Goddammit, Meacham.
He wrapped his hands around her wrists, holding them away from her gown.
His heart lurched. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Let old Tell in.”
“I’m so tired,” she whispered. “I need some sleep. My hands hurt.” She blinked and shook her head. “Why is the sun shining?”
“Have you been here all night?” His throat burned as he turned her hands over to expose her palms. “Why didn’t you stop before this happened?”
Sylvie frowned, then curled her fingers. “I don’t know. I finished one and then started cutting a second one and… Everything is fuzzy. My whole body hurts from sitting here.”
“Let’s clean your hands.” And then I’m paying a visit to Meacham. That little asshole had better pray I don’t find him.
“You’re mad.” Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean to stay up all night.”
“I ain’t mad at you. Worried for certain, but not mad. Rhia’s going to kill me for letting this happen. I should’ve watched you closer after Meacham showed up uninvited yesterday.”
“I’d pummel him if my hands didn’t hurt so bad.” She rose from the stool and winced as she stumbled.
“Careful. You need help?” He hated being useless. “Should I carry you?”
“My legs are tingly. It’ll go away in a minute or two.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I only finished one coat. There’s more material, more sewing to do.”
“You can’t. I won’t let you. There’s no need to tear up your hands over coats. Wystan and Eban can handle anything demonic. They’ve done it before and now my father is here to help them. I can’t be any worse than Astaroth.” Bitterness crawled through his veins, hardening around his heart. “I’ll try to stay still and not cause a fuss while they behead me.”
“Do not talk to me about beheadings or your death. I’m going to stop all of this. We’re going to live long lives and be very happy with each other.” Tears formed in her eyes.
“Why didn’t you use gloves, Princess? Something to keep that material from hurting you?”
“It didn’t work. I tried, Tell, really. When I put on a pair, the sewing machine jams or the needle breaks. Every time. The dreadnaught is cursed or something. I don’t care if the dreadnaught eats my fingers to the bone, I’m not giving up.”
Her courage battered his bitterness. “It’s not about saving me. It’s about everyone else. You think of them instead, okay?”
“No. You’re included, because if Rhia and Beryl get to be happy with your brothers, I get to be happy with you.” She marched up to him, fierceness written on her face. “I didn’t learn all those things about demon hunting so I could stand around and be useless when you need me.”
He ran his hands through his hair. “Why did you learn that stuff? You’re a human—you can’t face down demons and expect to live.”
“Well, I have, so I guess I’ll do it again when the time comes.” A tear rolled down her cheek, but she held her head high. “Are you going to help me or sulk about how unfair life is?”
“I’ll help you, but this can’t go on. No more sewing until your hands are healed.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.” She glowered. “I’m your wife, not your servant.”
Despite his full night’s sleep, tiredness descended on him. “You promised to obey.”
“I crossed my fingers when I said that.”
He sighed. “You did not, I watched you.”
“I thought about it, so it counts.” She turned for the back room.
“They’re vows, Sylvie. They’re binding, meaningful, verbal contracts. It doesn’t mean you can throw out the ones you don’t like. Words carry power. A name is powerful, which is why I’m in this mess. That’s why you should never say anything you don’t mean.”
She paused in the doorway, then faced him again. “I promise to do my best by the rest of the things I agreed to, but sometimes rules need to be broken. Someday I may have to ignore your orders to save your life. I will never regret it.”
“You willing to put money on that?”
“As much as I’d love to argue with you all day, I’m exhausted. Shall we compromise and agree that you don’t want me to help you, but you can’t stop me?” Fatigue strained her features.
“Fair enough. You’re going to fight me until you get what you want anyway.” He followed her into the back. “Maybe after some rest, you’ll be a little more rational.”
“Only if you promise to find us some food.” She settled on a high-back chair, one her employees used out front. “And some furniture.”
“I have a table and chairs, even a bed in my house.”
“No. Those look like they were constructed when the Spanish invaded Florida. We’re getting new things to celebrate our new life together.”
“You married me for my money, didn’t you?” The little rusty pump squalled as he worked the lever and waited for the gush of water.
“Your looks,” she said. “That damned half smile and your blue eyes. Combined, they get women everywhere heated up. Until you open your mouth.”
“What’s that mean?” Cold water spilled into a little metal bucket and he dropped a clean cloth into it. “Soap?”
Sylvie frowned. “On the shelf. It means you have a bit of a smart attitude, Mr. Heckmaster.”
“Deputy to you.” He collected the jasmine-scented bar of soap, then carried the bucket to her and set it at her feet. “This is going to hurt.”
“Let’s get it over with.”
She barely made a sound as he wiped the blood from her fingers. The cuts weren’t bad or deep, but it looked like she’d been subject to hundreds of tiny knife blades.
“Am I gentle enough?” He met her gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’ve always been gentle when I needed it.” A smile curved her mouth. “I think that’s why I like you so much. Beneath that cool, joking exterior, you have a soft side.”
“Do not. I’m a mean, cold-blooded killer.” He tossed the cloth back into the dirty water. “I scare babies with my knives for fun.”
