In The Service Of The Queen (The Gunsmith Book 1)

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In The Service Of The Queen (The Gunsmith Book 1) Page 5

by C. K. Crigger


  But I couldn’t touch the gun, or even the blanket wrapping, so something made this one very uncommon. My hands froze in midair.

  He had to see all my scars, leftovers from all the times I’ve slipped with a tool or burned myself with chemicals. While something of a joke that my skin looks like it’s been through a meat grinder, I have nice, long fingernails. Not that he noticed their appearance. The tremble is what drew his attention.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. Irons?” he asked. “You’re shaking.” He had a soft, faintly southern accent so the Ms. got carried out. My last name sounded something like “Arnes.”

  “What could be wrong?” I countered. My hand clenched into a fist.

  My fingers knew they didn’t want to touch that gun.

  “I don’t know, ma’am. That’s what I asked you,” he reminded me.

  “Now there are any number of things which can cause tremors: lack of food, fatigue, illness—nervous disorders. Any of those sound like what ails you?”

  I’d say he hadn’t forgotten the scene he’d walked in on a while earlier. I wondered what my brother and my father had been telling him. He’d provided me with an excuse for the shakes, however, and any one of them no more than the truth. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, and fighting off a rape, then killing the rapist can cause a bit of fatigue. Maybe even cause a disorder of the nerves if a person were to let herself think too long.

  “I believe I am a little tired,” I said. “I must’ve been working too hard.” The explanation sounded stupid even to me, although I rounded my eyes and tried to look sweet and innocent.

  “Um, yes. Could be. I’ve heard about a person sweating blood before, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen the phenomenon.” Caleb cocked his head to one side, waiting to see how I’d reply. He stood in front of me, hiding both my face and his from my father’s sight and he spoke quietly, so his voice did not carry beyond our space.

  I’m afraid the allusion went over my head at first. “Sweating blood?”

  “Why, yes, Ms. Irons. If no one else present was bleeding, and you don’t have a wound yourself, those drops of blood had to come from somewhere. So I figured what I must be seeing is sweat. Right?”

  Angry with myself for taking his bait, I couldn’t stay sweet and innocent looking for long. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

  Caleb had green eyes—not hazel, not gray, but true bright green. I noticed particularly because those eyes narrowed at me, and one eyebrow lifted.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me just exactly how you did get that blood on you.” He made a statement, but I knew he was asking a question.

  I shook my head, then jumped when his pager went off. He ignored the beep as long as possible, more intent on solving the puzzle I posed than answering the summons.

  “Pardon me,” he said, looking down at the message flashing across the readout. He swore under his breath. “Looks like I’ve got an emergency. Hell. Now Andrew is out with the flu. Mind if I use your phone?”

  We found it buried amongst the tools and parts of the Sharps, so all I did was point, then leave him in comparative privacy while I went to speak with my father and Scott. I collapsed onto the stool in front of the stove, basking in the heat almost as gratefully as Gabriel hound dog, who had dropped off to sleep again. I bent down to pat him and he gave a little wuff, thumping his tail without opening his eyes.

  Despite Dad’s quelling headshake, Scott whispered, “Way to go, Boothenay. How are you going to explain this?” He had picked up on the same clues as I had. Caleb Deane didn’t seem the type to let the situation he’d walked in on pass without getting an explanation.

  “I’m not even going to try,” I said. “Why should I?” An optimistic statement if I’ve ever made one. I felt certain the only reason Caleb hadn’t pressed hard already was because of the obvious precariousness of my father’s health. I took Dad’s hand, and he squeezed, so I knew he was glad I was back.

  “Sorry,” Caleb said, coming over to us. “I’m afraid I’ve got to go.

  Will it be all right if I leave the gun with you for now? I can come back in the morning if that would be convenient, and we can discuss what needs to be done then.”

