Where Cowards Tread

by Sabrina Flynn

  A shadow moved down the side of the house, not in a menacing way but stealthy. It touched ground with a gentle step. Grimm blew out a breath in relief.

  The small shadow hurried towards the stable, and a cap-wearing girl walked into the lantern light. Her braids were tucked beneath an oversized cap, and she wore a dark quilted jacket with wide sleeves and the loose trousers that were common in Chinatown. As Sao Jin hurried inside, her gaze darted to the kitchen window.

  Whenever Grimm saw Tobias glance over his shoulder like that, he knew his little brother was up to no good, but it was hard to know with Jin—she was secretive by habit.

  Grimm stayed still, watching. That’s what he did best. For all his height, he tended to blend into the world, as long as it was dark and no one noticed the color of his skin. He stood by Sugar and watched the girl.

  Jin passed the stall where he was standing, and stopped. She cocked her head, then spun around, eyes narrowing and hands curling into fists, ready for a fight. It took a second for her to spot him. Then she relaxed.

  “Is Mr. Tim home?” she asked.

  Grimm shook his head, and ran a calming hand down Sugar. Jin glared at the horse, but Sugar was a deep well of calm and she only snorted softly in return, taking no offense. Jack on the other hand stomped his hoof and knocked against the gate. Animals sensed moods, and Jin was all over the place. Her insides were confused.

  Jin frowned. “I need a knife. For whittling. Does he keep extra?”

  Grimm gave Sugar one final pat, and eased himself out of the stall. He walked to the supply room and rifled through a box of tools, then placed the knives he found on the work bench, lining them up for her inspection.

  Jin tested the balance of each. In the end, she selected a folding pocket knife and a sheathed hunting knife. “Whetstone?” she asked.

  Grimm opened a drawer full of rectangular stones of varying sizes, then pointed to a leather strap tacked to the wall. He left her to her work. Soon the rasp of steel on stone scraped through the stable. It was methodical, but it sounded wrong. Grimm hurried over and saw she was running the stone along the blade.

  He shook his head, and held out his hands.

  Jin hesitated.

  Grimm had long noted her suspicion, not just with him, but with the world in general. To Jin’s mind everyone was either trying to hurt her or had the potential to. That was fine, if sad. Grimm understood. Instead of snatching the items from her, he waited. He was patient and gentle—a man couldn’t raise his voice if he didn’t use it.

  Eventually, Jin handed over the whetstone and knife. Grimm poured some mineral oil over the flat stone, and with a gentle sweep, tip to back, and precisely angled, he showed her how to sharpen the blade.

  Jin tried a few strokes, and he waited until she had it. His work was done in the stable, so he made up new work. He lifted a saddle from a rail and sat down to oil it. Jack raised his head. It was Mr. Riot’s saddle—worn and well-traveled. Grimm wondered how many miles man and horse had put on this saddle. What had Jack seen in his lifetime? Where had they been? Probably more places than Grimm. Although the horses were exercised daily in Golden Gate Park, it was easy to see Jack expected something more from life. He wanted adventure.

  The whisper of steel on stone stopped. Jin ran her finger over each blade. The test drew a thin line of red on her finger, but the girl didn’t flinch. She stood and turned towards a post. With a flick of her wrist, she threw the pocket knife end over end. It bounced off. She tried it again with the fixed blade, and it sank in.

  Grimm kept his head down, focusing on the saddle, but he watched her out of the corner of his eye. Again and again the girl threw, until she could sink each blade in nearly every time. When she was satisfied, she gathered the knives and left the stable.

  But Sao Jin didn’t climb back to her attic room. She walked down the lane.

  Grimm’s hand stilled. He stared at the leather saddle in his lap for a long moment. With a sigh, he set the saddle aside and followed.

  12

  A Long, Long Night

  Ravenwood Agency sat on the border of two worlds, with one foot in the Barbary Coast and one in respectable territory. The Barbary Coast district lay a block to the north. It was lit at night with electric lights, and throngs of men milled through the streets, while just a block to the south businesses were closed up and homes glowed with warmth.

  The agency’s street was a mix of lodging houses, shops, and buildings where red light spilled out into the night and prostitutes were open for business.

