Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Neal
Itried not to pace the whole time Sorcha was bathing.
It didn’t work. I’d been walking the same ten-foot strip of bare wooden floorboards for half an hour, gun in hand, when Ansel burst in without knocking, catching me with my back to the door.
I whirled on Ansel in an instant, pistol cocked and leveled and ready to fire.
“I come in peace,” Ansel muttered.
“Sorry,” I huffed in reply, holstering my weapon and forcing myself to stand still.
“I brought food,” Ansel offered, “so we can have dinner. That is, unless you plan on shooting me first.”
“Who’s getting shot?” Sorcha asked, emerging from the bathroom, wet hair clinging to the fabric of her nightdress.
“No one,” I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Ansel needs to learn how to knock on doors.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the civilized one, Ansel?” Sorcha chuckled, sitting down on the trunk at the foot of the bed and taking the box of food Ansel handed her. “Booking us first-class tickets and opulent hotels and complaining about my clothes?”
She opened the brown paper package, didn’t even glance at what was inside, then shoved it back into Ansel’s lap and bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I heard her dry heaving near instantly.
“I should have expected that,” Ansel said bluntly. “I’m gonna throw these out. You want to see if we have any rations left over from the desert?”
We’d reached Houston almost a week ago and offloaded most of our supplies before boarding the steamboat to Louisiana.
But I managed best I could. I was a Steward.
This was, finally, something in my job description.
I tossed a bundle of dried venison and a half-full can of coffee in Ansel’s direction then grabbed our last store of dried apples and hard oat biscuits for Sorcha.
I knocked on the bathroom door. No response.
“You okay?” I asked.
“No.” Sorcha’s reply was muffled.
“Can I come in?”
“Please.”
I opened the door and found her leaning back against the tile, eyes closed, taking slow, deliberate breaths.
“I found you something for dinner,” I said, sitting down next to her. “This has been pretty reliable.”
“I hate it here,” was all Sorcha said by way of reply.
“Me too,” I agreed, pulling one of her hands away from her face and putting a biscuit into her palm. “Now eat. Big healthy baby, remember?”
“And if I throw this up?” Sorcha asked.
“It’ll be my fault, but we’ll make Ansel deal with it,” I replied, hoping I could get her to at least crack a smile.
“Fine,” Sorcha agreed.
“I’ll sit up the whole night,” Ansel offered, “then you two will be rested tomorrow.”
“You sure?” I asked, shrugging off my jacket and boots. Sorcha was already in bed, dozing.
“I’m sure,” Ansel said. “Just give me your pistol. I don’t need you getting startled and trying to shoot me again.”
I just snorted in response. But I handed Ansel the gun.
“I’m keeping our knives,” I muttered, tucking my own pocketknife and Sorcha’s hunting knife under the pillow.
I settled into bed next to her and let Sorcha tuck herself up against my chest. I was too wired to sleep but tried to let the calm, even pace of her pulse and breathing lull me into something close to relaxation.
Then she shifted a bit, mumbled something into my shoulder.
“You alright?” I asked softly.
“I want to go home,” she said, voice barely audible.
And that just about broke me. I took a deep breath, trying not to shudder on the exhale, trying to keep up a calm front for her.
Because there was nothing I could do. We had to prove Iksura’s claims about the Outer Court title wrong.
We had to settle somewhere with resources.
Sorcha and Ansel had to investigate the portals.
I couldn’t take any of those burdens from her—no matter how desperately I wanted to.
“Me too,” I said gently, “but you’ll like Scotland.”
“Promise?” Sorcha asked.
“Promise,” I replied. “There’s so many sheep.”
“I like sheep,” Sorcha mumbled, groggy.
“Now sleep,” I instructed. “Just sleep.”
It was freezing. The air was dry. And there was a heavy, dead weight in my arms. I wasn’t in New Orleans, not in Houston either, not on the steamship.
I was back in the Sangre de Cristos, Sorcha’s body clutched up against my chest.
But something was off. Something was wrong.
She was cold in my arms. And she was still. Too still.
Something wet, hot, and sticky leaked onto my hands where they were clasped behind her back, and I startled, shifting her to see. My stomach dropped as I beheld the three gunshot wounds clustered between her shoulder blades, leaking blood.
The wind picked up. Lightning cracked overhead.
No.
It wasn’t lightning.
A portal.
A portal that opened and revealed not an eldritch demon but the man who’d tried to kidnap Sorcha back in Houston, rifle in hand, face split open with a horrifying smile. I tried to scream, tried to do something. But I was paralyzed. I couldn’t even take a real breath.
And then.
