The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  He holstered both guns, approached carefully, and with just enough noise to alert Wil to his presence, but not enough to startle him. Lightly, Dallin prodded the kettle out of his path with the toe of his boot, watching Wil tense and turn out the corner of his eye. Dallin crouched down and met the glazed stare with an expression he hoped was impassive. He had no idea what to expect and he didn’t want to make a bad situation turn into a complete mental break by letting his disquiet show on his face. He didn’t have the time for it.

  But Wil merely blinked up at him, owlish, stared down at the gory gun for a moment before lifting it, holding it out to Dallin in a shaking hand. “I didn’t know how to work it,” was all he said, voice small but steady. “I kept squeezing, but I couldn’t… it wouldn’t shoot, so I…” A small shrug and a vague wave downward of his bloody hand. “Well, this worked well enough, I guess.”

  Dallin’s eyebrows went up—he couldn’t help it. He held out his hand, allowed Wil to place the gruesome thing across his palm. “You, um…” He cleared his throat. “You didn’t take the safety off,” he said. He ignored the feel of mashed brain and bone against his palm, and the impulse to chuck the thing under the desk and wipe his hand. Now that he had possession of the gun, he couldn’t fathom what he should do with it. “Are you all right?” he asked, surprised at the real concern behind the question.

  Wil only quirked his eyebrows a little. “Of course.”

  Dallin frowned. Was this a mental break already in progress, or was Wil even colder than Dallin had thought? “Have you, um… done this before?” Dallin asked the question carefully, keeping his tone gentle but frank.

  Blood-sticky black eyebrows rose this time. Wil stared for a moment, bemused, then looked down at what was left of the man. “This?”

  “Have you ever killed someone before?” Dallin clarified.

  That got a puff of a snort, and Wil shook his head slowly, wiped at his eyes with the crook of his elbow. “Don’t you have other victims to see to?” he asked tiredly.

  Dallin did. Anyway, he didn’t have time for this. It wasn’t an escape, he told himself as he stood, made his way over to Locke’s covered body, slipped the gun beneath the sheet then wiped his hands on it. And then he walked out of the office without looking back. It wasn’t an escape.

  Newell was conscious now, Mistress Slade already arrived and working to stanch the bleeding. She looked over her shoulder when Dallin approached, said, “It’s hit a lung.” He’d known that just by the froth that burbled out from the wound.

  “Did he get the lad?” Newell wheezed.

  Dallin crouched down, gave Newell’s shoulder a careful pat and shook his head. Newell seemed to relax a little, and Dallin looked back at the healer. “Can you fix it?” he wanted to know. He hardly knew the man, but he seemed such a decent sort, and he was a comrade of circumstance, after all.

  The healer nodded grimly but with confidence. “Hal, Edda, get a litter from the surgery and get him over there.”

  Hal, Dallin had seen milling about at the inn that night; Edda, he recognized as the archer on the hostel’s roof.

  “Anyone get a count?” Dallin wanted to know.

  A great bull of a man stepped forward, the right side of his face a mass of scars, making the brilliant blue of his keen eyes even more startling. “Rylan’s lad, Ryman, and his swain was out larking near the downs for a couple days,” he offered, his speech obviously practiced, emerging clear and unencumbered by the dead right side of his mouth. “They found a campsite looked like was just recently abandoned, so they followed the tracks. They didn’t know about Garson’s, understand. They was just curious and thinking maybe it was minstrels or a traveling show and they could get ‘em to stop over in Dudley.” He paused, shook his head. “There was a score of men—from what the lads say, they was holed up out to Wayland’s old place, hunkered in the old barn, cleaning and checking weapons. The boys saw the guns and came runnin’ back, quick-sweet. Rylan got here to warn us about a half hour afore the lot showed up and tried the trick with the Sheriff’s door.” He paused, frowned. “Where is the Sheriff?” he asked slowly.

  Dallin sighed, shook his head. “I’m sorry. It appears she was the first casualty. And as far as the good citizens of Dudley, hopefully the only one.” There were the expected gasps and outraged curses; a few of them forked the evil eye and spat. Dallin let it play out for a moment, allowing his glance to rove over the motley assembly. “I don’t suppose there’s a Deputy?”

