V
“Sir?” I called.
“I want to see the extent of the damage caused by his fire ammunition,” Moore answered.
And his— Gunner’s .
This can’t get any worse.
“But Fishback—” I protested loudly, racing after Moore.
“We’ll discuss that in private,” Moore said pointedly as Dawson opened the front door and he walked into the lobby.
I rushed inside, shoes squeaking on the floor as I followed Moore up the stairs. “Wait a moment—”
“And you’ll have time to explain that aether damage too,” he said without breaking stride.
Correction… this was worse.
“Aether,” I repeated, not quite a question, because Moore would chew me up and spit out the bones for even attempting to feign ignorance, but still. I came close.
“Because one of my most talented agents, a veteran caster with confirmed control of aether spells—he wouldn’t require the ownership and usage of a Waterbury, would he?”
Of course Moore recognized the weapon based on the wound pattern alone….
“No, sir,” I answered obediently.
“So consider—which floor, Hamilton?”
“Fourth.”
“So consider me very interested in your answer.”
I had literal seconds to formulate a plan, concoct a believable story, and somehow convey to Gunner that he needed to hide—although how I was going to pull off that last one without being a mind reader was beyond me.
I wasn’t angry at Gunner for shooting Mechanical Man, since, after all, he’d saved my neck by doing so.
But having to lie to Moore about what was so very clearly damage dealt by an illegal firearm, and when I was well-known for not carrying a weapon on my person at all…
. I grappled for one of my go-to half-truths, but my mind was churning up nothing but a scratchy hum, like a lightbulb about to pop.
My career was over.
I was going to be arrested for sheltering a wanted man.
Gunner’s neck would be in a noose before the first firework was shot off.
And it was all my fault.
I moved around Moore at the fourth-floor landing and stepped to my unlocked door.
“There’s something I need to explain, sir.
” I eased the door open. The parlor was empty.
Had Gunner heard our approach? I pushed it farther and invited Moore inside.
“About the wound track. Of course I don’t own a Waterbury. ”
Our shoes squelched loudly on the wet floor.
“Which is why—” Moore stopped speaking. He stared at the wall on our left, charred black with smoke stains near the ceiling. He reached out and pressed his fingertips to the wood. “Was this from all four bullets?”
I shut the front door. “No. He fired one at me first, which I deflected. The second shot was the remaining three bullets of the cylindered round.”
Moore looked down, shifted one foot out of a puddle, and motioned to the floor. “And I gather that this is from you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced at the dark interior of my bedroom, then marched toward it.
I opened the door to the water closet, but it was empty.
Which meant—dear God—Gunner was hiding in the bedroom.
I ran after Moore, the heels of my shoes slapping loudly against the inch of water underfoot.
He was already standing at the window, inspecting the rod yanked from the wall and then peering through the fogged-up glass at the fire escape.
I dared a look at my closet—the door was slightly ajar.
Moore certainly wouldn’t have a reason to go pawing through my clothing, right?
“There’s blood and cogs on the floor.”
“Oh. I mean , yes.” I moved around the foot of the bed to stand behind Moore. “He was wounded when he ran to the window, opened it one-handed, and climbed out.”
“Where he then fell to his death?”
“He overbalanced.”
Moore turned and looked down at me. “I’ve never known you to report a lie, Hamilton.”
I opened my mouth, but my throat had seized up before any words escaped. If only Moore realized…. “He attacked me,” I explained, in what I hoped was a cool and collected tone. “His death wasn’t intentional, but I was in immediate danger and reacted accordingly.”
The magic surrounding Moore responded to my explanation—a savage and pulsating flare-up. The energy that poured off him and encircled me caused the nerves in my left hand to spasm painfully, and it curled into an unintentional fist. I had to pull each finger back one by one.
“This is your last chance,” Moore said with forced civility. He pointed a finger at me. “The full story.”
I had prided myself on being a lawman since the day I’d received my badge, but it didn’t negate the fact that…
I lied. A great deal. Not about the law, mind you.
And not about my cases—at least, not where the finer details mattered—not because I enjoyed lying, but because my survival was dependent on being respected but ultimately forgotten.
Would Moore have understood if I sat him down and explained myself?
