American Hippo

by Sarah Gailey

  Acadia glanced at them out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t laugh, a small mercy for which Hero was profoundly thankful. “Not tonight,” she said mildly. “Maybe another time, if you need killing.”

  “Well. Alright,” Hero said, slipping their hand back out of their pocket, leaving the tiny vial unopened. It was a reasonable enough answer, all things considered. They sipped at the drink the innkeeper had brought, knowing that they’d end up drunk if they kept it up, but not able to will themself to care. “What can I do for you, then, Acadia?”

  “I think we’re from the same place, you and I,” Acadia said. “Your accent is a little faded, but I can hear it.”

  Hero cocked a half smile at the girl. “I don’t think we are, but that’s a very nice try.”

  Acadia shrugged. “I would swear I’ve seen you before.”

  “Maybe on a wanted poster,” Hero muttered into their glass.

  “You gave up that life a long time ago, though,” the girl said, and again Hero found themself staring at her, incredulous. “Oh, I know all about you, Hero Shackleby. You had quite a storied career. Although I’ve always wondered—I mean, everyone wonders—”

  “What do you want?” Hero snapped. They didn’t have the time or the energy to dance that old, familiar dance. The whelp was going to ask Hero why they’d retired, it was as obvious as a hop’s hunger for milk, and Hero just … couldn’t have that conversation. Not now.

  The girl put her palms up in surrender. “Okay, alright, I’m sorry.” She poked Hero in the shoulder with a nail-bitten finger. “Sensitive. The drinks were supposed to ease you up a little, you know.”

  Hero snorted into their glass.

  “Well, fine. I’ve got something I’m supposed to give you.” She pulled a limp piece of paper out from between her breasts. She laid it on the bar between them and added, “But I’d appreciate if you didn’t read it until I was gone.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Read it and find out.”

  “That’s fair,” Hero said. If the girl was a messenger, she’d just finished doing her duty. Hero could respect that. Messengers weren’t paid enough to keep information on their employers a secret, but they also weren’t paid enough to get tangled up in the interpersonal dramas that trailed between people they didn’t know.

  The girl sipped her drink again, and Hero noticed that she was barely swallowing any of it. Clever. “So,” she asked, her voice a shade too casual. “Is it true that you’re here with Adelia Reyes?”

  Hero didn’t answer.

  “I’m sure you don’t want to tell me,” the girl continued. “It’s just that, I’ve been wanting to meet her ever since I was a little girl.”

  Hero snorted again. “You’re still a little girl,” they said.

  The girl’s eyes flashed. “I’ve killed men,” she said in a low voice. “I think that qualifies me for something more than ‘little girl.’”

  “We’ve all killed men,” Hero said—but then they gentled their voice and tried to remember a time when having killed a man had meant something significant to them, too. “I’m sure Adelia’d love to meet you.” The girl rolled her eyes at the polite lie. “Or … she’d find it acceptable, at least. Are you staying here?”

  The girl shook her head. “When she wants to meet me, just have her tell the innkeeper. He’ll make sure I get the message.” She looked at Hero with an entrepreneurial gleam in her eye. “And, hey. If you ever need anyone for a job, you know how to find me. My fees are very reasonable.”

  “So you don’t work for my secret admirer?” Hero said, waving the note.

  “I don’t work for anybody,” Acadia drawled. “I work for money. If you’ve got some you’re looking to offload, you just let me know. Don’t forget what I said about Adelia, either.”

  Hero took a last long drink from their glass, swallowing hard. They could feel the liquor winding its way around their arms and legs and throat, pulling them down toward drunken sleep. It was a delicious sensation.

  “I’ll tell her,” they started to say. But they heard the swinging doors at the front of the inn creak and thump open, and by the time they looked up, Acadia already had one foot out the door.

  * * *

  “Adelia?” Hero rapped one knuckle hard on the warped wood of the door at the end of the upstairs hallway.

