The Damnation Affair

with a charm-pin—what the hell had happened?

Well, first things first. “Now,” he said quietly, “you’re perfectly safe, Miss Barrowe, I ain’t about to let no creatures gnaw our schoolmarm. You can rely on that. Nod if you hear me.”

She did nod, precisely once. Her breath was a hot spot in his palm, her lips still moving soundlessly. There was a scorch to the right of the door, still crawling with mancy—she must have thrown something at the corpse. Looked like her aim was put off by the thing busting through the door.

That was interesting. So she had a full-blown Practicality, did she? She could have found a decent living in one of the cities back East; why on earth would a girl with a skill like that want to come here?

That’s a riddle for another day. “Now, I’m gonna take my hand away, and you can faint if you want, or whatever it is ladies do in this situation. But you can’t go screamin’ or runnin’, because that will just complicate things. Nod if you agree.”

Another nod. Well. He’d see if she was lying. He peeled his fingers away from her mouth, conscious of the fearsweat on his nape and the small of his back, the smell of horse and exertion that clung to every man out here. She smelled of rosewater and fresh air, sunlight and clean linen and the flesh of a clean healthy woman. Her hat was askew, and she reached up with trembling fingers, her broken parasol dangling sadly from a thin leather loop around her wrist. Her fingers moved gracefully, settling her hat, and she took one step to the side. Gabe twitched, but true to her word, she didn’t run or scream. She simply swallowed very hard, lifting her chin, and that spark was back in her dark eyes.

“Good.” He almost said good girl, as if she were a frightened horse needing soothing, stopped himself just in time. “Did you open the door?”

“I th-thought it was a p-prank.” She sounded steady enough, though her color was two shades whiter than a bleached sheet. “M-my b-brother…”

So you had a brother. Maybe you’ll take to the little demons we’ve got for children out here. He waited, but she said nothing else. He cleared his throat, and she jumped nervously. He half- turned, his back to her as soon as he judged she was unlikely to bolt, and eyed both open doors. “You heard something?”

“S-scratching.” Another audible swallow. The corpse ceased its jerking, but you could never tell with wanderers like this. Even with half their head gone, they were still dangerous. “R-rattling the door.”

That’s interesting, too. “Charter’s still solid,” he muttered, more because he fancied she needed another voice to steady herself than out of any real need to say it out loud. “Was this morning, I rode the circuit myself. This place was cleaned three times before we laid the foundation. Huh.”

“If you are s-suggesting I—”

Well, she was brighter and braver than he gave her credit for. “You ain’t got no bad mancy on you, sweetheart.” I’d smell the twisting a mile away. It’s what I do, curse me and all. He pushed his hat farther up on his forehead, wished he could just decide which one of the two doors was the worse idea. If the corpse had gotten its teeth into her, he would have had to put her down, no matter if she had enough of a Practicality to shield her from the worst effects. “Just stay still a minute while I —”

“Sir.” Dangerously calm. “You shall address me as Miss Barrowe, thank you.”

Oh, for the love of… His hand twitched. The gun spoke again, deafening, and the shadow in the door didn’t duck. That’s a bad sign. “Stay here.” He launched himself for the back door, worn bootheels cracking against the boards, clearing a desk in a leap he was faintly amazed to think about later, and out into the bath of dusthaze and glare that was a Damnation afternoon full of the walking dead.

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?”