Perhaps. But our relationship—that of a director and senior agent—did not leave room to consider this option.
With Moore, he expected me to be black-and-white at all times, and… I….
I could have told the truth. I could have been the coward and turned Gunner over in exchange for the continued and carefully constructed existence I’d created. But even the mere notion of Gunner’s neck broken by a length of hemp in exchange for my black-and-white life was too much to bear.
So I took a slow, deep breath, squared my shoulders, and said with a gravity akin to my world dropping out from underneath me, “I have nothing further to report.”
I’d seen Moore angry before, had even been the reason for it on more than one occasion, but I’d never experienced the man well and truly pissed.
I hadn’t expected the sudden burst of magic around him, the smoke pluming outward from his body and clothing in the same way the sky blackened when my emotions were twisted and toyed with.
And I’d certainly not been prepared for having Moore grab a fistful of my coat and spin us so I was slammed up against the window.
“Don’t lie to me, Hamilton,” he shouted, ignoring the smoke and sparks growing between us.
A Waterbury was cocked, manufactured aether joining the already-chaotic magic atmosphere, and then the three barrels came into view—resting on the back of Moore’s head.
“Let him go,” Gunner said, voice low and alert.
Moore’s gaze darted to his left, his focus shifting from me to Gunner at his back.
Moore’s expression had changed. Gone was the anger and betrayal, replaced with a wariness as he mentally catalogued clues and narrowed the list of suspects who would be so bold as to put a gun to his head.
Moore let go of my coat, raised his hand as if to let Gunner see he was no longer a threat, but then spun, arm outstretched with a flame in his hand, pointed directly at Gunner’s face while Gunner still held his Waterbury extended, finger on the trigger.
The parlor radiators pinged.
Moore’s fire crackled.
I peeled my back off the frozen glass and skirted around Moore.
As I expected, my director recognized America’s infamous outlaw immediately, even if he sounded like he didn’t believe what he was seeing. “Gunner the Deadly?”
The corner of Gunner’s mouth twitched. “You must be Loren Moore.”
“I am.”
“You’re the reason outlaws don’t bother with the East Coast anymore.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Only for pleasure,” Gunner corrected. “Speaking of, do you manhandle all of your agents, or merely the ones you’re looking to bugger?”
I startled and shot Gunner a look. His expression was impassive, as usual. When I glanced at Moore, his face was an open book in comparison—surprise gave way to shock and then to alarm. Moore lowered his arm, extinguished the magic, and shifted his attention to me.
Dear God… I had been correct. Those goggles had been a gift meant to communicate a degree of romance.
Moore had, after a decade, attempted to gauge my tendencies and interest earlier that night, and perhaps, if I were learned like Gunner, I would have reacted accordingly.
But even if I’d truly understood his intentions back at the office, had trusted what my gut told me in that moment, what would I have said?
Moore was handsome, no argument there. He was successful.
Accomplished. Confident. Even the threat of magical danger due to caster bodies touching, or the potential complications stemming from him being my director—both would have been secondary concerns in my mind.
I’d have been excited to see where a tumble with Moore might have led.
If only I had known of his attraction before October.
Because while I made no attempt to lie to myself about what there was between Gunner and me—it was not a courtship, nor had there been any rules established regarding exclusivity—for as long as Gunner was willing to brave danger for me, I had no intentions of straying.
“Hamilton,” Moore started, uncharacteristic apprehension in his voice.
“Sir, allow me a moment to explain what’s going on.” I put a hand on Gunner’s still-extended arm. “Gunner, please.”
Gunner didn’t take his eyes off Moore as he lowered his Waterbury, spun the pistol, and holstered it under his left arm.
“I met Gunner while on assignment in Shallow Grave,” I said to Moore.
He blinked a few times. “You what ?”
“He was also in town to apprehend Milo Ferguson. So we agreed to a temporary partnership in order to obtain a common goal. In that time, Gunner had my back without question.”
Moore opened his mouth to protest.
“Sir, please—I’d be dead if it weren’t for Gunner. He put his life on the line and expected nothing in return.”
“You failed to include any of this in your report,” Moore retorted.
I nodded and had to consciously force myself to maintain eye contact with him instead of looking to the floor in shame. “Purposefully so.”