by Zoë Archer
With a crack of thunder, the sky opened. They were drenched in seconds. Nathan decided it was as good a time as any to recite the foulest curses and swears he knew.
Astrid watched him, unimpressed. Her eyes didn’t even widen.
“Finished?” she asked.
He repeated some of his favorites. “Now I’m finished.”
“Good. Because we’ve work to do. Put the canoe upside down, and help me build a shelter.”
They gathered branches and pine boughs, Astrid hewing smaller branches with her knife, and he kicking into proper size more stout tree limbs, until she pressed a small hatchet into his hands.
“This might serve you better.”
“Not as satisfying.” But he took the hatchet just the same, and soon they had a goodly pile of wood.
They worked quickly, taking the sturdiest branches and leaning them against each other to form the shelter’s frame. The limbs that still held foliage were woven between the poles, and she stuffed the driest moss she could find into any small openings, providing insulation. Soon, they had fashioned a space that, while small, held them both as well as their gear.
The only light came from the opening, leaving them to sit in hazy shadow. For a while, they both watched the rain fall in sheets. The noise outside only made the space within feel all the more secluded and close. The air hung heavy, scented with rain, pine, damp wool, but mostly he was aware of her skin. Short of going outside to be soaked by the storm, there was nothing for him to do but sit close to her, and burn, throwing his will on top of the beast to keep it down.
This was going to be a long night.
“No fire,” she said. She pulled off her gloves and rubbed her hands together, then breathed onto them for warmth.
Without speaking, he took hold of her hands and rubbed them with his own. As he did this, he felt the thin metal band of her wedding ring against his hand. He hadn’t realized how small and slender her hands were until they were cupped between his palms. They were still chilled, so he bent forward and exhaled over them with deep gusts of warm air. He wanted to lick her wrists, but ran his thumbs over where her pulse beat instead.
She went very still.
“My husband was also a Blade of the Rose,” she said, soft.
He glanced up, still bent over her hands, his own unmoving. Her gaze had turned far away, toward memory, a place inside of her he could never go, not without permission. And he couldn’t, wouldn’t, force his way in.
Nathan held himself motionless, as if any sudden movement might break the spell.
“We became Blades together,” she continued, “within months of being married. And I loved our work, but not as much as I loved him. So kind, so careful.” Her mouth curved in a bittersweet smile. “So different from me. We were always together. I couldn’t imagine life without him.”
He watched her and wondered whether he was a bastard for being jealous of a dead man.
Astrid whispered, “Five years we were married. Almost as long now as he’s been dead.” Her gaze sought and found his. “That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Not so strange. Not if you loved him.” He kept his voice low, like one might when coaxing a mountain cat to eat from one’s hand.
“Perhaps not.” She still had not removed her hands from his, which he took as some sort of progress.
“How did he die?”
She swallowed and was silent for so long, he thought either she had not heard him, or else she had and refused to answer. But then she said, “We were in Africa, in Abyssinia. Studying the Primal Source—the most powerful, most ancient Source, the Source from which all others originate. We were there just to learn from it, find out what we could, and allow the Primal Source to remain hidden and safe in its home.”
“But it wasn’t safe,” Nathan deduced.
“The Heirs of Albion found it, found us. There was a battle.” She sounded remote, the events she recounted separated by years and immeasurable grief, as she looked down at the band of gold on her finger. “Michael and I against two Heirs, Albert Staunton and Neville Gibbs. But the Heirs had a dozen mercenaries and dark magic. We had…only us.” Her lips pressed tight. “Staunton killed him in the battle. Shot Michael straight through the heart, which was a kind of mercy. He died quickly.”
Nathan asked, hoarse, “And where were you?”
“Beside him. I held him as his blood seeped out, onto the ground, onto my clothing. I tried to stop the flow, but it went everywhere. He was dead long before the bleeding stopped.”
Nathan swore quietly. Her husband had died in her arms, saturating her with his blood.
