by K. Z. Snow
“Mr. Marchman! How nice to see you again.” She turned into the sitting room. “Come, and we’ll get you signed in.”
Will paused, bewildered. How could she know he was here as a guest? He asked Mrs. Scrubb that very question as he followed her to a small desk just inside the door. She sat down and opened a ledger.
“Oh, you didn’t know? The Eminence voxed me yesterday and said I should prepare my nicest room for your arrival. He said he was doing extensive work on his house’s interior and didn’t want to inconvenience you with the noise and mess.”
Will gulped as he set his valise on the floor. It wasn’t his place to dispute this fiction, so he let it stand. “Uh, yes. How very thoughtful of him. I didn’t know he’d already secured lodging for me.”
“He’s a very considerate man.” Mrs. Scrubb wrote in her ledger, then suddenly poked a finger into the air. “Ah! I must remember to vox the White Inn to tell them you’ll be staying here, not there. The Eminence wasn’t sure where you’d end up going.” Beaming, she clasped her hands in front of her bosom. “I’m so very pleased you chose my humble hostelry.”
“My pleasure, ma’am. I know you keep a good house.” Will couldn’t quite make out the ratio at the base of her throat and, of course, didn’t want to stare.
“I’ve given you the first-floor suite at the rear of the building,” she said, rising from the desk. “They’re the nicest accommodations I have—a sleeping room and sitting room, with a fine little stove and a bath next door. I had the house plumbed after Major’s passing.” She glanced over her shoulder as she led Will past the stairway and down the central hall. “I’m the only person you’ll have to share it with, unless you prefer using the upstairs bath. Three of the six rooms as well as the attic room are empty—winter coming, you know—so if you’d rather share the facilities with men instead of a silly old woman….”
“I’ll decide that later, thank you,” Will said, his cheeks warm with embarrassment. They passed a dining room on the right, then the kitchen.
“Your only inconveniences,” said Mrs. Scrubb as she unlocked the farthest door on the left, “will be stoking your stove and having to put up with cooking smells and some clanging of pots and pans as I wash up.” She broke her prattle to cast him another charming smile, this one shyer than the others. “If it’s any consolation, Major always said I was a cracking good cook.”
“I’m sure you are.” They stepped inside the suite’s sitting room, and Will lowered his valise to the floor. “Do you rent to women as well as men?”
“Rarely. There aren’t any working girls in Taintwell who need to be boarded. They’re either married or still living at home. And very few female Pures care to linger in our village.”
“I see.” Such vestiges of human aversion to Mongrels saddened Will. It had been his experience, after having lived in both Purinton and Taintwell, that Branded Mongrels were on the whole more tolerant and trustworthy than pure-blooded humans. “I asked because I saw Yissi Sweetgrass sitting on your porch.”
The landlady raised her gray eyebrows. “Did you, now? Hm. She’s stopped by before to rest and chat after shopping, but never at this time of year.” The widow’s face pulled together, creased with confusion.
“I thought perhaps she worked here.”
Mrs. Scrubb still looked puzzled. “No, no.”
“Does she live in this quarter of the village?”
“Far from it. She and her common-law husband have a cottage on Old Post Road, practically in the woods.” Mrs. Scrubb placed a hand on Will’s arm and leaned toward him. “Don’t you know about Yissi and Doder? I’m sure the Eminence does.”
Will shook his head. “He keeps other people’s private affairs to himself. Fa—Mr. Perfidor is scrupulous about confidentiality.”
It appeared Mrs. Scrubb harbored no such scruples. “Doder’s quite a beast, an eighty-twenty. That means he’s mostly human, you know. Yissi is fifty-five to forty-five, which makes her far less pure. I’ve seen evidence that he beats her.”
“Oh, no,” Will breathed out in horror. “I met her once and see her occasionally at Woofl’s Mercantile or the open-air market. She’s so sweet-natured and seems to have a smile for everyone. How awful for her!”
