The Damnation Affair

Chapter 5

Crunches. Howls. Terrible sounds, and gunshots, spitting crackling mancy and thuds against the walls. Cat stood locked in place, trembling, staring at the body on the floor, her gloved fingers working against each other. Walking dead. Here. Oh, God.

The graveyards were well-policed in Boston, and bodies properly handled. Still, sometimes the more amenable of the wandering dead were set to work—supervised, of course, but used for brute and drudge tasks. There was a Society for Liberation of the Deceased, but Cat’s mother had always sniffed at such a thing. Liberation indeed, she would say. Next they shall be wanting franchise. And her father would chime in. Though how that would differ from the usual ballot-box stuffing, I cannot tell. Come, Frances, speak of something less unpleasant.

She had watched as they put the true-iron nails in her father’s palms, but she could not bear to see such an operation performed on her mother. Nor could she bear to witness the other appurtenances of death—the mouthful of consecrated salt, the branding of dead flesh with charter-symbols, the sealing of the casques. Thankfully, the Barrowe-Browne name, not to mention the estate’s copious funding, meant her parents would not be set to drudgery but instead locked safely in leaden coffins inside a stone crypt, with chartermages making certain of their quiet, mouldering rest.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, do not think on that!

Cat squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness made the sounds worse. So she opened them wide, and counted dust motes in the air. Why she did not find a spot more conducive to cowering and hiding was beyond her, unless it was the sheriff’s queer certainty.

Stay here.

Said very decisively, the gun smoking in his hand, then he had been gone, moving faster than she could credit.

If this was a prank, it was a very good one. The body on the floor was certainly none too fresh. Would someone cart a corpse all this way, and charm it, too—a dangerous occupation, to be sure—all for the sake of a laugh? Not even Robbie would go so far.

Though there had been the episode with the frogs, long ago in their childhood. And their dry-rusty dead-throat croaking. Robbie’s Practicality was just barely acceptable in Society, and their father had more than once reminded him never to allow it rein outside the house. Especially after the poor frogs, the nursery full of the stink and…

Oh, I wish I had not thought of that.

A shadow filled the doorway. She had to swallow a scream, but it was merely Mr. Jack Gabriel, hat clamped on his dark head, his eyes narrowed and his hands occupied in reloading his pistol with quick, habitual movements. She supposed he must do so often, to be so cavalier during the operation.

“You can move now,” he said, mildly. “Don’t think there’s more, but we should step lively back closer to town.”

“Is this…” She had to cough to clear her throat. “Is this normal, sir? I cannot be expected to teach if—”

“Oh, no, it’s not normal at all, ma’am.” His eyes had darkened from their hazel, and his gaze was disturbingly direct. “Matter of fact, it’s downright unnatural, and I intend to get to the bottom of it. You won’t be setting foot out here, teaching or no teaching, until I’m sure it’s safe.”

Well. That’s very kind of you, certainly. “That is a decided relief,” she managed, faintly. “I am sorry for the trouble.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am. You’ve a good head on your shoulders.” A high blush of color—exertion or fear, who knew—ran along his high, wide cheekbones.

For a single lunatic instant she thought he was about to laugh and tell her it had all been a prank, and she was, in Robbie’s terms, a blest good sport. But his mouth was drawn tight, he was covered in dust, and there was a splatter of something dark and viscous down one trouser leg.

“Thank you.” She tried not to sound prim, probably failed utterly. And who wouldn’t sound a little faint and withered after this manner of excitement? “I don’t suppose you, ah, knew the…the deceased?”

He actually looked startled, his gaze dropping like a boy caught with his fingers in a stolen pie. “Can’t say as I looked to recognize them, ma’am.”

“Oh.” She found the trembling in her legs would not quite recede. Her throat was distressingly dry. “I suppose you must have been…yes. Busy.”

“Very. You’re pale.”

I feel rather pale, thank you. “I shall do well enough.” She took an experimental step, and congratulated herself when she did not stagger. “Returning to town does seem the safest route. Shall we?”

There was a dewing of blood on his stubbled cheek. Where was it from? “Yes ma’am.”

Cat decided she did not wish to know precisely what the stains on him were from, and set off for the rectangle of dusty sunlight that marked the front door, her bootheels making crisp little clicking noises. The sheriff caught her arm, his grimy fingers oddly gentle.

“Just a moment, Miss Barrowe. I’ll be locking the back door, and then you’ll let me go through that’un first.”

