by Lish McBride
“Val.” He laughed, but kept his eyes closed. If he could just get a short nap—
“Don’t force me to make chicken noises. It’s undignified.”
He opened one eye. “Well, now I want to see that.”
Val cleared her throat. “Booooooock.” She sang the sound, slow and operatic. She thumped a fist against her chest and sped up. “Bock-bock! Squawky-bock bock!”
Tevin laughed, pulling his smaller cousin into his arms and pressing his cheek against the top of her head. “I love you, you addlepated loony.”
Val squeezed him back. “Is that a yes?”
“As if I’ve ever been able to say no to you.” He shoved her off the bed. “Let’s go put the coffee on.”
* * *
• • •
“You’re a cheat.” The man spit on the ground, his saliva and tobacco spattering out in an interesting pattern. If Tevin twisted his head exactly right, it looked like a bunny. He kept this to himself as the man’s cronies laughed like he’d said something clever. The man’s statement was both right and wrong. Tevin had been counting cards, which was technically cheating. They hadn’t caught him, though. They were accusing Val, as she was the one with the side irons.
Cards had gone well, Tevin playing and Val chatting up the dancing girls, but the men had lost heavily. They had also drunk heavily, and one of them had noticed the fine pearl-handled side irons that Val carried in the worn leather holster on her hips. Tevin suspected the men weren’t overly bright to begin with, but when you added in the rotgut they’d been drinking, they lost all good sense. They’d decided that Val was just another fairyborn noble with more funds than brains, assuming her pistols were just for show. It was when they’d swapped cards for the shooting range that things had gone downhill at a regrettable speed. The men had lost more coin than they could afford to lose, and Val was surly, as she’d lost the pretty girl sitting on her knee, because the girl knew better than to head to the target range in the first place.
Val sighed, popping open the chamber of one of her pistols and slipping new rounds in. Tevin caught the mage script on the copper jacketing—firecracker rounds. Not only would they hit the target, but they’d make quite a ruckus while doing it. Val was annoyed. And from the sneer on the spitting man’s face, he wasn’t in the mood for words. He was in the mood for fists. Tevin loosened his stance, getting ready for the inevitable.
This wasn’t always the way it went—usually Tevin could smooth things over. Val was the talent, he was the charm. Tevin couldn’t shoot worth a damn, but his family had spent a lot of time and resources making quite sure that he was charm incarnate. But the spitter was drunk, angry, and not listening, and if he wouldn’t listen in the first place, Tevin couldn’t use his gift.
Val flicked her wrist, snapping the chamber back into place. She glared at the man and raised the pistol to the side, aiming it at the yellow heart of the bullseye. She fired. The round hit the enchanted target with a loud pop, indicating that she’d hit the blue ring outside of the yellow eye. The man laughed, but Tevin knew that was Val’s calibrating round. He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket, grabbing his leather sap. Like Val, his eyes never left the spitting man or his cronies.
Val adjusted and fired. The bang and whistle of the firecracker round rang loud and clear. Bullseye. She stepped forward and fired in rapid succession down the line of targets, each pop of the pistol followed by the staccato sound. Bullseye, bullseye, bullseye, bullseye. She stopped. Pop. Then the telltale puff of air as the spent rounds hit the dry earth. Val reloaded and snapped the chamber back in again before holstering it. She tipped back the flat rim of her hat.
“The shooting range is spelled against sharpin’, you know that. Or perhaps you don’t. I can’t tell how deep your ignorance lays. But you accusing me of being a pistol sharp seems mighty convenient, seeing as how you owe us some pretty big coin.”
The man’s face turned red, and he sneered. “You and pretty boy here accusing me of something?”
She rested her hands on her hips. “I was implying, rather forcefully, that you’re a coward of the worst sort trying to escape his debts, so yeah, I suppose I’m accusing you of something.”
Her words weren’t a surprise, but inwardly Tevin groaned. Another brawl meant pretty soon they wouldn’t be allowed at this tavern, either. At least they were outside this time. It also meant bruises, so he would hear about it from his parents. No one wanted damaged goods.
