“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’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.
Chapter 8
Miss Bowdler’s books had said nothing about this.
It was hot as Hades, dusty as another underworld, and Cat’s stays were digging into her flesh with the vigor of bony clutching fingers as her temper frayed and she assayed, once more, a calm but authoritative tone.
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 had 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.”
* * *
All through that long syrup-slow afternoon, Jack Gabriel loomed in the back of the classroom, and even though Cat was heartily sick of him, she could not help but admit that his presence had a most sedative effect upon the most troublesome of her students.
Unfortunately, her nerves were a frayed mass by the time she consulted her mother’s watch, securely fastened to the chain at her waist, and informed the willowy, dark-eyed young Zechariah Alfstrache that he had, by dint of being the least troublesome today, earned the right to ring the true-iron bell bolted next to the front door. Near to expiring with satisfaction, he did so, and even the awe of the sheriff could not keep the little savages from exploding into action. Ten long minutes later the schoolhouse was echoingly empty, and Cat sagged in her chair, one hand at her eyes.
Jack Gabriel’s steps were measured and slow. “Well. Schoolin’ seems as difficult as law-work.”
I rather doubt that, sir. For one thing, there are no flying bullets. Or undead. “They are quite energetic,” she managed, faintly. “Good heavens.” Still, it is very kind of you to say so.
“Fetch you some water, ma’am?”
How chivalrous. “No, thank you. You are quite free to go, I simply wished you to frighten some of the savages into behaving.”
“Had business, ma’am.”
Oh? “And what would that be?”
“Makin’ sure the schoolhouse is safe.”
Of course. “Your diligence does you credit.” Her eyes opened, and the outside world was an assault of color and light. “I think we may rest assured the environs are quite safe.”
“Maybe, ma’am. You look…pale.” The odd gentleness again. What on earth possessed him to speak so?
Cat straightened. Come now, Catherine. You can certainly present a better form than this. “It is very warm today.” She checked the ink on the pages of her ledger—dry by now, certainly, but she breathed across the paper anyway, a slight charm to make certain sparking in the charged air. She closed the book with a decisive snap of binding and pages, and glanced up to find Mr. Gabriel looming over her desk instead of over the last row of benches, the star on his chest glinting sharply. Her stays were most uncomfortable, but she set her chin and glared at him. “I am quite well, sir. I am about to close the schoolhouse and go home, and—”
“I brought the wagon. You walked this morning.” Flat statement of fact, and his pale gaze was most certainly amused, but also…what?
As a matter of fact, she had enjoyed a brisk walk in the morning crispness. She had also entirely misjudged the weather—why, it was not entirely clear, since it had been unbecomingly torrid every afternoon since her arrival in this benighted burg. “I am not certain it is quite fitting,” she hedged, capping the ink with deft fingers and beginning the process of setting her desk to rights. “After all, Mr. Gabriel, I am—”
“About to faint.” His hat dangled from his very capable left hand, leaving his right free to touch her desktop with its fingertips, in a manner that seemed most improper. She could not think just why. “You’re very pale, ma’am. I’ll fetch you some water.”
Cat summoned every inch of briskness she possessed. “Not necessary, thank you.” But it was no use—the man was already halfway to the door, jamming his hat on his head as if he suspected something within the schoolhouse would dump ordure upon his thick skull.
Sighing, Cat set herself to closing up her desk. Each student’s slate hung neatly at the back of their bench-seat on a special hook, and tonight she would make paper nameplates for each section of desk. Pride in their desks, Miss Bowd
ler was fond of saying, would lead to pride in their persons, and that would make them neat and respectable.
Catherine had a notion Miss Bowdler had perhaps not reckoned on Damnation.
In any case, the environs were tolerably tidy by the time the sheriff stamped back up the steps and into the schoolhouse. She was taking note of a slate that had disappeared—one of the Dalrymple sisters no doubt, who all seemed more interested in simpering and sneering than giving their names or possibly learning their letters—and a suspicious stain on the floor behind the third row of benches when he appeared, holding a dripping dipper and biting his lip with concentration as he negotiated the rough plank flooring.
Cat’s own lips compressed, but not with disdain. He looked very much like one of her young students, especially since he was holding his hat as well as the dipper, and his dark hair had fallen forward across his forehead.
“Very kind of you.” She accepted it, and the few swallows of mineral-tasting well water made her suddenly aware of just how thirsty she was. Her lower back had collected a small pond of sweat, and her stays dug so hard she had longing thoughts of them snapping and freeing her enough to take a decent breath.
“Pleasure to be of service, ma’am.” His tone belied the words. In fact, Jack Gabriel looked…was it anger, sparking in those hazel eyes? His mouth was a thin line, and that odd gentle tone had vanished as if it never existed. “You should take more care.”
With what? But she was far too grateful for the water, no matter that her stomach was uneasy at containing it. “If you have made certain the grounds hold no undead, sir, perhaps we may be on our way?”
It was, she reflected, a trifle unjustified. Still, the disapproval—for that, she had decided, was his expression—nettled her. It was unearned, and though she knew such was the lot of every woman, she certainly did not have to enjoy it—or give it shrift.