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

by Taylor, Jordan

  “I thought the whole nation was already shut down,” Sam says. “A year since, at least.”

  “Officially,” Ivy says. “It seems people are not as easy to control as all that, especially the farther away they get from the Capitol.”

  “Arista expects all five of us for supper tomorrow night at Les Canyons,” Grip says. “I must find Everette, but let us all attempt to remain alive at least until then or she will be disappointed. If he runs, if it is true he plans to reach the coast, I will, as you say, Miss Jerinson, be abandoning you. In either case you should return to Santa Fé.”

  “How?” Melchior asks, irritated. “You think we know the way back?”

  Hadn’t he acted plenty cocky about the trail when it came up without Grip being there?

  “You can manage, Mr. L’Heureux. The city is east of here.”

  “Can’t just go riding after that bunch on your own,” Melchior mumbles, scowling.

  “I cannot?” Grip lifts an eyebrow.

  “How many in the gang?”

  “It seems one was killed in a fall off Red Wing’s roof this morning. Leaving them eight, including Everette. At least one currently injured.”

  “Christmas,” Melchior says.

  Ivy smiles.

  “How does this woman have outside newspapers of recent circulation?” Sam asks. “Trade is open?”

  “Again, only unofficially,” Ivy says. “It seems the people of Monument have been able to get almost anything they wish from San Francisco and the farms between here and there through their capital in Tierra Roja. Monument essentially owns Tierra Roja these days. The miners are working for wages, not for themselves.”

  “Bet they’re looking back on signing those terms with roses in their eyes,” Melchior says.

  “Monument has makers and precious metals and minerals,” Ivy goes on. “San Francisco and the California farmlands have crops, better links to communicate with the outside world, steamers still bringing news, imports, even weapons and ammunition which Monument would be hard pressed to continue producing on its own.”

  “Could she tell you if Santa Fé may benefit from these dealings in goods?” Rosalía asks, looking around at the excessive amount of food on theirs and neighboring tables.

  “I’m sure experienced freighters could get through,” Ivy says. “But the city would have to be in a position to compensate Monument. Assuring them our own maker has silver will not seal a deal. We have nothing to offer between us. Nor, if we were able to approach San Francisco, or anywhere in between, asking aid, could we compete with Monument. They can pay too well and the journey is relatively easy compared to what, by freighter, must be at least another fortnight to reach Santa Fé, perhaps three weeks.”

  “Besides the distance and chance of being attacked by shootists and risers, there is the season,” Grip says. “Snow will fall at any time.”

  Ivy must take his word for it since Monument is certainly not cold during the day. Even when it rained—was that only last night?—it was not so cold.

  “Are there any Plague-sick out here though?” Melchior asks. “No one seems to think so. Fifty miles from that lake. And, if goods are coming in....”

  “The last party expected from San Francisco has not arrived,” Ivy says. “Risers reached the coast coming from the north as well as east. It is more than likely they roam the distance between on the California side, even if they are not near Monument yet; anyone traveling between would be prey.

  “I should enjoy an opportunity to look through more newspapers. Does anyone want to visit the post office in the morning?”

  Grip frowns, but says nothing.

  “I do not suppose you would consider remaining within the hotel tomorrow?” Sam asks, his tone weary, defeated.

  “Come with me,” Ivy says. “You will like to see them as well. And what are we doing about income?”

  “Can try hands tomorrow,” Melchior says after a pause. “Change left to stake. Could sell Chucklehead, but he needs a stop after the journey.”

  “Don’t sell your horse again,” Ivy says. “We cannot afford for him not to come back. Grip suggested you would be shot for cheating in this town.”

  “Have to be found for that. Build up a few coins without if I can find small enough games. Not many fellows looking for a new with seventy cents in his pocket. Can manage billiards swell too. No set in Santa Fé. Again—” He shrugs.

  Grip looks even more annoyed. “Mr. L’Heureux, do you need a loan?”

