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

by Taylor, Jordan

  “We could still make planned inquiries. If we reach the telegraph office or general store before bleeding out.”

  “They say anything about lawmen in this burg when they were explaining who tried to beef us?” Melchior asks. He sits up on Rosalía’s bed, his arm stitched and wrapped in gauze, his destroyed sleeve dangling about the bandage in dry, brick red tatters. “Why’d no one lend?”

  “I haven’t any idea.” Ivy frowns. “The sheriff, at least, was there. Perhaps others.”

  “A situation as disturbing as the attack itself,” Sam says.

  “You both need new clothes.” Ivy sits up. “I would like to send a telegram if I could afford one. And would not mind a word with the good sheriff either.”

  Sam looks down at his bloodstained white shirt, the sleeves dark to the elbows and more streaking the rest. He has one spare, but no additional waistcoat. Ivy herself has been able to scrub off her water-repellant duster sleeves and wool tunic cuffs in the bath without disrobing. The dark material is nearly dry already, the stains almost invisible.

  “Ivy, you and I could go to—”

  “Don’t reckon that’s a swell idea,” Melchior says, lifting a spoonful of soup.

  Sam falls silent for a moment, watching him. “How do you feel?”

  “Dandy.” He sounds sincere.

  “Do you really?”

  “Heap better than a few hours ago.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Ivy says. “Were circumstances different, I’d say bed rest for the next twenty-four hours—”

  “You’d think I’d—”

  “You lost a lot of blood, Melchior. It takes time for your body to rejuvenate itself.”

  “Two of you can’t go wandering around alone.”

  Yet he was not the one to knock anyone off those roofs.

  “Let me speak with Grip ... see what he is planning,” Ivy says. “I believe he is still in his room and I certainly hope Rosalía is still with her horse, neither having already done something stupid. He may disappear on us. Catching this man is more important to him than seeing we survive the city or make it back to Santa Fé.”

  “Another alarming situation,” Sam says. “If Grip leaves us, can we even get back to Santa Fé?”

  “East. Nearly dead east,” Melchior says. “Get there.”

  “Our route was hardly a straight line, old man. And it took eight days to reach Monument. Those are a good many days in which navigation can go wrong for various reasons.”

  “Let’s not worry about it yet,” Ivy says.

  “Even if he doesn’t sneak, could find this Lobo fellow anytime and get himself pegged,” Melchior says. “Can’t rely on one person to know all the roads out here.”

  Ivy heaves herself to her feet. Is it only early afternoon?

  “Melchior, you should remain where you are for at least another hour or two. When you stand, do so slowly. If you feel dizzy or lightheaded, lie back down. I’ll speak to Grip and visit the stable.”

  “I can accompany you,” Sam starts.

  “Just make sure he doesn’t do anything ... rash. I’ll be right back.” Ivy pulls on her dried duster from the hook at the door, the loaded derringer back inside it. Her gun belt with the four-round is still on over her tunic.

  She slips out and closes the door on Sam’s next objection.

  Her back grows tense as she starts down the hall to Grip’s door, but there is no need to knock or time to steel herself. He opens the door as she approaches, stepping into the hall, pausing when he sees her.

  “Why are you such a cad to her?” Ivy asks. Not what she meant to say, but the first thing to come to mind.

  He raises an eyebrow, then locks the door and faces her. “She almost got us all killed.”

  “She didn’t know what to do. What if she told you and it turned out they weren’t here and you never would have known? You think she wanted to be the one to send you after him again?”

  “Had she told you?”

  “No. I can guess how she was feeling. You think I go around with my eyes closed, but at least I have a little compassion. Does she bring up everything you do wrong? Does she rub in what she already knows you beat yourself up over? Yet anything she does wrong, you—”

  Grip starts past her, shaking his head.

  Ivy steps in front of him. “She was scared. She already feels responsible for this whole trouble and you cannot pass up an opportunity to make her feel like a disgrace. Do you think she needs you cursing her to know she made a mistake?”