The man swung and Val ducked, Tevin jumping in from behind to hit the back of his head with the sap. He knew already that the fight would be short and brutal, and they likely wouldn’t win. Two against five, and the five were grown men well into their thirties. They’d recently celebrated Val’s eighteenth two months ago, making her not quite a year younger than him. Technically adults, but hardly filled out like the men in the brawl. Val might be a wicked shot, but she was the size of a minnow. Some of the men were bloated from liquor and slow living, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t throw a punch. Still, he backed Val automatically. Single-minded undying loyalty will do that to a person.
One of the men grabbed Tevin by the neck, tossing him to the ground and knocking the sap out of his grip. He hit and rolled, getting a mouthful of dry grass for his efforts and barely missing the follow-up kick. Unfortunately, he rolled right into a kick from the other side. It caught him in the ribs, and the pain radiated out. Another boot came his way and he grabbed it, shoving backward until the man lost his balance and fell.
He stood, ducking a punch and slamming his fist into someone’s gut before spinning and taking out another man’s knee. There was a satisfying grunt of pain, but the movement had left him open, and someone took advantage. A meaty fist grabbed his collar and lifted. A grin split the spitter’s face, and it was a right ugly sight. Out of the corner of his eye, Tevin saw Val crawling between one man’s legs as he tried to grab her by her belt loops.
Slowly, and with great relish, the spitter drew back his fist. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
“I reckon you might,” Tevin wheezed, his hands grabbing onto the fist for leverage. “But not nearly as much as I’m going to enjoy this.” Tevin swung his legs up, surprising the man holding him. The sudden weight made him drop his arm. Tevin used the distraction to punch the man in the gut. He grunted in pain, his grip going loose, causing Tevin to fall flat on his back, winded.
The crack of a pistol cut through the air, and everyone stopped midswing. Tevin tipped his head back, still trying to breathe, and caught sight of the sheriff and her constable. The sheriff was a tall woman, handsome rather than pretty. Tevin liked her a great deal, despite the fact that they usually met under similar circumstances. The constable was blond and boyish looking, but Tevin knew from experience that he was older and wiser than his looks. It didn’t do to discount the constable.
“Sheriff Mulroon,” Tevin wheezed. “Constable Wright. Fine weather we’re having.”
Sheriff Mulroon crossed her arms, but Wright kept his pistol out just in case. Tevin knew from past interactions that Mulroon usually had Wright pack stunning rounds, but there was always a first time for things, and he didn’t want to press his luck. They were firm, but fair, and he and Val would simply have to ride this out.
Val offered Tevin a hand, pulling him out of the dust. They all looked a little worse for wear—several bloody noses, bruised faces; one of the men was holding his sides, while another spit out a tooth, the poor bastard.
The spitter started to argue his side, but the sheriff cut him off. “Afraid I don’t care much right now why you all saw fit to disturb the peace, just that it stops. Val, Tevin, you know the drill.”
Val tapped the rim of her brown telescope hat, which she’d rescued from the dirt, and Tevin did the same with his bowler before dusting himself off and making his way to the jail. He’d lost two buttons off his vest, and his shirtsleeve had a tear in i
t. Val didn’t look much better. The other men started to follow suit, all except the spitter.
“I knew it! I knew they was sharpin’!”
Mulroon tilted her head, a few of the black curls from her ponytail escaping around her face. It made her look soft, which was misleading. Fair, yes. Soft? There was a reason she was sheriff.
“What are you blathering about, Denton?”
Denton, the spitter, puffed out his red cheeks at her tone. He looked like an angry squirrel. “Why else would they know the drill?”
Wright, finally holstering his pistol, snorted. “Because these two draw trouble like flies. Val here is a crack shot. Why would she need to sharp, you big galoot?” He cuffed Denton on the back of the head. “Now, get going. We got a nice, cozy cell with your name on it.”