  The big man dipped his head, sighed. “That’d be me,” he said reluctantly. “Locke—she swore it was only for regulations, needed another name on the records. She swore…” His wide shoulders slumped. “I never thought…” His eyes were full of bereavement for his lost friend, but when he looked back at Dallin, the glance turned semi-accusing. “Things like this don’t happen here.”

  Dallin had nothing to say to that, so he turned his attention back to things he could do something about. “Twenty men. And how many are accounted for here?”

  “Four down the livery,” a woman volunteered; she looked like she might blow away in a strong breeze, but the rifle she carried was big as a cannon. “Another four here in the street.”

  “Two behind the hostel,” someone else put in.

  “And three in the mercantile,” Dallin said then shook his head; he’d forgotten about the one out back. “Four, actually. One in Locke’s office, and I think Newell got one out back, but someone should check—that’s sixteen. Were those lads sure they saw twenty? Exactly twenty?”

  The big man shook his head. “I en’t talked to them myself. I’ll have to ask.”

  “Do that,” Dallin told him. “In fact, have someone go find them and bring them to Locke’s— your office.” Belatedly, he held out his hand; there was dried blood in the crevices, but the man took it up with no hesitation. “Brayden,” Dallin told him.

  “Kenton,” the man returned.

  “Sheriff Kenton, with your permission, I should like to suggest that you have someone hunt down your local shaman—I assume you have one? Good—bring him or her along as soon as possible. I need to borrow Mistress Slade for a tick, so if you’d be so kind as to keep an eye on my…” What exactly was Wil now, and how was Dallin going to explain whatever-he-was to this man? “…the young man in the office, I’ll explain what I can shortly, but get the shaman as quickly as possible. Get as many as you can to check their neighbors, too, alert all to be on guard. And get a good lot over to Garson’s—there are still possibly as many as four unaccounted for. I don’t have to tell you how dangerous they are.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but looked at the small crowd of militia. “Did someone secure the man at the mercantile?”

  Nothing but blank stares answered. Dallin reined in several curses, turned directly to the healer. “If you will?”

  Hal and Edda had returned with the litter several minutes ago, and Newell was loaded and ready to be hauled to the surgery. Mistress Slade looked over the rest of the militia, said, “If no one needs seeing to?” They all shook their heads, and she shot a doubtful glance to Dallin. “I’ve only got a moment.”

  “That’s all you’ll need,” Dallin assured her. “Hurry, please. You’ll need your kit.”

  He waited impatiently for her to retrieve her bag then led her quickly across the street and into the mercantile, a creeping sense of urgency all at once gnawing at his nerves, half-convinced that he was too late and the man had already done himself in. The healer stared as they passed the man hanging half-in/half-out the remains of the window, but picked up her pace again when Dallin prodded her. He needn’t have worried: his man was exactly as Dallin had left him, no pink froth dripping from slack lips. The healer started over toward the man lying next to him, but Dallin caught her elbow.

  “Nothing you can do for that one. I need you to see to this one.” He knelt by the man’s head, took it between his hands and tilted it back. “You saw the ones from the inn? The ones who weren’t shot?”

&
nbsp; She only nodded.

  “I need you to prevent this man from doing the same.”

  He didn’t need to explain—she’d done the autopsies and would have seen everything she needed to in order to understand what he was telling her now. She nodded again, knelt on the other side, took a long, soft leather wallet of instruments from her bag and unrolled it on the floor. Several mean-looking sharp implements were lined up in their little sleeves inside; she chose a small scalpel, flicked a narrow glance up at Dallin.

  “Try to make sure he doesn’t bite me,” was all she said.

  Dallin allowed a small smile, hooked his fingers over the man’s teeth and stretched his mouth wide. The healer took all of perhaps ten seconds to prod at the inside of the man’s cheek with a long finger, dip the scalpel in; a quick slice and the dip of pincers later, and she was drawing the tiny tin capsule out the man’s mouth, just as the man began to moan and thrash weakly. She held the little thing out to Dallin with a questioning glance. “D’you need this?” she wanted to know. “For… evidence or something?”

