Ava's Revenge

by Teyla Branton

  “What are you doing?” I asked, as it dropped to the ground.

  “Well, I can’t go in looking like this.”

  He had a nice wide chest, covered with curly blond hair that beckoned to be touched. I didn’t avert my gaze. Unbounded weren’t concerned with nudity the way most mortals were. Something about living two thousand years and fighting in close combat often made it necessary for us to disrobe in front of our comrades, regardless of gender. I’d seen Ritter and many others in various stages of dress without reaction.

  I was reacting now.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t only the idea of having children that stopped my last relationship. Maybe it ended because I didn’t have these feelings. I had cared for my suitor, had enjoyed his kisses, but I’d never wanted to lose myself in him. Never wanted to tell him about my past or my true self. I’d begun to wonder if Simon had forever ruined the part of me that made me a woman.

  Except at the moment, that part was working overtime. I stood there shocked, whether because that kind of emotion had returned at all or because it was so powerful, I couldn’t decide.

  Smith pulled on a white silk shirt and began removing his boots. “Maybe you ought to keep watch. I won’t be a minute.” Again his voice was teasing, as though it didn’t bother him that another man was staring at him as he dressed. Maybe he liked men in that way. But, no, I’d felt his attraction to me earlier.

  Remember Frances, I told myself, stepping across Johansson, who, as if by signal, jerked. Not conscious yet, but it wouldn’t be long.

  I stopped to get my hat and wig, and by the time I reached the dark corridor between the horse stalls, my mind was working on a plan. My own clothing would need to be adjusted in order to get me inside the house undetected by Cardiff. Or maybe a different disguise altogether. He’d probably remember the physician’s assistant with the scar. I had everything I needed in one of my bags.

  I told myself I was going in for Frances, but I knew it was also for Smith. He might be man enough to take down Johansson, but I’d barely broken a sweat immobilizing him, and that meant Cardiff could easily kill Smith and his contacts. I wished Ritter at least were here, but hopefully the surprise on my side would allow me to handle a lone Emporium agent.

  If there was only one.

  Smith looked like a new man as he approached me in a burgundy tailcoat with a deep V opening that revealed his shirt and a dark cravat that matched the snug pants. Only his face looked odd with spots of the face paint that he was attempting to scrub off with his bloody handkerchief.

  “I will let you know what happens,” he said. “But tell me, is all this off my face?”

  “No. Here.” I pointed to my own face to show him where. “I’m going inside with you.”

  His eyes fell over my clothes. “I went to a lot of trouble to obtain an invitation, but they won’t let you in like that, even if I vouch for you.”

  “I have other clothes. No, not there—you’re missing it.” I pulled out my own handkerchief and scrubbed off his cheek near his ear. This close he was even more compelling. “There.” I gave him my handkerchief, feeling heated under his stare.

  “You really intend to accompany me?”

  “I have supplies outside. Just give me a few minutes.”

  “All right. But I must tell you that you are losing something.” His hand went to my face and pinched, pulling off a large piece of my fake scar.

  Oh, no. The piece kept coming. When he’d hit me earlier, it must have broken lose. The next thing I knew his other hand was on my chin and the realistic beard stubble Locke had worked so hard on came away.

  Realization changed his expression to one of surprise. “Why you’re . . . not a man at all!” He laughed, a glad sound that was unexpected in this dark place. “The woman from the hotel! I thought you seemed familiar. Your eyes. I’ve never seen gray that color before.”

  My cover was blown, but maybe I didn’t need it anymore. Maybe in this case no disguise was the best disguise. Without responding, I turned and started toward the barn doors. Steps from behind told me he intended to come along.

  I retrieved my bag, and we went back inside the barn, though not past the stalls this time. Rummaging inside the bag, I pushed a canteen filled with water at him. “You still have blood on your forehead.”

