Queen's Peril

by Darin Kennedy

  “Neither did Grey.” Steven stroked the stubble at his chin. “Though I’m starting to understand why he didn’t.” He let out a bitter laugh. “My status as Pawn in an eternal game of magical chess was a big enough pill to swallow. I doubt bringing up that he’d already met my time-traveling future self in 1946 would’ve helped his cause.”

  “So, we have no way of knowing if the guy gunning for us a century from now ran into all of us in Middle-of-Nowhere, Wyoming, almost a century before we were born. Got it.” Niklaus took a breath. “The only question now is do we steer clear of him, or do we—”

  Another blast of cold air hit Steven, this one accompanied by a pinch from Amaryllis, the first since Archie had walked through that same door to find them two days before.

  “Barkeep!” The Black King burst through the door of the saloon. In his wake, a trio of Japanese women in traditional dress followed. “Your finest libations for me and my three companions, if you please.”

  “Well,” Emilio muttered under his breath, “I guess that question has been answered.”

  Steven, Niklaus, and Emilio moved to one end of the bar, freeing up the space for Zed and his entourage to occupy the quartet of barstools at the other. With unparalleled manners, the Black King swept from lady to lady, helping each of them onto their seats before settling onto the stool at the far end.

  “Is it possible,” Zed said with a flourish, “that you serve wine in this establishment?”

  “You’re in luck, my friend.” Archie reached behind the counter and produced an aged bottle, the lettering on the label rendered in Italian script. “We usually keep a bottle or two hidden away for the rare times we’re graced with a more discerning clientele.”

  Zed took the bottle and regarded both it and Archie with an appraising smile. “You, sir, are quite well-spoken for a Negro slinging whiskey in this flyspeck of a town.”

  “Why…thank you, sir.” Archie kept his cool, but Steven had been around the priest more than long enough to sense him bristling beneath his genteel facade. “We do try to keep things civilized, even here in the wilderness of the West.”

  Zed chuckled. “And what might the fine people of this town call you, barkeep?”

  Steven’s hand shot up subtly in an effort to keep Archie from answering, but the words had already passed the priest’s lips.

  “Lacan,” he said. “My name is Archibald Lacan.”

  “Well, Mr. Lacan,” Zed held up the bottle and motioned for Archie to draw closer, “I suggest we open this fine wine and drink to the twin fortunes of me finding the lone watering hole in Wyoming with a Sangiovese worth drinking and you crossing paths with a man who has both sufficient taste and funds to make such a find worthwhile for all involved.” With another flourish, the Black King produced a small drawstring purse from within his black duster and withdrew a single gold coin. Placing it on the bar with a solid thunk, Zed’s lips drew wide into a smug smile. “This should suffice, should it not, Mr. Lacan?”

  Archie picked up the coin and deposited it in the pocket of his waistcoat. “More than generous, Mr.…”

  “Brenin.” Zed offered a slight bow. “Victor Brenin.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brenin.” Archie pulled down a glass, inspected the rim for cleanliness, and placed it on the bar.

  “And your lovely companions,” Archie inquired. “Shall they be drinking as well?”

  The oldest of the three said not a word but gestured toward the whiskey bottle across Archie’s shoulder. Archie, in turn, poured her a finger of the amber liquid, followed by another and then another—each at her insistence—until the glass sat at over half full. With a smile, the woman grasped the glass and turned it up, downing the contents in one gulp before silently returning the glass to the bar. Unfazed, she cast a self-satisfied smirk at Archie and tapped the top of the glass, asking for another.

  “One thing’s for sure…” Emilio positioned himself behind Steven, just out of the Black King’s field of vision. “We won’t be drinking her under the table.”

  “No kidding.” Steven crossed his arms. “And God only knows what other skills Zed’s little harem brings to the table.”

  “I have a feeling we’re going to find out all too soon,” Niklaus murmured in Steven’s ear. “What the hell do we do now?”

  “The same thing we always do.” Steven kept one eye on the Black King and the other on Emilio who, despite the brave face he wore, appeared very much like an animal with its leg caught in a bear trap. “Improvise.”