  Dallin held out his hand, let the woman drop it into his palm. He held it up between his fingers for a moment then shook his head with a disgusted grimace. “Thank you,” was all he said and dropped it into his breast pocket.

  With a little more force than was probably necessary, he turned his new prisoner to the side to keep him from choking on the blood no doubt pooling at the back of his throat. He didn’t take any chances, drawing the man’s hands behind his back and cuffing him securely before he’d regained semi-consciousness.

  Mistress Slade rolled her instruments back into their little satchel then stood, and cast a dubious glance about. “You’ve made sure I’ll have another few busy days, Constable,” she said in mildly chastising tones. “You won’t take it amiss when I ask you exactly how much longer you intend to stay in Dudley?”

  Dallin didn’t think snorting would be appropriate, so he only shook his head. “In fact, I hope to be off within hours,” he told her. “You really think Newell with be all right?”

  “He en’t the first to survive a sucking wound, and he’s tough as wire. He’ll live.”

  “Good,” Dallin said. “Now, if you’ll—”

  “The lad’s got scars you en’t seen,” she cut in. There was no hostility this time, but her tone was forceful nonetheless. “Some of ‘em in some very odd places, and not all of ‘em on the outside.” She shook her head, looked Dallin over with a critical eye. “Watch over him,” she went on, softer this time. “But watch him, too.”

  “I intend to,” Dallin told her soberly. “On both counts.”

  She nodded, as if this satisfied her, then without another word, turned and left. Dallin stared after her for a moment, shook his head before hauling his half-conscious prisoner to his feet and more-or-less carrying him to the Sheriff’s Office.

  ***

  When he got back to the office, it was to an argument a little too similar to the one he’d woken to only a short while ago—which reminded him: he hadn’t even had a bleeding cup of tea yet—except this one didn’t make him want to chuckle.

  “—don’t even know who you are,” Wil was snarling, “you’ve no right—”

  “Back off them bars, boy, or I’ll show you what rights I’ve got.”

  Dallin stepped over the threshold, dragging his now less limp cargo with him, to see Wil—face clean now, and dressed as though ready to take to the road, coat and all—glaring out through the closed cell door at Kenton. Kenton was glaring right back. Dallin shoved his man down through the office and to the opposite cell, stopped. Frowned.

  “Who did this?” he wanted to know, nodding his head to where Locke’s body now lay on the cot where he’d slept. It was certainly more proper and respectful than having her laid out on the floor, but there were only two cells, after all. Speaking of which… “Why is he locked in there?” Dallin asked Kenton.

  “Because he was all packed up and getting ready to fly when I walked in,” he replied curtly, nodded toward a ratty pack on the floor Dallin vaguely remembered being pried out of Wil’s hands the other night at the inn. “You said keep an eye, and I figured that meant he ought not be let to hie off.”

  Dallin sighed—all right, more like growled—dragged his prisoner back through the office and stopped in front of Wil’s cell. Rolled his eyes. “You don’t make anything bloody easy, do you?” he grumbled.

  Wil wasn’t biting back, wasn’t saying anything, in fact, just staring at the man Dallin had by the arm, fear and hatred vying for dominance in his gaze. He backed up an instinctive step, flashed an unreadable glance up at Dallin, before his eyes locked once again on the man. In his turn, the man had woken up fully now, muscles tensing under Dallin’s hand, and a tiny, arrogant smile beginning to curl at his mouth.

  “Caught and caged after all, Aisling,” he said through bloody lips. “One prophecy come to pass.”

  Before he’d even thought about it, Dallin grabbed the man by his hair, yanked his head back with a quick wrench. “No talking ‘til I say so,” he growled then shoved, very nearly knocking the man’s head against the bars, and refusing to admit he was almost disappointed he hadn’t. He needed him able to talk, after all, and bashing his brains wouldn’t go very far in accomplishing that goal. That, unfortunately, brought the other to mind, and his glance flicked down toward the end of the narrow room, spotted a bloody lump beneath a blanket, tucked up against the far wall. He sighed. This had been one giant fuck-up since he’d stepped foot out of Putnam.