  It probably said something about his character that, though I could sense he urgently wanted to, he didn’t once look my way as I traded my pants and shirt for a blush rose gown with a pointed waist and sloping shoulders. It had been packed tightly in one of my bags, but the material was impervious to wrinkles, or impervious enough not to attract notice. The neckline showed a good deal more cleavage than my usual choice, but left me freedom to fight. I didn’t use a corset, of course, as that would have hindered movement. The gown had been specifically designed in England by our Renegade allies to hide weapons—mostly knives and a short sword, of which I was rather proud.

  Brushing out my hair, I swept it up into something that would be appropriate for a party. I used a solution to wipe off the rest of my disguise, and my small mirror revealed that I hadn’t escaped my fight with Smith unscathed. Under where the fake scar had been, my chin sported a large bruise that was fading fast, and a cut on my lip was knitting itself back together. I had other bruises on my body, but only the one on my shoulder showed slightly. A little face paint would hide all the damage well enough, especially if I let another fifteen minutes pass. Before the hour was out, I’d be completely healed.

  I mentally checked on Johansson, then hurried toward the barn door where Smith waited. “Time to leave. He’ll be awake any minute.”

  Smith’s eyes widened, and it did something inside me to feel the tug of his desire as he regarded my new self. “I have just one question,” he said, his voice strangely husky.

  “I might answer.” I thought he would ask my identity, or how I’d become involved with abolitionists—none of which I could tell him.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  Ah, now I detected a bit of wounded pride. I laughed. “Around.”

  I tried to move past him, but he remained motionless, his eyes still locked on my face. “Your bruise. It’s gone.”

  “You just can’t see it. It’s dark.” We had left the lantern with Johansson at the other end of the barn, but Smith was apparently seeing enough.

  His gaze dropped to the cut on my lip, though he couldn’t possibly see it under the red I’d painted there. My Unbounded genes boiled, demanding that I take what I wanted. What I’d been thinking of since the moment I’d seen his chest. Two steps would be all I’d need to get closer to him. I wouldn’t have to raise myself far to meet his lips.

  He dragged his eyes back to mine, and they echoed the passion that had sprung between us, heavy and aching.

  I was lost. I hadn’t expected this reaction in myself. Yes, the Unbounded gene was driven to survival, and I’d learned to control simple urges, but this was different.

  No, this was a mistake. I stepped past him. “Johansson’s waking.”

  “But—”

  “Hurry.”

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice still rough.

  “You can call me Ava.”

  I DON’T KNOW WHY I told him my real name, not that it mattered. Only those closest to me knew it now. Everyone else was dead. As this mortal will be, I told myself, before you age another year. Getting attached was never without risks and consequences.

  I needed to focus on Frances.

  We walked around to the front of the house. Several servants stared at us as we strode up the walk, but Smith winked at them and gave me a heated look that they couldn’t misinterpret. I laughed. At least my new persona gave Smith a reason to be skulking around Cardiff’s house. They would likely assume we had arrived earlier but had taken the opportunity for a little sport before going inside.

  At the door, Smith handed the white butler an invitation. So many life forces were already present, glowing in my mind
as bright as the oil lanterns placed to enhance the gas lighting installed in the house. We were ushered into a large parlor where no expense had been spared. The evidence of opulence was everywhere, from the handmade lace tablecloths to the rare foods on the banquet table. I could see no life forces blocking my mental searches, and the resulting jumble of emotions and thoughts was insane. So many in this room were angry, ambitious, and eager.

  The mental cacophony would have overwhelmed me years ago, but now I cataloged, assessed, and blocked the people who were of no concern. As I’d seen before, only white servants were present in this room. Their master was nowhere to be seen.

  “Is that ice cream?” Smith asked.

  I sensed he loved the stuff. “So it appears.” I gave him a level stare and he colored slightly. “Are your friends here?”

  He nodded. “I’ve given them the signal. They’ll act when Johansson arrives.”

  I followed his eyes to the side of the room holding the refreshment table. A man with a sheriff’s badge stood with four other men. Not many against an Unbounded. Unless they were trained by someone like Locke or Ritter.