  “Wouldn’t want to disturb anyone or—”

  “I will stand you five dollars. I expect it back by the time we are sitting down to supper tomorrow.”

  Melchior smiles. “Good of you. What if you’re beefed tomorrow looking in the wrong passenger’s window?”

  “Then you may consider the matter closed and the cash your inheritance.”

  Melchior appears even more pleased.

  By the time their plates are cleared, Grip stands and steps around their table without a word.

  “Where are you going?” Rosalía asks quickly.

  “See my horse.” Grip’s tone is brusque.

  “Reckon I should too. Haven’t been in all day.” Melchior glances at his own right arm, which Ivy suspects is extremely painful.

  He stands, lifting his hat from the back of his chair, and Ivy follows, causing Sam to leap to his feet. She should to tell him he can stop doing that every time she stands. But she smiles at him and says nothing.

  Outside, Melchior pauses on the porch a long moment, looking left, right, and upward in twilight gloom inching to true night. But Grip just walked this same way and no one shot him.

  She walks beside Melchior, around the building where the stable fills part of a block. Grip is already studying El Cohete’s limbs when they step into the nearly dark stable. A single, hooded electric bulb is lit at the main doors, casting deep shadows throughout the place. Hostler and stable boys are gone. The horses still chew or sleep on their feet.

  While Melchior checks their mangers, Ivy runs her hands over Corra. No heat or swelling. She feels normal. Ivy strokes the black mare’s neck and notices her halter has been changed.

  Ivy squints at the dark face. She runs her fingers along the rough rope. Did some superior horse arrive needing the soft leather halter rather than this twine object?

  Frowning, Ivy slips from the stall, leaving Grip checking the wrapping on his stallion’s legs and Melchior singing under his breath to Little Bird and Chucklehead.

  In the dark tack room, she feels for headstalls and halters, soon more put out by darkness. The open window on the center of the opposite wall allows a chill breeze to stroke her face, reminding Ivy that it really is mid-October.

  Why would someone change Corra’s good halter? She is considering ringing for the hostler when she remembers the tack room also has an electric light in the ceiling.

  She feels back to the doorway, sliding her fingers up the wall to flip the switch. And someone grabs her head, covering her nose and mouth in a strong hand wrapped by cloth.

  Seventy-Third

  Know Thy Enemy

  As dull light flickers through the narrow tack room, Ivy opens her mouth to scream, only to find an oily gun rag shoved between her teeth. She bites down as hard as she can. While whispered curses fill her ears, she slams a heel into a booted foot behind her, violently twisting away from crushing arms.

  “Christ—” A gasp. The man at her back jerks his foot away, reeling sideways, dragging her backward, knocking into saddle trees.

  Does he mean to pull her through that small window? How he came in? She tries to ram an elbow into his stomach, tries to stomp his foot once more, and, managing neither, does at least throw him further off balance. He falls sideways, half tugging her with him, face and right arm free.

  Ivy rips the derringer from the inside of her duster and spins around as the man tries to catch her wrist. She jumps away, shooting for his leg as he dives after her. The crack of her small gun in t
he compressed space pounds her ears with the man’s screams as she backs, crashing into the doorway.

  She lifts her free hand to steady her shaking right on the derringer, gasping as she faces him.

  The man, a young Anglo, hatless but with a black silk mask over much of his face, dressed entirely in black, a gun belt visible below his jacket, seems to have no more interest in her. He is bent double, almost curled into a heap on the floor.

  Shaking from head to toe, Ivy eases into the doorway, not taking her eyes from the man or lowering her weapon. No need to shout, even had she breath. Footsteps race toward her up the alley. Melchior calls her name.

  The young man must also hear through his own moans. He struggles onto an empty saddle tree to escape through the window. Ivy does not fire after him, but steps back into the hall as Melchior and Grip burst past her.

  “Snails! Getting out!” Melchior crosses the room in a bound. He catches the window ledge and looks out. “The hell?” He says, watching through the window. He lifts his revolver, then shakes his head. Too much cover or too much darkness, or only thinking better of it.