  “Mr. Brenin.” Another blast of cold air hit them as Sheriff Post, backlit by the blinding sunlight reflecting off the snow, stepped across the threshold and kicked the sludge from his boots. “Good to know you made it through this unfortunate mishap unscathed.”

  Sheriff Post had barely halved the distance from door to bar before the three women in the Black King’s company sprung from their chairs and adopted a defensive perimeter around the man. The few other patrons of the bar all went silent at the sudden standoff.

  Post stepped back, hands raised before him in friendly surrender. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Ladies, relax. I’m just the welcome wagon.”

  The women didn’t budge an inch. The one in the lead cast a questioning glance in the direction of the man calling himself Victor Brenin while the other two stood motionless as if awaiting a command to attack.

  “Definitely more than window dressing,” Steven murmured to Niklaus. “Nice to know Zed’s taste in women hasn’t changed over the decades.”

  Niklaus shook his head. “Like we needed something else to worry about.”

  Like a serpent, Brenin slid from his barstool and stepped between the women to confront Post. “And who, sir, might you be?”

  “Sheriff Tom Post.” Post, who had been nothing but bluster and fire from their first meeting, shrank, at least a bit, at the Black King’s cold stare. “The law in these parts.” He brushed the fingers of his left hand across the sheriff’s star hung next to his belt buckle, careful to keep his right far from the hilt of his six-shooter.

  “That answers one question, Sheriff.” Brenin looked Post up and down with a disparaging sneer. “Now, explain how you have the first idea as to my name.”

  Post pulled himself up to his full height. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t keep tabs on the comings and goings in this town, now would I, Mr. Brenin?” He shot a cynical look in Steven’s direction. “It’s my business to know. Period.”

  “In that case, Sheriff Post, allow me to put your mind at ease.” Brenin glanced back at the trio of women who appeared poised to kill anyone in the room that so much as breathed funny. “Ladies, stand down.”

  At his command, the trio of Asian women silently returned to their barstools as if nothing had happened. With a broad smile, Brenin again turned to face Post.

  “Trust, Sheriff, that I will be residing in your quaint little town only for the time required to get another locomotive here to spirit me and my companions away.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “Truth be told, were we not traveling in my favorite railcar, we’d be leaving on the first stagecoach.” Brenin surveyed the saloon. “For the time being, however, we shall be taking advantage of your town’s accommodations, such as they are.” For the first time, the Black King met Steven’s gaze. “What’s the saying?” he asked with a dismissive snort. “Any port in a storm?”

  A pop from behind the bar caught everyone’s attention. Archie, the bottle of Sangiovese in one hand and a corkscrew in the other, offered a slight bow.

  “Your wine, Mr. Brenin?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lacan.” Brenin spun around and returned to his barstool. “A round of whiskey for the house.” He shot a quick glance across his shoulder. “And make that a double for my new friend, Sheriff Post.”

  The saloon, quiet up to that point, erupted into cheers as Archie pulled down two fistfuls of glasses and poured a round, the last with an extra finger of alcohol. Post hesitated for all of half a second before stepping over to the bar
and accepting the glass from Archie, downing his drink in a single gulp in an obvious effort to reestablish the pecking order.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brenin,” he intoned, sucking in a breath between his teeth.

  “Of course, Sheriff.” Brenin sipped at his wine. “My pleasure.”

  “Before I go, though, a quick question?” Post slid into a congenial smile, though Steven had little trouble seeing the gears working in the man’s mind.

  “But, of course.” Brenin answered Post’s smile with one of his own, each forced smirk disquieting in its own way. “My life is an open book.”

  Post produced a folded document from inside his coat and held up the grainy picture retrieved from a dead man’s corpse days before. “Any idea why a federal marshal might’ve come to my town in the dead of winter carrying a photograph of you? A federal marshal who, I might add, happens to be quite dead.”

  “Dead?” Brenin asked, his expression unfazed. “And how might that have happened?”

