Stolen Justice

by Shawn Wickersheim

  Josephine bowed her head. It was her fault Edgar was dead. If she hadn’t gotten him involved in her trouble, he’d still be alive. Instead of sitting here in the theater’s green room and staring at herself in the mirror, she’d probably be in his little apartment fending off his advances.

  “Ain’t you even curious what it’d be like?” he’d say with a sly grin.

  She’d tell him no even though lately she’d thought about saying yes.

  Or, she might have passed this time at home reading or maybe gossiping with her sister Leigh or arguing with her mother about how late she’d stayed out the night before. Her father would come upstairs from his lab oblivious to their chatter, his mind still working on his latest invention, or pondering some new spell . . .

  But she couldn’t go home again either. Not after what had happened there earlier. Not after what she had been forced to do . . .

  She closed her eyes against the sudden rush of pain but try as she might she couldn’t escape the dark memories. They were waiting for her behind her eyelids, swooping around her like a colony of bats. Flapping. Shrieking. Swirling closer and closer. A scream welled in her throat.

  Her right eye snapped open. The left was still mostly swollen shut. She leaned forward again, happy to find any distraction at all, even if it was only to study her damn reflection some more and prod at the lump on her cheekbone. She winced. The little table in front of her contained bottles and jars of paints and powders; costume make-up for the stage. Perhaps she’d find a way to hide the bruises on her face. And her body. And to make the nasty bite marks on her breasts disappear. Perhaps she’d find a way to make it look like nothing had happened. Perhaps she’d find a way to make herself look normal again. Normal? She stared at the woman staring back at her. What was normal now?

  Mister Lipscombe’s leering face flashed in front of her mind’s eye. His maniacal laughter echoed in her thoughts. She tried to brush the persistent memories away, but they refused to go; his horrid yellow teeth biting her nipples, the squishy wet noise his damaged left eye made as it twitched uncontrollably in its socket, the burning pain between her legs when he drove unwelcomed into her for the first time.

  For her first time . . .

  Everything considered, maybe she should have told Edgar yes.

  “Jo!”

  Josephine jumped in the chair. Her gaze shot up the mirror to the reflected image of Neko Blood standing in the open doorway behind her. The theater owner was an imposing and confusingly striking woman, a cool winter beauty one moment, a sultry summer stunner the next. It was just as impossible to pin down her age; she moved with the grace of a young dancer, had the full-bodied figure of a woman who’d perhaps borne a child or two and yet her cool blue eyes had the knowing look of a matron grandmother who’d lived a hard, full life. It was Neko Blood’s icy gaze which now pinned Josephine to her chair.

  “You’re alive.”

  Neko’s rich voice filled every corner of the small dressing room. Out in the open theater, this same voice would reach the back row of the upper balcony with similar ease.

  “Yes . . . and I . . .” Josephine stammered. Her own voice sounded raw and rusty to her ears, the usual soft and melodic tones cried right out of her. She cleared her throat and turned in the chair to face Neko. “I’m sorry I missed last night’s performance. I was . . .” Her mind flashed back to the violent rape. When Mister Lipscombe had finished, he had chained her to the floor. “I was unable to get away.”

  “I see.” Neko’s sharp gaze quickly assessed the bruises on her face. “And what is the condition of your body?”

  Josephine understood the reason for Neko’s blunt question. Her role in ‘Alegar and Sylvia’ was that of Lilith, the seductress, and during one of the later scenes, she strips slowly out of most of her costume. Edgar, who had claimed to have never stepped foot in a theater before, had become a regular patron.

  “And it ain’t just because you take your clothes off . . .” he’d said with his oh-so-familiar sly grin.

  Josephine brushed aside the bittersweet memory and considered Neko’s inquiry again. Besides the angry red marks on her breasts and nipples, she was sure the bruises coloring her wrists, thighs, ribs, back and buttocks had not yet faded. She took a deep breath. “I was beaten last night . . .” She looked up at Neko. Her icy gaze had warmed. “And raped . . . and . . .”

