Lightfall Four: Risk, Rise, Rebel (Lightfall, Book 4)

by Taylor, Jordan

  Struck in the ribs below his lifted arm, he is knocked to his right, teetering for one second, the gun dropping from his hands as he snatches air, then vanishes off the hotel’s side with a prolonged stream, cut short in a finality much more horrifying than the noise itself.

  Sam pulls Ivy again below one-sided cover of the wall, breathing as rapidly as she does.

  Melchior is still facing the back street, still cursing, aiming the MAS.

  A burst of a much heavier weapon than a revolver or derringer makes Ivy leap sideways against Sam, both of them looking around for the source. But no bullet or shot or fireball smashes into them.

  “There!” Melchior shouts and Ivy looks up to her right.

  Someone is leaning out a third-story window of The Copper Key, across the street from them, aiming a carbine.

  The lurking man at the chimney pipe has vanished.

  “¡Entren!” Rosalía shouts, though she is still holding the weapon to her face, scanning over them in all directions as she leans out. “Usted es despejar.”

  But Ivy does not believe they are clear. More could hide anywhere. Guns having gone silent from the far side of The Copper Key only makes her heart pound faster.

  Below, men shout about fire, calling for the sheriff, asking one another what is happening. The best question of all.

  “That was remarkable, Ivy.” Sam’s voice in her ear, his hand on her shoulder, trying to guide her down the edge of the roof. “I could not have done it. Grip must be a good teacher.”

  Ivy laughs, still shaking.

  “This way.” Melchior casts her a strange look—they must think she is hysterical. “Crowds around The Copper Key.” He slides across the roof to the far side from where they found purchase.

  Ivy expects nothing to catch them on this side, but Melchior’s unprecedented luck saves them with a row of barrels. He hands Sam back his gun and slips down, standing on barrels to help Ivy down beside him.

  She has a flashing dread of her skirts bunching and tangling around her knees, pushed obscenely high. But she smiles as her pants are pushed scarcely over the tops of her tattered boots.

  Sam drops his ruined waistcoat over the edge and follows them.

  Melchior and Ivy jump from barrels, nearly crashing into a small man in an apron, waving a straight razor as he shouts at them: “Que faisiez-vous sur mon toit?”

  “Sorry, fellow.” Melchior holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Just, you know, needed somewhere to—”

  “Si il ya des dommages—”

  Melchior darts to grab his shot hat and Sam’s burnt waistcoat from the ground.

  “We do apologize.” Ivy catches Sam’s arm as he jumps down beside them. She pushes him around the red-faced Frenchman. “We don’t understand you. No harm done—we put out the fire.”

  “Feu?!”

  “No, no—no harm.”

  Melchior dodges the waving razor and hurries around the front of the building. Ivy steers Sam with him as quickly as possible—before Sam can give away their ability to understand the tirade.

  A crowd mills at the side of The Copper Key where several feet of wall are black with ash. A tall man officiates, waving for silence. A massive silk hat, large enough for two cats to sleep in, adorns his sleek hair, and a trimmed mustache and pointed goatee give the narrow face the shrewd, sharp look of a weasel. He wears a scarlet silk cape with black silk shirt and waistcoat below. From the added inches of his boot heels to the vast hat, he seems seven feet tall.

  Ivy stops, watching as he addresses the angry crowd, many calling out to ask what he knows about this. Representatives from the hotel, perhaps the owners, shout that they want compensation if their establishment is incinerated by devices.

  “You are panicking, my friends.” The man smiles. “Relax.” His voice is oily as the fireballs and, somehow, just as dangerous. “We can be certain this is all a mistake. No one wishes to harm your charming establishment, Mr. Donati. Sheriff Trask passed this way seconds before. Bring yourselves in hand, my friends, show your temerity, not your timidity, and we shall resolve this whole matter.” A broad smile.

  Melchior is pushing Ivy on, Sam hurrying with them, neither making eye contact with anyone in or about the crowd. As they reach the porch, Ivy catches sight of the badged and armed sheriff one door down and across the street. He stands with another group around a dark heap on the wet road. Has he been downtown all along?