“I had to leave him to escape,” she continued. “Leave his body. I came back later, when it was safe, to bury what remained.”
He tightened his grip on her hands, yet kept silent.
She met his gaze and was there, drawing toward the shore. “I’ve never spoken of this to anyone. Not even my parents, or the other Blades.”
The impact of this truth wasn’t lost on him. The strangest gift, to be given that much trust. Or perhaps, because he was a stranger, there was safety in her confession. Didn’t matter.
“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.
“You needed to know,” she replied. “Because there’s nothing left in me. This woman you see sitting here,” she nodded down at herself, “she is an empty husk, and that’s all she will ever be.”
Astrid moved to withdraw her hands, and he let her go. Even the beast knew enough to give her freedom. Eventually, they murmured idle conversation about the rain, and the continuing course of the river. They shared a meal of pemmican, roots, and berries, then curled into themselves to sleep, listening to the rain.
He heard her breathing deepen. He reached across and put his hand lightly on top of hers, and she sighed in sleep, turning her own hand over so that their fingers interlaced.
She thought herself an empty husk. Nathan knew otherwise.
Sergeant Williamson sat at his makeshift desk—a table with a desiccated biscuit shoved under one leg for stability—writing up his latest report to headquarters. He had planned to be back at the Bow River Fort by this time, but recent events demanded his attention.
An extensive search for Mr. Lesperance was undertaken when he failed to appear for breakfast on the morning of 3 September. Speculation cast suspicion upon a scientific expedition who arrived the same day, but leads pursued in this direction proved fruitless as the expedition in question has similarly disappeared with no signs as to their whereabouts. I have not had the resources to send either Corporals Mackenzie or Hastings to inquire with Mrs. Bramfield, a local widow last seen in conversation with Mr. Lesperance, though—
“Excuse me, Sergeant,” Mackenzie said, standing in the doorway. “I think you may want to come out here.”
Williamson set down his pen, aligning it carefully with the ink pot. It would not stand to have any kind of disorder out here in the Northwest Territories. “What is it, Corporal?”
“Two men have just arrived, Sergeant.”
“Men arrive here all the time,” Williamson pointed out. The trading post saw a usual amount of activity for a tiny bastion on the edge of the civilized world—trappers, traders, men from the Hudson’s Bay Company come to buy furs, prospectors, whiskey runners, government surveyors, Mounties, Natives, fortune hunters, criminals, and men of every nationality and stripe, both respectable and suspect. Women were less frequently seen, usually as the wives of homesteaders or representatives of the HBC. Astrid Bramfield had been entirely unique. “You or Hastings can speak with them and ask them their business.”
“I think it would be best if you did so, Sergeant.”
Frowning at Mackenzie’s insistence, the sergeant rose and, after tugging on his scarlet jacket and donning his hat, strode outside to see what sort of visitor to the wilds of Canada demanded his particular attention. “What’s this all about, Mackenzie?” he demanded. “I’m still writing this report, and it’s deuced difficult to e
xplain the utter disappearance of someone as noteworthy as Lesperance.”
“There, Sergeant.” Mackenzie pointed to the two men who were currently the object of attention. Everyone at the post, including the most jaded voyageurs, stared. And no wonder.
One of the men was an exceptionally tall fellow, with a lean, lanky build and sandy hair and moustache. He was handing over to an Indian boy two saddled horses, as well as two packhorses loaded down with as much equipment as three scientific expeditions. When the lanky man spoke, it was with the flat vowels of Boston.
Americans, even tall Americans, were not so unusual out here in the Territory. It was the American’s companion, however, who drew most of the interest.
Williamson doubted he’d ever seen a finer-dressed man, and that included his visits to Toronto and Montreal, where, it was alleged, tailoring came straight from the finest fashion houses in Paris. From the shoulders of his pristine hunter green jacket to his slim gray trousers and all the way to his gleaming black tall boots, the man dazzled. And that was not taking into account his blue-and-silver embroidered silk waistcoat, so beautifully cut that even a man who cared little for fashion, as Williamson did, could but weep in envy. Everything was fitted to perfection on the man’s lean but well-built frame. He didn’t look like a dandy. He looked exactly as he should, even out here in the middle of the wilderness.
