It was a moment’s work to mount the steps, a trifle more to take a long considering look at the mancy pinning the thing. No use rushing.
It looked odd, and his mouth thinned. He shook out his left hand, keeping his right away from a gun with an effort. A bullet wouldn’t end this misery.
He closed away the moaning wind and the falling dark. The sun was a bloody clot in the west, its light dipping and painting Damnation in vermilion. The thought of the schoolmarm at the foot of the stairs wouldn’t go away, so he breathed into it. Let it fill his head, and relaxed.
I release you.
His left-hand fingers made a curious, complex motion. It was not quite charter-mancy; nor was it sorcery. A trace-map of golden veins lit the flesh of his fingers, and he saw the knot holding the tiny soul into violated flesh. Sometimes the best response was to unpick the strands carefully, loosening one a fraction, then another.
Then there were times like these.
I release you.
His fingers tensed, the golden light casting dappled watershadows on the roof and floor of the porch. He had a moment to hope she had her eyes closed—this would create all manner of fuss and undue questions if she saw grace upon him instead of plain mancy—before he jabbed his hand forward, a softly spoken Word resonating with hurtful edges as it sliced the knot of bad mancy clean through.
I release you.
False-iron popped blue sparks, and the sodden little rag of fur and meat and splintered bone sagged. His left hand, a fist now, flicked down as if he were casting salt. Fine golden grains of pure light showered over the thing, and the blot was cleansed. A brief burst of fresh green scent, like new-mown hay, washed away on the breeze.
For others, I may do, by Grace. Amen.
Grace was never in short supply. Faith, though, was far rarer than the gold they dug and panned for. And he was—was he?—oddly relieved that grace had not left him.
It ain’t grace, Gabe. It’s…her.
His spurs rang on the steps, and found Catherine, her eyes tightly shut, hugging herself and cupping her elbows in her hands. Tears welled between her lashes. He had to try twice before his throat would unloose enough to let him speak. “It’s done.” Gabe’s chest clenched around something solid and fiery, thrust under his ribs. “Aw, no. Don’t cry.”
“I am very sorry,” she whispered. “I am trying not to. Li Ang.” She opened her eyes, blinking rapidly and dashing away a tear on her cheek with one gloved hand. “We must find her.”
I didn’t mean…oh, Hell. He bent to grab her satchel, but she was quicker, and straightened with it clutched in tense fingers. “Catherine—”
“Please don’t. Don’t.” She brushed past him for the corner of the house, obviously intending to sashay around to the back door in defiance of all good sense.
“Stay behind me, you idiot,” he barked, and could have slapped himself on the forehead.
“Then hurry.” Like a whipcrack, her pert little reply.
But he was already past her, checking the corner and drawing his right-hand gun. His left hand tingled, the odd pins-and-needles sensation he remembered from his Last Baptism right before his vows. Funny how it never went away.
Some things pursue a man, Jack. You know that. “More haste, less speed.” The side of the house was as innocent as a newborn babe. He cursed inwardly at the thought. Russ hadn’t caviled at giving a Chinois child a charing, so at least that was all right. But still.
“The baby.” As if she’d read his mind. “Dear God.”
“Probably fine. Li Ang ain’t no fool. Bet she’s got the house locked up tight.” But there might be another little present waiting at your back door, pretty girl, and that is not a happy thought.
“Sir?” Breathless. At least if she fainted now it would save him the trouble of explaining himself.
“Shh.”
She stayed silent, then. There was a rattling, and the back door opened, the stoop dust-scoured and charm-cleaned.
Li Ang peered at them, her son clutched to her chest. She was shaking, and gabbling in her heathen tongue, and Gabe was right glad to hear it. Catherine actually flung her arms about the Chinoise girl, and the baby squalled between them.
He took the opportunity to get them both inside and the door shut tight, then went straight to the house to the front to take care of the carcass.
His hands shook, but not with fear.
Oh, no. Not fear at all.
Chapter 16
“Bad,” Li Ang said. “Baaaad.” She clutched at little Jonathan—she called him Jin, but there had to be something written on the charing certificate, so he was now Jonathan Liang Barrowe, may God have mercy on them all. Mother would die, and Father might even lose his hallowed temper, but Cat was past caring. It was a proud name, and might do even a Chinoise a fair service.
“Yes, but all’s well.” Cat sought for a patient, soothing tone. The kettle chirruped, heating water for tea, and she forced herself to keep her eyes wide open, staring at charm-sparking against the metal. “Mr. Gabriel is here.”
Odd, wasn’t it, how such a sentence could be so comforting. As if she were a child, and this a nightmare banished by a parent’s sudden presence.
Except Jack Gabriel was not in the least parental. He was something else. She was far too exhausted to find the proper word.
Little Jonathan burbled a bit, but he had ceased wailing. Which was very nice, now that she thought about it.
It seemed she only blinked, but then the kettle was boiling and she set about making tea. If she focused on the pot and the leaves, the water at precisely the right temperature and the cups arranged just so, perhaps she would not think of the little thing on the porch, screaming as some variety of dark mancy robbed it of death’s comfort.
Who would do such a thing? My God.
The back door squeaked as it ghosted open, and Li Ang inhaled sharply, as if to scream. But it was merely Jack Gabriel, his eyes incandescent under the shadow of his hatbrim.
That was like saying it was merely a hurricane, or merely an earthquake. Something about him filled up the entire kitchen, made it difficult to breathe. Maybe it was the feel of his fingers in her hair, or his broad chest against her cheek, or the way he’d stood, solid and steady.
She kept her eyes down, and noted with some relief that her hands were steady as well. Her gloves lay neatly on the counter, and one of them was stained near the wrist. Ink, and she should attend to that soon before it set so deeply even a charm wouldn’t remove it.
Shh. Don’t look. Easy there. And a curious comfort in the midst of her fear.
Perhaps she should ask the sheriff about Robbie. But trust no one, her brother had written more than once.
And, the law in this town is worse than the lack of it.
The sheriff was saying something. She concentrated on pouring. Tea would brace her. Tea solved quite everything, or at least, so Miss Ayre had firmly believed. Cat was shaken with a sudden irrational urge to write to her old governess and ask her help. Miss Ayre would set all this to rights.
Miss Ayre had gone her quiet way years ago, once Cat was too old to need a governess, and their correspondence had stopped after news of Miss Ayre’s marriage to a man in Europa. Quite a rich man, too, her mother had sniffed, and there was no more said.