Could it be true?
Could Charlie’s association with the Vigilance Society and the direction it took in finding a new purpose in these times of freedom . . . could that have been the cause of his death?
There were deaths in this city—deaths in both the north and south—due to tensions between the races. Was Charlie’s death one of them? Or was it simply a case of hate, and that these questions about his gambling, their concerns about him being a terrible landlord, and even the cursed sigil—were all these just red herrings with no relation to his death? That there was no plot, no murderer at all, that what happened was just a random act of violence with no clear answer?
Could his death be Hetty’s fault? He wouldn’t be here if they left him behind.
Distantly, she heard Benjy calling her name, softly at first, and then with an impatient sigh he tugged her arm. He pulled her along after him as he strode out of the room. Unable to impede his progress, the crowd sprang apart like the parting of the sea.
The crisp air outside brought Hetty out of her daze. Taking several deep breaths, she unfurled her hands from the unsightly fists she had made.
“That was certainly interesting,” Benjy remarked. “I know people think things like that, but to say it to our faces, that’s certainly a first.”
“Perhaps we deserved it. People were punished when others ran away,” Hetty said faintly. “Some got their freedom, but those they cared about, that got left behind . . .” She trembled. “They paid the price.”
“You’re worrying about unknowns again. Don’t let what she said bother you. We helped people who were probably going to run with or without us.”
“We barely knew what we were doing,” Hetty protested, “especially at the start.”
“Why do you think I tagged along?”
“You never tagged along.” Hetty found herself smiling. “You wanted to come.”
“I couldn’t let you get killed. Mrs. Evans instructed me to keep you out of trouble.”
He chuckled softly at his own joke, the gentle rumble encouraging Hetty’s own laughter. She obliged, if only to hide a stab of disappointment. He always gave a different reason whenever the question came up as to why he came along on that first trip. The reason varied depending on his mood and who asked, but he never gave the answer everyone assumed.
It had never bothered Hetty before, because she knew it wasn’t true. But it would have been nice to hear, even in a teasing tone, that he followed her that night because he couldn’t bear to see her set off alone.
“Hetty,” Benjy asked, sobering a bit. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m hungry,” she said. It was the first thing that came to mind, but it wasn’t a lie. Obediently, her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since before they started preparations for the funeral.
“You never did bring back plates,” Benjy said.
“Shall we go back?” Hetty hoped he would say no. Food might be freely available, but the cost was walking back into that house to face all those watching eyes.
“No. I know a better place.”
ARIES
16
BENJY TOOK HER to an unassuming building with a steaming cauldron painted on its swinging sign.
He came here with Oliver some nights, when he was certain the other man hadn’t had a full meal that day. The food was plentiful for its cheap price, and rather decent.
The conversation in the saloon wrapped around them like smoke, plunging them into a more familiar world. People clustered at the tables, doused in candlelight, picking at meals, playing cards, and in some cases drawing glittering star sigils in the air.
A large jolly man behind the bar grinned at their approach.
“Look who showed up—it’s Ben Rhodes with a lovely lady at his arm.” A grin with two missing teeth bore down on Hetty. “I thought you were a married man.”
“He is,” Hetty said with a grin of her own. “I know that better than anyone.”
“This your wife!” the man hollered. “Why, she’s more beautiful than you said she was! Come, come, take a seat. You’re here to get something to eat, aren’t you?” He turned his head and shouted over his shoulder. “Pat, two plates on the house for these fine folks over here.”
“I didn’t come here to rob you of business, Fletcher,” Benjy said.
“Nonsense—your money is no good here,” Fletcher replied, so sternly that Benjy’s hand immediately fell away from his wallet. “I can never properly pay you back for the safe return of my sister’s daughter from those conniving thieves, but at least I can fill your belly now and then.”
“Your niece was among that group?”
“Oh yes, but she only knew your names because the auntie who led the group out recognized your symbol.” Fletcher held up his hands, his fingers pinched as if holding up a coin. “The conductors are well remembered in Philadelphia!”
His booming voice got a round of applause in the room and brought attention that sat squarely on Hetty’s and Benjy’s shoulders the rest of the evening.
They ate amid the pleasant chatter, and between bites of food, people came up to ask questions, or just to say hello, or to request stories of their exploits.
“I heard plenty about you two.” A man pulled a chair next to them, resting his elbow just close enough so they could smell the beer off his breath. “Most tales I reckon are true, but there’s some I question.” He leaned in close. “Is it true about the swamp monsters?”
Hetty glanced over at Benjy.
He nodded, wordlessly urging her on.
“Let me tell you a story,” Hetty said, pushing away her plate. “About a place that once entered few people leave. I speak of the swamps found on the Virginia border. Where inside its murky waters are more secrets than you can even dream of. A place where runaways fled into its depths to live out their lives in freedom. A place where slave catchers lost sight of their prey and their lives. Where soldiers sought the impossible.” With great relish she added, “They sought a monster to help win the war.”