  “Murdered in cold blood.” Post’s gaze flicked in Steven’s direction. “Bled to death in the front parlor of the local inn from a pair of gunshot wounds.”

  Despite his impressive poker face, even Brenin seemed a bit taken aback by the insinuation of guilt in Post’s tone. “I haven’t the foggiest idea about any of that, Sheriff. As you know, I and my associates have just arrived in your charming little hamlet.” He leaned in. “I trust you have a theory you’d be willing to share, as the murder of a law enforcement officer carrying my photograph is, understandably, quite disturbing.”

  “Not yet.” Post rose from his seat. “But I will.” He moved to the door, but stopped short to turn and address the room. “Good day, all.” He tipped his hat to Brenin’s three companions. “Ladies.”

  As Post stepped out onto the snow-covered road, Steven’s heart raced. The sheriff’s entrance had provided a welcome distraction, but nothing now stood between the unarmed and powerless quartet of White and the man who would, without a doubt, gut them all without a second thought if he knew who they were.

  “I think you three could use that drink.” Brenin motioned to Archie who, in turn, slid a trio of whiskeys down the bar to Steven, Niklaus, and Emilio.

  Steven raised his glass. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Brenin.” He turned up his glass, the whiskey burning down his throat on its way to a stomach tied in knots. “A generous act indeed considering the circumstances that have led to your unplanned visit to Wolf’s Bend.”

  “My, everyone has such good manners for such a backwater town.” Brenin studied Steven for a moment, downed his whiskey, and strode over to offer a hand. “Mr.?”

  “Bauer.” Though Brenin’s handshake threatened to break bones, Steven gave as good as he got. “Steven Bauer.”

  “Bauer, eh?” Brenin smiled, amused. “The pawn of the German chessboard.” The Black King rested his glass on the bar. “There are lessons aplenty that can be gleaned from a study of the game of kings.”

  Steven forced a smile, though his teeth remained gritted. “Do tell.”

  Zed considered for a moment. “This…mishap with the train, for instance. Many would see only the inconvenience of being, at worst, briefly delayed.” His slight grin widened into a full smile. “I, however, consider it an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity?” Steven asked. “In this ‘backwater’ of a town?”

  “Anyone can win with the odds in their favor.” Brenin stroked his dark beard. “But the play of a master is marked by how well they handle the inevitable setbacks.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Steven motioned in the direction of the door. “Due to circumstances beyond our control, my friends and I too find ourselves…temporarily displaced.”

  “Perhaps, then, fortune smiles upon us both.”

  “What do you mean?” Steven asked.

  “Might you and your friends be seeking temporary employment?” Brenin’s gaze wandered over Niklaus and Emilio. “You three certainly appear able-bodied young men. Perhaps we could come to some form of agreement.”

  “Perhaps,” Steven said, “though, with all due respect, you’re stuck here in Wolf’s Bend just like us.” He did his best to decipher Brenin’s inscrutable gaze. “What sort of work might you have for us?”

  “The West can be a dangerous place, Mr. Bauer, as you have clearly discovered. Three additional sets of eyes and ears in town would be more than welcome.” He patted the drawstring purse at his belt. “And I assure you, I can make such an arrangement more than worth your while.”

  Steven shot Niklaus a quick look, hoping for some kind of answer in his friend’s eyes, but found there only the same bafflement that ate at his own soul.

  “Your offer, sir, is indeed generous.” Steven forced a smile. “If you’ll allow me time to discuss your offer with my associates, I can let you know our decision later this afternoon.”

  “Of course.” The gleam in Brenin’s gaze intensified. “Only a fool makes a move without considering all the potential repercussions.”

  Steven raised an eyebrow. “Another reference to your much vaunted ‘game of kings,’ Mr. Brenin?”

  “Life is chess, Mr. Bauer.” Brenin downed the last of his wine and turned for the door. The trio of women slid from their barstools and fell in behind him, their movements as synchronized as a ballet. “And each day, your next move, be it for good or ill.”

  “This afternoon, then.”