  He lowers himself and looks around at Ivy as Grip studies the room, revolver in his hand.

  “You all right?” Melchior asks.

  Ivy nods from the doorway, trembling, her own gun still clutched in both hands.

  “Shoot that fellow in the balls?”

  “Excuse—oh.... I did not intend to,” she gasps.

  “Sard you mean doing something like that?”

  “Me? What in—you—that man attacked me!”

  Grip also gives her a strange look.

  “Could’ve just ... his arm or something.… Wasn’t firing on you,” Melchior says.

  “I tried to hit his leg. He moved extremely fast—why am I justifying shooting that man to you?”

  Her hands shake as she shoves the derringer back into the coat holster. When she glances up, they are still looking at her.

  “What?” At Grip. “How many people have you murdered in your life? And you think I did something dreadful?”

  Grip frowns. “Defense of yourself is admirable, Miss Jerinson. However, I believe the rest of us would not use such tactics—”

  “I told you! It was an accident! You both act as if you are supporting the other side. Didn’t want to go catch him or anything, did you? Didn’t want to know who just waited in here to kill—?”

  “He was not waiting to kill you or he would have,” Grip says.

  Ivy hurries down the alley, back to the double doors into the lamp-lit road, chest heaving, teeth clenched. Melchior jogs after her.

  She rounds the corner out of the stable and runs into Sam, dashing in the opposite direction.

  “Ivy—” He catches her arm as they almost collide. Sam also breathes hard. He must have run all the way down from his and Melchior’s room when he heard the shot. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

  “No. There was a man in the stable.” She is glad to take his arm.

  He looks up as Melchior appears. “Everyone is all right?”

  Melchior nods, though he still looks put out. “Sneaking mudsill in there and Ivy shot him in the balls.”

  “Did she?” Sam does not sound critical as he slips his arm across her shoulders. “Excellent.”

  She walks with him back to the hotel, Melchior leaving them. Ivy does not care if he is going back to look for the man or sing to his horses or take a long walk on a trail of rattlesnakes. She leans on Sam up the stairs, telling him what happened.

  “The man was masked? Did Grip get a look at him?”

  Ivy shakes her head. But he is right: why would anyone don a mask when the parties to the conflict are already common knowledge?

  “I am sorry,” Sam says as they reach the top landing. “I hope you are all right. I cannot imagine why you are being targeted if these people are supposedly after Grip.”

  “Sam, was this unrelated to Lobo?”

  “Let us not assume that yet. We have enough enemies....”

  “Arista knew who I was.”

  Sam faces her, brows creased, his hands on her upper arms.

  She looks up to meet his worried eyes. “How am I known? How is that possible?”

  “I could not say. I feel we exist within a soap bubble in those New Mexico mountains. However, everyone in Santa Fé knows well who you are. And it seems more travel takes place between there and Monument than we realized. Did your new friend offer any insights into why you might be a target?”

  Ivy shakes her head. “But no one has to tell me ‘famous’ is a dangerous way to be out here. If that man was part of La Manada de Lobos, perhaps Grip knows why.... We should go to bed.”

  Sam steps away, but does not shift his gaze. “Ivy ... I do not trust the people running this establishment. Would you like to stay with us? Or switch rooms all together?”

  It had not crossed Ivy’s mind that someone would be interested enough in hunting her to track her inside the hotel, to her very room.

  “Why did you have to say that?”

  “I am concerned for you...?”

  “No, Sam, thank you. The door has a good lock. You and Melchior are in the room beside. And we have as many firearms between us in our room as you do in yours.”

  He does not smile, but nods after a pause. “You know where to find us.”

  “Thank you.” Her heartbeat has slowed almost to normal.

  “Goodnight, Ivy.” He glances about the hall as he backs, again making her nervous.

  “Stop it. I am not worried.”

  Now he does smile, looking sheepish. “I beg your pardon.”

  Rosalía meets her at the door, carbine in hand. Ivy sees the window standing open, screen still out, cold air slipping through the room.

