Chapter 16
Sixteen
Sorcha
Our journey from the abandoned mission proved largely uneventful. No more portals or tick bites or major storms. My fever spiked again a few nights, but yarrow and creosote reliably brought it back down. We camped ten miles from Austin our last night before heading into town.
“I need you to look more pitiable,” Ansel said as I got dressed at camp that morning.
I’d taken to sleeping in just my shift—the linen we could scrub and bleach in the sun on a horse’s rump while we rode, which meant it didn’t cling to the fever smell like the cotton of my dress.
Ansel had destroyed my only wool one, along with my corset, that first night I’d gotten sick back at the Colorado River.
I’d chewed him out about it, repeatedly, on the trail.
My belly had barely started to grow, but the change in weight distribution and countless hours in the saddle were destroying my back without support.
And I was doubtful I’d be able to find a decent replacement in a backwater frontier town like Austin.
“She’s sweat out a fever, what? Eight times now? Including last night,” Neal replied. “And she hasn’t kept down real food in weeks. How much sicker do you need her to look?”
I rolled my eyes at Ansel and turned so Neal could fasten up the back of my dress.
“Perfect!” Ansel crowed. “Yes. That is the level of helplessness we are looking for.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Neal muttered.
“My options are limited here,” Ansel defended himself, tone growing sober. “We need to resupply. A warm welcome in town will help.”
Soon I was dressed and Ansel was fussing with my apron.
“Okay,” Ansel said. “You definitely look pale enough I can see why you don’t wear that color very often.”
Neal elbowed Ansel in the ribs.
“I mean . . .” Ansel backpedaled, but I put up my hand and cut him off.
“You’re not wrong.”
“Hair is appropriately pulled back but a little disheveled. That’s good,” Ansel said. “That’s what we’re going for. Apron makes you look further along than you are. Now when we get there just do that thing where you put your fist into your back?”
“When my spine hates me?” I dug my fists into my lower back, appreciating the relief as always. “Because, I don’t know, someone cut my corset instead of using the very clearly visible fastenings on the front.”
“You’re okay,” Neal soothed, kissing my head. “Don’t get agitated. It’ll make your fever worse.”
“Just like that!” Ansel enthused. “There’s the pregnant woman about to collapse. That’s what I promised them!”
“This is ridiculous,” Neal muttered.
“Right,” I said, “because I am a pregnant woman about to collapse. Which means this really should require no effort at all.”
“Just try to look sufficiently miserable,” Ansel said.
“I am miserable!”
Milkweed poked his little head out of my pocket and repeated, “I am miserable!”
“At least someone understands.” I chuckled as I tucked him safely up in the patch pocket on the bodice of my riding dress.
It was midday and peak heat when a bizarre, rancid smell began wafting from the fields around us.
I pressed my handkerchief to my face and fought down the urge to gag.
It worsened, and worsened, for what felt like hours until we suddenly came upon a big black heifer—dead and flayed and rotting in the middle of the path.
And cut into the flesh a dozen times, more, was the symbol of a human eye surrounded by an expanding spiral.
We drew up short and Ansel dismounted, nudging the corpse with the toe of his boot.
“That’s not an Inner Court symbol I don’t know about?” I asked. “Right?”
“That’s not a symbol I’ve seen anywhere in four hundred odd years on God’s green earth, lass,” Ansel replied.
“Could it have something to do with the portals?” Neal asked.
Ansel shrugged. “Could. Could be a different problem entirely. The thing with monster hunting is you never quite know ahead of time. We’ll see if there’s more. See if anyone in town has heard of it. Could just be a madman with a hatchet and too much time spent in the midday sun.”
I shuddered, pressed the handkerchief tighter over my face, and rode on.
We got to the city just before dusk. And found eight additional mutilated heifers along the road.
Austin was busy, dirty, and chaotic. Neal pulled me close against his side when we left our horses, and I subconsciously wrapped both arms protectively around my belly. Milkweed popped his little head out of my pocket and nuzzled at my throat, sensing the discomfort.
“I don’t think I like it here,” I murmured.
“We’ll get supplies and head out,” Ansel said. “Only one more week’s ride to Houston.”
“Will that be better?” I asked.
