The Damnation Affair (the bannon & clare affairs)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  He cleared his throat, harshly, felt new tension invade the chill air. “It’s Jack, sweetheart. And is that Robbie Browne I hear?”

  “Yes sir, Sheriff sir.” The same edge of mockery, the same irritating I am of quality, sir, and you are not.

  Yes. It was most definitely the boy Gabe had shot. “I thought I killed you. And you, Catherine, have been keepin’ secrets.”

  Her stiffness now was quite proper, and she ceased dabbing at him with whatever rag she had been using. “No more than you. I would call you a murderer, but I suspect you would take it as a compliment.”

  The prickly tone cheered him immensely. At least she was well enough to bristle at him. “You’re the one who asked me to get rid of a corpse, sweetheart.” He found his arms would work, and his hands were clumsy but obedient. Scrubbing at his eyes rid them of crusted blood, and he blinked furiously several times before his vision cleared and he was treated to the sight of a pale, fever-cheeked Catherine Barrowe, her hat knocked most definitely askew and her curls all a-tumble, hovering above him. Her dark eyes glowed, the sleeve of her jacket was torn, and she was so beautiful it made his heart threaten to stop.

  “He seems quite familiar with you, Kittycat.” The boy sounded like he was enjoying himself immensely, for a dead man. “I don’t know about his family, though.”

  “Robbie, if you do not cease irritating me, I shall pinch you.” She sighed, and her gaze rested anxiously on Jack’s face. “Mr. Gabriel, you buried my brother in consecrated ground. He is…as you see, he is not dead—you saved him from complete contamination, he tells me. I would ask you to—”

  I doubt I saved him from anything. “Give me a minute.” He didn’t want to, but he found his body would do what he asked, and he rolled onto his side. From there it was short work to get his legs under him, and he gained his feet in an ungraceful lunge.

  Unfortunately, his guns were missing. One of them was in Robert Browne’s skeletal white hands. The boy was so thin his bones were working out through his dead-white flesh, but he was remarkably steady as he pointed the six-shooter steadily in Gabe’s direction.

  “Move away from him, Sis.” Robert Barrowe grinned, his lips skinned back from very white, pearl-glowing teeth. His canines were longer than they had been, and wickedly pointed. “I think it’s safest.”

  Catherine, her riding habit sadly torn and her curls damp with rain, still on her knees on the sandy floor, gazed steadily at her brother. “There’s no need for that. If he promises to—”

  “You’d believe a promise from the sheriff? That’s rich. He’s the enemy, Cat. We have larger vexations, too, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s loose, its attention is away from me for the moment. But Damnation is the first place he’s going to visit, once he can get back in through the cracks in my head. We have to leave, and now.”

  “He? It?” Jack’s fingers found the source of the blood crusting his face. Head wounds were messy. Other than that, he seemed just dandy. Except his ribs were none too happy, and his head felt like it was going to roll off his shoulders. “Just what did you wake up in here, Browne?”

  “Yes.” Catherine tilted her head. Two curls fell across her wan little face, and he saw how thin and tired she was. She winced as she moved, as if her ribs were paining her as well. “I was waiting to hear these particulars too, Robbie. What is…he?”

  Robbie Browne’s laugh was a marvel of bitterness. “Can’t you guess? Coming into the wilderness has softened your brain, Kittycat. It’s—” Thunder tried to drown his next few words, but Jack had heard enough. He went cold all over, even colder than the ice breathing from the back of the cave, where the claim spiraled down into the bowels of the earth.

  God have mercy. He stared at Catherine’s brother, his hands filling with the pins-and-needles of grace again. If he could close the distance between them…

  The schoolmarm rose slowly, brushing off her skirts. “Then,” she said briskly, as the thunder receded, “we shall have to find a priest. Come now, Robbie, don’t be a dolt.”

  And she stepped toward her brother, whose finger tightened on the trigger.

  Chapter 28

  Cat was never quite sure afterward what happened. There was a flash, golden instead of blue-white like lightning, and a roar of rage. She fell, hard, her handkerchief—stained with Jack Gabriel’s blood, and full of rainwater and dirt—knocked out of her fingers. The cave’s rock wall was so cold it burned, and the crack of a gunshot was lost under another huge rumbling roll of thunder.