  “That will be fine, Mr. Deane,” I said, wondering why I didn’t simply tell him to take his gun along with him right now. That I didn’t want to talk to him tomorrow. Anyway, did he mean speak about his gun, or to satisfy his curiosity about today? And why did I find it so hard to say “no” to him? Well, maybe tomorrow I’d find those words easier.

  “Caleb,” he said. “Call me Caleb.” He turned to go.

  “Don’t you want a receipt for the gun?” I asked, standing up to write one out. Weariness dragged at me, so the simple act of rising to my feet was an effort.

  He looked at me, smiling a little. “I don’t think so, Ms. Irons. I don’t think you’re going to forget who I am, or about this gun of mine.”

  He turned to Dad. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Irons. No excitement, now, hear me?”

  He left me staring after him. “Not forget him? Just what does that mean?”

  Scott snickered. “I do believe our Boothenay has made a conquest, Dad. I think Mr. Caleb Deane is going to keep on until he finds out she is a witch, but I think he’s intrigued, too.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped. “Good God. All Caleb Deane is to me is a customer who brought in a gun. Just like I haven’t had hundreds, maybe thousands of customers in the last ten years. Anyway, I’m not a witch.” For the first time, I found I truly resented the appellation.

  “Uh-uh. This time I’m the seer,” Scott said. “This is different.”

  “What did you guys tell him anyway?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry. We covered for you,” Scott assured me. “Pretty damn good story, too, if you ask me.”

  Dad grinned a little. “Not bad for spur of the moment inspiration.”

  “So?” I asked impatiently.

  “Oh, I just told him what he was seeing is a red-colored oil. Not blood at all.” Scott sounded smug. “I said you accidentally pinched an oil can too hard when you were lubricating the gun and the oil sprayed up into your face. Then Pop acted like he was about to have another heart attack, so the discussion ended.”

  I smiled at my brother. “That is a pretty good story.” I let the smile fade. “Too bad he didn’t believe a word of it.”

  “He didn’t? Oh, well. I tried.” But Scott didn’t feel the same concern I did, or suffer from the remaining dregs of magic, and he went off whistling.

  Brothers never change.

  Neither do fathers, thank goodness, at least not in their wisdom, or in their view of the world and the rightness of things.

  Dad and I are early risers, even during the winter when there’s nothing much to get up for. If I’d really been a witch who, according to tradition, is most at home in the midnight hours, I’d have been up all night and slept half the day. Actually Scott is the one who would rather sleep the morning away and stay out partying half the night. I wonder what that makes him?

  I had the coffee brewing, the paper collected from the doorstep, and Gabriel Hound out doodooing in the backyard when Dad joined me in the kitchen. We skimmed headlines and made desultory conversation over our first mug of coffee while I tried to think how to tell him the real story from yesterday.

  “Wish I’d had money in Microsoft,” I said, stuck on the financial page while I pondered. “I’d have made money hand over fist when the stock split.”

  “Uh-huh.” He scanned the business section I handed to him. “Too bad a person’s always a day late and a dollar short. Been better to get in early.”

  My talents do not run along the lines of self-help. Apparently the family is exempt from any psychic intervention as well, so it looked as if we’d never be wealthy if we depended on my advice or financial wizardry. I hoped Dad was better in the advice department. I badly needed help in solving my problems because life, of late
, had become more complicated than I felt I could handle.

  I didn’t taste my corn flakes at all. Too busy thinking up a way to ask Dad for counsel.

  “Doesn’t what happened to me yesterday make you curious?” I’d cleared the bowls and put the milk back in the fridge before I figured out he wasn’t going to say a word. “You haven’t asked me a thing about the gun or the blood.”

  “Oh, I’m curious, all right,” Dad said. “But I told you once I didn’t want to know how you did whatever it is you do. When I gave you the grimoire, remember?”

  “Angel book, Dad. It’s an angel book. A grimoire is more likely to teach about evil deeds and Mom’s book is nothing like that.” I frowned, annoyed with his attitude toward my powers, such as they were. Had Mom had to put up with this sort of thing? “And yes, I remember what you said. I didn’t plan on telling you how I do what I do—I don’t know myself. But I thought you might want to hear the circumstances.”