Mrs. Scrubb gave solemn nods of agreement. “That’s why most of us don’t blame her for seeking solace in the arms of another man, dubious as his reputation might be. But I fear she’s put too much faith in that other man. His history suggests he’s a selfish cad who has no intention of making an honest woman of her, as she seems intent on him doing.”
“Wait,” Will said, his nape prickling in alarm. “Are you talking about Jusem Fober?”
Mrs. Scrubb neither confirmed nor denied that Jusem was the second villain in this drama, although her tightened mouth conveyed disapproval. “All I’ll say is, the man in question has other paramours. He’ll bolt like a rabbit if he thinks Yissi is asking too much of him. And he’ll most certainly bolt if he thinks Doder Cormorand could catch wind of their liaison.”
Will ran the name Doder Cormorand through his memory. Fan must have mentioned it in some context, for it did sound familiar. “Is Mr. Cormorand that dangerous?” It had always been Will’s impression that any man who lifted a hand to a woman was a bully, the most wormish kind of coward, and would quake in his boots if forced to confront another man.
The widow promptly disabused him of that notion. “I told you, he’s a perfect beast. His lineage is mostly low human and Shaz Navril. I’m sure he’d do dreadful things to his rival if he found out about him.” Mrs. Scrubb glanced down the hallway and whispered, “He’s already spent two years in Dunwood for battery of the most vicious kind. Thank all that’s sacred he doesn’t have any special powers. His blood is too diluted.”
Will didn’t have the stomach to ask for details of the battery conviction, or the time to inquire about the Shaz Navril. They must have been yet another ancient race like the Quam Khar. He had, however, heard the term low human before. It was how Mongrels referred to Pures whom they considered deficient in character, usually with a criminal bent.
“I sincerely hope Miss Sweetgrass manages to extricate herself from both men’s clutches,” Will said, growing restive. He’d decided he wanted to meet with Simon Bentcross. “May I use your vox?”
“Yes, of course. There’s a box in the main parlor for guests.”
“Thank you.” A vox conversation wouldn’t allow for enough privacy, especially in this house—the widow Scrubb obviously kept a few fingers firmly on the pulse of Taintwell—but Will could at least let Bentcross know he was coming.
After telling Will breakfast and supper times, reciting a short list of “house rules,” and urging him to take advantage of the library in the parlor, which was lovingly assembled by “Major” (obviously her late husband, who must have served in the Great War), Mrs. Scrubb went about her business in the kitchen. Will thought of asking her if she’d seen or heard about the Spiritorium, ensconced so noticeably yesterday on the Green, but he figured if she had any knowledge of either the wagon or Zofen Perfidor she would most certainly have said something.
The whole village, he figured, should be abuzz.
Will didn’t tarry. He gave his new quarters a cursory examination, opened a window to air out the rooms, and availed himself of the indoor plumbing. Then he went to the parlor, where he closed the doors behind him, and asked the vox connector to patch him through to Bentcross Machinery Repair.
“Where are you?” Simon asked when he answered the call. He sounded listless. “I voxed Perfidor’s house but no one answered.”
“I’m in Taintwell.”
Was that the creak of a floorboard in the hall? Will looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was about to enter the room. Although he liked Mrs. Scrubb, he hoped she was still busy in the kitchen. He didn’t want her eavesdropping lest his affairs to become public knowledge.
The widow didn’t seem to be nearby, but Will nevertheless took precautions. He di
dn’t know how far voices carried in this house. “I’d like to bring the OMT to your shop for a look-over,” he said.
“I’ve already looked it over, but I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get to it.”
“That… doesn’t matter.”
“But if you leave it here, how will you get home?”
Will rolled up his eyes and gritted his teeth. Damn the way voxboxes squawked! “I’d simply like you to give me an estimate of cost. I can bring it back another time for the actual repairs.”
“Marchman, I have other—”
“I’m leaving immediately. I assume you’ll be there.”
