“No.” The words finally made it out of Vincent’s brain and into his throat. He barely heard them. “Stop.”
Gunfire answered him.
Overhead!
Vincent struggled against his frozen body and looked up.
One Crow, its massive wingspan black against the brilliant morning sky, floated on a cloud of gunsmoke. On an upward arc, it reached the side of the clearing to Vincent’s right, above the Army regulars’ camp.
The gunfire paused. The Crow looped high. Angled so that it again faced the Shawnee delegation. Stooped into a new dive, spitting a fresh round of bullets from its belly.
Vincent’s paralysis broke. Nausea fled, driven away by a sudden anger that burned him clean of everything else. He spun around, vaguely aware that beside him, Ellis did the same.
His legs pumped, muscles burning as he stormed up the hill toward the line of Crowmakers.
Son of a bitch. Son of a fucking bitch, I will kill him. Whoever is doing this, he’s as good as dead. The words in his head matched the cadence of his breath, harsh, short pants that seemed too loud.
Other sounds rose behind Vincent, now. Shouts. Dying screams. A trumpet rolled through the rest, and Vincent gave half a thought toward the camp of Army regulars. That trumpet was the sound of them stirring to action.
To do what, though? The only enemies they had were dead or dying.
Hell in a handbasket, Vincent thought.
But despite the burning in his legs, his chest and face felt numb. Cold. A small part of him wanted to drop where he stood, curl in on himself, and cover his head until the shooting stopped.
Not yet. First he was going to find the son of a bitch who’d disobeyed orders and broken ranks to open fire on the Shawnee.
The Crowmakers’ horses faced askew from straight on—Ellis’s idea, to be sure the war chief and his followers could clearly see the Crows on the backs of the saddles. So they’d be properly intimidated.
Not a problem anymore, the wild thought flitted through his head. The ice tried to flow through his veins, tempting him to give in to panic. To not bother trying to fix things.
Vincent looked for Kellen, first. He didn’t intend to, but his eyes knew exactly where to find her, near the center of the formation. Her face tilted toward the sky, chin pointed toward the Crow wreaking havoc from the skies.
A black metal form crouched on the saddle behind her. Some of the cold leeched out of Vincent.
On the mansion side of the line from Kellen, three other Crowmakers huddled. A cold voice in Vincent’s mind identified them as the two Irishmen, Byrne and Colley, and Ger Owen’s hated blond head. Colley was at the center of the other two. Vincent couldn’t tell what they were doing, but it didn’t matter.
Three Crows on the backs of three saddles. Whatever else was going on, they weren’t who Vincent looked for. His gaze raked the line, looking for what was out of place.
At the right end of the line, furthest from the mansion, three of the Crowmakers had broken formation, angling toward a fourth. At the very end of the line, Rawle’s head rotated as he looked from face to face of the other men nearby. Beside Rawle, Langston’s horse shied back. Langston let it. He was so busy staring down the hill toward whatever was happening behind Vincent that Vincent figured he didn’t notice.
Gunfire continued to roar. Dying, that’s what’s going on. No, don’t think about it.
Both Langston’s and Rawle’s Crows perched on their saddles.
Ackermann sat his horse third from the end of the line. With both hands, he clutched the saddle horn. His horse danced in place, but Ackermann wasn’t noticing what his horse was up to. His head tipped back. The whites of his eyes showed.
The Crow was missing from his saddle.
Son of a bitch. You’re mine now.
Vincent gathered in breath for a shout.
The Crow’s guns fell silent.
“Dale!” Goodson, on the far side of Ackermann from Rawle and Langston, had turned in his saddle and leaned toward Ackermann.
Ackermann blinked.
“Ackermann!” Vincent launched his shout like it was a weapon itself. It rang through the silence left by the halted gunfire.
At the edge of Vincent’s vision, Rawle lifted his face toward the sky. A shadow flitted over the ground at Vincent’s feet, headed toward Ackermann.
He’s calling it back. Not that it wasn’t already too late. What the hell was Ackermann thinking?
Along the rapidly-disintegrating formation of horses, the other Crowmakers had entirely given up on Ellis’s orders about facing front and not moving. They milled, looking and murmuring, obviously trying to decide what was going on. A few had their hand on their .36s, though none had drawn yet. The three-man huddle surrounding Colley remained.
