by Sarah Gailey
“There you are,” Archie said with a too-bright smile. “I’ve been thinking about where we should go next. Are you ’ungry?” She was an excellent con artist—a liar for a living—and yet when she looked at Houndstooth, she failed to conceal the worry in her eyes. Houndstooth wondered if it was because he knew her so well that he could see the lie behind her smile, or if that was simply an indicator of the depth of her concern.
Distraction, the little voice in the back of his mind whispered. How long has it been since you’ve looked at the map?
He pushed the thought away and sat next to Archie. “Here I am,” he said, trying to match her smile. He thought he did a good job, but Archie’s smile faltered as she looked at him. She handed him a tin cup full of campfire-hot stew—dried beans and hippo-belly jerky, a raft of fat and starch and salt—and a hunk of crusty bread. He made appreciative noises as he forced himself to eat. It was a good stew, he could tell that much just from looking at it, but he could barely taste it. Still, he exclaimed when he found a little fish in the bottom of his cup, cooked through, flaky and tender but small enough to eat whole. He glanced at Archie as an actor glances past the footlights, wondering if his performance was being received well.
She wasn’t even looking at him.
Archie was staring into the water, watching the little fish that darted in and out of the tree roots.
“I suppose the water here is shallow enough to keep them safe from bigger fish,” Houndstooth ventured. Archie made a noncommittal noise and stirred her stew halfheartedly. Houndstooth watched the fish alongside her in a comfortable—if odd—silence. The two of them had spent many evenings in each other’s company over the years, on one job or another, and silence between the two of them was rare at best. Both of them were natural storytellers, and whenever their conversations grew dull or seemed to be petering out, Archie would break into bawdy songs about French girls and their various flexibilities. But Houndstooth realized as he watched the fish that Archie hadn’t sung once since they’d left the Harriet. In fact—he thought back over the last two months of traveling alongside his old friend—she had been silent much of the time. He hadn’t noticed, since he’d been busy poring over maps and plotting routes and writing letters to contacts throughout the bayous, but Archie had been keeping her counsel. Unless, that is, she was imploring him to take better care of himself.
Houndstooth chewed on this particularly stringy bit of guilt. Something was bothering his friend, and he’d been so busy trying to avoid her care that he hadn’t noticed until just now. And even now, he’d only noticed because she suddenly wasn’t trying to take care of him.
“Are you alright, Archie?” he said after a moment’s hesitation. The little voice in his head murmured that there was no time for this kind of distraction.
“Hm?” She didn’t look away from the fish. “I’m fine. I’m just—fine.” Houndstooth’s brow creased. She’d stopped herself from saying something. It wasn’t like her. Something was wrong, but— Let it go, the little voice hissed. Get back to the maps. Hero could be dying right now.
“Alright,” Houndstooth said, pushing away the guilt that nagged at him again. “Well, thank you for making supper. Delightful, as always.” He took his cup to the water and rinsed it, then stood and watched for a few seconds as the little fish darted out from the tree roots to gulp down the fragments of bean and gristle that floated near the shore. Aha, Houndstooth thought. Maybe—if I can draw Adelia out from wherever she’s hiding, then I can make her tell me where Hero is— He stopped himself from thinking if Hero’s still alive, because there was no other option. Hero had to be alive.
They had to be.
He started to wander toward his bedroll and lantern, knowing that he would need some light. Night was falling fast, and he couldn’t afford to wait. But what kind of trap should he set? Something to do with Cal, maybe? Or, no—Adelia already knew that Cal was dead, he kept forgetting. Something to do with the baby? What about—
“I think we should go to Baton Rouge,” Archie said behind him.
Houndstooth turned around, cocking his head. Baton Rouge was at least three days’ hard riding away, and it was practically dry. “Why on earth would you want to go there?” he asked.
Archie was looking at him with grim determination. “I think we need to regroup. I think that we should board Ruby and Rosa for a week or two while you rest and eat. And”—her eyes flicked away from his for an instant, just an instant—“I will be able to send a letter there, to Carter. I will be able to tell him where to find us. If we stayed put for a change—”
Distractions. Houndstooth trembled with sudden fury. He felt his lip twist into a sneer and before he could stop himself, he was laughing. It was not a kind laugh, and Archie flinched at the sound of it. “I see,” he said in a low, smooth voice. “Of course—I should have realized that you were pining.”