  “Excuse me.” He steps around her to the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Looking up an old friend who I believe can shed light on what happened today, as well as the whereabouts of La Manada de Lobos.”

  “Wait a moment. Will you tell Sam what are the best places in the city for store-made clothing? They are trying to decide what to do.”

  He pauses, then turns and follows her to her door without a word.

  Inside, Sam stands at the foot of the bed, biting his lip, watching Melchior by the window as he leans on the frame.

  “Feel all right,” Melchior says, looking at his bandage.

  Ivy opens her mouth, chews her tongue, resists a sigh, says nothing about him being on his feet.

  “The city has changed since last I visited,” Grip says to Sam. “However, I should try Wilson and Sons on Cliff Road, three blocks west. Wilson used to be the best tailor in Monument who kept reasonable prices. Perhaps he still is.”

  “Thank you,” Sam says, glancing from Grip back to Melchior as if he will collapse if Sam takes his eyes off him. “He stocks ready-made garments?”

  “He used to. Keep a low profile if you go out, Mr. Samuelson, though I suspect we are in less danger this evening. They, too, suffered damages.”

  “And ... where are you going?” Sam asks.

  “On an information gathering venture. I expect I will see you for supper.”

  Sam nods, glancing again to Melchior.

  “Who’s the best source of information in this burg?” Melchior asks, watching out the window. “Bartender? Saloon girl? Barber?”

  “Whores,” Grip says.

  Melchior looks around. “Makes sense. Wouldn’t have thought of that.” He seems impressed.

  “No, Mr. L’Heureux, I would not expect you to.” Grip opens the door, Ivy turning with him. Grip looks at her. “You should remain with your friends.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “Ivy—” Sam starts, moving toward her. Apparently Melchior can take his chances with the floor.

  “I’m here for information as well,” Ivy says softly, meeting Grip’s eye.

  He pauses, gazing at her before starting down the hall. “Very well.”

  Ivy grabs hat and sungoggles off the coat hook. “I’m fine Sam. Take care of him if he will allow it and get yourselves shirts. I will see you back here, or for supper. Would you speak to Rosalía in the stable on your way out? Make sure she is all right? She might go with you. She wanted to see the city.” Ivy pulls the door shut behind her, then jogs down the stairs after Grip.

  At the front door, carpenters are already repairing bullet holes. Grip steps outside without preamble, though looking in all directions, hand on his holstered revolver. Ivy runs her fingers over chestnut horsehair hanging from her belt, pulls on her goggles, and follows.

  Grip walks south on Canyon Street, along the same path the ABCs took Ivy to see the post office, moving briskly.

  “Do you have cash?” she asks.

  “Why?” He does not look at her.

  “I would like to send a telegram, but have’t any.”

  “A tragedy.”

  “Thank you for our rooms. And show.”

  He turns off on Eighteenth Avenue before the post office, past the sleek, maker-enhanced exterior of Les Canyons.

  Ivy extends her stride as far as possible to avoid running to keep up, glancing left and right to moving Ferris wheel window displays of pastri
es, more of glittering golden pocket watches, and a shop of toys and home goods with pacing, jumping clockwork animals filling a window.

  Grip looks at none of these, scanning each roof, doorway, and corner as they approach.

  When he persists in silence, Ivy says, “I hit two men with the derringer this morning. The ones across the street on the clothing supply and hotel roofs.”

  After another pause, he says, still not looking at her, “Why are you telling me?”

  “I thought you would want to know. You taught me to shoot, though you believe I am inept. You must be surprised I hit anyone. On roofs. At extreme range for the derringer—even a Tinestel. In fraught conditions.” Ivy takes a breath. “Sorry.”

  He looks at her sideways. “You take to shooting with a rapidity and intuition I have seldom seen. Why should I be surprised you were able to shoot a man?”

  Ivy stops in the middle of the street. “What did you say?”

  He pauses to face her. “Why should I be—?”

  “You think I’m a natural with a firearm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why—you—what?”

  Grip frowns. “I participated in shooting instruction for others years back. Never have I seen anyone consistently make clean shots so soon after beginning to handle a firearm.”