* * *
• • •
The prisoners left the jail one by one, either when Mulroon and Wright felt they’d cooled off to a reasonable degree, or when bail was posted, depending on the charges. Val, Tevin, and Denton were last, Denton being kept in a separate cell. He’d blustered and yelled at first, but had settled down during the last hour into a quiet sulk.
Val stretched out over the bench, her hat tipped down to cover her eyes.
“You mirror your parents?” Tevin asked.
Val grunted. “My father asked if he should set up an account here and save himself some time. Wiring funds is a pain. My mother pointed out that the time it took gave me opportunity to reflect on my poor decision-making skills. My sister laughed so hard, I thought she might actually wet herself.”
“But they’re paying your fine?”
She side-eyed him. “They’d pay your fine too, if you’d let me tell them you were here.”
“As long as they see us as good influences, you can stay. If I’m always your jail buddy?” He spun his bowler hat in his hand. “I’d rather not take my chances, thank you.”
Val looked like she wanted to argue, but kept her trap shut for once.
Tevin rolled his shoulder, trying to loosen the building ache. The fight had left him sore and stiff, and sitting on the hard plank wasn’t helping. “Mine won’t get me until they need me. My father probably sees this as a fine way to not pay for my meals and upkeep for a few days.” He settled in close to Val. Might as well take advantage of the quiet cell.
Tevin’s stomach was grumbling and the sun had dipped on the horizon before the front door to the jailhouse opened and Mulroon walked in, Wright a close shadow behind her. They didn’t look happy, which set Tevin’s alarm bells ringing. Val’s family had already agreed to pay her fines, so either someone awful had come for the spitter, Denton, or—
“Get up, my precious darling.” Brouchard had a handkerchief pressed beneath his nose, his eyes wide. The jailhouse didn’t smell like roses, but it hardly warranted his father’s reaction. But his peacock of a father was always a little on the dramatic side. Now he was choosing to play the doting papa, which sent Tevin’s hackles up.
Tevin and Val rose slowly, a quick exchanged glance telling them they were on the same page. Something was wrong. When the rest of the DuMont clan poured in, Tevin felt a heavy dread settle in his stomach. It didn’t take three people to post bail.
“Greetings, Father.” Tevin stood up, brushing his vest and pants, straightening out the wrinkles. “Amaury. Kate.” Amaury nodded, and Kate smiled, tight-lipped. Only Brouchard carried on like his heart was breaking to see his son in jail.
There was no getting around the fact that his family was handsome. Brouchard was green eyed and trim, his thick lashes casting him into a category labeled as “beautiful” and “pretty.” He looked almost unearthly and either inspired glorious sonnets or filthy limericks, depending on the poet.
Amaury stood behind him, several inches taller, lean and tough-looking. He was a specter in black, from his duster to his boots; the only color showing was the dark chestnut of his hair. Amaury didn’t care much for hats. Or smiling. His brother absorbed the world through eyes the fierce golden brown of a bird of prey.
Kate had the same wavy chestnut hair and eyes, but lacked her sibling’s height and icy façade. Kate hid her thoughts with a lively expression, but a mask was a mask, no matter what it was made from. Pretty and cunning creatures, all, but in features, Tevin had the best of them. It wasn’t conceit, simply a fact that his parents had drilled into him since he hit puberty.
His father faked a sob. “My jewel, I cannot stand to see you in such dire circumstances. What would your mother say?”
She would box my ears for getting caught. Tevin kept his mouth shut. His father liked the stage to himself, and Tevin didn’t want to ruin his performance.
Val joined him at the bars, her stance wary. She wasn’t sure what game was being played yet either, but she didn’t care for it. “Uncle. Cousins.”
“Sheriff, you must release them at once. Family emergency. My wife—” Brouchard choked on another sob. Kate patted their father’s back while Tevin looked at Amaury. Over the years Tevin had become adept at reading his brother. Something in Amaury’s eyes spoke of exasperation.
Tevin got it then. They needed Tevin for some reason, but were also trying to get out of paying any bail or fines. Mulroon and Wright weren’t stupid. They may not have known Brouchard’s past, but they knew on some level he was a criminal, and didn’t like him.