  “Let go of me.” Ivy tries to shake off Melchior’s arm as he drags her up the stairs and through the doorway packed with spectators, some appearing alarmed, but most only interested.

  “Aim to remain out there and be noticed?” Melchior hisses at her.

  “I thought we might gain information—”

  “Or be blamed—jailed—”

  “We were attacked—”

  But Melchior shakes his head.

  Sam looks even more distressed.

  “Snails wrong about this city,” Melchior says, heading for stairs.

  Grip appears from nowhere, running toward them out of the dining room, apparently from the back door. He looks up at the stairway as he darts past it, drawing the bone-handled knife he keeps on his belt.

  “Grip,” Sam starts, “what is—?”

  Ivy leaps back and Melchior shouts, “What the hell?” as Grip strikes his upper arm with the blade, slicing through sleeve and flesh like butter.

  Seventieth

  Truth and Lies

  “Assist him,” Grip says to Sam, ramming the bloody knife in its sheath as he turns.

  Sam looks horrified, eyes wide.

  Melchior clutches his right arm, blood already running down his cotton sleeve, slipping through his fingers to drip on the dark rug. A rush of obscenities also flows—names directed at Grip which are new to Ivy even after all this time.

  “Good morning, Mr. Gordon,” Grip says, touching his hat as he steps aside.

  Adair is just descending the stairs, stepping around the landing corner at the bottom into their hall, Boyd behind. The two men pause, looking at Melchior, whom Sam has grabbed around the ribs, as if helping keep him on his feet.

  “Dear me,” Adair says. “What happened to you, Mr. L’Heureux?”

  “Didn’t hear?” Melchior snaps.

  “We did.” Adair’s brows crease. “A terrible difficulty to start in the street. We saw makers’ guns being fired.”

  The brothers shake their heads in a sorrowful fashion as if they cannot understand how anyone could be so heartless. They look at each other. Boyd irritated, though Adair maintains his regretful countenance.

  “Well ... Mr. L’Heureux, you should see a doctor right away to remove the bullet. We pray it was a revolver and not a device which struck you. And speedy recovery.”

  “Obliged, I’m sure,” Melchior pants, still clutching his arm.

  “Yes.” The brothers go on staring, as if to assure themselves he really is bleeding and really was hit in his shooting arm. “We will ... see you some other time, Mr. L’Heureux.”

  They tip their hats to Ivy, bid all good morning, then walk down the hall and through the crowd at the door.

  Moments later, Rosalía slams the door to their bedroom as Ivy grabs her sleeve, almost laughing. Grip slips past them. Sam is already inside with Melchior.

  “Sensational—we were walking right into them—” Ivy gasps.

  “Throw me some of your bouquets,” Rosalía says, leaning on the door. “I’m the one who saw them start down the stairs and waved to Grip out the hall window. How were none of you shot in truth? Why didn’t you run back inside?”

  “It didn’t occur to me. We didn’t know we were surrounded.” And Sam threw her off the porch, which certainly was faster than opening the door, then hiding behind it. Yet she can hardly think of that now. “Did you see that? Mr. Too Much Interference. Speaking of—what did he call it? ‘Suckering the challenger’?”

  Ivy detaches herself from Rosalía to embrace Grip, who is trying to reload his po
cket revolver, both guns on the chest of drawers by the door.

  “Miss Jerinson—” Like hugging a tree. Only dustier.

  She turns back to Rosalía, who is also panting, moving across to the open window, carbine in hand. The screen leans against the wall.

  “We would have all been shot if Melchior hadn’t gotten us up on the barber’s roof. Why was there no intervention? I saw the sheriff afterward. What happened?”

  “What did happen?” This from Grip. His tone is cold as he watches his sister in the mirror over the chest of drawers.

  Melchior is still cursing. Sam has a cotton hand towel off the vanity wrapped around his upper arm.

  “I don’t see more,” Rosalía says, staring out with her shoulder against the frame. “Certainly a crowd in the street though.”

  Ivy hurries to turn on the tap, dropping her empty derringer on the vanity. “Did you hit the one with the fire gun?”

  Rosalía shakes her head. “He ran once he realized two were aiming for him. I don’t think he saw where I was.”