  “Momento,” Adelia called from inside. Hero leaned against the cracked plaster wall to wait until Adelia was done with whatever ministrations her swollen breasts still required. They nudged the straw and sawdust that littered the floor with their foot, sweeping a clean arc of wood planks.

  Don’t think about it, they told themself, firmly shoving aside the memory of the last time they’d shared accommodations with someone. Not now.

  “Okay, come in,” Adelia said behind them. She’d opened the door and walked away, leaving Hero standing in the open doorway with their hands in their pockets. One hand crushed the already rumpled note from Acadia. Or, from whoever Acadia worked for.

  Adelia leaned out of the sole window, emptying a small washbasin into the alley below. A smell filled the small room—buttermilk and sweat and earth, suspended in the humidity of the night. Adelia’s thin linen shirt, unencumbered by her usual leather engirdment of sheaths, stuck to her back, and her loosely tied hair had sprung into damp curls around her face and at the nape of her neck. A flush colored the back of her neck, and Hero frowned.

  It wasn’t that warm in the room.

  It was warm, sure, and humid as a hop’s armpit, but it was no worse than it had been during their long ride. And they couldn’t ever remember seeing Adelia sweat before.

  “Are you alright?” they asked, unthinking. They flinched—Adelia wasn’t the kind of person who liked to be worried about.

  “I’m fine,” Adelia snapped. “Why?”

  She turned and Hero’s frown deepened. Two bright, high spots of color had risen in her cheeks, and her eyes were bright.

  “Do you have a fever, Adelia?” Hero stepped forward, putting their hand out to feel Adelia’s forehead before they had time to think better of it. There was a flash of movement, a shout—and then Hero was on the floor, their face pressed into unfresh sawdust and grime, their arm twisted painfully high behind their back above an acute weight that they could only assume was—yes, it had to be a knee pressing into their spine.

  A moment later, the weight was gone, and their arm was free. They scrambled up and saw Adelia standing a few feet away, one hand pressed to her forehead.

  “Oh, Hero—I’m, hm.” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to, ah. To…”

  “To flatten me?” Hero asked wryly, rolling their shoulder until it popped.

  “I don’t like to be touched without permission,” Adelia said in a quiet voice that carried what Hero thought to be a shadow of regret. “I’m very sorry.”

  “It’s alright,” Hero said. “I should have asked. Can we call it even?”

  Adelia nodded, then looked awkwardly away. The tension of unfulfilled violence hung in the air, and Hero wondered what would have happened if Adelia’s weapons hadn’t been safely stowed by the time they came in. They were willing to bet that there would be blood on the floor of the little bedroom.

  Best to not think about that, either, they told themself, even as their hand drifted up to the scar on their belly.

  “Well,” Hero said in an overjovial voice, forcing themself to sound calm. “At any rate. I have something you should see.”

  Adelia raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “Here,” Hero said. They pulled the folded paper out of their hip pocket, unfolding it before they handed it over. “A message.”

  “From who?” Adelia demanded, eyes flashing.

  “The one and only; Whelan Parrish,” Hero answered. “Via a girl named Acadia. Does the name ring a bell?”

  “No,” Adelia said absently as she scanned the note. “Should it?”

  “I don’t thin
k so,” Hero said. “But she’d like it to.”

  “Maldito.” Adelia tugged at her shirt, fanning herself. “This is—me cago en la madre que te parió! We have to go. Parrish—we have to go and meet him—”

  Hero held up a hand and sat hard on the bed. “Not tonight.”

  “Not tonight?” Adelia’s chin snapped up and she glared at Hero with a ferocity that made Hero long for the ferals on the Harriet. “Not tonight?! I’m sorry, Hero, did you have somewhere else to be? This man has Ysabel and he’s probably going to—”

  “Here,” Hero said simply. “I have to be here. And so do you, Adelia. We need to rest. We need to bathe. We need to regroup. He isn’t going to hurt the baby tonight, but if we go see him and try to take her back in the state we’re in right now? We’ll both wind up dead, and then there’ll be no one left to kill the sorry son of a bitch.” And besides, they didn’t say, you’re not thinking straight, you fever-brained loon.