  He turned to Kenton. “I need these two exchanged. Let that one out so I can put this one in.”

  Kenton raised an eyebrow, jerked his chin toward Wil. “He’ll run,” was all he said.

  “Then I’ll just have to catch him,” Dallin returned between his teeth. “If you please.”

  Kenton shook his head dubiously, but did as Dallin had ordered. Dallin hoped they’d be long gone before Kenton realized that he was actually the one in charge here.

  Wil stepped back as the door opened, eyes locked on the new prisoner. The man stared back at Wil with that same smile as Dallin shoved him through the door. Wil gave him a wide berth as he stepped past him, his stare hard and cold, but with that ever-present coal of dread behind it. He had the look of a barefoot man trying to be brave in a room full of poisonous snakes.

  The prisoner leaned in, smirking, as Wil sidled past him. “He is not your salvation, Aisling,” he murmured, low and smooth, like he was attempting to woo. “Caught and caged you were born, caught and caged you will end.”

  Kenton, frowned, rolled his eyes a little and took a step back. The man had only just met Wil, and even he knew it was only asking for trouble.

  So, Dallin was only slightly caught off his guard when, just as Wil got to the threshold of the cell, he spun back, drove himself at the prisoner with an undulating, wordless roar. He went in low with his shoulder, catching the man square in the midriff. They went to the floor with a hard thud, low animal grunts and snarls knocking loose as they fell. Wil already had the man on his back, straddling his chest, good hand tight about his throat, before Dallin managed to get behind him and jerk him back. Except he wouldn’t let go; his hand having apparently lost its grip about the man’s throat when Dallin had yanked him back, it was now latched onto his shirt. Dallin wrapped one arm about Wil’s chest, clamped his free hand over the knot of linen and fist.

  Wil growled a little, but didn’t fight him, though tension ran through him like a bound lightning storm. He turned his head over his shoulder until he could look at Dallin, pointed those eyes at him. “Let me.” A whisper from between teeth clenched tight. Command and entreaty both.

  Dallin shook his head, readjusted his grip. “He’s shackled,” he said calmly. “Helpless. It’s murder this way.”

  Wil’s mouth screwed up, and his eyes blazed. “So bloody what,” he seethed in that same low voice. “D’you know what they want? D’you know what they’ve done?”

&
nbsp; “Some.” Dallin gently pried Wil’s hand open, mildly surprised when Wil simply let him. He peered down at the man, no longer smiling, but panting with a look of fear in his eyes Dallin thought was likely there all along, but hadn’t broached the surface ‘til now. “I would know it all.” He let the statement take on the tone of a request.

  He tugged at Wil’s elbow, prodded until Wil backed off and allowed Dallin to help him stand, then Wil yanked himself away, turned on Dallin, spun about to spear him with a warning glare. “If you think I’ll go like a compliant little sheep back to Ríocht with you, you’re a lot dumber than you look.” There was still anger in the tone, but restrained panic flared beneath it.

  Dallin blinked, shook his head, dragged Wil out the cell, gestured for Kenton to lock it then shoved Wil down past the office and into the other cell at the opposite end. Wil looked at Locke’s sheet-draped corpse as though it might get up and grab him, but for once, Dallin ignored the little jab of compassion. He wrenched Wil around to face him. “Is that why you were going to run? Have you been sitting in that cell going to pieces about this since last night?” Wil only stared at him, didn’t really need to answer. Panic was simplifying things a bit, Dallin knew; Wil had been watching from behind that mask of meek defeat for his chance to run. If Kenton hadn’t snagged him, he’d already be miles away and Dallin would have to waste more time tracking him down again. Dallin pinched at the bridge of his nose. “For the love of—” A sharp growl and he clenched his teeth. “You know, if you’re going to eavesdrop, you could at least listen with your head, as well as your ears. I told Locke we were going to Ríocht because they would have asked her, and I couldn’t expect her to lie.”