The gun the group had been fighting over was now in the man’s hand, and he peered down at it as though dazed, blinked, then gripped it tight. Combat-cool again, Dallin didn’t even register the swing of the man’s arm, didn’t feel his own arm tighten or his fingers close, didn’t hear himself shout, “Hold!” a second time. The man was aiming into a small cluster of people huddled behind the bar and didn’t even twitch at Dallin’s command, only smiled a little, that same look of crazed triumph in his eyes Dallin had seen in the man outside.
Dallin’s instincts had taken over completely now. He squeezed the trigger gently, and again—once in the right shoulder and once in the left thigh—and he watched as the bullets thumped into the man, rocked his body from one side to the other. The gun he was holding flew out of his hand to skid across the rough pine floorboards, coming to rest under an overstuffed chair by the fire. Dallin made a mental note to retrieve it after he’d assessed the immediate damage.
All three were now on the floor, the big one and Calder lying very still, but Dallin could see that Calder was at least still breathing. The other didn’t appear so lucky—too still, with a grisly flap of scalp peeled back to expose the pulp of his skull and what Dallin was fairly certain was a mash of brains and bone—so Dallin focused on the one he’d shot himself, moaning and thrashing weakly in a spreading puddle of blood. Dallin quickly checked the door then stood, put his head cautiously around the frame to peer out into the moonlit night. No movement from the yard, but he reminded himself not to put his back to the door.
He peered about, into too many frightened and confused faces, blinking back at him as though he were some bogey they’d just been dreaming about and they were caught wondering how he’d managed to follow them from nightmare. No gasping shrieks, no stampede toward the door—their silence was unnatural and unnerving.
There was talk of conjuring, Jagger had told him, the assailant seemed tranced.
Dallin shook himself, said, “Who is the law here?” No one answered, only kept blinking at him, so he scanned the room again, found alert intelligence in the eyes of a young woman behind the bar and so addressed his question directly to her. “Have you a local constable?” he wanted to know.
She nodded, wide-eyed, then turned to bark at a scrap of a lad behind her who blinked himself into some kind of focus then turned without a word and disappeared out the front door—hopefully to find whomever represented law and order in this place and bring him or her along. Dallin wished he’d had a chance to ask the boy to fetch a physick before he’d bolted, but no help for that now.
Dallin shook his head, brought himself back to the matters at-hand, trying to decide which was more pressing. He crouched, turned Calder over carefully, somehow not at all surprised to see he was battered and bloodied and thoroughly unconscious, but the pulse was steady beneath Dallin’s fingertips. Keeping a sideways eye on Calder, Dallin made his way over to the man he’d shot—cursed. Colorfully. He’d been aiming to disarm and cripple the man, but his second shot had hit inside the thigh, instead of outside, and bright red blood pulsed and spurted from the wound in a way Dallin recognized all too well. There would be perhaps one minute, maybe two, for questions; if he wanted answers, he’d best stop inadvertently killing suspects.
He leaned over into the man’s line of sight, slapped lightly at his cheek—same damned tattoo—until dull blue eyes fluttered and tried to focus.
“Who are you?” Dallin demanded.
The eyes cleared abruptly, sharpened, and the man looked up at Dallin with a calm that was almost beatific. “So,” he whispered, “you have come.” He gave Dallin a smile that made his skin crawl. “The Aisling is recalled.” He reached up with a shaking hand, made as if to stroke Dallin’s cheek. Dallin flinched back but the man only widened his smile, dropped his arm limply to the floor. “He belongs to the Brethren now. You will not have him, Guardian—you have already failed.”
Dallin nearly growled in frustration. Damn it, he really wished people would stop calling him that.
“Failed at what?” he wanted to know. “What is the Brethren?” The man’s eyes closed and Dallin took hold of his lapels, shook him. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I am… a failure.” Black eyelashes fluttered again, slid back halfway to reveal eyes once again gone cloudy and dim. “But for the fact that I did not abandon my charge,” the man whispered, smiling again. “I am you.”
And then a long, whispered sigh left his throat, eyes fixed to Dallin’s in a last smirking smile. Dallin didn’t need to check for a pulse to know the man was dead, but he did anyway, pulled back and sat on the floor with yet another curse.
What the bloody hell did that mean?
What the bloody hell did that mean?
“Shit,” Dallin growled, set the safety on his gun and gave his head a shake.
He crawled across to Calder, gave him a quick once-over then blew out a long breath, peered about. The patrons of the inn were still staring silently, but thankfully, they seemed to have come back to themselves. Gazes met his with awareness behind them, and no small amount of fear mixed with morbid curiosity.
“Is anyone here a healer?” he wanted to know.
No one answered at first, but some of them turned to scan their fellows, apparently looking for the familiar face of one of the local healers; a soft murmur bloomed and several heads shook.
“Is he dead?”
The bold voice came from behind the bar, a hint of nervous challenge in the tone. Dallin looked toward it, found the red-headed woman who’d caught his attention before. There was a man behind her now, tugging on her elbow and attempting to shush her. She ignored him, pulling away from his grasp, her bright eyes flicking from Dallin and then down to the splayed body of Calder beside him, a bit of accusation flaring behind her gaze. Dallin met it, focused on her alone.