She went on to describe this imaginary monster, liberally taking from stories she heard from the past, as well as mixing her own experiences in the swamp. The more ridiculous the story became, the more the crowd enjoyed it, which only encouraged her.
As she reached the climax of the tale, Hetty spotted Benjy reading a small piece of paper. His amusement faded into a frown and he shoved whatever it was back into his jacket pocket before reaching over and taking a long draw of his drink.
Hetty’s voice skipped a beat as she finished the story, though the crowd already taken in by the tale didn’t notice this last lurch.
In fact, they asked for more, as if knowing Hetty had cut the telling short of a proper end.
“It’s getting late,” she said. “We must go home.”
“Come around again!” voices called. “We want to hear more stories!”
The voices swarmed around, but when Benjy stood up to leave, people parted to let him past. Hetty gave them and Fletcher a smile before following.
Outside, Hetty said, “If I’d known my stories were so popular, I’d come more often.”
Benjy said nothing, striding forward, his shoulders stiff.
Hetty let him walk ahead, counting steps until finally she asked, “What was in that note Cora gave you?”
“That wasn’t a note.”
“What was it then?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s something. Tell me or—”
“It’s nothing about your sister. The writer said they hadn’t seen anyone of your sister’s description pass through.”
“Oh no.” Hetty shook her head. “I guess we knew it was a bit of a long shot.”
“It would have been quite a long shot indeed, since I thought you weren’t sending off those letters anymore.”
The clang of a trap ran in Hetty’s ears. It was one of her own making, from a stack of coins pinched from the piles of clothes she darned, stitc
hed, and enchanted outside her regular work.
“Must be a response to something I sent out a while back.” Hetty’s voice squeaked in her attempt to brush aside his words. “Something that finally came long after the initial inquiry. News takes a while to travel, you know.”
He turned around then. Although he faced her, the darkness made it hard to see his face. That was the only thing in her favor.
“You promised that you’d stop and wait until the last letter returned.”
“I can send letters,” Hetty said, brandishing her last remaining argument. “I can ask people to look. There’s no reason to waste time for something that probably got lost!”
“We agreed—”
“We never agreed—you thought I said something that I never did.” Hetty started to pull at the band at her neck, rubbing her fingers along inside of the fabric. She never wanted him to blindly agree to her every word, but this was one area she made an exception. The only thing she cared about in the world. “This is my sister we’re talking about. The best time to look for her is today, yesterday, and ten weeks ago!”
“It’s been years since the war’s end,” Benjy said, “and nothing came up this way. Maybe she hasn’t been looking for you as hard as you have for her!”
Hetty stared up at Benjy, quite certain for a moment she was seeing a stranger. How could he say such things to her, after all they’d been through? All those things he promised her. All those reassuring words. Did he only say such things because that was what he thought she wanted to hear?
“You’re wrong! She’s been looking too. She just hasn’t been able to move freely. We made a promise to find each other. And we will, because the only thing we have in the world is each other!”
“Then go look for her, Henrietta,” Benjy said, swinging his hand about. “You never needed my permission!”
“Don’t tempt me,” Hetty snarled.
He said something else then, but his words were lost as a ringing sound caught Hetty’s ear.
Although bell-like in quality, it had an echoing sound, one that wasn’t welcoming or inviting. A sound that still, on occasion, haunted her dreams. No, it couldn’t possibly be that.
“Sounds like a collar,” Benjy whispered.
Hetty swallowed. “It does, doesn’t it?”
A cheap collar only punished. A slightly more expensive one, common among the small farms with a sizable population of magic users, punished and carried a tracing charm. But the wealthiest slave owners sometimes employed a collar that did all that, plus sounded an alarm that could almost wake the dead.
The bell Hetty heard wasn’t quite making such a din. It hardly could be heard over the wind. Hetty turned the corner into the alleyway and stopped short.
There was indeed a collar wrapped around a man’s neck.
There were also spots of red on the collar. Flecks that at first glance seemed to be rust. As she leaned in closer, though, she saw the truth.
The red wasn’t rust, but blood.
Blood that came from a jagged gash at the base of the dead man’s neck.
SWAN
17
HETTY’S EYES KEPT FALLING back to the collar despite the several other pieces of evidence that were just as interesting.
The man’s face wasn’t mutilated. Aside from the jagged slash along his neck, he was untouched—no fresh bruises or injuries were visible otherwise. There were signs of old wounds and a few puckered scars, and his nose had been broken at least once. But those were marks of the past, and not helpful at all in determining what killed him.
“I think this was placed on him . . .” Benjy said, tapping the collar. It fell apart at his gentle touch, splitting into halves right before their eyes. But it went blissfully silent. “With great care.”
“More theater,” Hetty remarked. She attempted to keep her words light. “Although hardly necessary.”
“Someone thought so,” Benjy said, picking up the broken collar and frowning as he studied it. He turned it so Hetty could see the pattern of the blood splatters. “This collar was put on him after he was killed, and so was this.”
