Wooden Nickels: White Lightning Series, Book 1

by Debra Dunbar

  “Well, we wouldn’t have threatened to kill him,” she muttered.

  “Bushwa!” Capstein snorted. “Your well-heeled companion, here, is more a murderer than I am. He is beholden to monsters. He’s under a mandate to gather pinchers at any cost. Am I wrong?” he asked Vincent.

  Vincent replied, “Your silvered words would sound a helluva lot more convincing if you hadn’t unleashed boatloads of gun-toting gorillas after us.”

  Capstein rolled his eyes. “Dear God, man. Can’t you see we’re at war?”

  “What?” Vincent grunted, preparing himself for the right moment to take action. “War between the Citizens and the Crew?”

  “No, no. Pinchers and the seats of power! We’ve languished for centuries beneath the heel of one king or another. Sultans of the Levant. Kings of Europe. And now the lords of crime in the New World, but it’s all the same. We are captured, or we are culled. And if we are very lucky, we are born into servitude.”

  Hattie said, “You’re doing the same thing. Aren’t you? Capturing or killing?”

  “Yes, but it is in the service of our kind! Imagine what we could do, Vincent. Me and Betty. You and this one? We could raise entire generations together. We could bury Vito once and for all, then challenge Philadelphia. By the time we reach New York, we’ll have pinchers flooding to join us in Richmond. We could begin an entire new kingdom—”

  Vincent snapped his fingers and time froze.

  Gesturing to Hattie to capture her attention, he pointed to the boat. Or pointed to where the boat should have been. He shot Hattie a questioning glance, but she only shrugged. Vincent lunged against the frozen air, feet slipping in the beach sand. Walking through a time bubble was hard enough, but the sand made it extra strenuous.

  When they’d reached the water’s edge, he spotted the speedboat floating in the distance. A pair of footprints remained pressed into the wet sand, running in and out of a patch of grass nearby. Vincent pointed to the tracks and beckoned for Hattie to follow. They marched through the sand, the exertion already wearing on Vincent’s guts. Within a six-foot-tall tuft of dried grass blades, they found a short man with a hunting rifle still trained to the spot where they had been standing in front of Capstein.

  Vincent nodded to Hattie with intent, then pulled the rifle from the man’s surprisingly firm grip. He spun the weapon around and swung it against the head of the sniper. As Vincent reached for his stomach, staving off a wave of prickly nausea, Hattie tapped his arm. She pointed at Capstein, then made a gesture with the rifle.

  Vincent squinted at her, then offered her the rifle. She refused it and he’d done enough killing for the day. All he wanted to do was to escape.

  Hattie tapped him again, making a snapping gesture with her fingers. As Vincent shook his head, she snapped again, pointed to herself, then waved a hand in front of her own eyes.

  Vincent nodded. He released the time bubble, and as Hattie made a brisk gesture with her hands, he could hear Capstein finishing his monologue.

  “…a kingdom meant for us!”

  The gunman slumped forward into the grass with a grunt.

  Hattie turned to Vincent and rolled her eyes. “You were right. He is an intolerable windbag. Saint’s above, I thought he was gonna never stop with the blah blah blah. Just kill me already. Put me outta my misery before I die o’ boredom.”

  Vincent made a panicked shushing gesture with his finger, but she waved him off.

  “It’s alright. I’m hiding our voices, as well. What should we do now?”

  His jaw dropped. “You can do that? I thought you were a light pincher?”

  She shrugged. “If I pay the cost, I can fool any of the senses. What should we do?”

  “You can fool any of the senses?” Vincent shook his head. “Any? So someone could drink down a whole bottle of poison, thinking it was raspberry ripple, and wouldn’t be the wiser until he was dead?”

  “Why is it always about killing with you gangsters?” she countered with a huff. “Yes, taste, although that one’s pricey ’cause I gotta also throw touch, smell, and sight into the mix or it doesn’t quite work.”

  Capstein called out, “There’s no way off this island.”

  “Wait, touch? So if you conjure up a tommy gun, and someone goes to grab it—”

  “Vincent! Questions after we get off this island, if ya please.”

