The Damnation Affair

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 even clutch at it, being fully occupied 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.”