I understood the wisdom of relocation. I understood entirely why Ansel and Glen had pushed my father to get the Court out of Santa Fe.
I wanted resources. I wanted guards and a library and people who knew what the hell they were doing.
But the journey was wearing, more dangerous than I’d anticipated.
And with the added toll from the baby I was fading fast.
“Best hope so, lass,” Ansel replied.
“Ansel?” I asked.
“What is it, lass?”
“Do we have to stay in New York or Edinburgh? Or could we settle in Islay?” I asked. It was a stupid request, juvenile, emotion driven. But I was tired, desperate. I wanted the resources, yes. But I also wanted familiarity—and Glen was nothing if not familiar.
“It’s only a day’s trip to the Court outpost in Edinburgh,” Neal put in.
“Lovely then,” Ansel agreed with a smirk. “I’m sure your father will be thrilled to have dear Sorcha deliver her babe on the floor of his retirement cottage.”
I glared at Ansel and the amusement dropped instantly from his expression.
“Supplies then?” he suggested. I nodded, tapping Milkweed’s nose until he tucked himself out of sight again.
After a few minutes’ walk, we found a shop that was still open.
It was clean and polished, wooden counters, glass cases, upscale.
We had the money. We certainly needed the supplies.
I didn’t think much about it. So the man’s words hit like a physical blow as he squinted disapprovingly over the countertop. “We don’t serve vagrants.”
“Oh we’re not . . .” Neal tried to protest.
“I said we. Don’t. Serve. Vagrants,” the shopkeeper repeated.
“Leave it, boy.” Ansel put a hand on Neal’s arm. “Not worth the fight.”
It felt like hours before we found another shop.
How could this town have so many places to buy alcohol and so few to buy fabric and flour, I wondered.
The second shop was on a quieter street, in a largely residential neighborhood where most of the signs were in Spanish.
A bell jingled above the door as we entered, and I steeled myself for another rejection.
The store’s interior was packed to the brim with spices, provisions, and bolts of fabric.
Blessedly, I spotted a stack of already-sewn dresses resting on one end of the cluttered counter.
An older Mexican woman bustled out from her back stockroom and threw her hands into the air.
“Dios mio!” she said. “Someone get the poor girl a chair before she falls over!” The old woman clucked and fussed and grabbed a stool from behind the counter, setting it near the shop’s back wall.
“Sit,” she instructed, pointing at me. I willingly obliged. My back was killing me and I was still dizzy from last night’s fever.
“Stay,” I said, grabbing the cuff of Neal’s sleeve when he went to get up and make for the counter. “Let Ansel handle this. Please.”
Neal nodded and knelt down in front of me while Ansel pulled a list he’d scrawled out of his pocket.
“I think that’s enough standing up for today,” I muttered, head leaned back against the wall. Black spots bloomed at the edges of my vision. I was dehydrated—surely.
Neal took one of my hands in both of his—lips barely ghosting over my knuckles.
“You look a little better,” he offered.
“That’s not a high bar,” I replied. “I’m just worn out I think. You’re not really supposed to be on the run like this while growing a baby, are you?”
“We’re only a week’s ride from Houston,” Neal soothed.
“You’ll get a couple real night’s rest here.
And then, if what Ansel keeps saying holds true, it’s a train to New Orleans, then a train to New York.
Easy. We can prove your title’s legitimacy with the library there and then head to Scotland if that’s still what you want.
Da will be thrilled to have the Court close.
I promise. And you will love the libraries in Edinburgh. ”
“Will it be easier once we get to the train?” I asked.
“I’m not expecting miracles,” Neal said. “But trains are usually less strenuous than riding, and whatever happens I’m here to sort it out with you. Even if things are bumpy.”
“And the portals?” I pressed. “The slugs belching hellfire?”
“Slugs belching hellfire?” Neal asked.
I dug in the pocket of my dress until I found my father’s journal and pressed it open to that first entry about the monk and the portal and the hellfire slug.
“Slugs belching hellfire,” I repeated.
“And I thought the octopus was bad,” Neal muttered, then softened his tone before continuing. “We’ll handle it. I promise.”
He leaned in and kissed my forehead, one hand going to the nape of my neck and the other to my belly.
