

  Well, obviously. “And…to hurt you.” To kill you.

  Li Ang nodded, grimly. “Husband. Wants baby.”

  A husband? “I thought you were a widow.” Her entire body was heavy as lead. Her mouth tasted of things best left unsaid.

  “Husband sorcerer. Mage.” The girl spat the world. “I youngest wife.”

  Oh, dear heavens. “Ah. I see.” Except I do not. Youngest wife. Wants baby. She’s hiding.

  Apparently the girl who did her washing and cooked her meals had a secret, too.

  Cat coughed. Her stomach cramped, and she doubled over. The pain eased in increments.

  Li Ang still watched her. “He no take baby. He want go into from baby, make him young.”

  Oh, God. Cat’s gorge rose. She retched once, pointlessly, and only grim strength of will kept her from doing so again. That was mancy of the blackest hue, only whispered of in old faerie-stories of witches stealing breath and body from princesses. “Go into? Into…into Jonathan?”

  Li Ang nodded. “Brass kettle and herb, and Jin. Fire and mage. Make husband young. I no want husband young. Old man. Nasty. Bad.”

  Good heavens. Cat saw again the marks on Li Ang’s legs and back, the ink rubbed under the skin making odd characters, Chinois writing. She recoiled from the memory, her own flesh twitching, and another thought took its place. “Mr.…Mr. Gabriel? He’s helping you?”

  “Jack help hide.” Li Ang’s gaze was still steady, gauging Cat. “Li Ang hide. Hide Jin. Hide both.”

  “I see.” The cramping subsided. But the smell, dear God, it was terrible. How could anyone bear it? He had…the man had tried to kill Li Ang, and now he was…dead. Dead on the kitchen floor, and Cat had absolutely no idea how to begin dealing with this.

  But Li Ang was looking at her.

  I am a Barrowe-Browne. I came all the way out into the uncivilized wastes to find my brother, and since I arrived I have done things no lady should ever do. Perhaps I am not quite a lady anymore, but by God… She coughed again, and decided the pain in her midsection was retreating enough to allow her some leeway.

  “By God,” she muttered, “I am a Barrowe-Browne.”

  How would Mother handle this? Well, there is a dead body on my kitchen floor. This is not The Thing, as she would say. It must be dealt with, and quickly.

  The answer occurred to her in a flash. She braced herself, wincing, and wondered if her legs would carry her.

  Gingerly, Cat rose, her nightgown falling in folds of linen, marred with dust and splinters. Her legs were obedient, at least. The silk robe—a present from Robbie—had torn, and she felt a pang as she inched her shoulders up the wall and arranged her clothing afresh. The movements soothed her nerves, and by the time she was reasonably respectable she was at least also able to draw a lungful or two of cleaner air.

  Li Ang gazed at her, and the girl’s lips compressed into a thin grim line. Did she think Cat was going to march her baby down into the Chinois section of Damnation and get out the brass kettle?

  She set her chin. “Very well. I shall dress, and I shall find Mr. Gabriel.” Jack. He’ll know what to do.

  Another article of faith, but not as childish as her urge to write Miss Ayre. No, she could all but see Jack Gabriel pushing his hat back and surveying this scene of destruction and confusion. And glancing at her, that small reluctant half-smile turning one corner of his mouth up, before he settled into making it all right.

  Li Ang examined her from top to toe, and Cat might have felt unreasonably ashamed under such scrutiny. But the Chinoise girl must have found whatever she sought in Cat’s expression, for she sighed and sagged against the wall. Livid bruises were purpling on the girl’s slim throat, and it seemed a wonder that she could put up such a terrible fight. A lioness protecting her cubs could hardly do better.

  And, therefore, Catherine Elizabeth Barrowe-Browne could do no less.

  “Very well,” Cat repeated. “Can you stand? I do not think we should be apart until I leave. I shall dress myself, and I shall find Mr. Gabriel, and we shall make this right.”