  They turned to find Capstein walking a tidy circle where they had stood, scanning the immediate area.

  “So, he can’t hear us?” Vincent urged.

  “Not as long as I can hold out.”

  “How long is that?”

  She frowned. “About as long as you could hold a bubble the size of this island. Which isn’t long.”

  “The boat’s a good fifty yards out, by the look of it,” he grumbled. “I can swim that, but I don’t think we can do it without catching notice.”

  Hattie jerked with an idea. “Hey, when you freeze time, things get solid. Right? Can we just, you know, walk on water?”

  Vincent sighed. “’Fraid not. I’ve tried it before, and nearly drowned. Water gets strange inside a time bubble.”

  Capstein shouted, “I’ll assume you’ve found at least one of my men. I won’t tell you how many more there are. But, truly…we should have a conversation as adults.”

  Hattie rolled her eyes. “This bag of gas is driving me to drink.”

  Vincent lifted the rifle. “Sure you don’t want to shoot him?”

  Hattie snickered, then reached out to grab Vincent’s arm as her head spun. The tightness of the illusion clamped down onto her brain.

  “Your power?” Vincent asked.

  “We need a plan. Sharpish.”

  Vincent offered, “I can pinch time again. Maybe we can find another gunman.”

  “We can’t find them all.”

  “Then we hide,” he said. “Make them come to us.”

  Hattie looked around. There was very little on this island apart from tall marsh grass and the shack. “Down.”

  They hit their knees, crawling a few yards away from the sniper’s position. Hattie lifted a finger to her lips, and as her eyelids fluttered, Vincent could feel an electric prickle against his arms.

  She released a long breath and dropped her head. They couldn’t keep using their powers like this. The strain was too great.

  Capstein remained by the shack, hands on his hips. “That’s how it’ll be, huh? Fine. I wanted to do this amicably. And to be sure, I wanted you both alive.”

  Hattie leaned close to Vincent, whispering with the barest of volume, “What’s his power, again?”

  “Air,” he whispered back.

  Even as he said it, a light breeze kicked off the Bay, pushing the grass at an angle.

  Vincent spied Capstein between blades of bent grass. He was picking up something from the ground. It looked like a length of firewood.

  The breeze grew to a wind, and the marsh grass had nearly bent flat all around them. Vincent and Hattie pressed hard against the muck beneath, but the air became near a gale force.

  Vincent’s hat flipped off his head. He reached to grab it but was too late. As it rushed into the sky, Vincent returned his gaze to a patch of grass that wasn’t quite as bent over as the rest. A man lay prone, his rifle tracking backward from the hat’s path, and directly at them.

  Vincent shoved Hattie to the side as a gunshot rang out. He thought she’d punched him in the arm for shoving her, but as he shrugged her off, the ache of the strike turned into a searing heat.

  He’d been hit.

  Vincent pinched time once again, not even bothering with snapping. He shoved against the ground, gripping his wound as he got to his feet.

  Hattie joined him, eyes wide, then pointed to the rifleman who’d just shot Vincent in the arm.

  He shook his head, knowing he couldn’t hold the pinch long enough to take these guys out one at a time.

  Hattie tilted her head eyeing him with a perplexed frown, then her eyes traced
down his shoulder to the blood staining his shirt and seeping between his fingers. The pain was shredding his control, distracting him. Soon he’d be no help to her. Soon he’d be no help to anyone.

  Hattie made a panicked sound, then threw her hands into the air, looking around then pointing toward the shack.

  They shoved against the wind-flattened grass toward the shack. As they approached Capstein, Vincent realized he’d left the rifle in the grass. Hattie tugged on his arm as his guts began to twist, but he remained standing in front of the casual figure of Capstein, considering his length of firewood.

  Vincent reached for the firewood, snatching it from Capstein’s hands. He sucked in a lungful of thick air, then swung the log as hard as he could against Capstein’s head.

  The tiny log rushed against Capstein’s head…and shattered. The log simply disintegrated into tiny splinters, chipping away against an invisible capsule spread around Capstein’s body. The flecks of wood and sawdust spun away from Capstein in a simple arc, swerving over their heads and remaining in frozen space.