  “You didn’t—did not ever—could not.... Were you just ... never going to say this to me?” Breathing rapid, Ivy can feel her hands shake.

  This seems to baffle him, his frown deepening. “What purpose does it serve for you to be in on my observations of your deeds?”

  “When you teach someone something, it does not occur to you to tell them if they are doing it wrong or right? So they know what is desired? Know when they are making a good showing?”

  “You are not trying to perfect your accent in a foreign language, Miss Jerinson. If it is not clear to you when you are doing well or poorly in shooting, you should not be permitted to handle the weapon at all.”

  She wants to shake him, scream, kick the street. She can only sputter, then bow her head. “It would be nice to hear a little encouragement every month or so. It is frustrating when you say such a thing. I thought you believed I was a terrible student, which is how you behave toward me. This place ... the West ... it kicks a person in the teeth as it is, without our own comrades—forget it.” She walks on, taking a deep breath through her mouth as she glares ahead.

  He follows, catching up in a few strides. “I was not aware I treated you like a terrible student.”

  “And I was not aware I was not a terrible student.”

  “Perhaps we should work on our communication skills rather than our shootist skills.”

  “Did you just say that to me?” She rounds on him. “I am telling your sister you said that.”

  Grip faces her, having gone on two extra steps, and ... smiles.

  Ivy has seen him truly smile three, perhaps four times? Ever.

  He rubs the back of his neck with his left hand, pushing his hat forward. “You are a natural markswoman. And ... congratulations on your shots this morning.”

  “Thank you for saying so. I thought you a reprehensible teacher. Perhaps not.”

  “No....” He shakes his head. “My family agrees with you. Not my calling to explain to others when I should rather do the task myself and be done.” He pushes back his hat and looks at her. “In this case, the greater the achievement of the student.”

  She looks into his dark brown eye. “I did not come out here to become a murderer.”

  “No. You came out here to survive.”

  Ivy is about to say it’s ironic, isn’t it? About to smile, about to laugh. But she only looks at him for a long moment. It is the same reason his mother fled New York City and a husband who nearly killed her and her young son. The city has fallen. The battered woman is gone. Grip stands facing her.

  “How, by your observations, is that going so far?” Ivy asks at last.

  He tips his head to the right, as if to get a better look at her with his good eye. “Far better than expected.”

  “I’m a natural?”

  “I would not purport so extravagantly.” He resumes walking, but she is certain he almost smiled again.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see Mistress Arista. If she is still in business. I expect she is.”

  Ivy stretches her legs to keep up, glaring at him for the pace. “Are you going to apologize to your sister?”

  Grip lets out his breath and does not answer.

  “She made a mistake. You do not have to be—”

  “Yes. You informed me previously.”

  “She’s upset. She already blames herself.”

  “So I have also discerned.”

  They make their way to the southwest side of town among a shabby residential stretch of old buildings, many in disrepair. A barking dog on a chain reminds Ivy of Yap-Rat. What happened to him?

  Among the shacks, a stately home of three stories and attractive design greets them with violet, vivid green, and gold paint. A front turret looms regally while bay windows speak as strongly of eastern charm.

  Sheer curtains flap in a lethargic fashion through open windows, stirred by a faint desert breeze which makes puddles shimmer in the streets around their boots. Aside from flies, nothing else moves.

  Ivy hesitates as Grip climbs four steps to the large, covered porch, left hand in her duster pocket, holding the arrowhead. Wooden boards groan like raising the dead at each step, the very house seeming to creak with the intrusion.

  Something clicks, pops. Metal grinds, a brass hatch slides back. A tinny, female voice speaks from behind the newly revealed brass screen at the side of the door.

  “We open at five. Return when—”

  “We’re here to see Mistress Arista,” Grip says.

  “We?”

  Grip looks around, realizes Ivy is not with him, and waves her impatiently up the steps. Cautiously, watching floorboards, Ivy walks up beside him.

  “What is your business with the mistress?”

  “Social,” Grip says. “An old friend. She will recognize me.”

