The Damnation Affair

nerve-wracking, but Gabe had been sure he would.

And lo, he had. Seeing a sheriff waiting for him, though, the boy had drawn, and Gabe’s gun spoke first.

At least they had buried the kid right. It had…bothered Gabe, a bit, to see Robbie Browne’s charing gone. It could have been lost in the claim, true. The thing that had chased Browne out into the fading dust-choked light of that long-ago afternoon could have broken the chain of his charing-charm.

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