Oh. “Yes. Of course.” Please let’s not dally.

“Just you stay still and don’t faint. Don’t want to have to carry you over my shoulder.” He paused, still gazing at her in that incredibly odd manner. “Would be right undignified.”

“That it would.” She clasped her gloved hands, her heart in her throat and pounding so hard she rather thought a vessel might burst and save the undead the trouble of laying her flat.

What a charmingly gruesome idea. Use that organ of Sensibility you so pride yourself upon, Cat. Behave properly.

The trouble was, even Miss Bowdler’s books, marvelous as they were, had nothing even remotely covering this situation. She decided this fell under Extraordinary Occurrences, and checked her hat. An Extraordinary Occurrence meant that one must take care of one’s person to the proper degree, and simply avoid making the situation worse.

Her gloves were in good order, though her parasol was completely ruined. Her dress seemed to have suffered precious few ill effects from scurrying across the floor. A few traces of sawdust, that was all.

She found the sheriff still staring. “Sir.” It was her mother’s There Is Much To Be Done tone, used whenever something had gone quite wrong and it was Duty and Obligation both to set it right, and it was wonderfully bracing. “Do let’s be on our way.”

At least he stopped staring at her. “Yes ma’am.” Another touch to the brim of his hat—and by God, must he wear it inside? It was insufferable.

He approached the body cautiously, grabbed it by the scruff of its rotting shirt, and hauled it outside through the back door. It went into the sunshine with a thump that unseated Cat’s stomach, and despite his shouted warning, she fled the barnlike schoolhouse. She leaned over the porch stair railing, and she retched until nothing but bile could be produced.

He wished the wagon wouldn’t jolt so much. She was paper-pale, trembling, and had lost damn near everything she’d probably ever thought of eating. She clutched at the broken stick of the parasol like a drowning woman holding on to driftwood. Damp with sweat, a few stray strands of her hair had come free, and now they lay plastered to her fair flawless skin. He wished, too, that he could say something comforting, but he settled for hurrying the horse as much as he dared.

He’d lied, of course. There hadn’t been just a few undead. He’d stopped counting at a half-dozen, and there was no way a single man could put down that many.

Not if he was normal. And Jack Gabriel had no intention of letting anyone think he was otherwise. Not only would it cause undue fuss among the townsfolk, but it might also reach certain quarters.

The Order did not often give up its own, and he suspected they would be right glad to know his whereabouts.

Her charing-charm glittered uneasily. His own was ice cold, and it should have warned him long before the undead came close enough to sense a living heartbeat. Which was…troubling.

Not just troubling. It was downright terrifying, and he was man enough to admit as much.

Had it happened, then? Had he lost his baptism? Did grace no longer answer him?

Loss of faith was one thing. Loss of grace was quite another.

She swayed again as the wagon jolted, her shoulder bumping his. Did a small sound escape her? He racked his brains, trying to think of something calming to say. Or should he just keep his fool mouth shut?

“Mr. Gabriel?” A colorless little ghost of a voice. Did she need to heave again? It was unlikely she had anything left in her. And she was such a bitty thing.

“Yes ma’am.” The reins were steady. He stared ahead, most of his attention taken up with flickers in his peripheral vision. If there were more of them, they would cluster instead of attacking one by one, and that was a prospect to give anyone the chills.

Even a man who had nothing to lose.

They won’t get you. He decided it wouldn’t be comforting at all to say that to her, and meant to keep his lip buttoned tightly.

“Thank you. For saving my life.” She stared straight ahead as well. The tiny veil attached to her hat was slightly torn, waving in the fitful breeze. The heat of the day shimmered down the track, and the good clean pungency of sage filled his nose.

It was a relief. At least he didn’t smell like walking corpse.

“My pleasure, ma’am.” As soon as the words left his mouth he could have cussed himself sideways. He could have said, It weren’t nothin’, or even, You’re welcome. But no. My pleasure? Really?

They’d be lucky if she wasn’t on the next coach to the train station in Poscola Flats, retreating to Boston. And that thought wasn’t pleasant, if only because of how that bat Granger would complain, and the rest of the fool Committee of old biddies as well.

No, it wouldn’t be pleasant at all.

His stupid mouth opened right back up. “What I mean to say, it’s no trouble. No trouble at all. Wasn’t about to let no corpses get their teeth in our schoolmarm.”

Well. That was from bad to worse. Plus, he noticed as he glanced down, there was muck on his pants from the last corpse he’d put down, steel blurring into its throat and its head blasted off with a bullet and a muttered Word. It was rubbing against her pretty skirt, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Oh, hell.