  This conversation didn’t seem to be going just right. He should be asking for details, not avoiding all mention of my adventure.

  “I know you’re troubled by these experiences, Boothenay,” he said.

  “I can see events must be getting more and more violent if I’m to judge by the amount of gore you come back wearing. The thing is, I don’t know if I could help you if I tried.”

  “Tell me,” Scott said, poking his head around the door. He looked thoroughly awake, which was almost unbelievable considering my brother and the time of day. “I want to know—I’ll even try to help.”

  I made a face at him. “I figured you’d be pestering me last night. I must say I’m surprised you’re up this early, though. Am I to blame?”

  Scott assumed an injured expression. “Give me a little credit, Booth. I’m not so insensitive I couldn’t see you had a rough time yesterday—wherever you’d been—so I didn’t think I should push then.

  Besides, I had a date. Sonja!” He rolled his eyes.

  Dad grunted.

  “Aha,” I said. “Looks like I owe her one.”

  “But I’m going to push now, Boothenay, even if Dad won’t. What if Doc or another of our customers had come in while you were in the middle of your trance, or dream, or whatever you call it.” Scott didn’t smile now.

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it a dream.” I didn’t smile either. I poured myself a refill on the coffee and got Scott a mug without being asked, even stirring in a spoonful of sugar.

  Scott took his coffee. “Whatever you say. You still haven’t answered my question. What will you do if a customer walks in?”

  “They won’t. I’m sure they won’t. I think the power knows when it’s acceptable to come to me.”

  Scott snorted with derision. “You’ve been lucky—so far. What if that changes?”

  I didn’t have a clue. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

  “You’d better pray that day never comes, little sister, for the sake of the business, let alone your—our—reputation. Do you know that you fade to almost nothing, right down to a shadow of yourself? I think that one of these days you’re going to completely disappear. I want to know something about what happens, aside from you looking like a spook.

  Aren’t Dad and I entitled to know about the event, if we have to contend with the aftermath?”

  “Scott,” Dad said, a touch of warning in his voice. “Take it easy, son.”

  “No, he’s right, Dad. And while Scott may want to know what, what I want to know is why. Why me?” I drew a deep breath. The sound, the feel of McSylvie as he died was still too fresh in my mind to be comfortable.

  “This is what happened.” And, while I propped myself against the kitchen counter for support, I told them the story of Beth.

  “My God,” Scott said quietly.

  We all were quiet. Dad had gone white.

  “A big change from Mr. Booth and the bank robber, worse luck.

  Not nearly as much fun.” The telling had shaken me so much a quiver of my lip had to serve as a smile. I had never admitted to my part in the murder/suicide of Mr. and Mrs. Frye, even though with that story, I had been like a ghost—there, yet not there. That had been more mental than physical. This was both.

  “No, I imagine not,” Dad said. “Although as I remember, you weren’t so sure, at the time, that the bank robbery was fun.” Finally, he stood up. “Can you stop, Boothenay? Now you’ve found out this isn’t just a lark?”

  “Other than never touching another old gun, no, I don’t think I can.”

  Dad looked me in the eye and smiled faintly. “Then the choice is elementary, child. As I believe you know.”

  “Gunsmithing is what I’ve always done,” I protested, shocked to my soul. “I’ve planned my whole life around it.” Oh, I knew what he was getting at. “What else can I do?”

  Dad shook his head. “You’re the one to decide, child. Either find a new profession—or let the magic take you and trust there is a higher purpose.”

  Chapter 4

  I stared into my coffee cup since I didn’t want to meet Dad’s eyes.

  He made everything sound so simple, as if I could just drop the profession I’d spent my whole life learning. But it wasn’t simple. Even if I didn’t need to consider gunsmithing my livelihood, the magic’s compulsion was hard to resist. I only wished the requirement of blood was not such a strong consideration.