  Vincent shook his head in confusion.

  The pain in his arm swelled, as did the nausea. Spittle filled his mouth as a retch threatened to erupt from his throat. The arc of splinters began to move, easing in tiny tumbles, then rushing higher…faster…

  Time was returning. And Vincent had no more power to stop it. Capstein slowly blinked, his icy-blue eyes shifting to him as time eased back into its own proper tempo.

  With a smirk, Capstein said, “Hello, Vincent.”

  The capsule of rapidly circulating air, only a hair’s width before when it had shredded the log, now swelled into an enormous surge, leeching away from Capstein to hammer into Vincent’s chest with the force of a hurricane.

  Vincent tumbled into the doorway, the world canting as the side of his head struck the door jamb.

  Capstein thrust a hand toward a spot beyond the doorway, and as a hacking, sobbing noise filled the air, Vincent realized it was Hattie. He tried to clamber to his feet, but his dizziness sent him sideways into the ground. Half his body fell outside the shack’s door, and he rolled over to find Hattie reaching for her throat, her face drawn, her mouth wide open gasping for air.

  Capstein lifted his hand in a sort of claw, stepping toward Hattie. “This could have been so much simpler. Alas.”

  Vincent’s vision blurred, and Hattie went double.

  Capstein turned to face him, a trickle of blood flowing from his nostril. “You don’t see it, yet. But don’t worry.” Darkness leeched into Vincent’s vision as his head throbbed. “You shall.”

  Chapter 23

  Hattie opened her eyes and tried to lift her arms to wipe the moisture from her face, discovering that her wrists had been bound with some scratchy jute behind her back. Wriggling against the rope did no good. She stared up at the sky, a deep charcoal of overcast clouds against the ink of night. No moon. No reflections from the city. Nothing but darkness.

  The hull beneath her back slapped against waves. She was on a boat, and it was moving fast. Blinking away more of the spray from the water as it plumed over the side of the tiny craft she found Capstein looming over her.

  “We’re nearly to shore,” he cooed. “Rest.”

  Hattie tried to speak, but her throat was raw and dry. No words came.

  Pulling a handkerchief from his jacket, Capstein dabbed away some dried blood from underneath his nose. His powers over air had sucked the breath from Hattie’s lungs, and had thrown Vincent into the building. That was the last thing she remembered. The man had demonstrated his power, but as with all pinchers that power seemed to come at a price.

  Hattie craned her neck to look about the boat, spotting Vincent nearby, tightly bound with ropes around his arms and legs, and unconscious. Capstein had taken precautions against Vincent’s awakening. If he’d had any power left after his gunshot wound and having his head rammed into a length of pine, no amount of time pinching could undo those knots.

  They were captured—well and truly prisoners of the Upright Citizens. How did this happen? Hattie sighed as she ruminated on their fate. This was her doing. She’d learned of the Bimini lie from Little Teague. The poor bastard had probably believed it—so much so he begged her to take him to Doc Freedman with his last breath. How many others had met such fates in pursuit of a fiction, she wondered? And how many lives were now in jeopardy because of her foolish belief in such a bald-faced fairy tale?

  Raymond’s?

  Vincent’s?

  Her own?

  The boat pounded against waves, traveling faster than the simple chug of the engine indicated. Another pelting of Bay spray explained their unusual speed. Capstein was using his wind pinching to shove the boat along the surface of the Bay. Good. Expending that much more power meant he’d run out eventually.

  Hattie took stock of her own reserves. It wasn’t an exact science, to be sure. She knew that having the life literally choked out of her hadn’t done her any favors. Top that off with a double-sense illusion just before, and she wasn’t sure how long she could maintain one of her light pinches. And so, she rested in the boat as her captor continued to expend his power. Wait, she urged herself. Just wait. You’re getting stronger, and he’s getting weaker.

  The wind subsided after a while, and the boat slowed with a jerk. Capstein and two of his attendants jumped from the vessel, splashing into shallow surf to drag the boat ashore. The sand scratched along the underside of the hull beneath Hattie’s head.