  No, don’t—

  But they would not listen to her, would they? Just like her parents, or really, anyone else. The simple, sheer inability to listen to anything Cat said seemed to be a hallmark of the world at large. It was not ladylike to shout, but the thought occurred to her that perhaps, just perhaps, it was the only way to be heard.

  “Catherine.” A scorching touch on her cheek. “God in Heaven. Say something.”

  I fear I am quite beyond words, sir. “Robbie?” Wondering, the name slurred as if she had been at Mother’s sherry a bit too much. “Oh, please, Robbie?”

  “Gone. Think he didn’t fancy hanging about once I took my guns back.” Mr. Gabriel sounded tightly amused, and as the clouding over her vision cleared, she found herself propped against cold stone, with Jack Gabriel crouched before her, his green-gold gaze disconcertingly direct and his face decked with dried blood, grit, and speckles of rainwater. “Enough time for him later. Are you hurt? Did he…tell me now, Catherine, did he hurt you?”

  Robbie? “He would never,” she managed, though her tongue was thick and dry. “Sir…please. Please. He’s trying to keep the thing trapped here, so it doesn’t harm the town. Please don’t hurt him.”

  “If he is what I think he is…” But Mr. Gabriel shook his head. “Don’t trouble yourself. Here. Stand up, now. We’ve got to get you inside the circuit before dark.”

  But she pushed his hands away, weakly. “Sir. Sir. Please don’t hurt him. He didn’t know what he was waking, and he has been seeking to keep it bottled—”

  “Well, he didn’t make a good job of it. Claim was open as recently as a couple days ago, sweetheart. Now give me your hands and let’s see if you can stand up. If you can’t I’m of a mind to throw you over my shoulder and carry you down that goddamn hill.”

  “Language,” she managed, faintly. “He is my brother, sir. Please don’t harm him.”

  “For the last goddamn time, it’s Jack. Not sir, not Mr. Gabriel, and for God’s sake don’t push me, or I might do something I’ll regret. Now, if you can’t stand up, just lean on me.”

  Her head hurt most abominably, and so did the rest of her. She found herself staring at a battered, still bleeding, and incredibly sour-looking sheriff, who nevertheless helped her to her feet with remarkable gentleness. The floor of the cave was sandy—well, what was sand but dust, and this horrible portion of the world had that in awe-inspiring quantities. He steadied her when she swayed, and had even rescued her handkerchief from somewhere, for he proceeded to dab at her forehead with it while biting his lower lip, quite uselessly on both counts.

  She took it from his fingers, and swallowed several times. “I suppose you are rather angry.”

  “I’ve had more pleasant days, sweetheart.” But his mouth, incredibly, turned up at one corner. That same infuriating half-smile bloomed as she watched, and the sound of the deluge outside was like a gigantic animal breathing. “But not by much. Hope the horses ain’t run off.”

  “Horses?” She seemed to be thinking through syrup. “I do think you are perhaps furious.”

  “I’m none too pleased, if that’s what you mean. But I am damn glad to find you in one piece, and this goddamn claim empty. No wonder it sealed up so nice and easy the other day. It’s already found—or reinhabited, is my guess—a vessel, and escaped.”

  Reinhabited? Oh, dear. That does not sound very nice. “Does that mean you knew—”

  Now he looked annoyed, the smile fading. “Only th
ing I know is that I’ve got to get you back inside the circuit before dark. And it ain’t gonna be easy with this storm on, but God help me, I’m gonna. You can scream at me all you like, Catherine, and you can stamp your foot and throw things at my fool head, I’ll listen. And duck. But you ain’t gonna go haring off into the wild after no goddamn—”

  “Language, sir—”

  She barely had time to say the words before his mouth met hers. There was a tang of whiskey and the copper note of blood, ote widtfear and pain and her teeth sinking into his lip, and the bulk of his body pressing hers against cold, cold rock. But it gentled, and she had time to be amazed and breathless as her fingers worked into his hair and his hands were at her waist, and the storm outside fell away into a great roaring silence.

