She pushed the plate away. Her head hurt too much to eat. Every joint ached, down to her fingers, thawing out from her hike. Prickles sparked under her skin with the heat and she had to kill a moan. She looked down at her fingerless gloves and frowned at the blood running on her fingertip, staining the fingernail, the knife in her other hand. She hadn’t even realized she’d cut herself.
Hugh and Dar blinked at each other. “Javelot didn’t tell you?” Dar asked. “We knew they were comin two days ago.”
The air sucked from her lungs like someone had stuck a bellows down her throat. Reine stared at them, waiting until she had a voice, and then waiting more until she could use it without shouting. The captains shifted on their bench. The meat, stringy but smelling enough to keep her stomach twisting, lay untouched between them. Reine got to her feet.
“Roi always said ‘live a fool, die a fool.’ No more. You ever see Javelot again, fuckin bring her to me. Dead.”
The others accepted her orders without comment. Hugh pointed outward, swept his arm, indicating the tribes. “What about them? What do we tell them?”
Reine turned to go. “Tell them to fight. Dead Day is comin early this year.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Trinidad was a mere shadow in the dim lantern light, his back pressed against the wall next to the doorway leading into the front room with the boxes. He held his sword point downward. Castile wasn’t fooled by the low guard; he’d seen how quickly the archwarden could move his blade.
Cautious steps and stumbling. Someone hissed a string of curses, coupled with a muffled moan. Castile concentrated on his lungs, breathing steadily, softly, filling his lungs with near-silent air and releasing it. His heart maintained a steady rhythm through sheer willpower.
“A raid, you think?” Another voice, low.
“Shut up,” the other said. Then, louder: “Amigos, ¿Dónde están?” the slaver sing-songed. “Come out to play.”
Castile rolled his eyes in a twitch of nervous disdain. Trinidad stared at him, still as stone. Smoking lantern oil filled Castile’s lungs with every silent breath.
Another length of silence, interrupted by the brush of cloth and soft movements. “Shit. You and your nerves. There’s no one here.”
“Someone’s been here. I heard them. And look at this mess—” A wet cough broke through the words. He sounded of ashrot, though the availability of medical services in Mexico usually prevented it. But he spoke with a thin accent, peppering his English with Spanish rather than the other way around. A local trafficker trying to adapt to his Mexican bosses, maybe.
The answer came in Spanish, which Castile understood enough of to get the gist: “You didn’t hear shit you paranoid son of a bitch.”
More confident, heavier footfalls drew near, and again, the patter of bare soles stumbling and a low cry from a female. The noises paused. A thousand questions pounded Castile’s brain, leaving an ache of uncertainty: how many? How were they armed? Did they wear Flextek or cheap mesh? How could they take them out without killing the captives? Then a snarl and a body fell through the doorway.
A woman, more a girl, really. She fell to her knees near their hiding place, lost balance, and landed on her shoulder. The impact forced a muffled cry from her. Someone had wound a scarf around her face, creased tight between her teeth. Her arms were bound behind her. Violent shivers racked her narrow frame. Blond hair hung in tattered braids. She wore only a short shift and bruises. The back of one thigh oozed blood from a crimson, raw spot. Castile felt anger surge through him. They’d branded her with a slaver sigil.
She looked up at Trinidad holding bared steel and gasped through her gag. He hunched down but drew his blade high, neatly bypassing the cowering girl as he moved through the doorway. A bullet stung the air near his head. Castile spun into the doorway next to him and took a half-second’s worth of their foes’ measure before firing.
Two men by the door. One took a bullet and shouted in surprise, Castile cursed and fired again, but the slavers ducked down behind boxes. A third slaver held another woman as a shield. Trinidad went after him as Castile registered the slaver’s gun, bladestop mail shirt, and tattoos of wings on his pitted cheeks. Wings fired, but the round just blew out a chunk of wall as he ducked Trinidad’s sword and simultaneously shoved the woman at him. Trinidad halted mid-strike and cut to the left, shearing the air over the woman’s head and finding flesh. Wings’ shoulder spouted blood. He screamed in pain and rage but the cut wasn’t deep enough to take him down. Yet.