“And I promise one of these days I will get us a real hotel room all to ourselves and we’ll get a second attempt at our wedding night,” he whispered into my ear.
I chuckled, fighting down the flush of heat in my cheeks. “I will hold you to that.”
“I’d be shocked and disappointed if you didn’t,” Neal replied.
“Let’s get back on the road, kids!” Ansel shouted. “I have successfully outfitted us to look like proper citizens and I’ve got lots of extra food. Come on. Mules are waiting!”
I groaned when I got to my feet and let Neal tuck me close under his arm as we thanked the shopkeeper and followed Ansel back into the street.
“We need somewhere to stay,” Neal said, “and before dark.”
“There’s a half dozen inns here.” Ansel waved it off. “Someone will have room.”
The first inn we tried was on a pretty, upscale retail street. Austin Arms read the clean, blue-painted sign above the door. We stepped into the carpeted lobby, a few parcels still in hand, and were immediately met with a steely glare from the man behind the desk.
“No vacancies,” the innkeeper said immediately.
A row of keys hung on the wall behind him. Three were missing—seven still there.
“But you’ve got . . .” Neal tried to protest.
“Not for you!” the man snapped. “Now get her out of here before she makes someone else sick.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Ansel muttered as he opened the door and headed back into the street.
We found another inn quickly—this one rough and tumble, the paint peeling, the air reeking of smoke and bodies and stale beer.
“I’ve got plenty of rooms,” the innkeeper said immediately. “Cheap too.”
Ansel and Neal exchanged a skeptical glance.
“Can we see one first?” Ansel asked.
“Follow me,” the innkeeper said.
Ansel shuffled up the stairs, leaving me and Neal alone in the lobby. An older man, skin like cowhide, beer in his mustache, looked us over appraisingly.
“That your wife?” he asked Neal.
I tried to edge even closer, hiding my face in Neal’s chest.
“What’s it to you?” Neal snapped back with a scowl, hand going up to the back of my head.
“She got the fever?” the man pressed.
Neal didn’t reply.
“Doesn’t much matter,” the man muttered, seemingly to himself. “Pretty little thing. Lucky man.”
Neal grabbed me by the arm and marched up the stairs.
“Ansel, we’re leaving!” he shouted as soon as we reached the top of the steps.
“Right behind you,” Ansel agreed, emerging from one of the rooms. “No locks. Lots of mice. I think the mold has gained sentience.”
Back on the street I insisted they find somewhere we could sit down. Much more running around in this heat and I was going to faint. And that would really reduce our chances of finding somewhere to stay.
“You getting nauseous again?” Neal asked, crouching in front of me, one hand slipping behind my lower back and the other brushing a few strands of loose hair back from my face. I nodded, swallowing hard.
Milkweed popped out of my pocket again, chirping quietly, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
“We can’t make her sleep on the ground again tonight, Ansel,” Neal insisted.
“We’ll find somewhere,” Ansel soothed. “Just be patient. It’s a virtue. Remember?”
“If we have to be patient much longer she’s going to throw up in the dirt,” he mumbled, helping me back up.
The third inn we tried was small, tidy, and tucked back on a residential street near the church.
“Here’s hoping,” Ansel said as he pushed open the door.
“We don’t take guests after seven,” the innkeeper snapped before we could even ask for a room.
“Please,” Ansel said. “We’ve got money. We can pay double the rate if you want, we just . . .”
Before he could continue, an older woman, I could only assume the innkeeper’s wife, came out from the kitchen, asking who was at the door.
“What are you doing, Howard?” she asked, hands going to her hips.
“We don’t take guests after seven, dear,” the man said. “And look at them!”
“I’m looking,” the woman said, “and she’s pregnant.”
“So?” Howard asked.
“And they’re married.” The woman gestured to our wedding bands.
“So?” Howard pressed.
“And you’re turning them away?” the woman asked. “With her looking like she’s going to collapse any second?”
“But it—” Howard tried to protest.
“Give them the room at the back,” his wife instructed before turning back into the kitchen. “I’ll bring up some food and extra blankets. My word, Howard, you would’ve turned away the virgin mother too, wouldn’t you? Because it was after seven.”
“Thank you,” Neal said, dropping a handful of coins on the counter. “Really. Thank you.”