Sisters of Sorrow

by Axel Blackwell

  His hands, one around her waist, the other in front of her face. No gun in either.

  He must have holstered it.

  It’s on his belt. It’s got to be.

  She found it as soon as the thought materialized, a mass of steel and leather on his hip. Anna wrapped her fingers around the handle as gingerly as she could.

  “Stand up, I said!” He flicked the flattened pellet into the water, grabbed her with both hands and jerked her upright. Anna held tight to the pistol. As he pulled her to her feet, it slipped smoothly from its holster and dropped, the weight of it nearly yanking her arm out of its socket. The mercenary failed to notice, the roughness of his motion covering the smoothness of hers.

  “Now stand still and watch the show,” he rasped. “It’s about to get good.”

  His pistol dangled between them. The mercenary gazed out of their nook, enraptured by the chaos in the rotunda. Anna forced herself to slow her breathing. She fidgeted her fingers and thumb against the revolver as she had seen the singing trio do with their guns.

  Thumb the hammer, pull the trigger. Anna had never fired a weapon, never even held one before today. A western novel had been among the books she stole from McCain’s office, a gunfighter story. The hero, Tumbleweed Tom, thumbed the hammer and pulled the trigger, and the bad guys dropped. Sometimes, Tom would fan the hammer, if he had to drop lots of bad guys. Anna had no idea how to fan a hammer, but she had seen the chanting woman thumbing the hammer of her revolver and guessed she could manage that.

  Pulling the trigger shouldn’t be too hard either, just a gentle squeeze according to Tumbleweed. The difficulty would be aiming the gun. Even lifting it seemed near impossible at the moment. She knew bullets had lead in them, but it felt to her as if the whole gun was made of the stuff. And the mercenary held her firm with both hands. He would break her in half before she escaped his grasp.

  Just wait, Anna. Just hold steady. Move when the time is right.

  She stared out into the rotunda. Joseph had moved away from the stairs, heading for McCain. He was slowing down, weakening. The magic truly was draining away. The head that had been hanging earlier was now gone. It’s probably bobbing just below the surface of the water, snapping at any ankle within striking distance.

  He continued to fight, but less ferociously. The goons assembled against him also appeared severely worn. Perhaps half a dozen remained. They retreated in a formation, a kind of defensive array, around McCain. Rather than killing Joseph, their purpose now seemed to be the safety of their mistress.

  Heavy smoke billowed up from the pyre. The restless air pulled it this way and that, sometimes veiling Dolores, sometimes revealing her. The flames had not yet reached her, but sweat rolled down her red, rigid face. Fire crawled slowly over the kindling. The base of the heap smoldered as the water boiled and steamed. Smog hung in a low curtain around the rotunda.

  Movement on the balcony caught Anna’s attention. She snapped her head up to see Donny standing at the rail by the door to the kitchen. His eyes flicked this way and that, half glazed in astonishment, searching the battlefield below him. Searching for her.

  “Friend of yours?” the mercenary asked. He sounded amused.

  Anna nodded. Hot tears sprung at the corners of her eyes. Her two voices simultaneously cried, Run away, stupid boy! and, Donny, help me!

  Donny cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the rotunda. Anna couldn’t hear him over the roar, but she knew he was yelling her name, over and over.

  “Bold little bastard, ain’t he?” the mercenary said.

  Anna felt a slight twinge of hope, might have even smiled if she had any smile left.

  “Ain’t that Hattie McLane’s flintlock he’s got shoved down his britches?”

  “It isn’t Hattie’s anymore,” Anna said, feeling a little bit of steel returning to her nerve.

  The mercenary laughed out loud. Then hammered the back of her head with his palm. “I told you not to talk.”

  Anna’s knees buckled, but the man caught her and held her up. “If you’re gonna talk tough, little lady, then you sure as hell can stand on your own two feet. Besides, I think you might wanna watch this. Looks like your little buddy’s ‘bout to get himself killed.”

  Anna looked to the empty balcony where Donny had been, then frantically scanned the rest of the upper level without seeing him. She spotted him on the stairs, picking his way through the fallen witch-hunters. He grabbed a large knife someone had dropped, then continued his descent, eyes focused on Dolores.