  It was like drowning, only not quite. It was like waking from a nightmare and finding a soothing voice, but not quite. It was as if she were alone on an isle in one of the novels of the Southron Seas, but inside her skin beat two hearts instead of one. It was as if the world had shrunk to a pinpoint, and expanded at the same moment.

  And when it ceased she was left bereft, except for the fact that he leaned against her, her head against his collarbone and the weight of him against her oddly bearable. “Catherine,” he whispered into her hair. “Don’t leave me. Don’t you leave me.”

  She could make no reply, other than to hold him while the thunder overhead roared its displeasure.

  * * *

  The bay had broken free and fled, and Jack’s horse was a sweet, older black mare who did not like the thunder, but bore it well enough. Cat’s foot found the stirrup, and she was in the saddle after a heave or two. Her ribs ached dreadfully.

  “I got business here,” Jack shouted, over the drumming rain. “Hathorn knows the way home. You just go on now, and bolt your door, and don’t open it until I come back. You hear me?”

  Her cheeks had to be burning. Cat nodded. “But what are you going to—” She had to scream to make herself heard.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” he yelled back. “Ride, dammit, and bolt your doors!” And with that, he stepped aside, smart as you please, and slapped the mare’s haunch. She took off, affronted by such treatment, and Cat bent low over the horse’s neck. Branches freighted with cold water clawed at her; it took all her experience and strength to hold fast as the mare, deciding she had suffered far too much indignity, settled into a bone-rattling canter.

  Damnation was a very long way away, and Cat could only pray she made it before the faint sun gleaming through the stormclouds set.

  He’s old and hungry, Kittycat. And there’s no use killing it; he just comes back. That thrice-damned chartershadow cheated me. There’s no weapon that can kill it. I thought I had it contained, but…

  What was Jack going to do? Her mouth still burned, and other parts of her too. Had Mother and Father ever felt—

  The black mare burst out of a tangle of junip, and the storm fell over them both with incredible fury. Lightning sizzled, the devilpines tossing their spiny green arms, and Cat was suddenly acutely aware that in a short while they would be free of the hills and the trees; she and the horse would be the tallest items on a broad chessboard dotted with loose scrub and sand probably made treacherous by this second Flood.

  Chapter 29

  The rain had slacked to a penetrating drizzle, but the gullies were full of flash-flood, brown foaming water like beer but without John Barleycorn’s kindness. It was a mixed blessing, because Gabe had found the bay mare from the livery at the edge of one of the gullies, unhappy and shivering with fear. It was a job to catch and calm the horse, but he managed, and then the problem became getting back to the town.

  As long as he thought of it that way—the next problem to be solved, and the next—he could push aside the sick fear under his throbbing ribs and the lump in his throat. The cold crawling on his skin was nothing new, and the habit of shoving it aside so he could work was nothing new either.

  But the warmth of grace, pins-and-needles in his extremities but a bath of balm to the rest of him, was a new thing. For a few terrible moments, standing before the leering cave-mouth as the storm moved farther east, it had refused to answer him. He’d gone to his knees on the soft-squish ground, and instead of rage that God had failed him yet again there was instead a terrible fear that he would no longer be able to consecrate anything—and that meant his best weapon, his best way of protecting what he had to protect, was gone.

  Faith doesn’t leave, he had thought, staring through the falling water, at the churned-up earth and the darkness. It just goes underground.

  And then the grace had come roaring back, because of the feel of Catherine’s mouth under his, the slim curves of her described under his aching hands, and the sweet dazed look she wore when he’d finished all but kissing the breath out of her. Easy and warm, not a painful swelling to be excised because he no longer fought it. It simply was.

  The claim mouth was sealed again, and this time, he thought it just might take.

  What am I gonna do about her brother? She won’t take it kindly if I put him down. But he’s infected, and…but I buried him consecrated, which means he might be well-nigh unkillable. And to hear her talk, all we need to do is find a priest. It ain’t that simple.