I startled awake.
It took a moment to get my bearings, eyes scanning the dark wood paneling, faded oriental carpets, oddly gaudy chandeliers, and overall air of gloom.
Ansel had a lamp lit by the settee in the corner, but he wasn’t there.
Instead, he crouched by the side of our bed, watching.
I raked a hand over my face, trying to decide if the look on Ansel’s face was one of pity, amusement, or contempt.
I then ran a hand along Sorcha’s back where she slept next to me, feeling her warmth, feeling her breath. She was fine, I reassured myself. She was fine.
But I had to check. So I pulled back the fabric of her nightgown, hands tracing along the bare skin over her spine. No scars. No marks. No wounds.
She was fine.
We were all trapped in this hellhole of a city.
But she was fine.
“You scream like that again you’re gonna wake her up, lad,” Ansel said, tone dry and sardonic.
I took a deep breath and tried to slow my racing heartbeat.
“You going back to sleep?” Ansel asked. “Or you want to sit up and keep watch with me?”
“She’ll sleep better with me here,” I replied near automatically.
“Not if you have another fit like that she won’t,” Ansel muttered, returning to his place on the sofa.
“Shut up, Ansel,” I mumbled, laying back down, pulling Sorcha’s warm, still-breathing body into my arms, and trying to sleep.
Sorcha reacted first. I felt her shaking me awake moments before the crackling, snapping sound of a portal opening split the air.
A bright flash filtered through the curtains.
The air felt electrified, like lightning was about to strike.
Ansel was already on his feet, holstering weapons and grabbing his coat.
I expected screaming. The sound of running footsteps out on the street.
But the cadence of the city, carrying up from the streets below, didn’t change.
It remained quiet. Eerily composed. Soft voices.
Horses walking. The sound of music in the farther distance.
We heard the portal close. And still no reaction. Nothing.
“Did no one else hear?” Sorcha asked.
“No one else reacted,” Ansel clarified.
“That’s definitely worse,” Sorcha muttered.
“Come on, you two,” Ansel said. “Up. Now.”
“What? In the middle of the night?” I asked.
“The city doesn’t seem to acknowledge night and day,” Ansel said, “so might as well make some progress. You two gonna get back to sleep after that?”
“But she needs to sleep,” I mumbled. Ansel glared and I didn’t argue further.
“What’s going on here, Ansel?” Sorcha asked as she dressed.
“That’s what we need to find out,” Ansel replied, voice low, dangerous, professional.
And in an instant I felt it. It was still Ansel. Certainly. But this wasn’t the man who’d awkwardly shopped for a maternity corset in Austin, who’d joked with the old soldiers at a guard post in the Texas desert, who sent letters to an Ironmoot friend after they’d hunted a bigfoot together.
This wasn’t Ansel our friend and mentor.
This was Ansel O’Faelan, the Martial Envoy of the Outer Court. Ansel O’Faelan who’d killed a man with his bare hands on a steamship in the middle of the Gulf not a week before.
It was like a switch had been connected. And it was utterly terrifying.
There were patrons in the lobby, some sipping drinks, others reading the paper. The bellhop with the occult amulet still pushed carts of luggage up to rooms. But the sky outside was dark.
I checked my watch—two fourteen. I tapped the case, shook it.
“Is it broken?” Sorcha asked, something almost like hope in her voice.
“No,” Ansel replied, tone still dark, steely, unyielding. “Come on. Outside. We’ve got work to do.”
I shot Sorcha a brief glance and she nodded up at me. Clearly she’d caught the stark change in Ansel’s demeanor as well. I squeezed her hand in reassurance, then nodded toward Ansel and followed after.
Fog hung in the streets, curling in the gutters and along the sidewalks.
There were people out—too many people for this time of night.
A young boy shined shoes, working silently but smilingly, eyes glazed.
An older woman stood outside a bakery shop, writing mechanically on a chalkboard sign.
Two young women strolled, arm in arm, afternoon dresses damp in the midnight mist, giggling about something.
A porter unloaded cases from a truck. Then stopped when it was empty, turned around, and loaded them back on again.
“This is wrong,” Sorcha whispered, gripping my hand like a vise.
Ansel was three steps ahead of us. Eyes scanning the city like a bird of prey. The mist thickened as we walked, forming swirling eddies even though the air was dead still. It clung to objects, tracing outlines of people, animals, buildings.
And it smelled.
Under the normal scents of a city—animals, gas lamps, bread, damp wood, and liquor—there was something else. Something rancid—like meat left out in the heat too long. I felt Sorcha suppress a gag. I grabbed a handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it over her face.