  “Why, he’s a regular swashbuckler,” the man laughed. “What do you suppose he thinks he’ll do with that knife?”

  “Look, mister, that door he came through, that’ll take you out of here,” Anna said. “You said you wanted out. That’s the way, right there, and nobody’s close enough to stop you. Let’s make a run for it.”

  “Shut up,” he said in a low, flat voice, grinding his hard thumb into the wound on her shoulder. “I told you, I wanna watch the witch burn.”

  Anna writhed under his thumb, gritting her teeth, trying not to scream. A cold sort of numbness crept down the length of her arm. Her muscles there went slack. She feared she would drop the revolver if he pressed much longer. When he finally did relieve the pressure, he left his thumb on the spot, an implied threat. Anna decided that if she was to have any use of the gun, she needed to do it now.

  Tumbleweed Tom popped into her mind again. He’d had a fat sidekick, a character whose only purpose was comic relief. Anna couldn’t remember his name, but she did remember his limp. Much fun was made of the fat sidekick because he had shot himself in the foot.

  It’s already aimed at his foot. If I shoot his foot, I bet he’ll let go. Then I can aim it at his head if he still comes after me. She pressed the pad of her thumb against the hammer’s ridged spur and applied pressure. The hammer didn’t budge.

  “Aw, hell!” the man said. “What’s he want with her?”

  Anna looked up. Donny splashed across the room toward Dolores. A thickening haze of steam and sooty smoke rose from the pyre, swirled in the restless air. Donny reached the heap in a few wet bounds. He circled it, frantically searching for a clear path to Dolores. Something tripped him. He pitched forward, stumbling over some submerged object. Anna feared it was Joseph’s other head.

  Instead, when Donny rose, he held one of the buckets Elizabeth had used to douse Dolores. He stuffed the knife into his waistband, opposite the pistol, and used both hands to slosh a bucketful of water onto the fire. Impenetrable white steam engulfed him. He disappeared into it. A second later, another plume of steam billowed up from where Donny had been standing.

  “God damn him!” the mercenary muttered.

  Anna pressed harder on the hammer, squeezing her fingers and thumb together with all her might. The hammer rocked back just a hair, its spring incredibly tight. She pressed harder until the spur dug into her thumb, pressed harder until it felt like it was going to tear the skin off. Still, the hammer barely moved.

  “Seize that child!” McCain shrieked from the other side of the room. “Make him stop!”

  Her goons ignored the order, instead maintaining their defensive circle around McCain. Joseph stood between them and Dolores. His left side drooped. Several of his remaining limbs dangled limply. But each time one of the witch-hunters advanced on him, he effectively beat them back or struck them down.

  Anna looked back to the burning heap. Flames leapt up one side, finally reaching the drier tinder. Donny stood on the other side, enveloped in smoke, having cleared a path through the flames. He fumbled with the gag, the leather belt that held Dolores’s head to the chair. After a moment of working ineffectively at the buckle, he drew his knife and cut the belt away.

  As soon as the gag was gone, Donny yelled into Dolores’s face. Anna heard him this time. “Where’s Anna?”

  Dolores’s mouth moved, but she did not answer Donny. Her lips raced, chanting.

  Donny shoved her shoulder,
shook her chair, and yelled again, “Dolores, where is Anna?”

  “Ain’t that sweet? He’s coming to find you,” said the mercenary. “Better hope he doesn’t, for his sake.”

  Smoke and haze clung to the air, so heavy now that Anna could no longer see to the balcony, or the other side of the room. Screams came to her from the area where she had last seen Joseph, but the veil of smog concealed him and the witch-hunters.

  Anna tugged at the hammer. She felt the trigger slide backward under her finger when the hammer moved.

  It’s a double action! another little tidbit from Tumbleweed Tom. The trigger will cock the hammer, but you have to pull it really hard.

  She slipped her middle finger into the trigger guard along with her index finger and squeezed, squeezed, pressing the hammer with her thumb.