All their Crows still perched on their saddles. Thank God for that small bit of good news, at least.
“Get that Crow on the damned ground!” Vincent’s stride ate away at the remaining distance between him and the Crowmakers’ line. He was high enough up the hill by now that he could glimpse, between the shuffling forms of the Crowmakers’ horses, the brick and white mansion just beyond.
On the porch, Samuel James stood just outside the manor’s wide-open front doors, along with a gaggle of servants and guests. James’s face tilted skyward, but he had one hand clasped on Annie’s shoulder. She’d gathered the skirt of her dress into one hand, and she leaned away from James’s grip. Every line of her too-tall, too-angular body pointed down the steps toward the Crowmakers.
Vincent hesitated. Your responsibility.
Annie turned her head and said something to her father. James frowned and shook his head, though he never stopped scanning the sky.
Ackermann’s Crow. The back of Ackermann’s saddle remained empty. And now, even though Ackermann blinked like a waking man, his horse huffed and shook its head, dislodging reins that were draped across its neck but held by no one.
She’s with her father. She’s safe. Deal with this crisis.
“Damn it all. Get those reins!” Vincent fixed his gaze on Ackermann and kept charging up the hill. Behind him, querulous voices rose to fill the silent void left by the Crow’s cease-fire.
Ellis’s voice flowed above and over them. “A moment, gentleman. All will be well.”
The hell it will. The stink of blood, hot and thick and cloying, formed a sick lump in Vincent’s throat. He thought he even heard a waver in Ellis’s brandy-smooth voice.
In any case, it sounded to Vincent like Ellis had stopped a ways back. Which meant Vincent was alone in dealing with Ackermann.
That’s fine. I’ll deal with him, all right,
Ackermann’s horse, sensing its rider’s lack of attention, shook its head again, harder. To Ackermann’s right, Goodson pressed his horse closer, but the reins had fallen to Ackermann’s left.
Rawle was closer. Langston’s horse had danced well back from the original line and Langston, cocky little asshole that he normally was, stared wide-eyed and paralyzed toward the scene beyond Vincent. Rawle’s eyes were equally rounded, but he was still on the line. His overgrown boy’s face turned as he looked from Goodson to Langston and back again, obviously torn over which role model to follow—go cower with Langston or step up and be a man like Goodson?
Further up the Crowmakers’ line, other horses shuffled and voices rose and maybe some of them even intended to do something other than gawk stupidly.
None of them were close enough. Ackermann’s horse shook again. Its front hooves danced. Ackermann shifted in the saddle, still blinking, an eerie lack of expression on his bearded face. And Rawle stayed right where he was, glancing toward Ackermann and Goodson and then toward Langston.
“Rawle!” Vincent slowed his steps and angled to the side, but no way was he walking straight up on a panicking horse. “You fucking moron—get hold of those reins!”
Rawle cast one final, longing glance toward Langston, who remained a cowering pile of worthless crap on horse
back. Then Rawle glanced toward Goodson, squared his shoulders, and edged his horse up alongside Ackermann’s.
It was funny how, in moments like these, everything seemed to slow down.
Ackermann’s elbow hitched upward. Vincent couldn’t see past the horse’s neck to tell what he was doing, but Goodson’s eyes widened. In the same moment, Rawle leaned toward Ackermann, reaching for the dangling reins.
A black shadow slid across the trampled grass, shuddering as it passed over every undulation of the uneven, hoof-churned turf. It moved from Vincent’s right to left—away from Ackermann.
Not toward Ackermann’s saddle. Not coming back to roost. Away.
Ackermann’s arm lifted. The pitch black tenebrium of his .36 stood out starkly, like a hole had been cut through the daylight and straight into night. Its barrel pointed into Rawle’s face.
“Dale!” Goodson shouted.
The final echo of the single word was swallowed by a sharp crack. A spark. A puff of smoke from the .36’s barrel.
Rawle jerked. Blood sprayed. One side of his head erased itself, leaving a crimson smear. His body hung there, suspended in the act of leaning half forward from his saddle.
