by C. S. Poe
“Shh….” He stood close, body all heat and hard muscle that I couldn’t ignore. I barely reached his shoulders. I was hardly bigger than most women, and this man was six feet of dominance towering over my slight frame. I wasn’t yet thirty and my brown hair was mottled with premature gray, while his, unkempt by sand and wind, was as black as the wings of Nevermore. He was everything I wished I was and never would be.
The silence of the room was too loud.
The air too still.
The cowboy rested his forehead against the door, listening intently. His breathing had evened out after the run, and due to our proximity, it caressed the side of my face. It smelled clean, an almost herbal undertone with hints of sweet and bitter.
Chewing gum—Black Jack.
Son of a—How could I have been so dense? Allowed myself to be so preoccupied by his face, his body, the lingering notes of something woodsy mingled with fresh sweat, that I never connected the clues?
It was so obvious.
The Stetson. The Waterbury pistol. The licorice chewing gum he was rumored to love so much.
Not a cowboy.
An outlaw.
I shoved him back. Hard. “Gunner the Deadly.”
He had a file with the Bureau due to his ownership of an unregistered magic weapon and frequent purchasing of highly illegal aether-laced bullets. But he was also the most wanted man in the United States. Every branch of law enforcement knew his record—over two-dozen counts of robbery, specifically of Wells, Fargo & Co. airships. There were also the thirty-seven murders to consider. (Although I will be honest and note that most of his kills included known gangsters in big cities and cowboys bullying small settlements. But those facts did not make his decision to seek justice without consideration of the law acceptable.)
Rumor had it that Gunner the Deadly had never once been shot.
Had never been caught.
And here I was, standing two feet away from him in a locked room. I couldn’t even calculate the odds of our predicament.
Gunner untied the bandana from around his neck and took a few steps to the window. He angled himself for a view of the route we’d taken down Applejack Row. “Your surprise tells me you aren’t out West for me, Agent Hamilton.”
“The latest reports put you in Tombstone.”
“I left. Too many Earps for my liking.”
“Too much law and order, you mean?”
Gunner turned around. His expression was there and gone, a flicker I couldn’t read, and then he might as well have been raw marble an artist had yet to take a chisel to. “I know a powder keg situation when I see it.”
I had nowhere to go, no immediate advantage for disarming and arresting Gunner with just this much distance between us, so I remained with my back against the locked door. “What are you doing in Shallow Grave?”
His face did that… thing again. Gunner’s overall expression was so impassive. There was no hint of emotion around his mouth. No smile, no grimace, no nothing. But then I saw it. A minute narrowing of his eyes. Calculating. “Magic and Steam, you said?”
I pulled back my coat lapel and flashed the badge on my waistcoat a second time.
Gunner took a few steps forward, moved around the bed, which sagged in the middle, and took a seat on the edge of the mattress. He snapped the bandana in the air, releasing a small plume of dust. He set it beside him, yanked his goggles over his head, and put those aside as well. Gunner leaned forward, rested an elbow on his knee, and studied me with those dark, piercing blue eyes. “You federal sort don’t come to the territories unless the situation is particularly grave. And it’s not to arrest me, which I must admit, wounds me, Hamilton.”
“My condolences.”
He straightened and put both hands on his thighs. “Hmm… I know why.” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder at the window. “A certain fellow… ‘silver and steam and a little magic in between.’”
I recognized the quote. Newspapers all over the country had picked it up after witnesses to the explosions in Baltimore reported Milo Ferguson screaming the phrase to panicked crowds.
“Tinkerer,” Gunner prompted.
“Milo Ferguson, yes. I’m here to arrest him.”
“That’s a shame, Hamilton.” Gunner pulled a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat, studied the face briefly, then turned to look out the window again, his profile highlighted in the dying light.
I took the bait. “Why?”
“Because I’m here to kill him.” So brutal. Ruthless. And said with all the calm and collected air of an educated man.