Convinced Trinidad could take the wounded slaver, Castile turned his attention to the other two. He plugged the first, injured target and the man fell against the bureau.
Castile spotted a gun barrel snaking around the side of a box. He shot the box.
Castile’s first victim scrabbled at his gun, trying to get it up on his thigh and shoot. Herne’s balls, I thought you were dead, Castile thought as he put two bullets in the man’s brain. He slumped over, leaving blood and gore dripping from the bureau.
Another gun barked and the woman spared by Trinidad’s sword fell in a cascade of blood. Castile blew through nearly all his rounds, shredding the crate the slaver hid behind. Trinidad kept after Wings, who took aim at the archwarden with his Savage, a vicious snarl on his face.
“—blocking my shot!” Castile bawled too late amid the fire.
Trinidad fell hard. His sword skittered away. Bullets coursed the air over his prone body, forcing Castile back behind the kitchen wall. The sawed-off Savage made quick work of the doorframe and cracked plaster protecting Castile, fogging the air with dust.
Trinidad was down.
It was all Castile knew, even with bullets blowing cavern-sized chunks from the wall. A beat passed. Two.
Trin.
They had killed him. He didn’t have more than a few steps to back up. He turned his pistol on the doorway, full auto.
Click.
Fuck.
A slaver rounded the corner with a sadistic grin. He wasted no time leaning into his shot, reaping bald-faced terror from deep inside Castile.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Trinidad tried to scramble to his feet but another shot made him duck. A bullet painted a crimson streak through the slaver going after Castile in the kitchen doorway, spraying flesh and shards of bone across the boxes. The dead man toppled back in a bloody heap. Trinidad twisted toward the door, scrambling to get upright, the shot ringing through his head. His stomach and chest hurt with a constricting ache. Someone carried on screaming, but Trinidad could barely hear it behind the echo of the shots.
Wolf crouched in the doorway just off the kitchen, cupping his pistol in both hands, coursing its sight over the room. He kept low, as he’d been taught. His aim danced from forehead to forehead as he backed into the kitchen. The slave girl in the kitchen scrambled back from him and her screams died off as she likely wondered what fresh hell he was about to wrought. It hit Trinidad then. He knew her, or her face, at least.
“Clear,” Trinidad husked out, or tried to; he could barely hear himself speak. The echo of the shots persisted, scarred on his ears. He forced the word again: “Clear.”
Wolf lowered his gun. Castile? he mouthed. Or spoke. Trinidad couldn’t be sure with the shots ringing in his ears. He climbed to his feet, wondering if he’d read Wolf’s lips right. He felt like he was underwater. He stumbled across the gory leavings of the gun fight, slipping. Blood soaked his socks, warm and tacky.
Castile lay in the kitchen, flat on his back, face tilted away. His pistol had fallen from his grasp. Even the echoes fell silent. Trinidad dropped to his knees by the witch’s side. Wolf made a vague word-shaped noise behind him, but it sounded like it came through two panes of glass. Trinidad bent closer to probe Castile’s scalp for bruising and his throat for a pulse. In that moment, he saw the blood staining the witch’s armor.
Castile opened his eyes and the isolating bubble popped. Whimpers from the slave girl, huddling in the corner. The clogging reek of f
resh blood and released bowels. Wolf’s voice behind him, asking if Castile was all right, what had happened, who were these men. The thud of his own heart.
Castile reached up and rubbed the side of Trinidad’s head, quick, gentle. He breathed heavily. “Not dead yet I see.”
Trinidad sat back. “Stay still. You’re bleeding.” He gestured to Castile’s opposite arm.
Castile looked at the hole in his armor releasing a steady stream of blood. He pushed himself up with some difficulty. “Trin. It’s just a scratch. I’m okay.” But the words came out chopped into hoarse little bits.
“You’re damned lucky,” Wolf said, and Trinidad shot him a frown.
“Well, he is,” Wolf said.
Castile gave a tired grin as Trinidad helped him sit up. “Good thing we brought you, pup.”
“I guess. What happened? Who were those guys? And … uh.” He didn’t seem to know where to put his gaze between all the horribly dead bodies and the barely clad girl cowering in the corner. “Her.”
“Slavers,” Trinidad said, getting to his feet.