Somewhere behind Vincent, the renewed thunder of Ackermann’s Crow opening fire split the sky.
10
Be strong. Two words, repeating endlessly, and Kellen clung to them like they were the only pieces of sanity left in the world.
Her palm already rested on the butt of her .36. She’d been looking at Ackermann, dimly aware that to her other side, Byrne and Ger had closed ranks around Colley—
Something’s wrong. Something is wrong with Colley, too.
—and trying to decide what she should do. What could she do?
Horses snorted and pawed. Voices. She heard voices, but none of them made sense. She smelled dust and the lye soap scent of her freshly-cleaned uniform and another scent, sharp as heated metal.
Rawle’s face was gone—
He shot Rawle. Ackermann shot him.
—and his body tumbled, slow motion, from its saddle, and the riderless horse bucked and screamed. But Kellen couldn’t hear the horse, not really, because another sound—
Ackermann’s Crow.
—thundered through her head. Her gaze jerked involuntarily toward the bloodbath scene down the hill, where the bodies of the Shawnee lay in a jumble of limbs and torn flesh and—
Blood. Jesus, I can smell it. No time to be sick, I have to be strong.
But they were dead. They were all dead. Already dead.
The rattling thunder of gunfire filled her ears. And shouting. Screams. Not the Shawnee.
Not the Shawnee.
Ackermann’s Crow was firing on something else.
Kellen’s fingers curled around her .36. Her gaze twitched away from the dead, scanning for the new source of dying screams. Every movement seemed to take forever, like the sticky hot summer air itself tried to slow her.
Ackermann’s Crow stooped low over the camp of Army regulars to the northwest of Harrison’s mansion, strafing through the middle of the tents. Men ran, jerked, fell.
Died.
Other bluecoats, along the perimeter of the camp, took cover behind and under wagons and crates. Their muskets boomed as they fired, fell silent as they reloaded.
Too slow. No muskets will take out a Crow.
Two other black shapes appeared in the sky. Down the disintegrating formation of Crowmakers to Kellen’s right, Petras and Kalvis sat stiff in their saddles, heads tipped back. Beside Kellen, between her and whatever was happening with Ger and Colley and Byrne, Jennett’s Crow lifted off his saddle, too. None of those three Crows opened fire. Instead, they dove toward Ackermann’s Crow, circling in closer and closer to it.
Kellen’s gaze returned to ground level and fell on the back of Ger’s blond head. He bent toward Colley’s horse, reaching for the reins. On Colley’s other side, Byrne reached out with both arms, like he planned on catching Colley if Colley for some reason fell.
How bad is it? God, how bad?
“In the house! Get inside the damned house!”
Vincent’s voice. To her left. Kellen turned her head.
Bosch sat beside her, .36 drawn like hers but gaping around him like he didn’t quite know what to do next.
That’s exactly what you’re doing, too. Do something!
In the seconds since she’d last looked that way, Rawle’s body had finished falling from his horse. Ackermann remained in his saddle, his arm swinging in a wide arc, .36 wavering in his hand. His bearded face was so blank that Kellen barely recognized Ackermann, like someone had wiped him away and replaced him with a complete stranger.
His .36. The one he’d just used to kill Rawle. That had been only one shot, and the gun still moved, seeking a new target.
Vincent stood, on foot, in front of Ackermann’s horse. His eyes darted as he tried to watch Ackermann and Rawle’s riderless horse at the same time. But every line of his body yearned toward something beyond Ackermann and the horse.
The mansion. Get inside the house.
Off toward the Army camp, Ackermann’s runaway Crow stormed death on black wings. How long until it turned other directions?
“…take cover. Gentlemen, please!” Harrison’s voice, from down the hill. Where the hell was Ellis?
Ellis can’t do a damned thing. Not about this.
Rawle’s riderless horse reared, neighed a high-pitched objection, and bolted for the trees. Langston’s horse tried to follow suit. Langston’s wordless shout reminded Kellen of a scared little boy. He flailed on horseback, even more worthless than Bosch.
More worthless than her?
Ackermann’s .36 wavered, searching for a target. Beside him, Goodson nudged his horse closer.