The fact that this model of sartorial excellence was Negro almost, but not quite, obscured his elegance. Before and after the war between the states, Negro men came up to Canada to seek their fortunes away from the blight of slavery. These men had little except what they wore on their backs, and that was threadbare. There was absolutely nothing threadbare about this gentleman. He had a neatly trimmed goatee, close-cropped hair. He gazed through gleaming wire-frame spectacles around the trading post with a pair of intelligent, inquisitive eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
Williamson did not miss the revolver holstered at the man’s waist, nor the stag-handled knife also on his belt. Both looked well used.
As Williamson approached both men, he heard them speak to each other.
“You sure this is where she’s supposed to be, Graves?” the tall man asked his comrade. “Seems more populated than she’d want.”
“She didn’t live here,” came the answer, in an English accent so refined, Williamson would have thought him a member of the royal family, if such a thing were possible. “From what I understand, Quinn, she lived a substantial way out.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Williamson said, nearing. He introduced himself and the men politely nodded their greeting. “Can I help you with something?” It was the duty of the Mounties to keep a vigilant eye on all comings and goings in their jurisdiction. Williamson fervently believed in his responsibilities.
The elegantly dressed man, identified by his companion as Graves, nodded. “We will need to hire a guide, someone who can be relied upon for his knowledge and discretion.”
This piqued the sergeant’s interest. “Is there something you need to be discreet about?”
“We are investigating certain natural phenomena,” Graves answered, “that is highly sensitive.”
“Sensitive in what way?” Williamson eyed the shotgun slung over Graves’s shoulder. The man might be a scientist, but he knew his firearms as well as his fashions. It was a hunting gun, sawed down for quick use. The metal was blued dark, making the ornate gold carvings stand out.
Quinn, the tall man, said, “Other men of sciences are in pursuit of the same phenomena. You could say we’re rivals.”
“If that’s so, then your rivals have already been here,” Williamson said. “A group of four Englishmen came to the post several days ago and hired several guides. They, too, said they were on a scientific expedition.”
Graves tensed. “Did they have a bird with them?” he demanded.
An odd thing to ask. “Come to think of it, they did. A variety of falcon. Something got the bird riled up—it made a substantial racket.”
Both men exchanged alarmed glances. The American cursed.
“You fellows must take this scientific discovery business quite seriously,” Williamson said, noting the men’s expressions of mixed apprehension and anger.
“Sergeant,” Graves said, grim, “that is an exceptional understatement.”
Williamson looked back and forth between the two men, a feeling of unease prickling along his neck.
“You may be familiar with our colleague,” Graves continued. “A woman, about this tall,” he held his hand up to the height of his shoulder, “with blond hair, gray eyes. She generally keeps to herself.”
“Mrs. Bramfield,” Williamson said. “I didn’t know she was also involved in the field of natural phenomena.”
“She used to be,” Quinn answered.
Williamson shrugged. “I have only met her on a few occasions. The last time was a few days ago.”
Now Graves looked truly alarmed. “Around the same time that the other expedition was here?”
“Yes—she left only hours before they arrived. They found guides and headed in her direction. West. Perhaps they wanted her to join their team.”
Graves stepped closer, and suddenly Williamson realized that the elegant man could be quite intimidating. “A guide,” he said, low and demanding. “We need one now.”
The sergeant pointed him toward the saloon. “You’ll find one there.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” With those clipped words, Graves strode toward the saloon, Quinn fast on his heels. Williamson stood and watched them go, wondering how he might explain this in a letter to his superiors.
