Chapter Eight
Lines Crossed
After returning to the village and finding Pierce had left for the races, Taisia went for a stroll through the meadow of tall grass. She headed out alone, which suited her fine, for she’d rather not disturb Sees Beyond while she and Mohin were spending some time alone together. Besides, Taisia saw no harm in taking a short walk within eyeshot of the village. She had a full canteen, her sun hat, and parasol.
As she causally walked between the tall yellow grass, sliding her hand over the tips and letting them tickle against her palm, she thought about the last time she’d actually spent any time by herself. It was when she had been imprisoned at Newgate Prison. Taisia had been so frightened then. All she wanted was a way out and to be reunited with Nona and Jasper. That opportunity presented itself the moment Pierce stepped into her cell, disguised as a royal guard. Unaware he’d come to rescue her, she had whacked him across the head and left him locked inside as she fled. The guilt had resonated after she’d helped break him out, and even after joining him on his quest to find an inheritance that had never existed.
Taisia had mixed feelings about the argument she and Pierce had. She was angry with him for doubting her love and devotion because of a silly dance, and yet, she felt ashamed for the dance. She was also disappointed in herself for not pushing Pierce to ask her his question before she stormed away. What kind of a marriage were they going to have if they couldn’t even talk to each other?
Her eyes soon caught on a charming and familiar face.
“Taisia Kuzentsov?” said the handsome stranger from the night before.
Taisia couldn’t believe it and thought that perhaps the heat was playing tricks with her mind.
“You,” she marveled as he approached.
He was no longer dressed in the suit, but instead wore a rugged green leather jacket and grey slacks. He had several belts strapped to him around his waist and over his torso, with large, tarnished buckles securing them to his body. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, and his heavy black boots seem to shake the ground as he walked. He carried a rifle that he had propped on his shoulder.
His movements were unlike anything Taisia had ever seen before. He moved with stealth like some big cat on the prowl, and yet strutted with pride as though demanding to be noticed.
He came to within an arm’s length of her and stopped. He stood so tall and grand, she felt he could easily rule the world if he so chose. His sheer presence nearly caused her to overlook the obvious question.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hunting,” he answered. “My people rely on me.”
“Your people?”
“The nomads. I live among a nomadic tribe who depend upon me.”
“Where is your tribe?”
“Out in the desert plains. They have expressed their desire to move on soon.”
The news hurt as if he had been her longtime friend and he was telling her goodbye.
“Oh,” she said with forced strength. “So, you’re leaving?”
One dark eyebrow rose, nearly touching the brim of his hat. “You appear distressed. Do you not wish for me to go?”
She hadn’t realized her tone was so obvious. She redirected her question. “You never told me your name. What is it?”
When he grinned, showing off those perfect teeth set behind perfect lips, her knees almost gave out on her.
“Gog,” he introduced. “My name is Gog.”
“Gog?” She pondered that a bit. It sounded familiar. “Where did you go the other night? You disappeared.”
“I did vanish,” he quipped. “Completely.”
His joshing tone made her giggle. She then felt a kick and put a hand on her belly. She had only begun feeling movement last night while on the ship.
“May I?” Gog asked.
“You may, but it might not kick again . . .”
The moment he touched her stomach, a flutter of activity erupted.
“Your unborn is very strong and healthy.” He smiled happily at her as if he was speaking about his own child.
“You think so?”
“I can sense it. Every child you produce will be a remarkable individual, accomplishing many achievements during his or her life. You should be very proud.”
Taisia felt dizzy and wondered if it was caused by the heat or the thrill of such news. She believed him completely, not because every parent wanted their offspring to be healthy and accomplish countless things, but because the truth seemed to pulsate from him.
“You should drink some water,” he suggested without looking up from her stomach.
“What?” she said as if she did not understand him.
“Vy dolzhny pit’ vodu,” he repeated in Russian. “You are getting dehydrated.”
She realized her throat did feel as if she’d swallowed a cactus. She gulped down the water from her canteen.
“I guess I was thirsty,” she admitted, wiping some water from the corner of her mouth. “You speak Russian?”
“I speak dozens of languages.”
“I’m teaching my husband Russian. Why did you leave when he showed up the other night?”
Gog tensed. “I suppose I wasn’t ready to meet him yet. I shall, though, very soon. I promise.”
His tone sounded pleasant, yet his words masked a certain kind of malice.
She nearly asked him what he meant by that when he cut in abruptly, “So lovely. It hurts the heart to look upon you.”
She was taken aback. “Sorry?”
“Ever since our dance, you have not ventured far from my thoughts. I realize I’m being forward, but it is the truth.”
His bold claim stunned her. “Me?”
“Do not act surprised. You must know how fascinating you are. It amazes me that men, and even women, are not captivated by you.”
His comment, especially about the women, burned her cheeks. “You’re very strange.”
He laughed loudly, a strong laughter that vibrated in her chest. It enthralled her.
“I can be, yes. But, strangeness goes for anyone. Am I wrong?”
Thinking about it, she saw his point. “No. Not in the least. My husband and his family are the perfect examples.”
He frowned. “Your husband. Yes. Love him, do you?”