  Where was Cardiff?

  I pushed out my thoughts, searching for both Cardiff and Frances. I wished my ability weren’t limited by distance, but I had to work with what I was given. I moved across the room, and Smith went with me. Eyes followed us, a customary occurrence. Mortals saw the undisguised me as far more than beautiful. Striking, perhaps. Compelling. It no longer phased me—except Smith’s sudden reluctance to leave my side, which could get him killed.

  “Attend to your friends,” I said. “I have my own agenda.”

  He gave me a wink. “I’ll go talk with them, but I’m not finished with you, Miss Ava. Don’t forget that I know where you are staying.”

  So much promise and confidence in his voice. He must have enjoyed the benefits of a good education, and I wondered what he did for a profession. Perhaps some kind of law enforcement. If he survived this night, I might find out.

  Something in me shifted at that thought. If Smith died, it would be at the hands of Cardiff because I had failed. I needed backup if I wanted to have more than a chance of getting Smith and Frances out of here in one piece. Not to mention all the party guests. Ritter should arrive soon, unless he and Locke had encountered difficulties. I prayed that they hadn’t.

  Refusing a drink proffered by a servant, I slipped into the hallway, acting as if I knew where I was going. One servant stared at me as she passed with a new platter of ice cream, but I ignored her.

  I reached the kitchen, but I couldn’t find Frances, not even in alcoves and corners that I hadn’t been able to see from the outside. Near the fireplace, the girl Smith had rescued in the barn looked up at me and then away again quickly, as though hoping not to be noticed. That made two of us, though she couldn’t possibly recognize me in my present dress.

  I stopped one of the slaves, whose clothing told me she’d come from the Forks of the Road. “I’m looking for Frances. Do you know where she is?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe upstairs. We was told to make up rooms for the guests.”

  “Thank you.” With the size of this group, it made sense that some of the guests would be staying. I only hoped Cardiff didn’t make an appearance before I found her.

  I’d only gone a few feet down the hall when a side door banged open, and there was Johansson, looking more confused than angry. He had a cut on his forehead, which he’d tried unsuccessfully to clean, instead smearing his face with blood.

  “You there!” he growled at the servant who had passed me earlier with the ice cream platter. “I need attention.” His eyes met mine as several white servants clustered around him, one with a basket of supplies.

  I turned, feeling his eyes digging into me, and made my way down the hall to warn Smith about his arrival and to ask him to hold off on confronting Johansson until I found Frances. As I entered the parlor, Cardiff loomed before me. I recognized him instantly, though his clothing was considerably more elegant than it had been at the Forks of the Road.

  His attention immediately fell to me, and a smile slashed across his handsome face, this time minus the cruelty. He bowed without apparent recognition. “Good evening. I am John Cardiff, your host. I am delighted to meet you Miss . . .”

  “Mrs. Smith,” I said, with a curtsy. “Frances Smith. The pleasure is mine. I am a visitor to your city. I came with my husband, who is probably over by the ice cream.” I let admiration creep into my tone at the mention of the treat, a sentiment I was far from feeling.

  “I am glad he is enjoying himself.” He took my hand, though I had not offered, bringing it to his lips without releasing my eyes. “As this is not my usual residence and I come here only on business, fate must be smiling upon me to have our paths cross this enchanting evening. I trust you found what you were looking for?” He was asking my reason for wandering around his house, which showed that despite his glib words, he was suspicious of everyone. As he should be.

  I was.

  “Indeed,” I replied. “I had a mishap with your ice cream, but it has been resolved.” I touched my bare neck and his eyes greedily followed the motion before slipping lower. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to trap this Emporium agent despite his caution—as long as he was alone. A little distraction would give me ample opportunity.