Catullus Graves spared little thought to the mud spattering his boots, or the stares directed at him—he was used to both. He had also already dismissed the inquisitive Mountie Williamson from his thoughts. The only thing on his mind was getting to Astrid in time.
“How much lead do they have on us?” Max Quinn asked him. Catullus had only just met Quinn a month ago when he docked at Boston, but Quinn’s service as a Blade was well regarded back at Southampton headquarters.
“Too much,” Catullus answered. “We’ll have to push ourselves to catch up.”
Quinn nodded. Good man—he knew how important this mission was, not only to the Blades, but to Catullus personally.
They entered what the sergeant had optimistically called a saloon, and went up to the chipped, barely standing bar. A handful of men gathered at tables openly stared at Catullus and Quinn. The man behind the counter eyed the Blades warily, particularly Catullus, until a neat stack of Canadian coins appeared on the scarred wooden bar. Then the bartender was much more affable.
“Two whiskeys,” Catullus said. “And the whereabouts of a good guide.”
Before the barkeep could answer, a shadow fell across the bar. Catullus turned to see the unmistakable form of a woman standing in the open doorway. He knew at once she was not Astrid. For one thing, Astrid did not have fiery copper hair that formed a blazing corona when lit by sunlight. And also, to put it delicately, Astrid’s curves were far more subdued than this woman’s lush figure. As she stepped into the saloon, Catullus felt himself immediately regress into stammering, libidinous boyhood. She was shaped like a temple goddess, the kind of woman who filled young men’s thoughts with aching, impossible lust—full breasts, a waist hardly more than a hand span across, and sumptuous hips.
He dragged his gaze up to her face to see her watching him with ironic amusement in her clear blue eyes. She seemed to know the effect her body had on men, and was not entirely pleased about it. It was then that he realized what he saw in her appealing face piqued his interest as much as, if not more than, her figure. Perception, a shrewd intelligence, determination. And freckles.
Catullus had a weakness for freckles. Even more so than his weakness for waistcoats.
When she moved farther into the saloon, Catullus saw she was dressed in a serviceable riding skirt and plain jacket and blouse, all perfectly ordinary for this wi
ld place, and though the garments were somewhat boxy, they could not disguise the splendor of her shape. Belatedly, Catullus noticed she also carried a notebook and pencil.
Every one of the seated men leapt to their feet, stumbling over themselves like eager bear cubs. Their voices clamored against each other. “Please, Miss Murphy, take my seat.” “Would you do me the honor, Miss Murphy—?” “What can I get you to drink, Miss Murphy?” Such chivalry in a saloon that would make a Whitechapel gin house look opulent by comparison.
“I’ll take a whiskey, thank you,” she said in a husky, American-accented contralto, as she lowered herself into a now-available seat.
Four men launched themselves at the bar. Catullus and Quinn were forced to jump backward, lest they be crushed to death by a stampede of trappers. The woman, Miss Murphy, barely noticed. She was busy writing in her notebook and absently nodded her thanks when the requested whiskey appeared in front of her.
The commotion slowly died down, and the trappers, seeing that Miss Murphy was not there for conversation, went back to their own dialogues. Periodically, she would glance up, gaze about her with that same cutting perception, and then return to her writing, with an occasional sip of whiskey.
Once the bar was no longer a potential scene of asphyxiation, Catullus and Quinn took up their places.
“We still need our drinks,” Catullus reminded the bartender, “and information about a guide. A trustworthy guide.”
Two whiskeys were poured into glasses much more chipped and grimy than the one Miss Murphy had received. Then the bartender muttered something to one of the men at the bar, and this man promptly left the saloon.
“Slately will bring your man,” the bartender said. He went back to his preoccupation with wiping down a streaked mirror mounted on the wall behind him.
Catullus took a drink and felt his throat catch on fire. Someone must have distilled the whiskey through a sock. How the hell had that Murphy woman taken such dainty sips? She had to have a constitution stronger than an ironclad battleship.
“I think you have an admirer,” Quinn murmured, low.