  Light shone from the agency as well. Half curtains were drawn over the lower part of the windows. Mack, Matthew, and Tim sat around a table. Mack nursed a bottle of whiskey. Tim smoked his pipe and cradled a flask, and Matthew quickly jumped to his feet when Isobel and Riot entered.

  Miss Off cackled from her perch on the bar.

  “Sir. Mrs. Riot. Erm…” The crisp-collared man nearly saluted. A snifter sat at his place on the table.

  “At ease, Matt,” Riot said with amusement. He helped Isobel out of her borrowed coat.

  “You look frozen, Charlie,” Mack said.

  “Close to it,” she returned. “Where’d you get off to while Riot and I were combing the city?”

  “Undercover work.” He gave her a wink.

  “Only a blanket would let you blend in,” Isobel quipped. Mack McCormick had bright red hair, the jowls of a mastiff, and nose that had been broken multiple times.

  Tim snorted a laugh.

  “As long as you’re thinking of me under it.” The words were out before he thought, which was likely the reason his nose resembled a mushroom. The Scotsman darted a quick look at Isobel’s husband, but Riot pretended not to notice the comment.

  “Any luck, Tim?” Riot asked.

  “My eyes are all over the city and beyond, but I don’t expect any word today.”

  “There’s another girl we want you to look for—a Madge Ryan,” Isobel said. “Ella may be in her company. A redhead of about the same age. Unfortunately, that’s all we have on her.”

  “If Sarah is willing, we’ll have sketches for you tomorrow,” Riot said.

  “That girl is useful,” Tim agreed. “Small wonder you adopted her.”

  “Clearly that was the only reason,” Riot said dryly.

  Isobel walked behind the bar. Her newspapers were still securely under the brick. She nodded to Miss Off, who made a crude gesture with one hand and shielded her pet rat from Isobel with the other. Isobel retrieved two shot glasses. She tossed both to Riot, who deftly caught one in each hand, then set them on the table. Mack leaned forward to pour two glasses.

  “How’d your case go, Matt?” Isobel asked. She hoped if she were informal the agent would stop calling her Mrs. Riot.

  “Aren’t you chipper,” Tim said with a puff of smoke. “Talking now and everything.”

  “It’s been a long day,” Isobel admitted.

  “That’s ’cause you’ve been lounging around a resort for months,” Mack said. “Then a honeymoon. You’re getting soft, Charlie. You clearly should’ve married a Scotsman instead.”

  “Not as soft as you, Mack. Is that a new vest? Pop the buttons to your last?” Isobel grinned at him.

  Mack leaned back and patted his gut. “This here is called Scottish padding. For winter. If you had a bit more meat on your bones you wouldn’t need to rob a poor gentleman of his coat.”

  “A.J. never lends me his coat,” Tim grumbled. “And I’m always shivering.”

  “I don’t want it smelling like an ornery goat,” Riot said.

  “You’ll have to send it to the launderers now that Charlie’s wore it,” Mack said.

  “It’ll need disinfecting, too,” Miss Off hollered.

  “I don’t care where you send it, as long as I can eat first. I don’t suppose you have an apple?” Isobel asked.

  “I do not,” Mack said.

  It was likely a bad idea on an empty stomach, but she knocked back a shot glass of whisk
ey anyway. It burned down her throat and filled the pit of her stomach. She felt warmer already.

  “There’s some lettuce in the corner,” Miss Off said.

  “That’s my fern, woman. Don’t you touch it. I bought it to liven the joint up,” Mack warned.

  Isobel had wondered who’d brought it in. It sat in a corner. Happy and green, and defying the rest of the saloon-cum-detective agency.

  “Your case, Matt?” Riot asked, putting the conversation back on track.

  “Mrs. Riot was right,” Matthew said, amazement plain in his voice. “The necklace was at a jewelers on Post Street, the same store where the husband originally bought it.” Matthew gazed at Isobel with something close to awe in his eyes. “How did you—” Matthew Smith never got to ask his question. A window shattered, and a brick crashed on the floor. Tied to the brick was a stick of dynamite.

  The wick was flaring.