She snickered. “I heard you scream one time when a spider crawled across your face while you were napping on the jailhouse porch.”
Thank God she was laughing and seemed unaffected by her long night. “It wasn’t screaming. More of a warning to the little bastard before I killed him. A battle cry. A manly battle cry.”
She cocked her eyebrow, a terribly Rhia-like reaction. “As I recall, Eban killed it.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.” He lifted her right hand at the wrist. “Got any salve to put on this?”
“At Rhia’s. I ran out last time I nicked my finger with the scissors.” She yawned. “I’m too tired to make a trip over there right now. It can wait, I think.”
“Go upstairs, get some rest. I’ll go get the salve. If you’re so all-fired determined to finish those coats, you’re gonna need it.”
“You can’t. You have to stay with me, remember?” Worry darkened her fine-boned face. “We can’t risk your demon coming out. Not for something so trivial. Too bad Dochi isn’t here.”
“I don’t need that little rat doing everything for me. I’ll pop into Wystan’s and right back here, I swear.”
“Seneca said it’s too dangerous to keep doing that.”
There wasn’t any winning with her. “Then we’ll go together later. I can find something to occupy myself while you sleep.”
“Just an hour or two. I’ll be fine,” she promised.
“You’d better be or I’ll have a few choice words for Meacham.”
She stared at her raw hands. “He’s doing his best to help us, even if he is a grouch.”
“And mean.”
“And spiteful.”
“And bossy,” he added.
The ghost of a smile played on her lips. “And dirty.”
“Downright spooky at times.”
“One of Berner’s strangest occupants.” Another yawn. “I need some sleep. Be good. Don’t do any magic while I’m out.”
“Cross my heart.” Although the temptation to try his fire-lighting skills called to him. He bent, then kissed her. “No more sleep-sewing.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She laughed as she rose.
He laughed too, but her acceptance of the strange activity worried him. “Clever.”
“So they tell me. ’Night.”
His bride looked like a refugee from war, but she left the room with grace. And that was why he loved her. For all the bullshit they’d put up with since the day she, Rhia and Beryl rolled into town, they took it in stride. If there were tougher women in the world, he didn’t need to meet them. Sylvie was barbed wire wrapped in lace—sweet and pretty outside, strong as steel inside.
He carried the bucket outside and dumped the water in her flower box. The street bustled with activity, folks going about their business with no idea their world could be upended any second. Ignorant humans.
“Eb said it was too early to bug you, but looks like he was wrong.” Wystan, in that sneaky demon manner, appeared from the shadows. “Brought food. Rhia thought you’d need it.”
Tell dropped the bucket in his haste to snag the huge wicker food basket. “My stomach’s eating my other organs.”
“I’m not even gonna ask how last night went. There are some things a man doesn’t need to know about the little girl he helped raise.” Wystan rubbed the back of his neck. “You fare all right. No trouble?”
“Not a lick. Except…” Tell gripped the basket handle. “I guess Sylvie woke up in the night and went downstairs. She stayed up until a little bit ago, sewing. When I found her, she was in some sorta trance. Didn’t have a clue why she’d worked at it so long. Her hands—they’re rubbed raw from the material she’s using.”
Wystan’s eyebrows rose. “She’s all right now?”
“Sleeping.”
“What’s she sewing?”
“Coats. Out of dreadnaught. Meacham gave it to her, said it’s fireproof and damn near indestructible. It’s because of me.” Admitting it hurt. “She won’t give up on it. I told her whatever happens, you and Eban will take care of it. Worst comes to worst, Father can do something.”
Wystan’s face creased with a dark frown. “You better start from the beginning about this stuff Meacham gave her.”
“Then we better go inside. It’s a long story. I’m starving anyway.” He gestured at the door. His mouth watered as he rifled through the basket. All the trouble in the world seemed distant with food at hand.
He pulled plates from the basket and tore into the wrapped food while he told Wystan everything Sylvie had told him about Meacham’s plans for the dreadnaught. Wystan inspected the cloth still folded in the crate, then moved to the garment hanging on the hook.
“I don’t understand. It’s a coat. It’s a nice coat. I’d wear it.” Wystan lifted it from the hook and turned it over in his hands. “What’s wrong with it?”
“What it’s made out of. Nothing about it’s nice. It’s rough as hell and ugly to boot. Something’s not right about that stuff.” Tell bit into an apple. “You’re losing your mind.”
“It’s soft as fleece,” Wystan argued. “I’d wrap one of my kids in it.”
“I’ve sat on cactus softer than that coat.” Frustrated, Tell grabbed the coat. As expected, it scratched him and he pulled his hand back to show his brother the mark. “See?”
Wystan looked at his own unmarked hands. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Tension built in Tell’s spine. “Something funny here. It hurts me to touch it, but you’re fine.”
“You wanna talk to Meacham?” Wystan rubbed the cloth between his finger and thumb. “Seems he has a little explaining to do.”
Tell hesitated. “Sylvie doesn’t want me to leave the building without her.”
“Probably better if you don’t, but it’s up to you.”
He glanced at the ceiling, hoping for some divine advice, or at least for Sylvie to come downstairs, raring to find some answers. Neither happened. “We won’t be long. Back before she wakes up, right?”