  “Name?”

  “Lobo.”

  “Who is the girl?”

  “Wild Bill.” He is beginning to sound annoyed.

  The voice sounds bored and metallic as ever: “One moment.”

  They wait a long, long time. The house rustles and stirs in some invisible, inaudible, yet shiveringly obvious way.

  “Grip?” Ivy starts at last.

  He shakes his head, still watching the brass screen.

  Footsteps shift within, a voice murmurs something in the distance. A latch clicks, a gear grinds, a chain rattles. The oak and iron door opens.

  A tall, elegantly clad lady in sweeping skirts and ruffled collar, much lace at her sleeves and metallic adornment of makers’ style, clearly for fashion rather than use, stands before them. Her hair, a soft auburn shade, tumbles in waves to her waist. Eyes gray-green, speaking of lakes and oceans. Skin unusually pale for the region. Though probably in her forties, any lines in her delicate face are smoothed by a dusting of powder, while her lips are carefully darkened with deep pink.

  Grip removes his hat.

  Ivy swallows. She has never seen a woman in makeup in Santa Fé. In Boston, such a thing is for actresses and similar less fortunates as low as street hawkers or those of the ill repute Grip just mentioned so bluntly to Melchior.

  The woman lifts her hands, covered by gray silk gloves with a sheen like silver, to rest her long fingers on each side of Grip’s face. She looks into his eye.

  “Lord have mercy,” she whispers. She runs her hands down his face to his shoulders as if to check the solidity of him, tears filling her large eyes. “What happened to you, dove? I thought you’d gone from this world.”

  Grip bows his head. “I owe you an apology, Arista. I should have—”

  She slaps him so hard on his blind side he staggers.

  “What—?�
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  “Oh, sweetheart....” She catches his face once more in both hands. “We both know I’d not be able to sit still wanting to do that if I didn’t get it out of the way.” She speaks with a gentle southern accent, her voice light, musical. She pulls his head to her own face—not a great distance since she is so tall—and kisses his cheek. “Come in and bide.”

  The lady turns away, apparently addressing people within, pulling Grip by his left hand. “Starlight, ask Nep to get up a tea tray. Crescent, be a dear and turn away callers. You can manage, can’t you, honey?”

  Pulling off her goggles, Ivy steps uninvited through the large doorway to a lavish hall of dark wool rugs and crimson silk held to walls by leather ties. A wide stairway stretches ahead, but the woman leads them around this. Ivy never catches sight of whom she addresses, or what lies behind the front door where the tinny voice sounded, as she stays close to Grip.

  “Who’s your friend?” This apparently to Grip, as the woman gives him a quick smile over her shoulder.

  “An information seeker. You can speak in front of her,” Grip says under his breath, glancing at the fabric-draped walls as if they have eyes and ears.

  “I should hope so, dove. With you not speaking and me not permitted, we should have all the fixings for one awkward conversation.” She takes a right, then pushes open a violet door into a nearly circular room within the house’s rear turret. “Make yourselves at home.”

  The room appears to be a combination of society sitting room and miniature library. The windows are part shaded in white and sheer lavender drapes. Above and to both sides of the door, the wall contains a solid stretch of books nestled on shelves that reach the ceiling.

  To the left is another door. A darkly stained oak desk stands with newspapers and letter sheets stacked on top. At the first window is a chaise lounge in silver gray upholstery. To the right, about more windows and the end of the shelves, a violet sofa is faced by two silvery armchairs with a low, narrow-legged table at the center and thick cushions all about.

  Besides the bookshelves and upholstery, every wall and surface is alive with brass and gold and silver ... artwork.

  A flower vase on one wall burbles with flowing water from a spigot above, forming an endless waterfall. A silver top spins on the desk without trace of wobble. A phoenix sculpted in brass is somehow affixed to the ceiling, its massive wings, each feather distinct, seeming to cover the room like a tent. A clockwork cat sits in one sunlit window, tail twitching to and fro, occasionally looking around at them. Beside this, something that looks like a harp is draped in a protective cloth to keep off sun.