Tevin gripped the bars. “Sheriff, I understand that we disrupted the peace and all—brawling in your lovely street. Val and I will both sign a writ conceding guilt. My word of honor that the fines will be paid in due course.”
The sheriff snorted. “If I let you out, I also have to let him out.” She jerked a thumb at Denton, who was currently snoring away in his cell.
“If we’re fast and quiet,” Tevin whispered, “we won’t even wake him. He was plenty drunk earlier. You might have several peaceful hours.”
She grimaced and waved at Wright. He took out his key ring and opened their cell door. Brouchard continued to look like he was a breath away from swooning, but somehow managed to be quiet about it.
Val and Tevin followed the sheriff to her desk, where Wright handed Val a piece of paper and a fountain pen.
“Careful,” Mulroon said. “It leaks.”
Val quickly dashed off her writ, conceding that they’d disrupted the peace and were woefully sorry for it. She signed it with a flourish, her cursive lettering perfect and looping in a way that told a tale of fine and expensive tutors. When she was finished, she handed it to Tevin, who read it quickly and added his own signature, slightly bolder but no less neat than Val’s. Then he handed the pen back to Wright. “Thank you both for your understanding.”
Mulroon looked them all over, obviously smelling that something was off about the whole situation, but with nothing to go on, she simply sighed. “Out of my sight, you two. I don’t want to see you back in here for at least a month.”
Val and Tevin agreed, and the whole family exited with alacrity.
As soon as they were out of the jail, Brouchard waved them into a waiting hack. This hack was large, the carriage big enough to fit all of them. A small steel box sat where a driver would perch in a normal carriage, the mage constructs leashed to the front giving only the barest impression of horses. Brouchard pushed a copper into the opening of the box. “Grenveil train station, please.” He glanced at Val. “I assume you’re coming?” When Val nodded sharply, he sighed. “Five passengers.” Then he added a second copper.
They all piled into the waiting carriage, the hack not pulling into the street until all five of them were seated.
Before Tevin could ask any questions, his father tossed him a small brass object, the light glinting off the metal as it flew. Tevin caught it and waited until Val was looking over his shoulder before he cracked it open. Instead of a normal mirror, an abalone surface greeted him. A magic mirror, then. The surface pulse
d, regular as a heartbeat. There was a message waiting for him.
“Speak,” Tevin said, tapping the surface and making the abalone shine, a riot of color, before it faded to a flat black. An image appeared, one of his mother in a cell similar to the one he’d just left. Despite her captivity, her hair was braided and pinned up, her appearance immaculate.
“Tevin.” Florencia DuMont’s voice sliced through the silence of the carriage. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’m being held in Veritess. I won’t get into the details, but know that I’ve secured my freedom. I need you to come here immediately.”
Her sentence was punctuated by his father handing him a train ticket.
She sniffed. “Don’t dally.” She snapped her compact shut. Flat black, then the slow shine of abalone. The message was done.
He held tightly to his ticket. Okay, not great, but not the worst thing that could happen. A little train ride—he tried not to think too much on that—and then they’d get their mother and go home. He glanced at the ticket. “Veritess?” What was his mother doing there?
“Your mother ran into a spot of trouble at a country estate. Veritess had the closest cell.” Brouchard’s tone was firm, his words clipped. Everyone in the carriage knew that meant no other information was forthcoming, so they didn’t bother to ask. They rode in silence all the way to the train station.
CHAPTER 3
A CONUNDRUM OF CURSES
Merit Cravan was tired, making her an unusually patient beast at the moment. That didn’t keep her from growling at her healer. The sitting room they were in might have been Merit’s, or at least her mother’s, but when it came to the beast’s health and curse, Ellery was in charge.
“I’m not shining mage light into your eyes for my own amusement, Merit.” Ellery’s wry tone didn’t fool Merit for one minute. Her personal healer made mules look docile. Of course one couldn’t manage the Beast of Cravan and have a retiring nature.