With the end of the broken collar, Benjy pulled back the torn bits of the man’s shirt to reveal the sigil of the Serpent Bearer. Like Charlie, it had been cut into his flesh. But the cuts were ragged, with torn skin in places where the cutter moved too quickly.
There wasn’t blood around the cuts, more proof that he was already dead when it happened.
“Can’t say I’m happy to see that again,” Hetty said. Although she was grateful to have something to pull her attention from the collar. “But he’s not been set up to be a drunkard. With the collar he’s meant to look like—”
“A runaway.” Benjy dropped the ends of the shirt aside. “Could this be meant for us to find? The collar was activated long enough for us to hear it.”
“By who?” Hetty whispered. “The collar only activates when magic is performed.”
“Or when it crosses a boundary.”
Hetty’s eyes swung around the alley. She saw no one lurking in the shadows, not even glittering star sigils.
“There’s no boundary here,” Benjy said, poking about. “Someone set this up. I wonder how they triggered the collar’s alarm.”
“I don’t care how it was done.”
Benjy’s head snapped up at her words, and he reached for her hand. “You’re shaking,” he said even before she pulled away. Then he looked down at the broken collar in his hand. “This bringing back memories?”
“Only memories.” Hetty had to force her hand not to rise to her neck. “Just put it away.”
“I have to admit,” Benjy said as he placed the collar on top of the dead man, “this is becoming more interesting. One is unusual, but two makes it more than a coincidence. A third would make it a pattern. Add in the theater of these men’s bodies being staged, plus the sigil, and we have the start of something truly nefarious. Someone wanted Charlie and—” Benjy paused. “Who is this?”
“Maybe there is some clue on his clothes.” Hetty knelt and pulled at the dead man’s sleeves, rubbing her hands along the seams. “The clothes we found Charlie in were rags. These are a bit nicer, although they are clearly borrowed clothes. They weren’t made to fit the body. And”—Hetty held up a sleeve—“there are rips in the fabric where a person might have sewn something personal.”
“Like a name?”
“Or a recognizable mark for a household.”
Benjy grunted. “Then we might find another body nearby.”
“Or we might not.” Hetty traced the stitches. “There’s another sigil here, imprinted into the cloth. Likely done to keep people in line.”
“Like servants,” Benjy said quietly.
Hetty nodded. “We’re looking at castoffs. From the kitchens, the gardens, the stables, even. Not much to go on. This was stolen, most likely. Why go through such effort?”
“For confusion,” Benjy said.
“There’s nothing confusing about this.”
“To you, perhaps,” Benjy said, “but it’s supposed to mask motive, and the reason for this death. Very interesting.” Benjy tapped the broken collar. “I can’t wait to hear what Oliver makes of this.”
“He won’t like it.”
“Well, you don’t have to come along to hear him complain.” Benjy reached down to pick up the body.
As if she had a choice.
Dark it may have been, but even the deepest shadows would not completely hide him carrying a dead body. For the people he didn’t alarm, he would draw attention, and possibly the police, his way. They risked it the other night with Charlie. They could not do the same tonight. They were both distracted, exhausted, and in Hetty’s case, hurting from a wound she had never wanted to feel.
As terrible as it was, it was almost a relief to find the dead man. This new murder gave them something to talk about. Something that wasn’t about the angry words they tossed at each other. Something to fill the empty air between them.
No lights flickered in the windows, but that didn’t stop Hetty from rapping on the door until Oliver jerked it open.
“Who’s there?” he called, looking wildly into the night.
Hetty released her spells, and as they appeared on his doorstep, with the dead man hanging suspended in the air by Benjy’s spellwork, Oliver sighed. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”
“This isn’t on purpose,” Hetty said as she shut the door behind them.
Oliver snorted. “I doubt that.” He stalked over to Benjy to study the dead man hovering in his front hall.
“Who’s this?” Oliver prodded the man with a finger.
“It’s another one,” Benjy said, “like Charlie.”
“Another . . .” Oliver’s head whipped back to the body, and he pushed up his glasses to get a better look. “Stars above, it’s that same sigil! Why haven’t you stopped this?”
“Just keep him until we find more information,” Benjy said.
“You’d have more information”—Oliver jabbed a hand at the man—“if you let news about the mark spread!”
Benjy only shrugged. “Someone wanted to make a scene, and I’m not letting that happen.”
“You call this a scene, Rhodes?” Oliver’s voice broke and he slammed his hand against the wall. The shadows of the light above twisted his features as he turned on them. “Two men are dead! This is murder, not a game!”
“You mean a puzzle,” Benjy replied without a hint of a smile. “All you need to do is keep quiet.”
As Oliver’s mouth flapped open like a fish, Benjy steered the dead man toward the cellar. “If you have questions, Hetty can explain. She’s very good at that, after all.”
Oliver turned toward her, with more than one question on his face. Hetty answered the easier one.
“We found him in an alley. Someone left a collar on him, and the sound drew us to him.”
“Here I thought you two simply went home after leaving the repass,” Oliver sighed. “That’s what most people would do, but no, you must surround yourself with trouble!”
The Conductors Page 18