  Up on the pile, Donny sawed at Dolores’s ropes. She was moving now, rocking forward and back in quick, jerky spasms. Her head nodded with her chant, flipping her hair back and forth. Donny hopped this way and that as he hacked at the ropes, trying to keep the flames off his feet. Whenever his footwork brought him face to face with Dolores, he screamed, “Where is Anna?”

  Anna squeezed the trigger while wrenching the hammer with her thumb. The revolver was huge, a big gun for a big man, and its springs proved too tight for Anna’s small hand. Try as she might, the hammer would not cock.

  Shadows moved through the haze, moving toward Donny.

  Anna grunted with exertion, aiming the pistol where she hoped the mercenary’s foot would be. Her arm trembled, her hand, and the gun in it, shook.

  “Hold still and be quiet!” the mercenary growled into her ear. His voice was ice. “What are you…” Then he yelled a word Anna had never heard, and lunged for the revolver. Anna tried to spin away from him. The revolver came up, just enough for her to get her other hand on it, get one more finger on the trigger.

  The gun roared. The concussion of its deafening blast threw the revolver out of her hands, tearing skin from fingers. It flew past her, dangerously close to her face, skipped off the wall behind her and disappeared into the swirling water.

  The mercenary howled. Anna couldn’t hear it, but saw it in his contorted face. His left knee, the one closest to her, bent inward, toward his right knee, in a way that no knee should ever bend. The sight of it made Anna’s stomach jump up and swirl like the water around her. As he toppled over his ruined leg, Anna saw that the bullet had also torn a hole through his right calf.

  In the small space under the stairs, the gun’s blast felt like someone had clapped their hands hard over both of her ears. The din of the storm and the bell and the waves at the door was gone. A squealing whine took its place, it slipped back and forth inside her head, from ear to ear, like marbles on the deck of a storm tossed dinghy.

  The mercenary writhed and splashed in the nook. Anna staggered away from him, her stomach lurching. The whole room seemed to roll. Four steps from the nook, Anna fell sideways into the water.

  Chapter 24

  Anna rolled over and sat up. The huge oak doors buckled inward, admitting a spray of storm surge. Foaming swill burst over the tops of the doors as well as through the crack between them. Beams and braces splintered. The hinges of both doors had detached and now flapped uselessly from the jambs. A few meager beams were all that remained of the reinforcements, were all that held out the sea.

  The floating fire had nearly burned itself out. Only a few patches of the kerosene still burned atop the water. But the pyre blazed. Donny hacked furiously at the ropes on Dolores’s wrists. Fire licked at his pant leg, caught. He slapped it out, then went back to work on Dolores.

  Anna struggled to her feet. The ringing in her head felt like fluid. She moved through the water, fighting for balance with each step. Her sight constricted, narrowed. She saw only Donny and Dolores and the fire. Her peripheral vision faded to black, she waded, as it were, through a tunnel.

  As she neared, her shin barked against Donny’s pail. Anna scooped it up and flung water at the fire. The squealing in her head faded to a loud hum, allowing a few other sounds through. Donny screamed her name. Anna threw another bucket of water toward the sound of his voice. Steam obscured her vision, revealing only shadows against a wavering yellow glow.

  “Get Dolores down from there!” Her voice sounded hollow and weird. “I’ll keep the fire off you, just get her down.”

  Donny burst from the mist. He jumped out of the steam and threw his arms around her and cried, “Anna!”

  She hugged him back, at first just to keep from collapsing under him, but once her arms were around him, she couldn’t let go. She felt his courage. She felt hope. Donny had not been injured. He still had energy, still had fight left in him. His presence here meant that her girls were safe. It meant she had won. She had saved them, her sisters of sorrow.

  Only one sister remained to be saved. A subtle confidence invigorated Anna. With Donny here, they could rescue Dolores and get out alive.

  She released him. “Donny, cut her down. Hurry, we need to go!”

  He stepped back from her. “You got it!” he said, turning and leaping two bounding steps back to the pyre. His eyes were burned red, but his smile was radiant. “Already cut all the ropes, just gotta drag her down. Throw some water up.”

  Anna remembered telling Donny smiles like that don’t last long where we’re going, and regretted it. A grin formed on her lips, in spite of herself. She grabbed the bucket and stooped to fill it. A shadow loomed out of the thick haze behind Donny, something bulky and tall.