Gunner tucked the watch away and looked up. He wasn’t a caster—he had no inherent magical talent, of that I was absolutely certain. If I shifted my perception and watched the tendrils of magic in the atmosphere, the glittering waves ebbed and flowed harmlessly around him. Magic wasn’t attracted to him, didn’t light him up like a steam-powered streetlamp that any caster with a strong enough skill level would be able to pick up on. He was like what the Bureau hired to partner with their magic agents, because it was too dangerous for casters to work together. A bruiser, we called them. Someone big, powerful, relying on body and smarts to crack a case.
And yet, for a man with no spells of his own, I felt an influence in the way he stared at me. I rolled my shoulders and pushed back against his nonmagic.
Gunner broke the enchantment, like he’d snuffed the light that drew the moth, by saying, “Those were Ferguson’s—the Ten-Barrel Self-Propulsion Arachnids.”
“Rolls off the tongue.”
“Indeed,” he said rather dryly.
“So if they belong to Ferguson, why was the infamous Gunner the Deadly running away?”
The corner of Gunner’s mouth twitched. He unhurriedly rose to his feet again, approached, and forced me to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. “I came for Ferguson, not his army of steam machines.” Gunner unholstered his Waterbury.
I tensed, but all he did was show me the final round in the cylinders.
“I didn’t have a lot of time to prepare,” he explained, putting the weapon back. “When news of Baltimore reached Arizona, Ferguson was already in the territory.”
“Airship travel,” I confirmed.
“And of his own schematics,” Gunner continued. “Fast and private. I took what ammo I’d purchased in Tombstone and came this way.” He put a hand on his hip and struck a dramatic pose that I suspected was unintentional. “I should have had the element of surprise.”
“Certainly didn’t look to be the case.”
Gunner stared at me. His eyes were so sharp it felt like his gaze sliced deep into my flesh, broke my ribs, and exposed the grotesque blackness I kept tucked inside. The idea that this criminal could see—no. He couldn’t. This was a tactical move. Intimidation, nothing more.
“Somehow he heard I was coming,” Gunner explained after a beat. “I arrived this morning. These people are afraid. Ferguson is trying to take the surrounding silver mines.”
I furrowed my brow. “He intends to mine the land himself?”
Gunner’s expression didn’t change, but with that narrowing of his eyes, the little wrinkles in the corners, I suddenly felt as if I was being laughed at. “He’s testing its value in engineering.”
“And so you’ve decided to take justice into your own hands,” I concluded.
“We’ll all be better off when Milo Ferguson is six feet under.”
“That isn’t for you to decide.”
Gunner took another step forward. He was too close, overwhelming my senses with danger and heat and masculinity. “Should I instead leave this madman to a lone, unarmed special agent sent here from….” Gunner paused, and his eyes raked over me for clues as to where I called home. “A city boy, aren’t you? Not Boston. New York. You’re out of your element.”
I squared my shoulders. “I don’t need to carry a weapon, as you very well saw firsthand. And while we’re on the topic of my aptitude, Mr.—Gunner—the President of the United—”
That pissed me off even more, and I felt my skin prickle like a storm was rolling in. “I know you don’t find my person to be intimidating, but if you’ll pardon my bluntness, I don’t give a fuck. I have been an officer of the law for nearly a decade, and in that time, have apprehended some of the country’s worst criminals. Alive, I might add.”
Gunner smiled. It was startling to see such a sudden shift in his expression, and he wore the look well. “You haven’t apprehended me.”
“You’re next.”
A huff of air escaped Gunner, something close to but not quite a laugh. “Oh, I do like you, Hamilton.” He put his hand on the door beside my head and leaned in. “Perhaps we can work out a deal. Something mutually beneficial.”
Is he mocking me?
Taunting me?
Or… does he?
I swallowed hard, my Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. My face felt hot and my palms grew clammy. “I don’t—I’m not like that.”