  Grip pulls his knife free to clean. He may have ruined the sheath by putting the bloody blade inside for concealment before the Gordons appeared.

  “Sam, cut his sleeve open the rest of the way,” Ivy says. “Rinse your arm under the water.”

  Melchior drops to his knees against the bathtub, teeth clenched, his shirt blood-soaked from shoulder to wrist. Sam tugs the knife from Melchior’s boot, still holding the towel in place, his own hands and white cuffs crimson. He cuts up along the sleeves of shirt and undershirt.

  Ivy feels warm bubbles filling her pop as she sees the towel Sam grabbed is already wet through. With a jerk, she unknots the long, tattered lace on her right boot. She works the lace free and passes it to Sam.

  “Wrap it a couple times above the cut so it doesn’t break and pull it tight.”

  Melchior leans over the bath with his chest on the rim, his arm under the slow flow of water. He has stopped saying anything and his breaths come shallow, skin pale.

  Holding his elbow, Ivy turns off the tap as the wound clears. She glances toward the door and Grip, now watching them, then Sam, her face very near his and Melchior’s. Sam has her lace around the arm, holding tight.

  “He will have to see a doctor.” She wraps the wound in a fresh hand towel. “It’s not arterial. We can stop it with pressure while the blood clots, but he needs stitches.”

  “Had to do something powerful,” Melchior all but whispers, eyes closed. “Do a coffee boiler and wouldn’t have been blood to see by the time they stepped down. Right after him, weren’t they?”

  Ivy would feel touched he is defending Grip, but she is too busy being alarmed by blood running over her hands and towel. She has never minded blood, too familiar with its intrigue since an early age to be offended by it. But the quantity.... Even if no large vessel was struck, Melchior’s pulse was already racing when he was cut.

  “How will we get one?” Rosalía asks. “We can’t walk out there again. It’s a miracle you all got back in.”

  “Send Toulouse,” Melchior says breathlessly.

  “He is an attendant, not an errand boy.” Grip holsters his reloaded revolvers and opens the door. “Keep the door locked and watch the window. If you hear shooting, assume any physician will be delayed.”

  “Shouldn’t be out there,” Melchior says. “He’ll go. Be glad to do anything for us.”

  “Us?” Sam asks. He is nearly as pale as Melchior.

  Grip shakes his head as he stalks out.

  “Will he be all right?” Ivy looks from Rosalía to Sam.

  “Should find Toulouse. But they’ll have shinned to regroup,” Melchior says through fast breaths, head bowed. “’Spect we’ll steer wide of the bone orchard today.”

  “Get up.” Ivy stands, still holding Melchior’s arm, pulling him with her. “Sam, if he will lie down we can elevate his arm.”

  By the time Grip returns, alone, the bleeding has stopped, though they have ruined the only two small towels. Sam keeps the lace tight against his bicep, sitting beside Melchior on the bed with Melchior’s wrist across his shoulder. Ivy holds pressure with a bloody towel.

  “What happened?” She looks around with Sam as Rosalía lets Grip in.

  “On his way.” Grip does not proceed beyond the doorway, but looks at Rosalía. “A word.” He steps back into the hall.

  Rosalía, back tense, does not move.

  “Sam, keep him still. Hold the towel until the doctor arrives. He’ll be fine.” Ivy, her own hands bloody, her duster sleeves and tunic cuffs splashed with water and blood, hurries to Rosalía, her gaze on Grip. “Are you going to tell us what happened?”

  “I do not know,” he says softly, staring at Rosalía. “But she does.”

  Ivy looks at her.

  Behind them, Melchior murmurs, “Wouldn’t’ve been a first guess.”

  Rosalía says nothing.

  Grip starts up the hall toward his own room at the far end. “Sígueme,” he snaps, not looking around.

  Ivy catches her elbow as she walks to the door. “Don’t. He can talk to you in front of us.”

  But Rosalía follows, leaving her carbine leaned against their window. Ivy goes with her, closing the door behind them, key in the lock on the inside.

  Grip steps into his room, then sees Ivy at Rosalía’s heels. “Excuse us.”

