The Damnation Affair (the bannon & clare affairs) Read online

  It was a puzzle, and one Miss Bowdler’s books could not help her solve.

  A faint scratching caught her attention. She frowned, glancing about. The entire barnlike structure was dead quiet, and she was abruptly conscious, again, of being miles away from anything even resembling civilization.

  The back door. It rattled slightly. Perhaps Mr. Gabriel? The well was at the front of the building, a ramshackle affair but one she suspected was a mark of pride, just like the repaired gate at her own dwelling. Cat swung her closed parasol, decidedly, as she made for the back door between rows of mismatched board-desks. It was bad form to carry it inside; but there was no stand, and she did not wish it to become stained.

  The door rattled again, groaning, and a fresh flurry of scratching filled the uncanny quiet. Was it an animal? Or perhaps Mr. Gabriel was playing some manner of foolish prank, seeing if the Boston miss could be frightened?

  Cat’s chin rose. Robbie could hoax much better than this, sir. The lock was a pin-and-hasp, sparking with a charter-charm; her charing, tucked under her dress, warmed dangerously. So, it was a prank involving mancy, was it?

  Oh, sir, you have chosen the wrong victim. She drew the pin, her left hand closing about the knob, the parasol dangling from its strap. She jerked the door in, a small lightning-crackle charm fizzing on her fingers, for she had often dissuaded Robbie by flinging light directly at his eyes—

  The rotting corpse, its jaw soundlessly working and grave-dirt sluicing from its jerking arms and legs, plowed straight through the door, its collapsed eyes runneling down its cheeks in strings of gushing decay, sparks of diseased foxfire mancy glowing in the empty holes.

  * * *

  She screamed once, a sharp curlew-cry that he might’ve taken for a girl seeing a rat if not for its ragged edge of sheer terror. Gabe couldn’t remember how he got up the stairs and into the schoolhouse; he didn’t even remember drawing his gun.

  What he remembered ever after was the sight of Miss Barrowe, her parasol cracked clean in half from smashing at the head of an ambulatory corpse, deadly silent as she scrabbled back on her hands, her feet caught in her skirts and breath gone, her face white. And the corpse, of course, chewing on air emptily, greedily, making a rusty noise as its drying tendons struggled to work. Some of them were right quick bastards and juicy, too, but this one had been dead awhile, and his first shot near took its head clean off. It folded down in a noisome splatter, and Miss Barrowe had gained her feet with desperate, terrified almost-grace. She kept blundering back, knocking into the edges of the long three- and four-person desks on each side, and if he didn’t catch her she would probably do herself an injury.

  Are there any more? Dammit, Russ, the borders were solid this morning!

  “Barrowe!” he barked, but she didn’t respond, just kept going. So it was up to him to move, and she nearly bowled him over with hysterical strength. The impact jolted a hitching little cry out of her; she whooped in a breath and was fixing to scream again. He clapped his left hand over her mouth, the gun tracking the flopping corpse on the floor. Now he could smell it, dry rot and damp decay, a body left in the desert for a little while. Someone had fallen to misadventure or murder, been buried unconsecrated, and the wild magic had seeped in to give it a twisted semblance of life.

  Its naked heels drummed the raw floorboards, and Miss Barrowe tried struggling. She was probably half-mad with fear.

  He didn’t blame her.

  “It’s all right.” He wished he sounded more soothing. “Ma’am, just settle down. I’m here, there ain’t no need for fuss.”

  Amazingly, that took some of the fight out of her. She froze, her ribs heaving with breaths as light and rapid as a hummingbird’s wings. Her lips moved slightly against his work-hardened palm, and he told himself to ignore it while he eyed the open door, its hinges creaking slightly as the wind teased at the slab of wood. It had been locked with a charm-pin—what the hell had happened?

  Well, first things first. “Now,” he said quietly, “you’re perfectly safe, Miss Barrowe, I ain’t about to let no creatures gnaw our schoolmarm. You can rely on that. Nod if you hear me.”