“She’s a heavy sleeper.” Wystan moved toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“I’m telling her you wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He followed Wystan outside. Stepping out without his hat and weapons was like being naked. He’d have to do something about that soon. Though he depended on the silver knife, the absence of weight from his crossbow left him feeling vulnerable. “We could always poof into Meach’s.”
“Better walk. Maybe she’ll only break one ankle to keep you in the building instead of outright murdering you.” Wystan grinned.
“I taught her well enough if she wants to. No less than I deserve.” He shouldn’t break promises to her, but her health was in question as long as she kept using the dreadnaught.
By cutting across a couple of alleys, it only took a handful of minutes to reach Meacham’s rundown shanty. It made the house Tell owned look like a mansion. Shriveled weeds bent and bowed in the tiny yard and broken red stones paved the way to the door. As though he’d been expecting them, Meacham waited on the edge of the property.
“Spit it out before your head explodes, Heckmaster.” The scowl contorting Meacham’s face made a changesteed’s snarl look pretty. “Come to learn answers you don’t need because you don’t know patience.”
He started to tell Meacham where he could stick his attitude, but why drag out the visit? “Why does the dreadnaught hurt me and Sylvie, but doesn’t bother Wys?”
Meacham rolled his eyes. “You’re touched.”
“In the head, maybe. Touched by what?” The cryptic messages had never amused him. “Plain words or I’ll get Wys here to find some creative uses for that pig-sticker he carries.”
“Watch yourself, boy.” Meacham cleared his throat and spat a glob of yellow-green snot into the dust. “You need me.”
Tell exchanged a glance with Wystan. “Do I?”
“I gave you and your brothers the prophecy. The one about the present, future and past. I reminded you that killing Beryl Brookshier would be a mistake. And I gave Sylvie a way to protect your family. I’m valuable.”
“Maybe a little.” Tell shrugged. “Let’s go back to the touched part.”
“Evil.” Meacham wrinkled his nose. “You’ve both got a fair share of it.”
Bile burned in Tell’s throat and the fire followed. “Sylvie? She’s the least evil person I’ve ever met.”
“She’s not evil. She’s touched with it.”
“By me.” Dread kinked the muscles in his neck and shoulders. “I did it to her.”
Meacham rolled his eyes. “You must be the son of a demon baron, the lord and master of the Gray Lands to think so highly of yourself.”
Wystan glowered at the abbeylubber. “How ’bout a straight answer, Meach. The kid’s good and worried now.”
Looking world weary, Meacham spread his hands. “The dreadnaught I gave her has one purpose—to protect against evil and all of its many uses. If she makes a coat and gives it to Wystan, the coat will keep him from most harm. The same for any family member she makes a garment for. Sadly, our dear little Sylvie can’t make her own coat. Neither can she make one for you, Tell. At least not until that name curse is gone. It’s in the rules. She was bitten by Rosemar and that poison got in her blood. It doesn’t make her evil; it just means she has traces of it. Evil dwells in the heart of most creatures. She’s not special. Don’t feel bad about letting her get bitten—it’s that black magic that allows her to make the coats. It made her stronger.”
“Whose rules?” His fingers sought the loops
of the belt where his bolts usually rested, but came up empty.
Meacham shrugged. “Heaven’s, Hell’s? Who knows?”
“You’re not makin’ any sense.” Tell jammed his hands in his pockets. “So we’re all a little evil. Why does the cloth keep some safe and not others? Wys and Eban have as much demon blood as me.”
“But they can control what they become. Can you, if I say your name?” Meacham’s scowl turned into a wicked smile. “Ah, better not tempt fate.”
“Good, because yours will be the first heart I rip out.” Slow molten heat rolled through his veins.
“Sylvie is the maker, the creator of the coats. The protection she puts into the cloth does not carry over to her. She can’t pass it on to you because of the curse. The pair of you need to be careful, but the rest of the Heckmasters should wear those coats from the moment Sylvie presents them. Clear enough?” Meacham blinked and his forehead wrinkled as he raised his bald brow.
“I don’t like it,” Tell growled.
“It’s life, boy. Much of it isn’t meant to be liked—it’s meant to teach you to endure.”
“Helpful.” Wystan shook his head. “So we can’t do anything about how the dreadnaught is hurting Sylvie.”
“I’m afraid not.” For a second, Meacham’s gaze went distant, soft and thoughtful. In a blink, it turned hard again. “She’ll have to endure.”
Tell ground his teeth together. “Why is it that everything helpful comes at a cost? We got the weapons we needed, but Seere made sure we paid. Meacham gives us cloth that might as well be made out of nettles.”
“Poor little Heckmaster. You must get the worst of it. All rain and no sunshine.” Meacham seemed to swell with indignation. “You’ve lost a mother and a sister to Hell’s forces. Your father gave himself up twice to seal protective magic. Is your grief worth more than another man’s?”
Anger crackled in the form of sparks across Tell’s skin. “If I lose Sylvie because of this bullshit, Meacham, I’ll make the ten plagues of Egypt look like a carnival.”
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