“No,” he answered steadily. “Not yet, at any rate. D’you know him?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?” she wanted to know.
“Miri,” the skinny man hissed.
She ignored him again. “What’s your business with him?” She pushed past the man and another great, burly fellow Dallin guessed was the owner of the inn. A few servers had huddled behind the bar, and she bullied them out of the way, stepped out several paces toward Dallin. “Who are you?” she demanded. Then she jerked her chin toward the other two dead on the floor. “Who are they, and what business have ye with the lad?”
Brash and bossy, and protective as a mother-hen—she reminded him of Corliss, right down to the hair. The girl would’ve made an excellent sergeant in the army.
“My name is Brayden,” Dallin answered, keeping his demeanor calm and matter-of-fact. “I am a constable from the city of Putnam, and my business is not for public ears.” He shot a quick, pointed glance about the room before looking back at the woman.
Her eyes narrowed, her own glance moving keenly over his travel-stained get-up and lack of surcoat. She said nothing, only raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Dallin sighed, reached a bloodstained hand into his breast pocket and withdrew his badge, held it up. “Now, if this satisfies you,” he said as he tucked it back into his coat, “I should appreciate it very much if you could send someone to find a healer or physick to see to this fellow here.” He leaned over Calder, lifted one eyelid and then the other; the pupils were even and reacted normally. “It doesn’t look like he’s been addled, but he’s had at least one good knock…” Dallin looked Calder over quickly, felt at the major bones of the limbs and shook his head. Nothing but skin and bones. “I don’t think he’s broken anything but for perhaps a few fingers, but I’m no healer.” His touch was as gentle as he could make it as he slid his fingers over the soft bone and cartilage of Calder’s throat, already purpling with bruises. Bloody damn, what is it about you that brings out the animal in people? “No damage I can feel, but this needs looking at, too,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
He turned back to the woman, shot another q
uick glance over the crowd, all of them still staring, but muttering to one another now and beginning to mill about. “Have you got rooms?” he wanted to know. “I’ll need to take this one to someplace more…” He almost said ‘secure’ but decided on, “private.” Dallin thought about shackling Calder, now while he couldn’t make a fuss over it, but the woman was the only one so far who looked like she might be helpful, and Dallin doubted he’d keep her precarious, grudging tolerance by slapping manacles on an unconscious man to whom she was obviously somewhat attached. “There are others in the yard,” he continued. “I’ll want a few volunteers to collect them.”
That woke up the big man behind the bar. “Collect them how?” he wanted to know.
“Two have been incapacitated,” Dallin answered. “Two others have been… more incapacitated.”
He flicked his glance between the man and the woman; both gazes were narrowed and dismayed, but the woman’s took on indignant anger as she stalked toward him. She knelt, ran chapped-but-gentle fingers over Calder’s brow then glared up at Dallin.
“Why’nt ye see to that mess,” she growled, jerking her chin toward the two dead men, “and I’ll see to this one.” She dismissed him with a flip of her bright hair, turned toward the innkeep. “Garson, I’ll need some o’ that boneset and willowbark you’ve got squirreled. Ackley, fill a basin and find me some rags—clean ones—and bring them here. Tom, make yourself useful and come over here. He’s got two fingers broke and two dislocated; we’d best pop ‘em back afore he wakes.” She shook her head. “The whole hand’ll need splinting.” And then she looked back at Dallin. “If you please,” she said evenly with another barbed glance to the men leaking brains and blood all over the floor of the common room.
Under any other circumstances, Dallin would’ve bristled then stomped her; now, he only barely suppressed a chuckle. Sergeant, hell—she’d’ve made a damn fine general.
The lad she’d ordered to bring a basin hovered. Dallin stood to give him room then stepped back as the one she’d called Tom knelt by her side. “He might try to run when he wakes,” Dallin warned.
“Well, then, I expect you’ll just have to keep a good eye on him, won’t you?” the woman snapped, then dismissed him. “Lad’ll be lucky to walk, and this one’s worried about running,” she muttered with a sharp scowl. “Hold that arm, Tom, and watch the wrist; looks wrenched, if nothing else.”
Dallin sighed, thought about reminding her that he hadn’t done the damage, but only turned back to the innkeep. “I’d like at least four strong men,” Dallin told him. “The two in the yard will need to stay until your constable gets here, but the two up on the ridge may be stirring by now. Do what you must, but I need at least one of them able to talk. And have someone bar that other entrance; no one in or out until I say so.”
And hopefully I can get this mess into some sort of order before the local law arrives to bollix everything even worse than it is.
“What about…” The innkeep peered at the two on the floor, winced a little and waved a hand. “…that?”
Dallin looked down, too, grimaced at one and then the other. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m afraid they stay there and wait for your constable, too.”
“En’t got a constable,” the man said. “Got a sheriff.”
“Whatever,” Dallin replied. “Either way, I need no one to touch them, and I need everyone to stay where they are. I need to know what happened here, and your sheriff will want witnesses.”