Gunner’s expression glimmered, much like the snap and crackle of filament in the first steam-powered streetlamp installed on Millionaire’s Row six years ago. Would it ignite?—did I misunderstand his suggestion? The red globe bursting into luminosity—realization dawning on Gunner’s face. The glow of new technology—a light briefly shining inside me where no one was allowed to look.
But he said nothing of it. Instead, he lowered his head and whispered in my ear, “Let’s take Ferguson down together.”
I grabbed a fistful of his clothing with the intention of giving Gunner a good shake and shove, but I did neither. “Why in God’s name would I join an outlaw?” Luckily, my voice didn’t wobble.
“I’ve been working on my reputation for as long as you’ve been employed to undermine it,” Gunner answered. “And I don’t take kindly to having it steamrolled by the likes of Ferguson.”
“Are you jealous?”
“A man who jerks himself off after blowing up innocent women and children has no right to be compared to my caliber of outlaw.”
“Because you’re such a gentleman,” I spat.
Gunner didn’t break eye contact as he said, “You’re wrinkling my shirt.”
I glanced at my balled fist and gently—awkwardly—released my hold.
Gunner took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll admit this situation is bigger than what one man can handle. Will you do the same?”
My jaw ached, and I realized I was working diligently to grind my molars into oblivion. “He does seem prepared,” I admitted at length. “But what you’re suggesting… the enemy of my enemy is—”
“A temporary partner.”
“Certainly not friends.”
“Much too strong of a word,” Gunner agreed.
“Aiding law enforcement in this one endeavor will not negate your status as a wanted man,” I warned.
“Thank God.”
“And you must realize that I cannot pretend I never saw you.”
Gunner’s expression was blank, and yet I could see enjoyment twinkle in his eyes, as if I’d presented him with the most exciting game of cat and mouse he’d played in years.
What have I gotten myself into?
II
October 10, 1881
“You’re a real copper, ain’t you?”
I’d left Gunner to his own devices after agreeing to his business proposition—heaven help me when I tried to explain that decision to my director—gone downstairs, and paid for accommodations of my own. The woman who’d let us in through the kitchen door earlier deposited a meal of beef-and-potato stew along with a warm beer in front of me at a table pushed into a far corner of Bassett Lodge’s front entrance. The strategic view allowed me to watch the front door and older gentleman manning the counter, who might have been the father or uncle to this young lady, as well as the staircase and overhead hallway.
“Do you have another sort around here?” I asked.
The pretty woman pursed her lips and gave a noncommittal shrug. She had blonde hair coiled high on her head. I recalled an article published in The Delineator over the summer about simplicity in hairstyles these days and how the spiral bun was an uncomplicated affair that could double as a means to exaggerate the apparent height of a lady. I didn’t find the women’s monthly publication an exhilarating read, per se, but I did find women to be an enigma and quite difficult to interact with. The magazine at least provided me with a practical understanding so my daily exchanges were… tolerable for them.
“I’m a special agent.” I leaned back in the chair and flashed my badge.
“With those magic folks?”
“That’s right.”
“Which are you?”
I spared the bowl of stew a glance. Wisps of steam rose from the chunks of browned meat and wedges of potato. My stomach rumbled in anticipation. I suppressed a sigh and asked, “What do you mean?”
“I read in the newspaper about those sort. Some use magic. Some don’t.”
“Ah. I use magic.”
Her eyebrows rose. “May I see?”
“It’s not a parlor trick, ma’am.”
Her cheeks colored. “Of course. My apologies.” She turned and walked away from the table.
I picked up my spoon and stirred the meal.
“Sir?” The young lady returned to stand over me again.
Putting the utensil down, I asked with considerable effort, “What is it?”
“Are you here to help Gunner stop Tinkerer?”