  The bottled-up story burst free, all the various parts pushing and shoving against each other, all trying to get out at the same time: how Edgar had been killed, how she’d been forced to frame Lord Ian Weatherall for the rape Lipscombe had committed, how coming home afterwards she’d discovered her mother dead and her sister dying, both killed by Furland Pervis, and then how she’d found her father in his work shop with his hands chopped off. Without the use of his magic, he could no longer thwart Lord Ragget’s devious plans and so he’d demanded she kill him. Only his death could end the magical communications he’d provided the powerful lord, but first he’d told her about her real grandfather in Bel’yowlye, a man named Bonn Tysh, who could help her learn the magic required to unlock . . .

  Josephine stopped short. She hadn’t realized she’d been telling Neko everything that had happened, until she’d mentioned Bonn Tysh. Suddenly, as if cold water had been splashed on her face, she became aware of herself again and what she was saying and though she trusted Neko, she was uncertain if she should tell her about the magical discs in her pack. Her father hadn’t said anything about keeping them secret, but it seemed like a good idea for now. Besides, Neko couldn’t help her activate the mirrored discs and use the information contained within them against Lord Ragget, only her grandfather could do that.

  For a long moment, Neko did nothing but stare at her. It was impossible to tell from her blank expression what she was thinking, but then, she stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. “Please continue.”

  Josephine glanced down at her clasped hands and shrugged. Tiptoeing back from the part about her grandfather and her unfamiliar magic, she said, “I don’t remember much of what I did immediately after I shot . . .” She swallowed hard. “. . . My father . . .” Saying it out loud like that, simply, plainly, as if it was just another part of a conversation seemed so unreal to her. “. . . But . . . I . . . I must have changed clothes and gathered up a few of my belongings and . . . and I remember standing on the front steps outside my keep wondering what I should do when the buzzing inside my head started again.”

  “Like when you were with your father and you had to choose which course of action to take?”

  Josephine nodded. She didn’t know how better to explain it really. She wasn’t certain if it was her dormant magic or not, but it had felt like two different personas were dueling for control of her mind and body; a gentle care-giver and an angry huntress.

  “The next thing I remember was my father’s words of warning,” Josephine said. “He’d told me Mister Lipscombe and some men were coming to kill me. Part of me wanted to run away. Another part of me wanted to stay and confront them. I guess I chose to do a little of both. I climbed onto the roof of the building across the street and waited with my pack and my crossbow. Less than an hour later, Mister Lipscombe showed up with a wagon, a royal warden and a group of eight, hard-looking men.”

  “What did the warden look like?”

  “He was a big, broad-shouldered Yordician and his long blond hair was pulled back into a tidy knot. He was wearing a fine-looking uniform with brass buttons on his sleeves and he rode a well-groomed stallion.”

  Neko was nodding. “And when he dismounted, he walked with his head tilted just so as if he was trying real hard not to smell the shit beneath his boots?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know his name. Captain Wolfe Straegar.” Neko made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “What happened next?”

  “The ten of them entered my father’s keep like they owned it. A short while later, a strange twisting wind blew down the street and b
urst through the front doors. I knew eventually they’d come out so I . . .” Josephine trailed off.

  Neko crouched in front of her and lifted her chin. “My dear, I hate to rush you, but time is money and since you’re in no condition to work for me again tonight, I’ll need to prepare your understudy. However, I am intrigued by your story and I’d like to hear the end before I go.”

  “I steadied my crossbow against the edge of the roof,” Josephine started again. “I was going to shoot Mister Lipscombe as he stepped out the door . . .” Her thoughts carried her back to the rooftop . . .