  My books, mother’s grimoire among them, had warned me of the sacrificial aspect involved in all magic. I just hadn’t expected the spilling to be so gruesome. I’d thought of drops of blood like those drawn from a pinprick—not the blood of a person’s life.

  “Jeez, Boothenay, what’re you going to do?” Scott sounded shaken as he asked the question we—me most of all—wanted answered.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I saved myself a headache by declining to answer, because the realization hit me that I didn’t want to deny the magic.

  Gabe started baying just then, a distraction I welcomed. I looked out the kitchen window to see what had him fussed and caught sight of Caleb Deane stepping out of a Ford 4 x 4 pickup new enough to still have the temporary license sticker taped in the window.

  “Oh, my gosh! He’s here already.” A glance at my watch told me the morning had nearly gotten away from us. Scott exclaimed, and ran downstairs to open the shop and let Caleb in while I threw on jeans and a flannel shirt.

  For no particular reason, I chose my Sunday-go-to-meeting jeans and my very best flannel over a turtleneck jersey.

  “I’ll have to go down and start a fire in the stove,” Dad grumbled, acting put upon by the small chore. “It’ll be cold in the shop this morning, and all Scott’ll do is turn up the electricity. That boy’s never going to learn to make fire.”

  He hadn’t volunteered to start a fire since he’d been home from the hospital, preferring to leave such details to me. He must be getting well, I thought. At last. Maybe I could lose the idea I’d been doing him irreparable harm.

  “I guess I’d better warn you,” I said, though I hesitated to bring the matter up so soon after yesterday’s experience. “Mr. Deane’s gun starts a fierce buzz in my fingers and in my head. I know you and Scott like him, and probably want me to accommodate him, but I think I’ll have to refuse his job. I don’t know for sure. The sensation may have been leftover from McSylvie and Beth, but…”

  “You’ll do as you want to do,” Dad said. “Or you’ll do as you must.”

  “Sheesh.” I rolled my eyes. “The more I wish for down-home advice, the more you come across as the ancient mystic. And I thought I had the strange powers.”

  I followed him down the stairs, ready to snatch him by the shirttail if he started to stumble. Today he took the steps without faltering, although I heard him blather something about not being mystic, just ancient.

  “G’morning,” I said to Caleb.

  “’Mornin’,” he greeted me, his green stare moving slowly from one end of me to the other before turning his attenti
on to Dad. “How you doin’ today, Mr. Irons? Feeling a little stronger? Your color’s better.”

  “I believe I do feel a tad stronger.” Dad sounded surprised.

  I was relieved to find my impression of his improved zest wasn’t just wishful thinking. It looked like the more adverse the circumstances, the more Dad thrived, as if his heart had needed the jolt my situation caused. I didn’t think he’d require Caleb’s professional services today.

  I must admit Caleb Deane interested me. For one thing he had just the style and looks I like in a man, a fact I only now realized as I watched him with Dad. Caleb was friendly without being overpowering, had confidence in his own abilities, and was apparently willing to help his fellow man. He was not too tall, not too short, and lean, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He wore his dark brown hair a little longer than I generally prefer and had a small gold hoop in one ear.

  I wondered what Dad thought of that, since I’d heard him say on more than one occasion that jewelry was an indulgence for women. I’d thought so too, until now.

  What in the world is going on today? I wondered, struck by how out of character everyone was acting. Everything had become skewed. First Scott appeared at our door at an hour I don’t expect to find him up, let alone ambulatory; Dad was feeling as chipper as a baby squirrel after spending months just dragging around; and I got a buzz just thinking about a man I’d barely met. Where had this Caleb Deane come from, a stranger in possession of his own brand of magic? Common sense, if I had any, hinted that he was a complication I didn’t need.

  This realization didn’t stop me from wanting to find out more about him.

  Scott had started the electric heater on my side of the shop before he went over to his own section. With the fluorescents glowing overhead and halogen bulbs illuminating the workbench surface, I considered the time had come to conduct a little business. Past time.

 

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