The Damnation Affair

about.”

My, isn’t he chatty this morning. “Thank you.”

“It ain’t much, but it strikes me you might want a guide. To show you, that is. Around town.”

If this were a civilized town, I could perhaps purchase a street map. Or hire a carriage, or…dear God, do you really think me so dim I cannot find my way about this collection of dingy little alleys? “A very kind offer.”

“Not to presume, but…it could be risky around here. For a woman.”

Indeed? “More hazardous than the walking dead?” She sounded archly amused, and congratulated herself upon as much.

He had the grace to cough slightly. “There’s some what might be worse.”

What an unprepossessing little phrase. Was it even grammatical? “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, look. You passed words with Tils, right? Short little man in a bowler hat, moustaches he waxes up? Red flannel?”

She frowned slightly, her parasol swaying. None of the other women here carried them, and she was beginning to feel a trifle ridiculous. Again. And yet, she was very glad of the shade. “Mr. Tilson? I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“He runs one of the three fancyhouses we have in town. The Lucky Star, and that’s more saloon than…the other. Though the two are the same. Mostly.” Did he sound uncomfortable? His stride didn’t alter, a long loping gait that meant a single step for every two of hers. “I’d warn you not to have too many words with him. Man’s outright dangerous. To women, that is.”

Her throat was suddenly, suspiciously dry. “I see.”

He didn’t sound convinced. “Then I don’t need to tell you to be careful where you step. People come out here for two reasons: They’re looking for trouble, or running away from it.”

“Really.” It was her turn to sound unconvinced. “I must disprove your theory, sir. I did not travel to this lovely town for either reason.” Robbie, I am going to pinch you. Twice.

Was it amusement in his tone? “Well now, that exercises my curiosity something fierce. I’ve been wondering why such a gentle miss came all the way out here.”

Why on earth did she feel menaced? A glitter caught her eye. Cat turned aside, finding herself before a window. How, in the name of charter, did they bring glass out here? Did it rattle by stagecoach, wrapped and shivering?

Shabby velvet and twinkling metal—it was a store of some kind, its brightest wares displayed prominently. Two silver-chased pistols, a fine set of them by the brightest looks of it, with bone on their handles and carvings crawling with true-aim mancy, just as in novels of the Wild Westron. Pocketwatches, a fan of folded silk handkerchiefs. A few rings, tucked on tiny, moth-eaten purple pillows.

“This is Freedman Salt’s.” Mr. Gabriel’s tone was very even. “I’d tell you not to go in here, ma’am. It’s a pawnshop.”

I hardly think I shall faint at the news. “Indeed,” she murmured. “I am not blind, Mr. Gabriel. I can see as much.”

“Well, then I’ll tell you something you can’t see. Russ Overton’s our chartermage. People want respectable mancy, they go to him. But there’s people what want something different, and they come here. Haven’t quite figgered what Salt ran away from back East.” He stood beside her, thumbs hooked in his belt, his chin up, staring through the window as if he wished to shatter it with the force of his gaze alone. “When I do, it might be time for a Federal Marshal to come this way. But until then, I just watch.”

Well, he certainly received no points for grace or finesse. “I do believe that’s the most I’ve heard you speak so far, Mr. Gabriel.” And now I believe it’s time for this conversation to take a different course. “Your theory, I presume, must hold true for yourself. What trouble did you come Westron- ward to escape?”

He was silent for a long moment. Sweat collected under Cat’s arms, her lower back was soaked, and a thin trickle slid down from her hair. Even under the parasol’s shade and the awnings and porches extending from almost every building on this main thoroughfare, the entire town was oppressive. The dust was rising in creeping veils, too.

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 retracing 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.

Chapter 7

Those with true business didn’t visit the shop by day.