The man’s expression turned distant and worried. He shook his head. “It’s the oddest thing,” he said. “It’s all like a dream. I think I saw…” His eyes went vague, and his face screwed up in thought. “I think… but…”
Dallin glanced around at the patrons, noted slow nods of agreement and that same murky thoughtfulness. Tranced, Jagger’s voice kept saying in the back of his brain, and he pushed the unease away with a firm hand. All of its own, his hand stole behind him, fingers slipping over the engraved spells on the shackles hanging from his belt. Glares from protective women or no, those were going on as soon as Calder’s wrist was tended to.
A breathless shriek came from behind him, and Dallin spun, gun instinctively coming up and to the ready He turned in time to see the woman pop the second finger back into its joint, Calder’s eyes open now, but hazy and confused, filled with pain. Scared and bewildered, he tried to pull away from the man’s grip, tried to retreat and curl in, but the man held him firm and the woman shushed him softly.
“There now,” she murmured. “The worst is done.” A soothing smile curled her mouth. Calder seemed to focus on it, relax a little beneath it.
“Miss Miri,” he whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Hush,” she told him before Dallin could stop her; he would have liked to have heard exactly what it was Calder hadn’t meant. She placed a gentle hand along Calder’s cheek, kept his gaze on hers and spoke to him directly. “Those men are gone now, no worries.” Her hand went to Calder’s wrist, fingers prodding gently, pausing at each hiss and flinch. “Not broken,” she assured him, leaned over him to retrieve a washrag from the basin and wring it out. “It’ll need wrapping for a few weeks, no doubt.”
She looked up, scowled toward the bar. “Garson, where’s that bloody boneset?” she wanted to know, tone all at once sharp and commanding, then she peered back down at Calder, gaze and voice instantly softer as she brought the rag to his chin and began blotting at the blood. “You can let go of that arm now, Tom.” Tom did, scooted back a bit, but shot a wary glance toward Dallin and then back again to Miri. He slipped his hand around the hilt of the knife at his belt and stayed close, kept a cagey eye on Calder. Miri patted his knee reassuringly, smiled a little when he stayed where he was. She nodded at Calder. “Let’s have a look at your teeth, lad,” she said. Calder did as he was told like an obedient puppy, opening his mouth and allowing her to gingerly prod with the tip of her finger, though he closed his eyes and winced at the obvious pain she was causing. “Nothing loose, thank the Mother. You’ve nice teeth, it’d be a shame to lose any of ‘em. You’re lucky your nose en’t broke.” Calder sighed when she withdrew her hand and she dipped the rag into the basin again to rinse it, her nose scrunching up a bit as the water turned pink and cloudy. “I keep calling you ‘lad,’ but I never asked your name.”
Dallin’s attention sharpened at that, though he made no move to impose himself just yet. He wanted to know what name the man was going by now, but it looked like this Miri was going to get more answers than Dallin was, and with a lot less effort. He stood where he was, just out of Calder’s line of sight.
“You didn’t,” Calder agreed softly with something that was trying to be a smile, lifted his chin a little so she could get the blood that had run down his neck. “I thought that was very polite of you.”
Miri smirked a little, raised her eyebrow as she leaned again to rinse the rag. “And is that your polite way of saying you don’t want to tell me?”
“What’s your name, boy?” Tom growled.
“Tom,” Miri warned, but the man shook his head.
“There’s been murder tonight on his account, girl, and I’ll at least have his name!”
“Murder?” Calder stiffened, and for the first time, dragged himself up, slowly and with lots of wincing, cast his glance about to take in his surroundings—
Spotted Dallin.
“Fuck!”
He flinched so hard, he fell back into Tom, didn’t pause when Tom reached out—either to steady him or keep him from bolting, Dallin couldn’t tell and had no time to ponder it. Calder was rolling, then lurching up and throwing himself out the open door before Dallin could leap past the two blocking his way.
Calder was fast but unsteady. He stumbled, nearly fell down the two steps of the porch, grabbed hold of one of the porch-posts and catapulted his way around it. Dallin didn’t bother with the steps, vaulting the porch banister instead, landing just over an arm’s reach from Calder. He thr
ew himself forward, arms outstretched, and shoved at the small of Calder’s back. A low grunt then a desperate wail came loose as Calder flew sideways into the side of the inn; he curled on impact, rolling on the ground, then snarled. It was pure luck that the sputtering light from the porch hit the blade and warned Dallin, else he may well have thrown himself at Calder and ended up gutted for his trouble.
Dallin raised the gun still in his hand, leveled it at Calder’s chest and pulled back the safety, cocked it. “Drop it,” he said calmly. “I’m meant to bring you back alive, but I’m getting closer and closer to working up the proper reasons I’ll need for bringing back a corpse.”
Calder laughed—laughed—crazed and hopeless, and crab-walked one-armed until his back was to the wall, face pulled back in a ghoulish mockery of a tooth-baring grin. He looked like he was teetering desperately on the brink of hysteria and not at all sure on which side he wanted to land. “Alive,” he snorted, laughed again, the hollow sound of it grinding into the thin, cold air like nails on a slate.
The Aisling Trilogy Page 11