  Adelia fumed for a moment, but Hero knew that she’d see the truth in what they had said.

  “Fine,” she finally snapped. “But we go first thing in the morning, after we eat and … and wash, and make a plan. Dawn. We leave at dawn.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Hero said. “Now, how about some sleep?” They tried out a smile, but Adelia just snarled at them. They shrugged mildly, then leaned back against the headboard and lowered their hat over their eyes.

  Adelia would sleep eventually. If those fever flags flying on her cheeks were any indication, she’d probably sleep even better than Hero intended to. She’d have to, or else they’d need to wait another day before going to find Ysabel.

  It’ll be fine, Hero thought, peeking out from under their hat at Adelia’s pacing, watching her eyes glitter with rage and fever and murder. She can wait. Vengeance is a slow game.

  Hero had always been good at slow games.

  Chapter 6

  The ride to Baton Rouge had been a silent one. The intervening week, on the other hand, hadn’t been silent—it had been something much worse.

  It had been polite.

  “I will be back in an hour,” Archie said, settling a brushed felt bowler over her slicked-back hair. She’d borrowed Houndstooth’s straight razor to hone her crisp part; her hair looked better than his had in months. “Please do not feel the need to wait for me to ’ave supper.”

  Houndstooth didn’t look up from the letter he was writing. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  Archie pursed her lips for a moment, then shot her cuffs and walked out the door without another word. The tension between her and Houndstooth had been thick as hop fat for the past eight days, and she didn’t know how to cut through it. They’d fought before, more than enough times—but never like this.

  She walked down out of the townhouse where she and Houndstooth were staying and onto the street. Her gold-tipped cane flashed in the late-morning sun, and she felt a weight slip from her shoulders as she brushed the brim of her hat at two young ladies, who giggled back from under their shared parasol.

  Not her type, but it was nice to see them blush.

  She knew she was handsome. Her pinstriped linen suit was painful to keep free of wrinkles while she was traveling, but it fit her like a dream and was better tailored than the suits of most of the men she tipped her hat to on the street. The last time she’d worn it, she’d been riding through the night to get her hands on enough explosives to ruin a dam.

  She preferred the way the fabric looked in the sunlight.

  Oh yes—she knew she was handsome. Even Houndstooth’s eyes had flashed with envy the first time he saw her waistcoat—dove-grey paisley with the slightest sheen of lilac. She smiled to herself, remembering how she’d salted the wound by telling him that her Parisian tailor would only accept clients in person. She always enjoyed dressing herself more when she could share her flashes of sartorial brilliance with her friend.

  “Pardonnez-moi, sir?” Archie looked down to find a hunched girl tugging at her coattail. The girl was young, too thin, and had grease smeared across the dark brown skin of her face. She smiled tentatively up at Archie. “Sir, could you spare a coin for a poor, hungry girl?”

  “For you, girl?” Archie reached into her coat as though she were pulling out a pocketbook. “Of course I could spare a coin. Although not if you’re going to steal it from me.” She pulled a slim Châtellerault blade from the inside pocket of her jacket, flicking it open under the girl’s chin. Her other hand gripped the girl’s wrist as she pulled the girl’s hand from the pocket of her vest. Her watch dangled from between the girl’s fingers.

  The girl’s face split into a wide grin. “Damn,” she whispered, careful not to bump her jaw against Archie’s knife. “I should have gone for the knife instead of the watch.”

  “Oui, so you should ’ave,” Archie agreed. “The mother-of-pearl on the grip would’ve kept you fed for a week. That is, if I didn’t find you first, and slit your belly open like a lake trout.”

  Keeping a grip on the girl’s wrist so her pocket watch couldn’t vanish, Archie ducked into one of the narrow alleys that scored the street. She extracted her watch from the girl’s grip and tucked it into her interior jacket pocket, along with the closed knife. The girl withdrew a handkerchief from her blouse and wiped the grease from her face with an effort.