  Besides craving for power and a blatant contempt for mortal life, another way Emporium Unbounded were not like Renegades was in their view of family. For Unbounded, intimacy always meant having children, as the Unbounded gene sought reproduction, and children meant the responsibility of checking up on them and their descendants for six generations to see if any posterity underwent the Change. Or for much longer if new Unbounded blood entered the family line. Renegades guarded family and relationships fiercely. We didn’t dally. We loved with all we were until death, or we stayed apart. It was our way.

  The Emporium was more like the parasitic cuckoo, planting their offspring where someone else would have to deal with the consequences until the child came of age. In their disregard for mortals, they viewed them as incubators and nannies to increase their own strength. In that light, a dalliance with a married woman was often most practical for their intentions. No one to kill or to pay off. No responsibility.

  “Excuse me.” I inclined my head and moved away, a little too fast for courtesy, but wise because my survival instincts were pushing me to attack this dangerous enemy. That had to wait until I found Frances. I sidled up to Smith, who looked more pleased to see me than he should. “Johansson’s here,” I murmured, “but so is Cardiff, and I still haven’t found the person I’m looking for.”

  “Oh?” His brow arched again in a way that for some unknown reason made my chest ache. “I didn’t know you were looking for someone.”

  “I am. That’s why I need you to hold off. I have to make sure she’s safe.”

  His eyes went past me. “Too late.” His voice held an apology.

  There in the doorway to the parlor stood Johansson, looking like a man completely out of his element. Unlike Cardiff, he would be more comfortable with the servants rather than among this group of Natchez elite, regardless of his finery. The men Smith had pointed out earlier had already begun talking to him. I moved closer to hear what they were saying.

  “What I’m saying is that we have proof that you have abducted free Negroes from the North,” said the man with the badge. “Do you deny this?”

  Johansson’s already ruddy face grew more flushed. “I most certainly do. Tell me, where are my accusers?”

  “Here.” Smith stepped forward, pulling out a paper. “I have an official complaint drawn up by Wellison and Durham, attorneys at law, who have evidence to support the accusation.”

  “I . . . well . . . that ain’t possible,” blustered Johansson. Guilt radiated from him like a foul stench but was overshadowed by anger. “I am a respected businessman. I have paperwork for all my slaves.”

  “Then you won�
�t mind presenting it,” Smith said with a little smirk. “But the complaint involves more than your current batch of slaves. Wellison and Durham would like to investigate your files for evidence of past abuses.”

  Wellison and Durham—why did that name seem familiar?

  Cardiff stepped close to Smith and took the paper, perusing it briefly before crumpling it in his hand. “This is preposterous! Johansson works for me and to accuse him is to accuse me. My reputation is indisputable. You have only to query the governor of Virginia to ascertain whether or not this case has merit.”

  Interesting. That meant the Emporium had someone in the governor’s office, if not the governor himself, who was Unbounded or working for them. When this was over, I would make it a point to find out who and eliminate them. For now it meant that forged papers would likely come from the governor’s office and Johansson would walk away free.

  The sheriff hesitated, holding his handcuffs uncertainly. Smith glared at him. “You can’t wait. Miss Amelia Mitchell, a respected plantation owner in Georgia, has lodged a complaint in a legal manner. Let these men present proof of their ownership immediately if they have any.”

  My stomach did a little twist. Amelia Mitchell. Oh, yes, I knew that name—too well—but what I didn’t know is how Smith had heard it. He believed he was telling the truth, I sensed, but he couldn’t be unless . . . Oh, no.

  There was only one way I could think of that would explain both his involvement and my immediate attraction to him. No wonder Wellison and Durham seemed so familiar.

  “You come to my home as a guest and dare question me?” Cardiff put a hand on his hip, though I couldn’t see the pistols that had been there earlier.

  Smith’s frown deepened. “If that’s what it takes. I believe the law will prevail.”

  Cardiff’s hand went to a bulge in his coat, which was probably exactly what I thought it was. I stepped in front of Smith, wishing I had known of his connections before we entered this house. I might have played the game differently.