  Anna screamed, “Donny!”

  Donny twisted to look at her, turning his back to the advancing shadow. Sister Eustace materialized out of the gloom, just over his shoulder. For an instant, Anna saw both of their faces at once, Donny’s innocent, honest concern – Eustace’s unbridled malicious rage. Then, an ax handle whistled through the mist. Eustace swung like Roger Conner swinging for the bleachers.

  The handle shattered across the back of Donny’s head with a sick splintering crack. Donny’s head snapped forward. He dropped, as lifeless as a stringless marionette, landing on the edge of the heap.

  Anna’s mind went blank. Someone screamed Donny’s name, but she had no idea who it was. The floor fell out from under her and, though she continued to stand, she plummeted in place. That cold numbness she had felt in her arm now oozed up from inside her, spreading through her body the way the kerosene had spread across the surface of the water. Bile climbed her throat, she may even have vomited, as if the coldness inside pushed everything else out.

  Donny lay on the heap, one eye half open, a trickle of blood running from his ear. Eustace advanced toward her, but Anna could not pull her eyes from Donny. Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead… His eyelid moved, just a twitch, just a languid blink.

  Eustace held the fractured ax handle up before her, examining it. It was too short now to make a good club, but the broken end terminated in a vicious spike. Eustace eyed Anna across the tip of her weapon and grinned. Rationality was gone from her eyes, only madness dwelt there now.

  Anna staggered backward trying to think. If I can find the revolver, but even as this thought occurred she rejected it. Eustace paced her, leering, deliberating as to exactly where to impale Anna on the splintered handle. Anna’s dress hung loose on the right side where the mercenary had ripped it. Her right hip pocket now dangled to her knee. Something was in there, something hard and heavy. It thumped against her knee as she back peddled.

  She jammed her hand into the pocket and drew out the key. If Eustace saw it, she made no reaction. Anna thrust the key at Eustace, trying to remember the way the key had felt in her hand when she stabbed Joseph in the eye, that crazy wave of terror for Donny and rage against whoever harmed her friend. She tried to evoke those emotions, but she was so tired, so spent. The only thing she felt now was a cold blackness, as if her heart and lungs had been replaced with the stagnant water from Joseph’s cistern.


  Eustace closed the gap between them. She lowered the ax handle, preparing for an underhanded, stabbing thrust. Her eyes burned into Anna’s midsection. Anna could feel the spot on her belly where Eustace intended to strike.

  She pointed the key at Eustace’s chest. It did nothing. It was just a blackened piece of dead metal.

  Eustace stepped forward, drawing the handle back in a low arc. With her next step, she would swing it up and drive it through Anna’s liver. Anna thrust the key forward again, knowing it could not stop her attacker.

  Bright red blood bloomed across the white breast of Eustace’s habit. She continued moving toward Anna, but her feet had stopped. Anna just barely had time to roll to one side before the enormous, dead, ex-nun splatted into the murky water where Anna had just been standing.

  Something began to unravel inside Anna’s head. She stared at Sister Eustace, dumbfounded. The woman bobbed face down, just below the surface. Blood seeped from a hole in her back, rising and drifting like smoke from a dying fire. Fire, and dying resonated through Anna’s mind, they meant something, something important, but she couldn’t quite catch their significance.

  Anna realized that she had no idea where she was, that she didn’t want to know where she was. Just some odd room full of smoke and water and thunder. There was a dead nun at her feet, and that was good, but she really didn’t wish to know why.

  I’m in the drainage room, under the factory. I just released the floodgates and drowned Sister Elizabeth.

  But that wasn’t right. This nun was much bigger than Sister Elizabeth. And the factory was…gone.

  Why is it raining inside?

  Then a voice brought her back, a tiny, desperate, voice crying, “Donny, wake up! Wake up!”

  “Maybelle?” Anna said.

  The little girl lay across her brother’s fallen body, stroking his face with her left hand. She looked as out of place in this gloomy hell as would a rainbow or a bouquet of white lilies. In her right hand was Hattie’s flintlock.

  “Maybelle?” Anna said again. “What are you doing here?”