  She did nod, precisely once. Her breath was a hot spot in his palm, her lips still moving soundlessly. There was a scorch to the right of the door, still crawling with mancy—she must have thrown something at the corpse. Looked like her aim was put off by the thing busting through the door.

  That was interesting. So she had a full-blown Practicality, did she? She could have found a decent living in one of the cities back East; why on earth would a girl with a skill like that want to come here?

  That’s a riddle for another day. “Now, I’m gonna take my hand away, and you can faint if you want, or whatever it is ladies do in this situation. But you can’t go screamin’ or runnin’, because that will just complicate things. Nod if you agree.”

  Another nod. Well. He’d see if she was lying. He peeled his fingers away from her mouth, conscious of the fearsweat on his nape and the small of his back, the smell of horse and exertion that clung to every man out here. She smelled of rosewater and fresh air, sunlight and clean linen and the flesh of a clean healthy woman. Her hat was askew, and she reached up with trembling fingers, her broken parasol dangling sadly from a thin leather loop around her wrist. Her fingers moved gracefully, settling her hat, and she took one step to the side. Gabe twitched, but true to her word, she didn’t run or scream. She simply swallowed very hard, lifting her chin, and that spark was back in her dark eyes.

  “Good.” He almost said good girl, as if she were a frightened horse needing soothing, stopped himself just in time. “Did you open the door?”

  “I th-thought it was a p-prank.” She sounded steady enough, though her color was two shades whiter than a bleached sheet. “M-my b-brother…”

  So you had a brother. Maybe you’ll take to the little demons we’ve got for children out here. He waited, but she said nothing else. He cleared his throat, and she jumped nervously. He half-turned, his back to her as soon as he judged she was unlikely to bolt, and eyed both open doors. “You heard something?”

  “S-scratching.” Another audible swallow. The corpse ceased its jerking, but you could never tell with wanderers like this. Even with half their head gone, they were still dangerous. “R-rattling the door.”

  That’s interesting, too. “Charter’s still solid,” he muttered, more because he fancied she needed another voice to steady herself than out of any real need to say it out loud. “Was this morning, I rode the circuit myself. This place was cleaned three times before we laid the foundation. Huh.”

  “If you are s-suggesting I—”

  Well, she was brighter and braver than he gave her credit for. “You ain’t got no bad mancy on you, sweetheart.” I’d smell the twisting a mile away. It’s what I do, curse me and all. He pushed his hat farther up on his forehead, wished he could just decide which one of the two doors was the worse idea. If the corpse had gotten its teeth into her, he would have had to put her down, no matter if she had enough of a Practicality to shield her from the worst effects. “Just stay still a minute while I—”

  “Sir.” Dangerously calm. “You shall address me as Miss Barrowe, thank you.”

  Oh, for the love of… His hand twitched. The gun spoke again, deafening, and the shadow in the door didn’t duck. That’s a bad sign. “Stay here.” He launched himself for the back door, worn bootheels cracking against the boards, clearing a desk in a leap he was faintly amazed to think about later, and out into the bath of dusthaze and glare that was a Damnation afternoon full of the walking dead.

  Chapter 5

  Crunches. Howls. Terrible sounds, and gunshots, spitting crackling mancy and thuds against the walls. Cat stood locked in place, trembling, staring at the body on the floor, her gloved fingers working against each other. Walking dead. Here. Oh, God.

  The graveyards were well-policed in Boston, and bodies properly handled. Still, sometimes the more amenable of the wandering dead we
re set to work—supervised, of course, but used for brute and drudge tasks. There was a Society for Liberation of the Deceased, but Cat’s mother had always sniffed at such a thing. Liberation indeed, she would say. Next they shall be wanting franchise. And her father would chime in. Though how that would differ from the usual ballot-box stuffing, I cannot tell. Come, Frances, speak of something less unpleasant.

  She had watched as they put the true-iron nails in her father’s palms, but she could not bear to see such an operation performed on her mother. Nor could she bear to witness the other appurtenances of death—the mouthful of consecrated salt, the branding of dead flesh with charter-symbols, the sealing of the casques. Thankfully, the Barrowe-Browne name, not to mention the estate’s copious funding, meant her parents would not be set to drudgery but instead locked safely in leaden coffins inside a stone crypt, with chartermages making certain of their quiet, mouldering rest.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, do not think on that!