  “You should smudge it more around your mouth,” Archie advised. “When you just do the cheekbones and the jaw, it makes you look too pretty to be an urchin. And per’aps grow out your hair? This fuzz,” she said, gesturing to the too-short-to-curl cut, “it is very recognizable in this city.”

  The girl pursed her lips. “Thanks,” she muttered, looking put out.

  “You’re welcome for the free advice,” Archie said dryly, tugging her waistcoat straight. “You’ll ’ave your coin if you’ve brought me news.” The girl’s eyes flicked toward the mouth of the alley, and Archie clicked her tongue. “Do not play games with me, Acadia. Have you seen him, or no?”

  “No,” Acadia finally admitted.

  “You’re sure?” Archie deflated a little, resisting the urge to lean against the wall of the alley. Despair or no, that grime wouldn’t scrub out of her linen pinstripes easily.

  “I’m sure,” Acadia said tartly. “I would know if I’d seen a six-foot-four black man wearing a marshal’s star around here. You’re not the only person who would pay for that kind of information, you know.”

  Archie sighed. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, oui? I’ll come downtown around … noon, I think. It will be my last day ’ere—even if you don’t see ’im, you’ll ’ave coin for your trouble.”

  Acadia seemed to soften. “Hey, he’ll show up,” she said. “I know for sure that your letters posted—I gave them to my best rider. I’m sure he’ll be here.” She patted Archie’s arm awkwardly, then gave the collar of her jacket a tug. “And if you keep dressing up this nice, you’ll look damned fine when you meet him.”

  She winked and turned on her heel, walking out of the alley and leaving Archie behind. Archie took a deep breath, telling herself that the girl was right. Carter would show up.

  He always did. Even if it took a year. He always showed up.

  Archie straightened her jacket where Acadia had tugged it out of line. She reached into the breast pocket for her watch to check the time as she walked out of the alley, then swore. She looked up and down the street, whipping her bowler off in frustration—but there was no sign of the girl who had just stolen both her pocket watch and her Châtellerault.

  * * *

  By the time Archie got back to the townhouse, Houndstooth was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief as she walked in and shucked off her jacket, which was clinging to her arms despite the light weight of the fabric. She had been hoping to talk to him about the next part of their journey—but she’d also been dreading it.

  She walked into the dining room, of a mind to investigate any breakfast leftovers Houndstooth had abandoned. If there were any good pastries left over, she woul
d go and visit Rosa down at Port Rouge. She’d been there at least every other day. She didn’t like boarding Rosa—the albino hippo’s skin inevitably dried out at the neglectful hands of the half-drunk hoppers who ran the port. A pastry now and then felt like the very least she could do.

  When she opened the French doors to the dining room, all thoughts of Rosa fled her mind as she stifled a scream.

  The white jacquard wallpaper was marred with wicked holes and slashes. Letters were pinned to the wall with a collection of tiny throwing knives. Phrases and words in the letters were circled with grease pencil; some of the letters had thick, smudgy black lines drawn between them, stretching across paper and wallpaper alike. Question marks, crosses, and overlapping circles were drawn at irregular intervals.

  In the center of the wall, Houndstooth’s map hung askew like a head on a pike. A fat oval was drawn around Baton Rouge.

  “’E’s lost ’is mind,” Archie breathed, staring at the ruined wall. She swore under her breath; then, dissatisfied, she swore over her breath. She threw her jacket onto the table as she stalked across the room to stare at the wall.

  They were letters, she realized, from all of Houndstooth’s contacts across the country. There were letters from old enemies in New York, people whose names he couldn’t say without spitting. There was a letter from the lover who had abandoned him. There were letters from people he’d worked with and people he’d swindled and people who had left tooth marks on his fists.

  He’d circled key phrases in each—“I haven’t even heard of that person” was circled in one letter, with the word “LIE” scribbled above it. “Near Houston” was circled in another, with “HERO WOULD NEVER” scrawled across the words. The map was covered with notes and references to letters and dates, with arrows pointing to cities.