“Help Goodson.” Kellen barely heard herself. No way Bosch had, so she raised her voice and tried again. “Bosch! Help Goodson!”
She didn’t wait to see if he’d obey. She kneed her horse, spurring him forward and angling him around.
In front of Ackermann. Between Ackermann and Vincent. When Ackermann’s .36 wavered and pointed, she sat along its arc.
“Kellen!” That was Ger’s voice. No time to think about it. What Ger wanted mattered less than anything at the moment. She could see the mansion now, to her left, beyond Ackermann. Clusters of men and women stood on the porch, right out in the open, gaping toward the Army camp.
She turned to her right and looked down, into Vincent’s bearded face and dark eyes. “Go.”
Vincent blinked like a waking man. He tipped back his head to look up at her, and his mouth opened.
At the edge of her vision, with a roar of a shout, Goodson lunged at Ackermann.
“Go!” Kellen shouted down into Vincent’s face and waved with her free hand, the one clutching her .36, toward the mansion. “Get them into the house!”
11
Ger’s throat ached, like his shout had torn it raw.
Ger held Colley’s reins. Byrne had nudged his horse right up alongside Colley’s, so when Colley slumped, turning into a pile of dead weight and lanky limbs, Byrne caught him. Thankfully, Colley—smart man, always thinking—had taken his feet from his stirrups before he lost consciousness.
Byrne grunted, working on hauling Colley off his horse and across the front of Byrne’s saddle. All three of their horses shifted, restless, skittish, snorting and stirring up dust that burned in Ger’s eyes.
Ger wasn’t looking at either of the Irishmen. He’d turned his head away to check on the other end of the Crowmakers line. Now, he stared past Jennett, whose tipped-back head indicated his consciousness was focused in his Crow, somewhere overhead.
Gunfire. Screaming. And dust wasn’t the only scent flooding Ger’s nose.
Kellen, still on horseback, sat directly in front of Ackermann. Deliberately in front of Ackermann.
In front of Ackermann’s .36.
From horseback, Goodson lunged at Ackermann. Bosch—towering, hulking Bosc
h—sat in his saddle with his .36 in one hand and his Crow still perched on the back and did nothing more useful than stare at Kellen. Further back, not close enough to even matter at the moment, Langston wrestled with the reins of his horse.
Every fiber of Ger’s body ached to spur his horse forward into the fray surrounding Goodson. Put himself between Kellen and harm. Tackle Ackermann himself. Anything.
But he held Colley’s reins.
In some distant part of his mind, beneath the sharp taste of fear and the heart-pounding rush of wanting to save Kellen, a seed of pure gold pride sparkled.
I always saw it in her, that she could be brave. That she could be amazing.
On the ground, Vincent Bradley just stood there, staring up at Kellen like his feet were frozen to the ground.
Get them into the house.
“Bradley!” The shout tore through Ger’s throat. There wasn’t even time to hate Bradley’s guts. “Move your stupid ass! Go!”
Bradley jerked like he’d been shot. But then his feet moved. The dark felt hat slid from his head, bumping against his back as he skirted Rawle’s body and sprinted past Langston’s still-fighting horse toward the mansion.
“Annie! Get inside! Get the hell inside!” Bradley’s shout sparked a cascade of fresh connections in Ger’s mind.
Annie James was on the mansion’s porch. Her father would be with her.
If we lose them, then there is no one anywhere who can fix whatever the hell is going wrong.
The sound of gunfire and screaming that had filled Ger’s ears for so long abruptly changed pitch. The screaming seemed less.
Not so many left alive to scream.
“I have him.” Byrne’s voice strained with effort. Beside Ger, Colley’s horse renewed its restless movement, as if the release of Colley’s weight from its saddle urged it to seek even greater freedom.
“Come on, you bastard.” That low mutter was Jennett, on Ger’s other side. In the same moment, Ackermann’s Crow fell silent.
Ger tipped his head back and looked up.
In the sky over the Army camp, four Crows bobbed and weaved, three of them attempting to encircle the fourth, driving it away from the Army camp. Ackermann’s Crow winged higher, spiraling above the three that pursued it.
Monsters of Our Own Making Page 15