Simon was quiet for several seconds, so he finally must have realized Will couldn’t speak openly about the true reason for his visit. “Yes, I’ll be here.”
“Good. We can discuss the problem when I arrive.”
After Will said “End call” to the connector, he went outside, grateful there was a hand pump and tin pitcher in the vacant lot. He could fill his OMT’s boiler without going to the kitchen for water.
Yissi Sweetgrass was no longer on the porch.
Will saw her again as he steamed through the village on his way to Whitesbain Plank Road and Division Highway. She was on the Green, walking around and around a flowerbed where last month’s billow of pink and yellow chrysanthemums had begun to brown, petals wilting, leaves curled in defeat.
Around and around she went, mechanically, like a dead moon circling a dying planet.
Chapter Seven
NOT ONLY had Simon sounded listless, he looked that way, too. Wiping his greasy hands on a rag, he led Will through his large, filthy shop and into what he called his waiting room. The smallish space had been his sleeping quarters before he purchased the cottage he shared with Clancy Marrowbone every night.
“What’s going on?” he asked, pouring water from a washstand pitcher into a smeared glass tumbler, then taking a long swallow. His eyes were bloodshot and their lids seemed weighted. His face hadn’t seen a razor, nor his hair a brush. “I know this ain’t about the transport.”
Will sat in one of the wooden chairs scattered about. “Fan’s in a bad way, worse than when you and Clancy saw him.”
“High or low?” Simon was about to wipe his mouth on his sleeve but apparently thought better of it and used the back of his hand.
“Low now, I think. His moods have been cycling awfully fast, Simon, and he won’t let me help him, won’t even let me near him. It’s as if… seeing his father put his brain on the Rolling Surf Trackway at the Mechanical Circus.”
Leaning against the washstand, Simon crossed his arms and legs. “Sorry to hear that, but what am I to do about it?”
“Ask Clancy to watch over him at night. After you two have had your fun, of course.”
Ever so slightly, Simon winced. “Why can’t you look after him? You share a bed with the man.”
Will stared at his hat, which he held between his parted legs. He ran his fingers around the brim. “Not anymore. He made me move out. I’m staying at Elva Scrubb’s boardinghouse in Taintwell.”
That got Simon’s eyes fully open. “Good gods. Is this permanent or temporary?”
Will shrugged, shook his head. Sniffling, he abruptly pulled a hand beneath his nose and waited for his voice to glue itself back together. “Please help. I’m worried about him. I don’t know what else to do.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do either.”
In spite of his watery eyes, Will cast Simon an imploring look. “I told you, just ask—”
“I can’t. Clancy didn’t show up again last night. We won’t be seeing any more of each other. I’ve washed my hands of him.”
Will was stunned. “He can’t have stayed away again! When we spoke at Fan’s house—”
“He can and he did. That’s the end of it.” Simon stood up from the washstand. “You can stay at my cottage if you’d like.”
Will coughed out a single, disbelieving laugh. “Surely you’re joking.”
“Why? We get along well enough.”
“That’s the problem,” Will said wryly.
With as much sadness as amusement, Simon hooked up one side of his mouth. “I don’t think either of us is much inclined to seduce the other, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Maybe not at the moment, but….”
But it would happen sooner or later. They’d been drawn together before Fanule Perfidor and Clancy Marrowbone entered their lives, and they could easily succumb again. Strain, sorrow, frustration, loneliness—one or more were bound to blow on the faint embers of their old attraction.
“We should strip and fuck right now,” Simon muttered. “Sentiment be damned. We’d both feel better.”
He was right. Wild, hard coupling had astonishing curative powers. Unfortunately, they were only momentary.
“But we’d soon feel worse, much worse,” Will replied with a touch of regret. He rose from the chair. “So I must decline both your offers.”
They exchanged wan smiles. Simon shoved his hands in his pockets and said softly, “The night before last was wonderful, one of the best Clancy and I have had together.” His expression shifted, and the grief punched through. “I didn’t think he’d do this to me again.”