Archie’s brows shot up, then drew down in confusion and hurt. Her accent was thick with shock. “Now, see ’ere, ’Oundstooth—”
“No, no, please, Archie, I insist,” Houndstooth said, and even to his own ears his voice sounded cold and sharp. It was practically his father’s voice. “You’re absolutely right. We simply must spend the last of our money to board Ruby and Rosa and Abigail, so that we can go spend another two weeks wasting time while you write love letters to someone who doesn’t even want you badly enough to come meet you where you are. Or do you think he’ll come all the way to Baton Rouge to spend a night in your company?”
Archie’s face darkened. She took three slow, deliberate steps toward Houndstooth. “I think,” she said quietly, “you should take a walk, oui? Clear your head for a few minutes. You are not thinking straight, ’Oundstooth, my old friend.”
“I’m not?” he spat. “I’m not thinking straight? Au contraire, Regina.” Archie shook her head at him warningly, but even as he knew that he should stop he continued. “I’m the only one of us who’s been thinking straight this whole time. I’m the one who’s been focused on finding Hero and Adelia, while you’ve been getting distracted by—what?” He walked to her bedroll and flipped up her rough blanket with one foot, revealing a packet of letters bound with a dark green ribbon. “Love notes?” He kicked at the packet of letters, knocking it into the dirt. “Fantasies? Of a future with a U.S. marshal?” He kicked at the letters again furiously. His feet felt almost numb. “What, are you going to settle down with Carter, Regina? Are you going to have a parlor where you host fine ladies for tea and discuss the weather? Are you going to birth a litter of brats and spend your time chasing them away from the fine china? Are you going to tell stories about the days when you used to be a legendary hopper who was worth a damn to her crew, who had an ounce of loyalty, who was planning to make something of herself? Is that the life you want?” He wheeled around and pointed a shaking finger at the water. “Then go! Go get your beau, if you really think he’ll have you.”
Archie was standing very still. She was staring, Houndstooth realized, at his feet. He looked down and saw that his left boot heel was crushing one end of the packet of letters. The green ribbon had come partially undone, and was dusky with dirt. Houndstooth wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand, feeling oddly empty and almost drunk. He swayed on his feet, once, then steadied himself.
Archie walked over to him and put her hand on his arm. She pressed it down until it rested by his side, then raised her hand to his face. She brought her fingers in front of his eyes and he could see, in the dying light of the day, that they were wet.
He reached up to feel his own face. When had he begun to cry? But there, among the stubble of his patchy beard—when had he let himself grow a beard?—was wetness.
“I think you need to go for a walk, chérie,” Archie said. Her voice shook, and Houndstooth could not tell from her face what emotion caused the tremor. “Do not come back until the moon is up,” she added, pressing a loving hand to his wet cheek, “or I think I will kill you.”
Houndstooth no
dded, then stooped to pick up the packet of letters. He pressed it into Archie’s hands. She stared at the space near his right ear. “Go now,” she whispered. “Go see to yourself.”
Houndstooth walked into the darkening trees. As the buzz of nocturnal insects began to rise, he let himself get lost on the little islet. He let himself get lost in the dark, and he let himself cry, although he couldn’t have said what exactly the tears were for any more than he could have said who it was that he had truly been shouting at back at the camp. He wandered until it was too dark to see the trees in front of him, and then he sat on the ground and put his face in his hands and wondered if he could ever find his way back.
Chapter 5
Hero dismounted at Port Rouge with an aching spine and half-numb legs. A week of hard riding along the Black River, the Red River, and a series of marshes and tributaries that dodged the Mississippi had left them feeling threadbare and ready for a week’s worth of sleep. Stasia, Hero’s borrowed steed, had served Hero well enough, and they patted her flank, torn between gratitude for her speed and a yearning for their old friend Abigail. Nearly all of the waters they’d ridden through had been shockingly docile, a surprise for which Hero had been infinitely thankful. They’d asked a flint-eyed dockworker at Alligator Bayou about it on their way to Thompson Creek.