  Though how it could be made right was beyond her.

  Chapter 21

  The Lucky Star was going full-tilt, rolling like a whaling ship on the North Atlantica. The tinkling pianoforte was spitting out a reel, and miners and gamblers were dancing, either with the saloon’s fancy girls or the dancing girls who would cozy up to a miner through “Clementine” or “That Old Gal of Mine,” as long as he paid for the drinks.

  Doc was the first to arrive, in his dusty black, and he gave Jack Gabriel a narrow-eyed stare. “You look like hell, Gabe. Something been keepin’ you up nights?”

  “Riding the circuit.” That damn storm’s too thick tonight. Wonder where Russ got himself off to, he should be back by now. Gabe tossed back the shot of what passed for whiskey, set the bottle in the middle of the table. The thumping and jollity from downstairs was enough to give a man a headache.

  “Not a pretty pair of dark eyes?” Howard’s laugh was dry and rasping as the dust. “Someone should tell Laura Chapwick she’s still got a chance.”

  Gabe stared at the amber liquid in the bottle. The old man would grow tired of baiting if the bear didn’t respond.

  Sure enough, Doc dropped down in his usual seat. “You are looking rough, Sheriff. It isn’t like you to drink before the game, either.”

  “Might make it easier to lose.” Since my luck’s been so bad.

  “Might, at that.” Doc’s spidery tabac-stained fingers drummed the table.

  “Well, Hell,” Paul Turnbull announced, stamping into the room and slamming the door so hard it was a wonder the whole place didn’t shake. “Gabe, God damn it. The whores are accusin’ Tils of skimming, and that goddamn man’s been taking it from my cut too. He’s drunk, the books are a damn mess, and that Tiergale whore says she’ll fix ’em if I pay her. What in God’s name is goin’ on around here?”

  Gabe made a noncommittal noise, and Doc’s laugh scraped the corners of the room again, harsh as the grit-laden wind outside. “You’re just now noticing Tils is a thief? There’s a reason I won’t play cards with him, Turnbull.”

  Paul’s foots
teps were like to rattle the room. He yanked out his chair, its legs screeching discordantly against the floor, and a shout went up downstairs. Gabe tensed slightly, but it was immediately followed by a flood of drunken laughter. Seems usual enough, he decided.

  “Hell, I knew he was a thief.” Turnbull eased his bulk into the chair and sighed, rubbing at his moustache. “I just didn’t think he’d steal from the whores. Ain’t good business, what with the trouble of getting more of them out here. No reason for the dancin’ girls to work like that when they can get what they want for a few turns around the floor.”

  “Maybe Letitia Granger could take up a subscription.” Doc found his own witticism hilarious, and wheezed through another laugh.

  There was a tentative tap at the door, but instead of Russ Overton, a corn-gold head poked through atop a pair of massive shoulders. It was Billy, the boy who ran errands for Coy and the girls, and he shuffled into the room with his hat in his broad paws, blunt fingers working nervously at the battered thing. His dark eyes were sleepy and one of them drooped at the corner; whenever he was nervous that cheek would twitch madly like a spider-charm was trapped under the flesh. His charing was a cheap brass disc, barely sparking even when he worked a simple mending. For all that, he was good with those graceless hands, and never touched the booze.

  “Now what?” Turnbull barked, and Billy all but cowered.

  “Guh-guh-guh…” The stammer got worse when he was excited. Nobody knew where he’d come from; he’d just arrived in Damnation and slept out on the main street in the dust until Turnbull let him sweep the boardwalk in exchange for a meal. “Gabe. Missah Gabe.”

  The flash of white he was crumpling along with his hat was a piece of paper, and Billy extended his arm. He stayed where he was, trembling in the face of Paul’s glower.

  What the Hell? Gabe gained his feet and did his best to block Billy’s view of Turnbull. “What’s this now, Billy? For me?”