Castile slid back to lean against the cabinet, face pale. The wound hurt worse than he let on. Trinidad picked his way through the gore to find the box of socks. He pressed one to Castile’s arm, making the witch wince.
“Bad mojo around here.” Castile gave Trinidad a once over. “Looks like I need to rewrap your feet. Goddess knows what nasty you caught from walking in their sludge.”
“Let’s take care of your wound first.”
“Skimmed me, that’s all. I’m fine.”
“Get your armor off so I can bind it.”
“I’ll get you some boots, Trin,” Wolf said. He gestured with his pistol, still held in a white-knuckle grip. “He looks about your size.” He knelt and reached out to fumble with the ties on the dead man’s boots. Wolf was waxy with sweat and his hands shook, but he wasn’t running to puke like the first time Trinidad had seen people torn apart by bullets.
The electricity chose that moment to roll on. Somewhere in the house a fan whirred and the light overhead crackled to life. Castile and Trinidad looked away from the bodies as the blood came into sharp relief. Wolf swallowed hard. Behind them, the slave girl slunk out of sight around a corner. Trinidad ignored her for the moment.
“You really all right?” he asked Castile in a low voice as he helped the Wiccan off with his bracers.
He nodded. “Just a shitstorm of a headache.”
Trinidad grasped Castile’s jaw, tipped his face toward the light shed from the dusty bulb overhead and thumbed his eyebrows to examine the Wiccan’s pupils. They narrowed as the light shone in them. He released a sigh of relief. “How did we come through that without worse?”
“We’re just that good.” Castile shook loose of his grip and spoke louder. “Come on out, girl. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Wolf stopped messing with the boots and watched as the girl cautiously appeared in the doorway. Then she was on her knees before Trinidad, clinging to his armored knees and crying again. He stared down at her and felt his heart sink into his stomach. The girl from the candle shop, who had given him the knife. It seemed days ago rather than hours. He gently pried her off and pulled her to her feet. “You remember me? You’re all right now.”
“I … I don’t know,” she stuttered through sobs. “I don’t … know …” She collapsed again, trying to pull the short shift down over the tops of her thighs. She was shivering, freezing. He pulled her to her feet and she huddled against him.
He held her as best he could with his armor on. “Your name?”
“I don’t know. I should know. But I don’t—”
“You remember giving me that knife? Remember me at all?”
She shook her head, chin quivering.
“Chemwipe. I’d put a gallon of fresh cow milk on it,” Castile said.
Wolf looked at her, his scars creased with horror.
Whoever had done this to her had it down to a science. They hadn’t erased her language or social knowledge, just the things that made her an individual. He looked at Castile. “She can still talk well enough, at least. Targeted synapse blockers. This wasn’t some random job.” It was slavers, funded by rich, fertile Mexico.
“She’s a pretty thing, yeah?” Castile answered. He gestured toward the dead with a fist, thumb tucked between his forefinger and middle finger. “Must have been headed for someone who wanted more than spread legs in a stall.”
They took a moment to absorb what that meant. If she’d been carefully prepared for someone, they might want her back. Trinidad ground his teeth together over silent curses. And worse, what was he to do with her? The last thing they needed was a tagalong, and the thought of staying inparish …
“We have to take her somewhere,” Wolf said, his dirty face creased with worry. He’d been watching Trinidad. “Get her help.”
Trinidad exchanged a glance with Castile.
Castile bent over to get a better look at the fresh brand marring the freckled skin of her thigh. He spat a long, colorful string of curses and finished with, “It’s liable to get infected if we don’t get her treated. Like your feet.”
“And your arm,” Trinidad shot back.
“We’ll bring her to the coven. They’ll take her in, keep her until all this blows over.”
“Why not leave her here for the marshals to find?” Trinidad said. “She’ll be safer inparish, right?”
Wolf shook his head. “Nothing’s safe. Not anymore.” He yanked a boot from the foot of the dead man, whose head made a wet squishing sound as it slid across the rough floor.
“Wolfie, come on. This is one girl. The marshals won’t harm her—”
“We’re going to the coven anyway,” Castile said. “It’s the only place that’s safe for us right now. When things settle, we’ll get her back inparish.”