“Oh, hell,” he’d said, chewing on a long strip of what Hero guessed to be salt cod. “It’s been a strange couple of months, what with the dam collapse and all. River’s fucked. Bayou’s alright, for the most part—only been a couple attacks, and them just people being stupid and all.” He paused to swab sweat from his brow with his forearm, an exercise in futility as far as Hero was concerned.
“When you say ‘people being stupid’…?” Hero was deeply skeptical that the ferals hadn’t been an issue.
“Just don’t go out at night, and watch for wakes ’thout a boat attached to ’em, and I’m sure you know the rest.” He appraised Zahra and Stasia, eyeing the scars that marred the hippos’ flanks, but before he could ask about where Hero and Adelia were riding from—or where they were headed—they were already gone, riding toward Port Rouge.
Port Rouge was a puddle of a marsh tucked into an elbow of the Mississippi near the top of Baton Rouge proper. It was man-made and clumsy the way most hopper wallows were—wood and stone and sandbags from a generation before walled off the shallow half mile of brown water to form a wet pit for hippos to wade in. But there was vegetation growing there, and waterbirds, and a high enough divide keeping the river out, so Hero and Adelia paid the fee to board Zahra and Stasia there with only a cursory amount of grumbling over the cost.
“Will they be alright in there?” Hero asked, looking over their shoulder as Zahra and Stasia waded over to investigate a heron.
“They’ll be fine,” Adelia replied distractedly as she adjusted her shirt.
“Do you really buy that the ferals are laying low?”
“I’d wager—hnf.” Adelia adjusted her shirt again, wincing. “I’d wager that they’ve mostly been causing troubles farther south. That’s the way the river flows, sí?”
“Still,” Hero started to say.
“Still, sure, fine. Hop-blighted damn, this hurts.” Adelia made a little pained growling noise, then abruptly stepped off the road into the thin brush beside the river.
Hero felt inexpressibly awkward. They didn’t say anything, but they turned away so that Adelia could do whatever it was that she did when her breasts hurt. They tried to ignore the steady stream of curses in both English and Spanish that drifted to them from the brush, and wished that they’d known some solution to her pain. That was their whole job, and they knew it—on every team they’d ever worked with, they’d been the one who people would turn to when every idea had proven to be a bust. But this was a whole different swamp to navigate, and the best they could offer Adelia was a useless, sympathetic wince every time her swearing started to heat up. Their brain spun, trying to think of something, anything—a device, or a chemical—but they were at a total loss.
When Adelia emerged from the brush, Hero clapped their hands to their mouth to stop themselves from laughing or asking questions. The entire front of Adelia’s shirt was soaked—no, Hero realized. Adelia’s entire shirt. And her hair. It looked as though she’d dunked herself into the river.
Adelia glowered. “I spilled,” she said tersely.
“Okay,” Hero said—but they couldn’t help themselves. “Did you jump into the water to get it back?”
Adelia started to stalk ahead, but then, to Hero’s shock, she stopped and waited for them. When they caught up to her, she muttered, “I’m hot. The water makes me feel better.”
Hero glanced sidelong at Adelia. Twin flags of pink rode high on her cheeks, and they allowed themselves a small smile at the notion that Adelia—stone-faced, ice-cold Adelia—might be a little embarrassed.
* * *
They reached Baton Rouge just before nightfall. Adelia kicked open the swinging doors of the Hop’s Tusk with one booted foot. Her hair and shirt were dry, but she’d been swearing a steady blue streak for the past hour, and Hero pitied the poor soul that got between her and her bedroom. Sure enough, Adelia stormed the bar and slapped money down on the scarred wood with a flat palm. Hero slipped into the shadows beside the door and watched as the garter-armed innkeeper behind the bar handed Adelia a key and snatched his hand back as though he were afraid to lose it. Adelia made for the stairs, pushing her way through the crowd with a stiff shoulder, and then she was gone.