  Cat squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness made the sounds worse. So she opened them wide, and counted dust motes in the air. Why she did not find a spot more conducive to cowering and hiding was beyond her, unless it was the sheriff’s queer certainty.

  Stay here.

  Said very decisively, the gun smoking in his hand, then he had been gone, moving faster than she could credit.

  If this was a prank, it was a very good one. The body on the floor was certainly none too fresh. Would someone cart a corpse all this way, and charm it, too—a dangerous occupation, to be sure—all for the sake of a laugh? Not even Robbie would go so far.

  Though there had been the episode with the frogs, long ago in their childhood. And their dry-rusty dead-throat croaking. Robbie’s Practicality was just barely acceptable in Society, and their father had more than once reminded him never to allow it rein outside the house. Especially after the poor frogs, the nursery full of the stink and…

  Oh, I wish I had not thought of that.

  A shadow filled the doorway. She had to swallow a scream, but it was merely Mr. Jack Gabriel, hat clamped on his dark head, his eyes narrowed and his hands occupied in reloading his pistol with quick, habitual movements. She supposed he must do so often, to be so cavalier during the operation.

  “You can move now,” he said, mildly. “Don’t think there’s more, but we should step lively back closer to town.”

  “Is this…” She had to cough to clear her throat. “Is this normal, sir? I cannot be expected to teach if—”

  “Oh, no, it’s not normal at all, ma’am.” His eyes had darkened from their hazel, and his gaze was disturbingly direct. “Matter of fact, it’s downright unnatural, and I intend to get to the bottom of it. You won’t be setting foot out here, teaching or no teaching, until I’m sure it’s safe.”

  Well. That’s very kind of you, certainly. “That is a decided relief,” she managed, faintly. “I am sorry for the trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, ma’am. You’ve a good head on your shoulders.” A high blush of color—exertion or fear, who knew—ran along his high, wide cheekbones.

  For a single lunatic instant she thought he was about to laugh and tell her it had all been a prank, and she was, in Robbie’s terms, a blest good sport. But his mouth was drawn tight, he was covered in dust, and there was a splatter of something dark and viscous down one trouser leg.

  “Thank you.” She tried not to sound prim, probably failed utterly. And who wouldn’t sound a little faint and withered after this manner of excitement? “I don’t suppose you, ah, knew the…the deceased?”

  He actually looked startled, his gaze dropping like a boy caught with his fingers in a stolen pie. “Can’t say as I looked to recognize them, ma’am.”

  “Oh.” She found the trembling in her legs would not quite recede. Her throat was distressingly dry. “I suppose you must have been…yes. Busy.”

  “Very. You’re pale.”

  I feel rather pale, thank you. “I shall do well enough.” She took an experimental step, and congratulated herself when she did not stagger. “Returning to town does seem the safest route. Shall we?”

  There was a dewing of blood on his stubbled cheek. Where was it from? “Yes ma’am.”

  Cat decided she did not wish to know precisely what the stains on him were from, and set off for the rectangle of dusty sunlight that marked the front door, her bootheels making crisp little clicking noises. The sheriff caught her arm, his grimy fingers oddly gentle.

  “Just a moment, Miss Barrowe. I’ll be locking the back door, and then you’ll let me go through that’un first.”

  Oh. “Yes. Of course.” Please let’s not dally.

  “Just you stay still and don’t faint. Don’t want to have to carry you over my shoulder.” He paused, still gazing at her in that incredibly odd manner. “Would be right undignified.”

  “That it would.” She clasped her gloved hands, her heart in her throat and pounding so hard she rather thought a vessel might burst and save the undead the trouble of laying her flat.

  What a charmingly gruesome idea. Use that organ of Sensibility you so pride yourself upon, Cat. Behave properly.