As if the man had a sense to know when he was being spoken about, the door to Gunner’s room upstairs opened and he stepped out. We both watched him walk along the hallway and come down the stairs at a leisurely pace. He’d ditched the jacket and waistcoat and appeared far too comfortable in just braces and a loosened tie, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled back to expose forearms corded with muscle. Gunner spared a glance my way as he reached the ground floor, but that was it. He didn’t break stride as he made for the front desk.
I didn’t know what to make of that. Meanwhile, the woman ducked her head as he walked past us, another blush darkening her cheeks. The fact that we’d both been admiring Gunner’s assets, and only her attention was welcomed, made me painfully uncomfortable by her company.
I wanted her to go.
To leave me alone.
The way it was supposed to be.
But despite myself, I asked, “You’re not afraid of him?”
She raised her eyes, like she’d all but forgotten my presence. “Excuse me?”
“He’s an outlaw.”
“Yes, I know. But he—Gunner, that is—he’s stayed in town before. Ain’t never done nothing wrong. Keeps to himself, pays his bills, says please and thank you like his mama taught him.”
Just behind her, the older gentleman at the front desk, with a mustache so bushy that I couldn’t see his mouth, set a box of ammunition on the countertop. Gunner tugged his purple-tinted goggles on, picked up a bullet, and held it up toward the out-of-date gas lamps to examine in the illumination.
I directed my gaze to the lady once more. “He’s committed many terrible acts, ma’am.”
She fiddled with the sleeve of her dress for a moment. “Sometimes people have to do terrible things for the right reason, sir. World ain’t never been black and white. Gray ain’t so ugly a color.”
I ate my meal after she departed a final time. Not because I had much of an appetite anymore, but because I knew I’d come to regret the decision in the middle of the night when my growling stomach woke me from a sound sleep. It’d been a long day, I kept telling myself. Airship food outside of first class left much to be desired, and then the unplanned shootout on Boot Spur Street had spiked my adrenaline in a way I’d not anticipated. I needed a hearty meal and a few hours of solid sleep in a bed that didn’t rock with the motions of the sky, and I’d be ready to take on Milo Ferguson tomorrow.
Gray ain’t so u
gly a color.
No. I felt no sympathy for Gunner. At any time in his illustrious career, he could have approached the authorities and let us handle the criminals he’d taken out himself. There was nothing keeping him from the life of a concerned citizen. Gunner made very conscious decisions. He did not regret them.
That was black and white.
Gunner was still at the front desk. He’d asked a question, and Mustache solemnly shook his head. Gunner tried again, but the man seemed to double down on the bad news. Gunner tapped the polished wood with his strong, blunt fingertips, considering. Then he turned toward me.
Not a glance this time.
Not a once-over.
Gunner’s stare could nail a man to the goddamn wall. I felt stripped down. Naked. Those blue eyes cracked me open, like how a fissure in the earth opens under enough pressure. His look once again shined light inside me, and I knew—I just knew—Gunner was able to decipher the coded script on my soul.
There was danger in my truth being read—understood—so easily by this man. A wanted outlaw. He could try to blackmail me. Use it as leverage against me. But in spite of that, there was a warmth in my gut, like alcohol on an empty stomach. I adored the look he freely gave me. The attention. The awareness. I’d gone to the Bowery once or twice in my life. Not for sex. Nothing like that. I’d gone simply to be noticed.
Noticed in the way I noticed other men.
And it’d felt so good.
It’d felt like how it did now—with Gunner watching me.
I hadn’t realized the same of him earlier. After all, he was… everything I was not. A man like Gunner, so overtly masculine, so unequivocally dangerous—society didn’t whisper about him. He was a known loner, but never had I read a law enforcement file that suggested he was a loner because his sort of companionship might also be found on the Bowery. But there was no other explanation for the way he stared at me just then.
Gunner shook Mustache’s hand, collected the box of ammunition, and went upstairs.
As soon as Gunner’s door shut, I stood, pushed the chair in, and approached the front desk. “Excuse me?”