“I don’t see how she’ll ever make it. We have a long hike—”
Wolf broke in, quiet and earnest. “Father Troy would never let her go. Father would have taken her in and seen her safe. She’s one of God’s people, like you said about him.” He jabbed a finger toward Castile. “Remember? That’s what you said. Even though he’s Wiccan, you said you’re sworn to protect them, too.”
Castile lifted his gaze to Trinidad’s face, eyebrows raised. Trinidad felt his cheeks heat.
“You can’t leave her here,” Wolf added. “She’ll always be different. No one understands.”
Castile nodded, still eyeing Trinidad. He said soothingly, “Yeah. Yeah, pup. Of course we’ll take her.”
Trinidad knew when he was beaten. He turned away to peel the gory socks from his feet and slip on fresh ones and the boots, still warm and sweaty from their previous owner. His feet still bled, but the sooner they got out of here, the better.
They scrounged clothes for the girl from the boxes and weaponed up from the dead slavers. Castile waved his horn-tattooed fist around at the gory scene before they left and muttered an inaudible prayer. Trinidad could guess well enough what he was saying. Herne guide us, see us safe. He mentally added: If it should be my day to greet Cernunnos, protect mine. And shrugged off a chill. Had he just prayed to Herne instead of God?
They pried open the rear door, ruining the barrel of a rifle doing it, and slipped through the back yard, toward the final fence that marked the boundary of the parish. All of them took great gulps of the cleaner air outside, but Trinidad knew from long experience that he couldn’t escape the cloying reek of death so easily. He glanced to the west, wishing for full darkness. But they couldn’t wait any longer.
Castile and then Trinidad scaled the back fence. Wolf stayed on the inside, helping lift the girl to Trinidad, who hung over the fence. Silent, limp shock seemed to be setting into her. They heard a shout. Trinidad glanced up to see a light flashing against the houses from out in the street. It spun, blinking over each surface. “They’re here.”
Wolf glanced behind him as he cupped his hands to give the girl a leg up.
But she dropped to her knees at the noise.
“Come on,” he said. “Grab Trin’s hand.”
“Get up here,” Trinidad commanded.
He hung over the fence, a grunting Castile holding most of his armored weight from the county side. The girl just cowered lower, wilting in Wolf’s arms. Someone rattled the gate and boots thumped on the front porch. Dogs barked. Voices and flashlights cut through the gathering dusk.
Trinidad suppressed a curse and willed himself calm. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said to the girl. “You can do this.”
“Trin, we have to go,” Castile said.
Trinidad ignored him, focused on the girl. Wolf coaxed her, but she started to fight him. Trinidad tried to catch her by the arms and pull her over the metal bars, but he couldn’t reach her.
He heard voices and steps coming from the side of the house and setting off a fresh cacophony of dogs barking.
“Wolf!” Trinidad yelled. “Get up here now.”
Wolf looked up at him from where he crouched by the girl. “It’s no use. She won’t come. I’ll stay. I’ll hold them off.”
“What? No. Get up here—”
“I’ll hold them off.”
“No.” A command belied by a desperate wave of his arm to catch Wolf by the arm, the hair, anything. “You can’t stay here. You have to come with us. They’ll—”
“Come on!” Castile pulled on Trinidad’s legs, trying to yank him down on the other side of the wall.
The back door slammed open. A light coursed through the murky area and snagged on Wolf, who stepped away from the fence, well out of Trinidad’s reach.
“No! Wolf, come on, now!”
“Go.” Wolf straightened his shoulders and spread his arms, readying for arrest.
Or bullets.
“Wolf, no! Get up here!”
Castile yanked Trinidad down as he tried to scramble back over the fence toward his brother. They tumbled in a heap of hard armored bodies and limbs. His knee jammed with a blinding burst of pain. Castile pulled him to his feet, dragging him into the no-man’s-land between the wall and the dim buildings of Martin Acres beyond. Trinidad could hear the struggle on the other side of the fence, marshals shouting, the girl screaming. He looked back. Lights flashed through the fence slats, silhouetting a mad scramble of bodies. Ahead, the last of the sunlight slipped behind the mountains.
The Silver Scar Page 22