  “When you and your friends have made your decision, knock thrice at the door to my railcar.” Brenin stepped out into the snowy street. “A warning, though. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Once Brenin and his entourage had left, Archie cocked his head to one side, eyes blazing at Steven. “I can’t believe this. You’re actually considering his offer.”

  “There’s an old adage that says to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Steven’s eyes shot to the door, a part of him afraid the Black King might return at any moment and kill them all. “Also, if anyone knows how to get us the hell out of here, it’s the man who sent us here himself.”

  “Like he’d tell us anything.” Emilio, who had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the discussion, jammed his hands in his pockets, though he somehow kept his volume down despite the frustration in his tone. “Not to mention, if he finds out who we are, there’s a good chance he’ll kill us all on the spot.”

  “I don’t know.” Niklaus leaned against the bar. “He had all six of us dead to rights on the Brooklyn Bridge and chose to send us all packing instead of just ending us then and there.”

  “Bullshit.” Emilio seethed. “He did this so time could do his dirty work for him.”

  “We’re all still breathing,” Niklaus answered, “aren’t we?”

  When Emilio didn’t answer, Steven did his best to defuse the tension.

  “Well, for the moment, all of us, Zed included, are stuck in the middle of nowhere in the winter of 1890. Like the man said, we can see it as a setback, or we can see it as an opportunity.” Steven met each of their gazes. “Thoughts?”

  No one said a word for several seconds with Archie eventually ending the verbal stalemate. “Any plan is better than no plan, I guess.” He gathered their glasses and deposited them in a basin filled with dingy water behind the bar. “What’s the play, Steven?”

  “We find out what Zed is offering while steering clear of Post and Ndure as best we can till we figure out how to get the hell out of here.” He studied Emilio’s sullen expression and added. “We’re all we’ve got, the four of us. No matter what, we can’t forget that.”

  20

  Wheels & Deals

  “Mr. Brenin?” Steven knocked three times on the vault-like door. “It’s Steven Bauer.”

  Half a minute passed before a hydraulic hiss hit Steven’s ears. A flash of steam erupted around the door’s edges, and a moment later, one of Victor Brenin’s entourage of Asian beauties peered from the open door, her lithe form covered in a black silken robe embellis
hed with embroidered pink flowers.

  “Mr. Bauer.” The Eastern accent coloring his name tickled Steven’s ears. “Please, come inside.” She gave him a frank up and down and a mischievous smile. “And watch your step.”

  “Don’t worry.” Steven stepped from the wooden platform onto the metal trio of stairs leading into Brenin’s railcar. “That’s pretty much the standard these days.”

  The woman led Steven inside, a subtle hiss hitting his ears as the door slid shut and resealed. She turned a dial on the wall, and a quartet of gas lamps at the corners of the space brought the dimly lit room to life. Steven worked to keep the surprise from his face, the sheer opulence of Brenin’s mobile sanctuary beyond anything he had imagined.

  The platinum flourishes that graced the body of the midnight-black box on wheels represented only the beginning of the car’s extravagance. The corner lamps, along with every other piece of hardware in the space, ran the gamut of precious metals and gemstones, right down to the jade doorknobs adorning the doors at either end of the square room and the various rubies, emeralds, and sapphires dangling from the window curtains.

  In every corner rested chairs carved from darkest ebony, their cushions fashioned from the furs and hides of creatures from every corner of the world, while the heads of many of those same creatures graced the various walls. Tiger and lion, caribou and wolverine, even a snarling polar bear all glared down at him as if ready to attack. The floor, covered with a thick Persian rug the color of dried blood, lay crowned with a low table decorated with an inlaid grid of sixty-four alternating squares of polished white marble and black onyx.

  The chessboard rested, mid-game, with a white pawn positioned in the seventh rank directly before the black king and covered by a bishop from across the checkered battlefield. Had Brenin left the board that way for his benefit? Or could the position of the pieces be mere coincidence? Steven had no way to tell which was the truth, but the preceding few months had done little to bolster his belief in the latter.