His inquiry heated her blood.
“Love him? Of course, I do. More than anyone in the world.”
“Until your unborn arrives, that is,” he challenged her. “Caring for your child secures your bloodline. It’s ancient instinct that keeps generations going.”
Her anger quickly cooled, for she knew it to be true. The baby growing inside her womb was worth more to her than anything else on earth. It was hers and Pierce’s legacy, a gift that would ensure their family would continue to exist.
“I must resume with my hunt,” Gog announced.
The seriousness in his tone prompted her to ask, “You’re not lying, are you? About the nomads.”
“I would never lie to you,” he promised with sincerity.
She believed him, for she felt it.
“If you ever feel at a loss,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away, “just say my name and I shall appear by your side.”
Taisia couldn’t explain it, but part of her went sadly cold as he left her. She did not take her eyes off him until he vanished from her sights.
* * *
For a split second, Pierce thought about kissing Emma back.
“Whoa,” he said, gently pushing her off. “Can’t be doing that, now.”
He stepped backward to create more distance between them. Tarak stared at him with an expression that was a cross between shock and jealousy. Emma stayed in place with a wide-eyed look, as if she couldn’t believe what she had done.
“I’m sorry.” She smiled. “I simply got excited.”
Gabriela called to her. Emma briefly switched her attention to her before tilting her chin up toward the stage on the other side of the racing track.
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She listened a tick to Mayor Nicolás Belén speaking. “They want the winners on stage.” She turned to Pierce. “Will you be at the city square for the celebration?”
“Erm, I really ought to get Tarak home before sunset.”
“Please, Mr. Landcross,” the boy pleaded. “Can’t we stay a little longer? I promise I won’t call you White Horse anymore.”
“Eh? Well, then, I reckon we can.”
That raised the boy’s and Emma’s spirits.
“Right, we’ll meet you at the square. I’m gonna find the lad and me something to eat.”
Pierce and Tarak headed toward the vendors and bought themselves supper. They found a long wooden bench underneath a large tarpaulin to enjoy their meal. Pierce got Tarak pork green chili and churros for desert. He decided to try out the tamales, but before he had a chance to take his first bite, a heavy slap struck his burnt back.
“Ow! Fuckin’ hell!” he exclaimed.
The sudden hot pain made Pierce jump from his seat, ready to knock whoever hit him to the floor.
“Oi, relax mate,” Jaxton said with hands raised. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Pierce’s anger cooled, although the burning on his shoulder did not.
“You didn’t scare me,” Pierce grumbled, sitting down again. He took a bite of his food.
Jaxton came around to face them. “Who’s the lad?”
“This is Tarak,” Pierce said with a mouth full of tamales. “Tarak, this is my mate, Jaxton Beau.”
“G’day, Tarak.” Jaxton held out his hand.
Jaxton shook Tarak’s hand vigorously. Tarak laughed. Jaxton took a seat on the bench across from them.
“If you weren’t startled,” he said to Pierce, “then why did you jump like a jackrabbit, eh?”
“He sounds similar to you, Mr. Landcross,” Tarak pointed out.
“He’s from Australia, lad,” Pierce explained.
Tarak thought a moment. “Where’s Australia?”
“Far.”
“Oh.”
To Jaxton, Pierce said, “It’s my back. I burnt the hell out of it in the sun yesterday.”
“Sun damage, eh? You have to watch it with that, especially if you’re not accustomed to heat exposure. An English bloke such as yourself . . . I reckon not.”
Pierce scowled at him as he slowly chewed.
“I have a remedy for it,” Jaxton offered.
“Don’t think snake oil will do the trick, mate.”
“Naw, lad, something else.”
Pierce took another bite of his tamales and snorted.
“Did you see the races?” Jaxton asked.
“We did!” Tarak answered excitedly. “Emma came in first in the oil race.”
Jaxton tilted his head. “Who’s Emma?”
“She’s a friend of ours,” Pierce explained. “She’s one of the racers. We’ll be at the square for the celebrations.”
“Aces,” Jaxton said, standing. “I’ll see you there. Best get crackin’. Leonardo is watching the wagon while I fetch him something to eat. He is a real beast when he’s hungry.”
“You sods sound like an old married couple,” Pierce quipped.
Jaxton paled and looked at him fearfully as if a gun was being aimed at him. Homosexuality was very frowned upon in various parts of the known world, and Sonora, Mexico, had not struck Pierce as any different.
To set his mind at ease, Pierce added, “What’s with the face, chum? Didn’t mean to offend you. Just joshing you.”
“Nothing,” Jaxton said, sounding relived. “I’ll see you lads at the square. Hooroo, gentlemen.”
Pierce and Tarak ate and headed for Guaymas.
* * *
Gog waited for the right time to make his move against the husband of his soulmate. The chance hadn’t presented itself at the races. It had not arrived when Pierce bought a dress at a clothing store. The chance didn’t arise during the award ceremony when the first-place winners received metals and 500 pesos.