  It was curious how the mind focused. How time slowed. It seemed that minutes passed as that stick of dynamite sat burning in the center of the room.

  A number of things happened at once. Two more sticks of dynamite were hurled through the shattered glass along with a volley of gunshots. Glass shards sprayed into the room, and Riot’s shot glass exploded in his hand as a bullet passed through.

  Matthew and Mack threw themselves to the floor. Riot drew and fired his revolver, but he wasn’t aiming out the window. His bullet sliced the wick of the flaring dynamite. Tim flung himself at stick number two, and pinched the fire out.

  Isobel dove for the remaining stick. She snatched it up, and threw it at the shattered window. A puff of air, a bullet, snatched at her sleeve as her dynamite soared, only the fuse was short. An explosion blew out the front of the agency.

  Isobel was thrown backwards and stopped when her head hit something hard. She watched as glass floated in the air and splinters of wood flew in gorgeous patterns. The world was silent, save for a loud ringing between her ears. Then the world rushed back in.

  A hand grabbed her collar and pulled. Glass shrieked beneath her, accompanied by a far-off feeling of pain. A face swam into view. Riot. Concern was etched in his features. He held a revolver in one hand and patted her down with the other, searching for injury. His lips were moving. Stay here.

  “You goddamned sonabitches best have an army!” Tim yelled out the broken window.

  Tim’s shout pierced her daze. She blinked. And a wave of chaos drowned out the ringing in her ears. The bark of guns. Shouts. White smoke drifting overhead. Then the mirror behind the bar exploded. Isobel curled into a ball and Riot flung himself over her as glass rained down. Riot had dragged her behind the iron-plated bar for cover.

  When the glass stopped falling, he grabbed a rifle from one of the liquor shelves. “Cover!”

  Gunshots rang out.

  Riot popped up and tossed the rifle to Tim, who stood at the edge of a brick outer wall with a revolver.

  “Matt, dim the lights,” Riot ordered. He rose from behind the bar with a rifle of his own and started firing blindly. In the volley of covering fire, Matthew dashed for the gas lamps and hit the floor the moment the room fell dark.

  “No one shoots at my home,” Miss Off snarled. She grabbed a revolver from the shelves, and Isobel helped herself to one, too. It was loaded, five shots, one chamber empty for safety. She rotated the cylinder to a live round.

  Miss Off started to stand, but Riot grabbed the woman and yanked her down. “You need to protect your rat.”

  Miss Off snarled at him and jerked away, but she listened and began to coo softly to her rodent.

  Silence fell over the saloon.

  “You think they’re gone?” Matthew hissed.

  Tim spat. “Nah.”

  Mack slithered towards the backdoor on his stomach. Another shot barked into the night.

  “They’re a twitchy bunch,” Tim said.

  Isobel had never been in a drawn-out firefight. She felt lost. No amount of intelligence could stop bullets from flying. She didn’t even know who was shooting at them. Worse, her hands were trembling.

  Riot crouched beside her, and calmly reloaded his weapons. She was clutching her own revolver so tightly her knuckles turned white.

  “What do we do?” she asked.

  “Just wait,” he said softly. “We have all the time in the world.”

  Isobel didn’t know about that. She had snatched a stick of dynamite and nearly blown them all to pieces. But his voice was so calm. So sure. She forced herself to relax. To think. But there wasn’t much plotting to do. They were pinned.

  “Matt, can you get up those stairs?” Riot whispered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep your head down,” Riot said, holstering his revolver and grabbing the rifle. “Go. Now.” Riot popped over the bar, firing and cocking the lever with rapid speed as Tim joined the barrage. Matthew sprinted down the hallway, his footsteps flying up the stairs.

  “I’ll get help out the back,” Mack called from the far hallway.

  “No!” But Mack McCormick either didn’t hear Riot’s shout, or thought he knew best. The Scotsman threw open the back door and gunfire filled the saloon.

  Riot dropped his rifle and bolted down the hallway. Bullets splintered wood in the front room, but Tim just sighted down his rifle and calmly squeezed the trigger. The bullets coming in were cut short.