  Her heart was beating so fast it was hard to concentrate on anything else. And yet . . . and yet . . . She knew any moment Mister Lipscombe would come out the door and she would kill him. Her finger was on the trigger. She had the range. She’d made similar shots before, always hitting the straw targets with no problem. And even if she missed with the first bolt, she’d just keep squeezing the trigger. Her father’s magical crossbow would reload itself and fire again and again and again just like when she’d shot Lipscombe’s friend, the nasty Furland Pervis.

  The first face to appear at the doorway though wasn’t Lipscombe’s. It was the warden’s. He strolled out of the keep and stepped up easily into his saddle. The eight hard-faced men came next and they were carrying three long bundles wrapped in blankets. She frowned down at the men. What were they taking?

  A hand dropped from one of the bundles and dangled free. There was a ring . . . her mother’s ring . . .

  It was her mother’s hand. Why were they removing her body? And were the other two bundles bodies too? Which bodies were they taking . . . and why? The last body was wrapped in the blanket she’d used to cover her sister. Were they taking sweet, little Leigh too? Tears welled, but she blinked them away and swiped viciously at her cheeks with the back of her hand. She’d cried enough!

  The men tossed the three bundles one at a time into the back of the wagon. It pained her to see her mother and sister being treated so rudely, even after death, and the buzzing she’d heard earlier in her father’s workshop sounded again.

  Mister Lipscombe finally sauntered out of the keep. He had a sack slung over his shoulder and he seemed so very pleased with himself. The buzzing grew louder as she lined up the shot. Her chest ached. She needed air. She took a quick breath and then another letting each exhale escape her pursed lips. The buzzing droned in her ears. Squeeze the trigger! Squeeze the trigger!

  Squeeze. The. Trigger.

  The buzzing stopped. The air grew still. She saw in her mind’s eye the bolt leaping clear of her crossbow and punching through the center of Mister’s Lipscombe’s scarred, smiling face. He would fall dead on the steps and she would have her revenge . . . but at what cost? There were nine more men down there. One of them was a royal warden. Even with the magical crossbow, she didn’t think she’d be able to shoot them all. They’d scatter, seeking cover, and she was no assassin. She knew the area well, she’d likely escape their search, but then she’d never know what they were doing with her mother and Leigh and the third unknown body.

  “You let this Lipscombe fellow live?” Neko interrupted.

  Josephine’s hands curled into fists. “I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill him so badly for what he had done to me and my family . . .” She looked Neko in the eye. “You think I should have killed him when I had the chance, don’t you?”

  “I think you should only kill a man when you can profit from his death,” Neko said. “The same holds true for letting a man live.”

  “But . . . after everything he’s done . . .”

  “Yes. After everything he’s done, you let him live because you realized he had something more to offer you. Information. It can be a precious commodity. Revenge, on the other hand, is fleeting and cheap and rarely as satisfying as one would hope. Trust me, I know.” Neko placed a hand on Josephine’s hand. “Now tell me, where did these men take the bodies?”

  With skills she’d learned from hanging around Edgar, Josephine followed the men and their wagon east toward the docks unnoticed. From time to time they would stop and disappear into various buildings only to return a short while later with a blanket-wrapped bundle or two which they tossed into the back of the wagon. Why were they collecting more bodies?

  She kept to the roofs primarily, watching this strange process from above until the storm clouds spread over the city. When the rains came, she dropped into the maze of alleyways and continued to shadow them all the way to the edge of Motre-liare’, the southern dock ward, the ‘Land of Death’.

  “We ain’t never going down there, Jo,” Edgar had warned her late one night after a show as they sat on a tavern’s rooftop. They were sharing a couple of stolen ales and watching the moon rise over the crescent bay. “There ain’t no reason for it. There’s plenty of city to see up this way. And don’t get it in your pretty head to ever go charging into that hellhole by yourself either. It ain’t safe.”

  “You sound like you’re scared of the place.”

  “You’re damn right I am,” Edgar said. “And I ain’t afraid to admit it. That should tell you just how dangerous it is.”

  “Or just how much of a coward you are,” she’d teased.