He needed some way to get rid of the man named Pierce, either by a long imprisonment, an illness, or by disfiguring him so severely that Taisia could no longer bear to look at him. Gog couldn’t simply kill him, for he hadn’t the power to go against the Fates. Though he sensed a slight disadvantage in the man in that regard. However, he had no time to explore it. The man and Gog’s future bride were set to depart in a few short days, and although Gog could easy follow them anywhere, he’d never be able to approach Taisia again and explain how he’d found her. Telling her the truth about himself could wait. She believed him to be just another mortal man, something he wished to portray for now.
Already, Gog had grown fond of the unborn she carried. Such a life with a mixture of special bloodlines, and so, therefore, worthy of being raised by him. It mattered not whether Gog had sired the unborn or not; he wanted it as his own. He only needed to overcome this small obstacle, and then everything would be his.
After the award ceremony, the woman who’d kissed Pierce earlier joined him and the boy near her racing machine. Gog wholeheartedly wished he could use a love spell to convince Pierce to run away with her and abandon his wife. She would then fall into Gog’s waiting embrace. The Mexican woman, Emma, liked Pierce greatly. She was even teetering on the verge of love. She was very lovely, indeed. The man could be very happy with her. If only he, too, did not love Taisia with unbreakable affection. Alas, Gog could not force the man to fall in love, but perhaps he could push him toward it.
Emma rushed up to Pierce. Gog sensed her desire to throw her arms around him and kiss him again. She restrained from doing so after her humiliating moment. Her sentiments for him were genuinely passionate. “Are you planning to stay in Guaymas?” Emma asked hopefully, her gold medal hanging from around her slender neck. “There are going to be parties throughout the night.”
The native boy, Tarak, widened his eyes in excitement. He folded his hands together and pleaded to the man. “Please, Mr. Landcross. Can we?”
The man looked at him as a father would, already falling into the role of one. “No, lad. We need to leave before dusk.”
The boy appeared disappointed but did not argue.
“Oh,” Emma moaned. “I wish you didn’t have to go so soon.”
The man blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I . . . erm, also have to return to my wife.”
He seemed reluctant. Perhaps navigating his love elsewhere wouldn’t be so hard, after all.
Emma frowned. “Right. I suppose you do. I’m glad you came out to the races.”
While she spoke, Tarak sat down in her racing machine. Gog’s opportunity had finally arrived.
It took little effort to manifest oil into the engine and start it up. Without being seen, he hung onto the side of the racing machine and pressed down on the pedal. After that, it was only a matter of steering.
Chapter Nine
Bounty Hunter?
“Aye, it was a pleasure watching you race,” Pierce said just before the cranking of the engine caught his attention. “Fuckin’ hell! Tarak!”
“I didn’t start it up,” the boy hollered a second before the Wheel took off into the crowd.
“Shite!” Pierce shouted, clutching his hair.
“That’s not possible,” Emma said, completely gobsmacked.
Pierce, Emma, and Gabriela ran off after the fast-moving machine. Thankfully, people were quick to dart out of the way. The fire-breathing dragon marionette, however, was unable to budge. Tarak had thrown himself out of the Wheel, but it kept going, crashing into the dragon’s leg. The impact was so hard that the entire structure rumbled before toppling slowly over.
Pierce stopped short and watched in sheer terror as the dragon pitched sideways, smoke from its nostrils streaming out as it fell. The first thing it hit was the airship hovering next to it. The head smashed into the mainmast, cracking it in several places and tearing holes in two of the side balloons. Hot air hissed out. The head slammed to the deck, pulling the ligh
tweight airship to the ground. The people onboard, including Captain Geming Xiong, tumbled about as the vessel came crashing down, the hull breaking apart and cracking the keel. The dragon’s head finally slid off the ship, allowing the vessel to rise awkwardly by its remaining balloons.
People scrambled as the dragon’s body landed on a line of racing machines. A plume of dust rose and whirled about. The crushing of metal and the shattering of wood was a deafening sound that rumbled through the whole city.
“Oh, shite,” Pierce uttered. “Tell me nobody bloody died.”
People were coughing, others calling out to missing friends and loved ones. More folks were climbing out of the wreckage—mainly the marionette operators who had been inside the dragon. Hot coals tumbled out of its firebox, setting fire to the broken pieces of the shattered booth the dragon’s head had landed on.
Sheriff Emmanuel Flores, Deputy Andrés Ortega, and others quickly found buckets or anything else they could use and began tossing water from the nearby fountain onto the growing flames. Smoke fumed, and water sizzled over the searing hot metal of the dragon’s jaws and teeth. The dust hadn’t even settled when someone—a tall foreigner—yanked Tarak up off the ground.
“Look at what you have done, you little prairie bastard! You’ve destroyed our machines!”
People quickly formed a perimeter around the tall man holding the lad by his poncho.
“I only sat in the racing machine,” Tarak explained, trying to pry the man’s hands off him. “I don’t even know how to work it!”
“Are you telling me it cranked up all on its own?” he challenged, shaking Tarak.
“Oi!” Pierce shouted, shoving the man off him. “Piss off, wanker!”
The bastard stumbled. Pierce, despite being of average height, had great physical strength that surfaced when provoked. The tall bugger who appeared Arabian sure as hell looked surprised when he saw the size of the feller that had pushed him.
Bounty Hunter Page 10