“I didn’t either, Simon. Truly I didn’t. I could’ve sworn he wanted to redeem himself, that he’s as devoted to you as….” Will couldn’t finish. The thought made his throat close.
“As you and Perfidor are to each other.”
Will nodded.
Simon gently placed a hand on the side of Will’s face and even more gently kissed him on the lips. “We’re the ones who should be together, you know, two ordinary mortal humans. I’ve no idea why Fate chose to pair us with a Mongrel and a vampire.”
“Because it was what we all needed,” Will said, surprising himself, “although the reasons might be obscure to us.” He donned his hat. “I’m not giving up on him, Simon. And you shouldn’t give up on Clancy. You’ll never be whole again as long as your heart is with him.”
BUT HOW? Will kept thinking as he left the shop at Whitesbain and Division Highway. What can I do to prove I’m not giving up on him?
As he entered Taintwell, he detoured to Fan’s house. It was always open—few residents of the village locked their doors—so he knew he’d have no trouble getting in. The trouble might come once he was in and Fan happened to be home.
Will eased open the front door and quietly stepped inside. Immediately he knew the house was empty of its owner. A damp chill greeted him; the parlor stove cuddled no low-burning fire. Only the ticking of the old-fashioned wall clock broke the stillness. The bedroom door was ajar, and the bed looked the same as it had that morning.
He decided he would brew up a pot of Fan’s medicinal tea—ten cups, which would be enough for five days. He’d leave one cup on the kitchen table and pour the rest into a pitcher. He’d leave a note: Dearest Fan, I didn’t mean what I said. My words were prompted by terrible hurt. I love you and want to be with you. Vox Mrs. Scrubb if you need me.
Filled with determination, Will strode toward the kitchen. He stopped short and let out a yelp as a bolt of terror shot through him. A semitransparent figure drifted out of the kitchen doorway, a human female figure.
A dismembered and beheaded figure, with misty green eyes. It looked like the shade of a marionette that had been broken into pieces.
Will thought he might faint. Until now, he’d never seen any indication Fan’s house was haunted.
“Hello,” the woman said pleasantly. “You must be William. I’m Lizabetta. Perhaps Fan has spoken of me?”
Talking proved far more difficult for Will than it did for the specter. He licked his lips. “You… you’re the healer? The one who mixes the powder for his tonic?”
“Yes. Please, call me Betty.” She continued to smile genially. Or at least that was the impression Will got. It was difficult to accurately read a facial expression when you could see a room th
rough the face.
“Are you a”—he swallowed, hard—“ghost?”
“In a manner of speaking. More precisely, I’m a partially incorporated spirit.”
“How… how did you get here?”
“I ran through the air, of course.”
“Of course.” Will had no idea how one accomplished such a feat. “But—” He gestured vaguely, indicating her insubstantiality, not to mention her disjunction.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“Are you the victim of a gypsy curse?” Uncle Penrose would likely have assumed that, so it was the only explanation Will could come up with.
“Contrary to popular belief, William, the Romani people don’t spend their time devising curses. Although it often behooves them to let people think so.” Betty’s parts shifted, making Will a little dizzy. “How I came to be this way is a very long story, and an unpleasant one, and completely irrelevant to the matter at hand.”
“What is the matter at hand?” Will wanted to rub his eyes, maybe go outside and come back in again. Becoming accustomed to Branded Mongrels was difficult enough, but a “partially incorporated spirit” taxed his nerves as well as his comprehension. He’d have a better chance of understanding one of Ape Chiggeree’s most bizarre inventions than the figure who floated before him. Science and engineering at least didn’t make his knees knock.
“Has Fan been taking his medicine twice a day, every day?” Betty asked.
“No, actually. That’s one of the reasons I’m here—to make a potful for him.”
Betty’s face took on a look of confusion. “I thought you lived here.”