  As she wrestled against her bonds, she noticed Vincent’s eyes fluttering open. He released a long moan, and she shook her head. There was only one opportunity left to get them out of this. One. Hopefully he’d understand.

  “A fine predicament you’ve gotten us into,” she snapped at him.

  A cough was his only response. His eyes lolled about, searching for up versus down. The injury to his head was likely to be worse than it had seemed, which meant she couldn’t rely on Vincent to help save them from this situation.

  And yet…

  She shuffled up to her backside to sit upright with a solid push. After a bit of work, she found her back against the side of the boat, and she was staring down at Vincent.

  She repeated with added volume, “You’ve really put a foot in it, haven’t you?”

  Voices called outside the boat, and footsteps approached. Good.

  “You hear me over there, boy-o?” she shouted, giving Vincent a kick and thanking the Heavens that Capstein hadn’t thought to tie her feet. He’d underestimated her. And as far as she knew, he still had no idea what her powers were. “You. Shake off those cobwebs and listen.”

  Capstein appeared near the front of the boat, watching with mirth.

  Hattie continued, “All I wanted was some way to cure my father. But could I hope for that? No. You had to come strutting along, telling me what’s what and who’s who. And now where are we? Tied up on a boat. You daft little skite-eater.”

  Capstein lifted a hand. “Please, miss. You can hardly blame—”

  “Oh, don’t you start,” Hattie said with a shrill crack. “You think you’ve got me figured. Well, I’ll give you a what for. I was born free. My parents kept me free. And I’ll roast in the circles of Hell they reserve for people who talk on trains before I give you the time of day. So, go on. Off with you. I’m staying right here.”

  Hattie focused as she swung her legs over the side of the boat.

  Capstein chuckled, sauntering forward to lean against the rail with a smirk. “I’m perfectly aware of the absurdity of the situation.”

  Focus. No sound as her feet hit the surf. With any luck he’d launch into one of those endless monologues. She could be halfway to Richmond before he paused to take a breath.

  He continued, “And you still see us as slave-drivers. That will change, once you meet Betty. She was once where you are now.”

  Focus. He’s still watching you on the boat. Step slow. Step quiet.

  Vincent groaned, “H
uh… Hatt…”

  No. Focus. Forget the man. Keep walking. The trees are only a few yards away.

  Capstein laughed. “So, you’re finally awake. I do hope this encounter has demonstrated two vital lessons. The first…you cannot outthink me. The second…”

  His voice faded as Hattie hustled for the cover of the forest ahead. The illusion tugged at her head, spinning her brain while simultaneously clamping it in an iron maiden vise.

  Distance. Sound and sight. Too much power required. The cost was too great.

  A trickle of blood seeped from her nostril. Out of sheer force of economy, Hattie released the pinch over sound, her footsteps now audible as she rushed up the beach toward the trees.

  A gunman appeared from the canopy ahead, his rifle half-lifted, his head craning back and forth to zero in on the sound.

  Hattie gritted her teeth, balancing her weight as she ran with hands tied behind her back. With a leap and a flourish of her knees, she swept the gunman’s chin with her foot. They both landed in the sand, kicking up a cloud as he moaned in pain.

  The illusion snapped into oblivion as her body slammed against the ground. That was it. All she had.

  Heads swept toward land as the illusion disintegrated. Hattie had only seconds before they’d see her. She scrambled to her knees, brushing through the sand on her way to the tree line. Voices barked behind her, shouting alarm and confusion. She lunged into a squat and got to her feet, bobbling her way into an awkward sprint.

  Sand gave way to grass, which gave way to pine needles. The jute scratched the skin of her wrists raw as she ran. Uneven terrain caused her to stagger, balance more difficult thanks to her bonds. But she kept running—running hard, sucking in breaths as she penetrated the pine forest.

  Once her lungs felt as if they were set ablaze and she couldn’t heave in enough air, she paused to lean against the shaggy bark of one of the trees. Her throat sobbed as she drew in air, bending at the waist, then straightening up again. She choked on spit and coughed. Too much noise! Hattie clamped her mouth shut as she coughed. Her lips sputtered, and ultimately, she surrendered to the reflex.