  And God alone knew what she would think if she found out about him. The Templis were not regarded kindly in many quarters. And she was such a decorous little thing, too. Would she even consider a man who had broken his vows?

  It was too dark, as if night had come early. That was worrisome as well, and the bay mare was tired and still shuddering. Still, he couldn’t leave her out in the wild, with God-knew-what roaming around and the storm still heaving its way across the flats.

  At the foot of the hills, he turned north instead of plunging straight to the east. It took him a mite longer than he liked, but he found the stand of crying-jessum trees, their long silvery branches flickering and tossing droplets as they shivered in the knifing wind.

  The grave was there, at the foot of a once sand-crusted boulder serving as a headstone. The slightly sunken earth still resonated underfoot, meaning it was still consecrated, but Russ Overton was nowhere to be seen. The ground was a mess, not a lot of sign to be found, but Gabe thought there were two sets of hoofprints—one coming from Damnation, the other heading back.

  Well, the mage could probably feel something rising to threaten his town and his charterstones. It wasn’t like Russ to not come and find Gabe, though. That was…worrisome.

  Just add it to the list. Jack stared at the dancing trees for a moment. The wash right next to them was full now, roaring along instead of just a trickle of sandy slugwater in its bottom. Everything in the desert was going to drink well tonight, and the mud in the town would be knee-deep before long.

  Won’t Catherine hate that. He stroked the bay’s neck, soothing, and realized he was talking to the beast. The thunder had receded, and the horse shivered afresh. “Easy there, we’re going back to town now. You’ll be having a mash and a combing and some rest soon.”

  He hoped he wasn’t lying to the poor dumb animal, and decided to walk her for a bit. She’d had a terrible day.

  Ain’t we all. Irritation, frustration, and the need to hurry boiled under his skin, but he breathed deep and let out a long sigh. There was no use in exhausting himself or killing the horse. He had just enough time to get back before sundown, even if it was too dark now. Even the worst evil couldn’t make the sun sink faster.

  But it could thicken the clouds, and do nasty work underneath them.

  Your trouble, Gabriel, is that you can just imagine too goddamn much. Focus on what needs doin’ instead.

  Jack Gabriel set off for his town, still talking to the horse. After a while, he realized he was praying.

  Old habits died hard.

  * * *

  Damnation seethed under a dark, rain-lashed sky. He came on the town from the northwest, and knew something was wrong the moment he stepped over whe
re the circuit should have been, its invisible hand a weight that said home to a tired body. The weight was absent, and his head came up, bloodshot eyes squinting through the drizzle. The mud had begun, sucking at the bay’s hooves, and the horse plodded forward thoughtlessly, past caring.

  There was a sound, too. He cocked his head, listening intently. A metallic clanging, with a long reverberation. The grace in him responded, painful prickling all over, the warmth intensifying to just short of a burn. He didn’t need to look to see his charing would be alive with golden light, but he did reach up and tuck it under the edge of his shirt, just in case.

  It wouldn’t do to have questions asked.

  That’s the charter-bell. The big iron thing hanging outside and above the chartermage’s office, glowing dully every night as they rode the circuit, was usually silent. There was only one reason for it to be tolling.

  An incursion. A bad one. The charter-circuit was broken.

  He didn’t even swear, just set his jaw grimly and urged the tired bay forward. She obeyed, and though he longed to put the spurs to her, it wasn’t fair to ride her to death.

  Catherine. Did she make it before the circuit broke?

  He tried to tell himself he’d find out soon enough, that nothing would be served by riding in all a-lather. Everyone knew their duty when the bell rang—women and children locked in the safest place they could find, the men gathering to patrol in groups with any weapon that might serve against reanimated corpses, the saloons to stay open and dispense news and courage, in whatever increments they could, the jail to be manned by special deputies who were probably even now scrabbling for their tin stars and getting their folk to safety. They were good men, and steady, and hard from work.

  Better hope it’s enough.

  Still, he was the sheriff. He rode the circuit with the chartermage; the town’s defense was his concern. Keeping the peace was a matter of allowing the chaos to bubble just enough, but not overflow; keeping order during an incursion required something else.