  “Did you see anyone out there?”

  Rosalía shakes her head. “What happened?”

  Ivy repeats her story while Rosalía closes the window and lights a candle so they can turn out the harsh electric light.

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, she asks, “Why were you in the tack room at all?”

  Ivy sits still a moment. “Because I was set up.”

  “What?”

  “They ... someone switched Corra’s leather halter for an old, frayed rope. I noticed and went to get her halter back. When you were in there earlier, she still had on leather, didn’t she?”

  “They all looked normal. She’s right next to Volar and rope would show on her.”

  “He was trying to get my attention. They thought I would search.” Ivy shivers as she looks up from the book on the little table.

  “Then they know you quite well,” Rosalía says.

  Ivy only looks back through candlelight.

  By morning, she feels more angry than scared. Why is she being targeted? Was that man really unrelated to Lobo’s band? What could they want with her?

  She hurries down to breakfast to find Grip.

  Melchior and Sam have already started coffee and inform her he is gone.

  “Slipping out as we came down twenty minutes ago,” Melchior says.

  Sam pulls a chair out for her as Ivy glances out the window. Roosters are crowing down the road, the sun scarcely up.

  “Did he say anything to you last night in the stable about the man in black? Or did either of you follow him?”

  “Only said you should stay in today. What kind of fellow goes around in a mask though? Low as a snake’s belly.” Melchior pushes a plate of yeast rolls toward her.

  “They know where we are if they are that serious about finding me.” Ivy slices open warm bread to spread on apple butter. “You are the one who should remain indoors today and allow your arm a chance—”

  “Got five off him though,” Melchior says cheerfully. His spirits seem greatly improved since the previous evening. “Bring us back from ruin today while you all scout news and he scouts trouble.”

  Ivy wonders if he apologized to Sam, which makes her recall Grip needing to apologize to Rosalía
, which makes her hope he is not going to be killed this morning looking for Everette.

  She tries to focus on her roll and preserves.

  Rosalía joins them a short time later, still subdued. She does not ask after Grip. Ivy suspects she assumed he would be long gone by now.

  Her mind returns to the afternoon before: bright conversation, interesting sights, wonderful food, reading, knowledge. So much knowledge. She smiles as she chews.

  Not as if her companions are unintelligent. Not as if she does not, some of the time, enjoy their company....

  Books from all over the world, news of the region, genteel to Ivy herself, despite the use of her given name.

  “Ivy?” Sam watches her.

  They all do.

  “Yes?”

  “You have that look again,” Rosalía says.

  “I was just.... I had the most wonderful time yesterday.”

  “Barring being shot at?” Melchior asks. “You mean at the whorehouse? Never even been in one. Maybe should—”

  She waves her butter knife at him. “Enough. We told you—Sam, would you like to visit the post office?”

  “I do not think you should—”

  “We will keep together. Armed and on the lookout.”

  Sam shakes his head, but folds his napkin and stands when she does.

  “Will you make us a good deal of money today?” she asks Melchior.

  “Arm’s all right besides the agonizing pain. Thanks for asking.”

  “I did mention your arm. You interrupted me. Rose, would you like to come?”

  When Rosalía appears noncommittal, Ivy grows suspicious she could be meaning to look for Grip and encourages her until she stands.

  On their way out, she runs upstairs to fetch her carbine. Sam also carries his revolver in plain sight and Ivy has the four-round on her belt and derringer concealed.

  They move carefully along the sidewalk up Canyon Street, Sam and Rosalía keeping so close to Ivy it makes her uncomfortable, as if they are guarding a bank deposit.

  When all reach the post office unmolested she relaxes over views of newspapers, stamps, and a real, live human being behind the counter. Sam looks through the papers as Ivy asks about mail. When and how does it come and go and how much does it cost? This man confirms there has been more than one party of late between here and the coast that has vanished. Then explains conspiratorially that they are being eaten by Plague Brutes: half-human monsters created by Russian makers and planted in the States to take over the world.