  Edgar shook his head. “Let me put it another way. You know how badly I want that body of yours, don’t you?”

  Josephine laughed. “You only tell me every time we’re together.”

  “Yeah, well, even if you stripped down naked and rode me like a wild woman right here, right now I wouldn’t take you down to the south docks,” Edgar said. “It’s called Motre-liare’ for a reason, Jo, and don’t you forget it!”

  She pushed aside the memory, the warning and her grief and pressed on, slipping into streets and alleys she’d never prowled before. The desolation and decay of the buildings, the streets, became apparent almost immediately. Even the air stank more strongly of decomposition and death. The men she followed moved steadily south unconcerned with their bleak surroundings. It was obvious they belonged here. She didn’t.

  Josephine hadn’t gone more than three or four blocks into Motre-liare’ before she heard a shrieking cry. It was a strange, high-pitched keen and sounded vaguely like some bird of prey. The band of ten reacted immediately to the noise. Two men continued south with the wagon while the royal warden, Mister Lipscombe and the remaining six hard-faced men abruptly turned around, fanned out and headed back her way. Josephine ducked into the shadows of some dilapidated building. The cry had not been some random bird. She’d been seen.

  “There was nothing more I could do.” Josephine bowed her head. “I kept to the shadows and ran away.”

  Neko stared down at her for a long moment. “Is that it?”

  Josephine looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, is that where the story ends?” Neko said. “Do we close the curtain and hope the audience applauds or is this merely a brief intermission and you have an act two and three in mind?”

  “I . . . I want to help Lord Ian get clear of the mess I helped create for him,” Josephine said. “And I want to stop Lord Ragget . . . somehow . . . but I’ll need to travel to Bel’yowlye and back to do that.”

  “Those are some lofty goals,” Neko said. “And lofty goals usually come with a hefty price. Can you afford all this trouble?”

  Josephine’s hand went to the leather belt strapped around her waist. Inside the belt were small compartments in which she’d hidden the gemstones Lord Ian had given her earlier. He’d thought he was buying her silence. She cringed at the horrible way she’d treated him, but at the time, she’d thought she was doing it to save her family. She pulled out just one of the gems, a small ruby, and held it up for Neko to see. The woman’s gaze narrowed on the stone as Josephine told her about the crates of gems and weapons Lord Ian had found stored in his north-side warehouse.

  “I’m sure if I explain everything to him,” Josephine said, “Lord Ian would pay for my ship’s passage to Bel’yowlye and back.”
>
  Neko nodded, her eyes never leaving the ruby. “Or with the right captain, that stone alone might be enough.”

  “Really? Do you know any?”

  “I know quite a few ship captains, actually. There’s Donavan Kitt, Mick One-Hand Bailey, Kylpin Caleachey, Zane Rowe . . .”

  “I met Captain Caleachey yesterday at the Prancing Piper . . .” Josephine said.

  “Kylpin is a bit of a charmer, isn’t he?” Neko smiled. “And for a sailor, he’s a decent man, but rumor has it he’s currently without a ship. Hmmm.” She tapped her slender fingers against her lips. “I’ll make a couple of inquiries, if you like . . . but first, let’s back up a bit. Tell me, after you left Motre-liare’, did you come straight here?”

  Josephine shook her head. “No, at first I ran back toward Edgar’s apartment, but then I-”

  The door to the green room burst open and Owen Wilde ducked and pushed his way inside. Unlike his brother Edgar, who had been sly and foxlike, Owen was just the opposite. He was a big blunt man and built like a bull. Physically, he’d been perfectly cast as the villain Urgmor in ‘Alegar and Sylvia’, though occasionally he forgot his lines. She could still hear Edgar’s warning about the theater using him for anything more than heavy lifting. “He tends to use his head more like a damn hammer than as a place to store actual thoughts.”

  “Edgar’s dead!” Owen blurted out.

  Josephine stood. She was a tall woman, but Owen still towered over her. “I know, he-”