  The trouble was, even Miss Bowdler’s books, marvelous as they were, had nothing even remotely covering this situation. She decided this fell under Extraordinary Occurrences, and checked her hat. An Extraordinary Occurrence meant that one must take care of one’s person to the proper degree, and simply avoid making the situation worse.

  Her gloves were in good order, though her parasol was completely ruined. Her dress seemed to have suffered precious few ill effects from scurrying across the floor. A few traces of sawdust, that was all.

  She found the sheriff still staring. “Sir.” It was her mother’s There Is Much To Be Done tone, used whenever something had gone quite wrong and it was Duty and Obligation both to set it right, and it was wonderfully bracing. “Do let’s be on our way.”

  At least he stopped staring at her. “Yes ma’am.” Another touch to the brim of his hat—and by God, must he wear it inside? It was insufferable.

  He approached the body cautiously, grabbed it by the scruff of its rotting shirt, and hauled it outside through the back door. It went into the sunshine with a thump that unseated Cat’s stomach, and despite his shouted warning, she fled the barnlike schoolhouse. She leaned over the porch stair railing, and she retched until nothing but bile could be produced.

  * * *

  He wished the wagon wouldn’t jolt so much. She was paper-pale, trembling, and had lost damn near everything she’d probably ever thought of eating. She clutched at the broken stick of the parasol like a drowning woman holding on to driftwood. Damp with sweat, a few stray strands of her hair had come free, and now they lay plastered to her fair flawless skin. He wished, too, that he could say something comforting, but he settled for hurrying the horse as much as he dared.

  He’d lied, of course. There hadn’t been just a few undead. He’d stopped counting at a half-dozen, and there was no way a single man could put down that many.

  Not if he was normal. And Jack Gabriel had no intention of letting anyone think he was otherwise. Not only would it cause undue fuss among the townsfolk, but it might also reach certain quarters.

  The Order did not often give up its own, and he suspected they would be right glad to know his whereabouts.

  Her charing-charm glittered uneasily. His own was ice cold, and it should have warned him long before the undead came close enough to sense a living heartbeat. Which was…troubling.

  Not just troubling. It was downright terrifying, and he was man enough to admit as much.

  Had it happened, then? Had he lost his baptism? Did grace no longer answer him?

  Loss of faith was one thing. Loss of grace was quite another.

  She swayed again as the wagon jolted, her shoulder bumping his. Did a small sound escape her? He racked his brains, trying to think of something calming to say. Or should he just keep his fool mouth shut?

  “Mr.
Gabriel?” A colorless little ghost of a voice. Did she need to heave again? It was unlikely she had anything left in her. And she was such a bitty thing.

  “Yes ma’am.” The reins were steady. He stared ahead, most of his attention taken up with flickers in his peripheral vision. If there were more of them, they would cluster instead of attacking one by one, and that was a prospect to give anyone the chills.

  Even a man who had nothing to lose.

  They won’t get you. He decided it wouldn’t be comforting at all to say that to her, and meant to keep his lip buttoned tightly.

  “Thank you. For saving my life.” She stared straight ahead as well. The tiny veil attached to her hat was slightly torn, waving in the fitful breeze. The heat of the day shimmered down the track, and the good clean pungency of sage filled his nose.

  It was a relief. At least he didn’t smell like walking corpse.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” As soon as the words left his mouth he could have cussed himself sideways. He could have said, It weren’t nothin’, or even, You’re welcome. But no. My pleasure? Really?

  They’d be lucky if she wasn’t on the next coach to the train station in Poscola Flats, retreating to Boston. And that thought wasn’t pleasant, if only because of how that bat Granger would complain, and the rest of the fool Committee of old biddies as well.

  No, it wouldn’t be pleasant at all.

  His stupid mouth opened right back up. “What I mean to say, it’s no trouble. No trouble at all. Wasn’t about to let no corpses get their teeth in our schoolmarm.”

  Well. That was from bad to worse. Plus, he noticed as he glanced down, there was muck on his pants from the last corpse he’d put down, steel blurring into its throat and its head blasted off with a bullet and a muttered Word. It was rubbing against her pretty skirt, and there was nothing he could do about it.