The Damnation Affair

Chapter 4

Miss Bowdler’s Book of Charms For Frontier Living had been quite adequate so far, but Miss Bowdler’s Book For Schoolteachers had not prepared her for a ramshackle barn of a building still smelling of raw wood probably hauled from the distant, frowning mountains with a tiny outhouse tucked behind it like a secret. It had a bell, certainly, and a very new slate board. Fine gritty sand drifting over the floor, riding drafts that bore a striking resemblance to a maelstrom. The long rickety seats looked decidedly uncomfortable, and the desks sloped a bit. A rack of pegs for coats and the like, a boot-scraper near the door, a potbellied stove that would perhaps be beyond her powers to keep lit, and precious few windows added to the general air of “barn.”

But she essayed a bright smile. “This will do very well, I think. Was it much trouble to build?”

He gave her a look that suggested she was perhaps a trifle soft in the head. “Got to build everything, out here.”

Well, of course. Slightly irritated, she forced her fingers to unclench. “So it was trouble.” Ill-tempered of her, of course, but she had the idea manners were perhaps missing in this quarter of the country. Or if not, they were certainly lost on this inhabitant of said quarter. “I apologize.”

“Didn’t mean that, ma’am. Just meant, we were afraid you’d be offended. Not quite what a Boston miss might be used to.”

There are slums in our fair city, sir, that would put this to shame. Though she had never gone a-treading them. It was not the thing for a young lady; but Robbie had brought back bloodcurdling stories more than once.

In the absence of a clear trail to Robbie’s whereabouts, the least she could do was attempt the employment she had pursued and was expected of her.

Perhaps a peace offering to this uneasy man would not go amiss. “It seems solid enough. I am greatly heartened.”

“Thank you kindly.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. How had she set herself wrong with him? If he disliked her so thoroughly, why had he elected himself to show her this place? Mrs. Granger would have been a far better choice, being on the Committee of Public Works as she was, and a matron Quite Respectable to boot.

Abruptly, Cat realized she was alone with a man, miles from civilization, and she had not even asked for a chaperone. How forward did she appear? She took a few nervous steps away, her skirts making a low sweet sound, and a stream of golden sand creaked from the rafters as the wind shifted.

“Damn dust,” he muttered, swinging his hat. “Pardon, ma’am. It’ll be less thick in here after the rains. Roof’s sound, at least, and some of us will come out and stopper up any drafty bits before winter gets bad. We was fair excited about your arrival.”

Oh, good heavens, rain. If God is merciful, I might not be here at the advent of such an event. She tried another bright smile. “I am glad to have been anticipated. Now that I have some idea of the facilities, shall we—”

“I reckon I might need a dipperful. Well’s out front, ma’am. I’ll be back.” And he vanished out the front door with long swinging strides, dark hair askew and tinged with the ever-present golden grit.

Well, do as you please, sir, as long as you leave me in peace. She shook her head, then eyed the sorry collection of long desk-boards. Slates and chalk, certainly. Rubbing-cloths were in the desk. She spied a familiar shape under a fall of oilcloth and held her breath, twitching the covering aside with two gloved fingers and finding a very sorry-looking upright piano, twanging discordantly as she touched a yellowed key. Well, a tune-charmer could not be that difficult to find even here in the wilderness; if all else failed…well, she had played worse. It might do to teach some of the more promising students a little refinement.

Though they probably needed refinement here about as much as Cat needed the hair ribbons she’d brought. She had not thought much beyond gaining the town; she had expected Robbie to show his face long before now.

Well, I am possessed of a small independence, and this is not Boston. It is a start. She sighed, smoothing the covering over the wrecked hulk of the piano. How had it been hauled so far out West? she wondered. Shuttled on the railway, or bumping along on some prairie schooner, finally fetching up here? Had it been sent by dirigible from abroad, perhaps, and washed up in this inhospitable place? Flotsam of a sort, just as she may well turn out to be?

How on earth would she find Robbie? Even here at the edge of civilization a woman did not go wandering about a town looking for a man. Perhaps she might engage someone to take a message to him—but his last missives had been rather striking in their insistence on secrecy and that Cat must not, under any circumstances, enquire openly about him.

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.