  Mack started cursing from the back. Isobel darted after Riot. She smelled blood and the sweet, lingering odor of dynamite, and saw the big Scotsman reeling on the floor.

  “He used me for a goddamn shield!”

  Isobel didn’t slow to check on the cursing giant. She hopped over him. Harried footsteps receded down the alleyway. Isobel bolted after the wisp of a shadow, only to trip over a lump. Fear welled in her heart. She turned the body over, getting blood on her hands. Relief washed over her. It wasn’t Riot.

  She scrambled to her feet, and rounded the corner in time to hear a volley of shots. The brick at her ear exploded. Her arrival was the distraction Riot needed. He fired off a shot from his cover, pegging his assailant in the hand. A revolver plopped to the ground.

  The would-be assassin hopped up from his cover and tried to bolt, but Riot fired off another shot. His bullet hit the assassin behind the knee. He lurched forward and fell, sliding in the alleyway muck. Still he tried to crawl away. Riot raced forward to kick him in the ribs.

  The assassin grunted. The blow stunned him. Time enough for Riot to turn him over and pat him down. Riot tossed a knife and gun away, then straightened.

  He cocked his revolver and pointed it at the man’s head. “Who sent you?” The question wasn’t a bark. It wasn’t a demand. But a cool three words that sent a chill down Isobel’s spine. She froze in the alleyway, relieved she couldn’t see Riot’s face just now, because she had a clear view of the assassin’s. He had the look of a man staring death in the eye.

  “You’ve got a price on your head,” the man blurted through his teeth. “Ain’t nothing personal.” The assassin was young, maybe her own age, with a wispy pencil mustache. He wore a low-slung belt and holster. His knee was a bloody, blown out mess, and he clutched at it in agony.

  “Who put the mark on me?” Riot asked.

  “I didn’t ask no questions for a thousand dollars.” There was a frantic, pleading tone to the man’s voice. It made Isobel sick.

  Riot uncocked his revolver, and holstered it. “Is that all you were offered? I suppose you’re too young to know who I am. Where did you hear about the hit?”

  “We’re supposed to be paid at the Morgue on Battle Row. That’s all I know.”

  Riot tilted his head to the side. “Why don’t we take a little walk, you and I.” Riot bent and lifted the man to his feet. The assassin screamed, and Riot shoved him forward, back towards the agency.

  Mack was shot. He sat slumped in a chair, holding his gut and drinking a copious amount of whiskey.

  “That man of yours used me as a bloody shield,” Mack muttered for the te
nth time.

  “He saved your life,” Isobel said. Her voice was distant to her own ears. A bullet wound stained Mack’s waistcoat, the hole in the thick of his stomach. There was no exit wound, but his color was good. Riot had simply seized an opportunity. It had worked.

  “I’ve summoned an ambulance,” Matthew announced, hanging up the telephone. “Should I try the police?” Not a single whistle had been blown. The street outside was empty.

  “You can try,” Riot said. His vest and shirt were splattered with blood. Aside from being hit by shards of glass, none of it was his own.

  Riot took her hands to study, then searched her face. He didn’t bother asking if she was injured. She wasn’t sure she could answer. Deadpan, grim as a grave, Riot reached up to pluck a sliver of glass from her cheek. She didn’t even feel it.

  Tim brandished a stick of dynamite in front of the would-be assassin, a Mr. Mason, who was seated in the chair Riot had tossed him into. “I can tell you’re no professional. Damn sloppy. If you’re going to kill a man, do it right.”

  Isobel looked down at her hands. There was blood on them—her own and blood from the dead man lying out back. Why hadn’t the police come? Her sluggish mind provided an answer. An uncomfortable one. The police on patrol had been bribed to look the other way.

  Riot glanced at Tim. “Are you up for a drink at the Morgue, old man?”

  Tim cackled and began arming himself.

  Riot looked Isobel in the eye for the first time as he buckled on a belt and holster in addition to his shoulder harness. Blood splattered the lens of his spectacles. “Wait here for the ambulance,” he told her.

  The words were gentle, full of understanding. He might as well have kicked over a smoldering log. Sparks of anger shot through her veins, clearing her mind as she realized what he intended.