Hero eased their way to the bar and sat, groaning at the relief their legs felt. They doubted that they’d be able to get up again any time soon, and debated asking the innkeeper for a pillow, a blanket, and twenty-four hours to sit on the stool without moving.
They scrubbed their face with their hands, trying not to let their eyes close for too long. When they lowered their hands, there was a drink sweating on the bar in front of them.
“Excuse me?” they called, and the innkeeper slid over to them. He was a sallow-faced white man with drooping, hound-dog eyes and a few fine wisps of hair stretched across a freckled scalp. Hero reflected that the poor wilted fellow looked like he’d rather have been on a burning raft in the middle of a lake of hippo shit than standing behind that bar. His eyes darted continuously along the nearly empty stretch of the bar, watching for someone else who might possibly need his attention.
“Yes?” he said, still not looking directly at Hero. “Is there a problem?”
“I didn’t order this drink,” Hero said.
The innkeeper unfolded a handkerchief and dabbed sweat from his top lip. “It’s on the house. Courtesy of, hm. The lady.” Hero thought for a mad instant that he meant Adelia, but then he gestured at a woman who was perched at the far end of the bar, nursing her own drink. She didn’t look up, and Hero quickly looked away, their face and neck burning in a rising flush.
They couldn’t remember the last time that someone had sent them a drink at a bar. They couldn’t remember the last time they’d been in a bar without being on a job.
The drink looked very good. But … Houndstooth.
Hero took a deep breath. Don’t think about it. They grabbed their drink and took a long, deep slug of the brown liquor. It went down oily and hot, and burned in their belly like a live coal. They tried to pay attention to the heat, to the vile taste of the alcohol. They didn’t admit to themself that they were hoping it would scald away the thought of what had happened on the Harriet after they’d left.
Hero took another drink, even though it made their eyes water. They wondered if that was what other people thought poison was like going down. So undeniable. They traced a finger through the ring of condensation on the wood in front of them, smudging it into a long oval. Remembering when a long, slim finger had traced that oval onto the inky hide of a hippo named Ruby.
They finished the drink too fast and their head was swimming. But it was better than thinking about other people swimming. Or faili
ng to swim.
All the papers, all the songs, all the stories. They had all said the same thing: no survivors. And now all the booze was gone, and Hero felt a crack forming in the dam that held back all the things they had been trying not to think about.
“Well, that’s one way to tell a gal you’d like her company.”
Hero jumped, looked at the stool next to them. The woman—no, Hero corrected themself, the girl, for she couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen—the girl from the end of the bar had settled herself next to Hero. Her dark hair was barely longer than a razor would allow, and her warm brown skin was just a few shades lighter than Hero’s own. She looked almost familiar, but something about the way she carried herself told Hero that it was probably this girl’s job to look familiar.
Hero coughed. “Sorry, I—uh. I sort of—I’m tired,” they finished weakly. “It’s been a long day.”
“A long week, I should think,” the girl said, taking a sip of her drink. Hero did a double-take, and the girl laughed. She flagged down the innkeeper and signaled for another round before Hero could stop her.
“How did—who are you?” Hero asked, suddenly acutely aware that they were alone. Adelia, with all her weaponry and her sure aim and her expertise, was gone. They were on their own, and if this girl turned out to be trouble … they would have to do a better job of defending themself than they had back on the Catahoula.
“Call me Acadia,” the girl drawled. “It’s not my real name, but you don’t need to know that and I’m not going to tell it to you. Thanks, handsome,” she said, tipping a wink at the innkeeper as he dropped off two more drinks. He looked at Hero, and his eyes seemed to flash a warning. Too late, Hero thought, and raised their glass to Acadia.
“Are you going to kill me?” Hero asked, their throat tight. It wasn’t as hard to ask as they’d thought it would be. Out of habit, they slid their free hand into their pocket. A vial of powder was there, always at the ready. One puff of air across the cork would blow more than enough of the poison into this “Acadia’s” eyes. She’d be foaming from every orifice within seconds, dead within minutes. Hero let their thumbnail sink into the wax seal around the cork, but not all the way. Not yet.