“I am very grateful.” Her gloved fingers interlaced, pulled hard against each other, and she did not wait for him to help her down when the wagon halted outside her trim little cottage. Instead, she hopped down, almost catching her dress in her hurry, and was gone inside the house before he could say boo.

Not that he’d want to say boo. Or anything else. Dull heat stained Gabe’s cheeks, and he swallowed several times before turning his attention to the next problem presenting itself.

Which was getting the horse squared away, and then finding out just what in hell the walking dead were doing inside the town charter.

He palmed the workroom door open, and Russ jumped about a foot. The mancy he was working spit dull red sparks, and Gabe’s charing-charm scorched for a brief second. He ignored it—anything Russ was likely to fling could be countered handily. “Russell Overton, what the hell?”

“What the hell the hell?” Russ spluttered. His office was dark, heavy shades pulled in his inner workroom because, like most professional mancers, he preferred the gloom where he could see the sparks. His shirtsleeves, rolled up, showed the pale twisting veined scars of a professional chartermage, raised and ropy on coffee-cream skin dusted with sparse coarse hair.

Even his arms were bandy and tense. Jack was struck with the idea that perhaps the man’s color had made him accustomed to taking fighting the world as a given, much as Jack’s natural stubbornness had.

Such thoughts occurred to a man out West, he supposed. “Just got jumped by the walkin’ dead, Russ. Charter was solid this morning; what the hell?”

Russ’s palms clapped together, shorting the mancy. It died in a cascade of heatless iridescence, and he was already rolling his sleeves down and reaching for his coat. “Where?”

At least the man didn’t drag his feet. “The schoolhouse. They’re not rising again, but we need to find the breach. God damn it, Russ.”

“There is no breach. We rode this morning.” Russ’s eyes closed, briefly. “All the compass markers are in place. I can feel them. Gabe…” He licked his lips, a quick nervous flicker of a dry-leaf tongue. “The schoolhouse, you said. Did any of them—”

“She’s safe.” Gabe folded his arms, glaring. “Goddamn good thing I was there, instead of a passel of kids.”

Russ paled further at the thought. It was nightmarish, and Gabe normally wouldn’t have said such a thing. But damn it, if that first undead had sunk its teeth into Miss Barrowe…

Well, it didn’t bear thinking of. And he didn’t like the sinking, empty sensation in his gut when he thought about it. So he wouldn’t, would he? There were plenty of other things to think about at the moment.

He could ignore that sinking sensation. Sure he could.

Russ grabbed his gunbelt, hung over a sturdy wooden chair. Papers stirred on a stray breeze, ruffling as the mancy-laden atmosphere twitched inside the narrow office at Gabe’s back, full of shelves of bits and herbs and other things, charmer’s books stacked haphazardly on a taboret near the desk. He buckled the belt with quick habitual movements. “I meant to ask if any of them looked familiar.”

Oh, for the love of… He could have cheerfully throttled the man. “I didn’t stop to ask their names. But no, none of ’em looked familiar. Bunch of strangers around here anyway.”

“Gabe.” Russ halted, his black Gladstone clutched in one hand. His hat was askew, and his blue eyes were shadowed. “What if it’s…that?”

A cool fingertip touched Gabe’s nape. “We sealed that claim up solid. And nobody’s been showing up with marked bars recently. Dust and nuggets, but no bars.”

“But what if—”

“It’s gone. And that stupid kid, too.” What was his name? Face like a blank slate, you could forget it in a heartbeat. The eyes had just slid right over him, and sometimes Gabe wondered if it was a type of mancy that had made the kid so forgettable.

“Well, the markers are all in place, and the charterstone’s solid.” Russ shook his head, straightened his hat. “Let’s go.”

Gabe held the door. Russ stamped, his bow-legged gait just like a clockwork toy’s. He was through the office and out onto the porch in a heartbeat.

Sweeping the workroom door closed, the sheriff had to shake his head, thinking of Miss Barrowe’s wide dark eyes, swimming with tears and terror. The unsteady feeling hit him again, like a fist to the gut.

Then he remembered the kid’s name.

“Robert Browne.” He actually said it out loud, but Russ was outside already and didn’t hear. It was a damn good thing, too.

Because a chartermage wouldn’t take kindly to having a dead man’s name breathed in his office. Jack Gabriel shook his head, ran his fingers over the butt of a gun, and hurried to catch up.