  “No.” Ivy keeps her tone mild, though her pulse beats fast as she waits for the first raised voice.

  “Leave her alone,” Rosalía says calmly, stepping past him to look around the room, Ivy beside her.

  The place seems untouched, the curtains drawn, bed made, towels folded on the shelf below the vanity. Has he really even been sleeping in here?

  Grip closes the door, saying nothing more about Ivy’s presence, placing the room in semi-darkness as the drapes let only a dull red glow filter in. He faces them with his back to the door.

  “Vin just shot at me with a fisheye from a saloon’s roof,” Grip says.

  His voice makes Ivy’s heart beat even faster. Not yelling, speaking quite softly, but his left fist is clenched and there is something about his tone more alarming than a shout.

  “And I am certain I saw Hudson with a revolver across the street when they first started at us on the porch.” Looking into Rosalía’s eyes as she stares back. “You know something about it.”

  “Grip—”

  “Don’t.” His voice is still low, but sharper, chiseled out. “You have been lying to me since you followed us across the Rio. How long have you known they were in Monument?”

  “I did not know they—”

  “¡Dime la maldita verdad!”

  Rosalía swallows. “I am trying to tell you the truth. I did not know they were in Monument.” She takes a slow breath. “I still don’t know if Everette is in Monument. I didn’t see him and I’m sure you didn’t either, or you’d have thrown us to the wolves to catch him. But I did know they made the city their base of operations. I’ve known since spring. I got it off Lagarto when I caught him. He said the pack would not return for an age: Everette was all interested in the government shutdown and riding into Colorado or Kansas.”

  “You knew ... since May ... that they would return to Monument,” Grip says slowly, his voice again changed, frigid. “Five months. And did not bother to tell me?”

  How is it that all the most horrible people out West happen to be in Monument right at this time?

  Rosalía remains motionless, not meeting his eye anymore—looking at the doorframe.

  “Why would she tell you?” Ivy asks. “So you could kill yourself? Ride out here alone after a sizable and extremely well-armed group? You think that’s the kind of objective people who care about you should encourage you to pursue?”

  Grip does not look at her, still staring at Rosalía. “Then you spoke to him in July. You knew they were coming back.”

  “Everette never told me where they were going.”

  “But he would have
if you asked. And you didn’t ask so you could tell me you didn’t know. Since August you suspected them back in Monument, knowing I wasted my time on treks about the mountains hunting sign—”

  “It was a long time ago, Grip. Your death, his ... mine ... it won’t bring them back.” Rosalía’s voice is a whisper.

  “You knew they ‘could’ be here. Knew it was likely.” His tone is almost as soft as hers. “And you did not bother to mention the matter to any of us. You knew we rode into a city in which myself and everyone in my company ‘could’ be targeted and killed without duels, without warning. And you did not see fit to mention the matter—to warn us, give us a chance. We all ‘could’ have died this morning due to our ignorance. An ignorance which might have been educated out of us in five seconds. Yet, why? Since it was only a possibility and you did not wish to look bad, to bring it up, since they ‘could’ be anywhere in the country right now. And you believe I am rash—que soy imprudente y egoísta.”

  Rosalía stands immobile, staring at wood trim.

  Grip takes a step toward them, pulling the door open as he does. “Get out.” His voice remains just as low.

  Rosalía catches Ivy’s wrist, as if she fears Ivy may be witless enough to remain, and all but runs from the room. As the door slams behind them, she releases Ivy to rush downstairs.

  “Rose, wait—do not go outside.” Ivy tries to catch her arm.

  Rosalía is quicksilver. Down two flights, around the corner, past a startled Toulouse leading in a young doctor, then out the front door before Ivy can think what else to call after her.

  Seventy-First

  The Mistress and the Dove

  “We will remain in pairs at the very least,” Sam says, watching Melchior eat corn and ham soup left-handed.

  “What is to be gained by going out at all? This whole trip.... We should not be here.” Ivy lies flat on her bed, gazing at the ceiling.

  Sam shifts to look at her. Afternoon sun makes his hair appear blonde as it filters through the south-facing window at a sharp angle. “I am not sure about that. Can we speak to no one in town because a few wish us dead?”