The Big Bad II

by John G. Hartness

  It held a bloody piece of some kind of pulsing meat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The rhythm never stopped. This was a piece of someone’s heart. What was I supposed to do with it?

  I looked at my new reminders. Red helps you remember. I put my finger back into my mouth and tried to suck as much blood as possible. Time was short.

  Suddenly, I knew what to do. I removed my finger, reached in the box, and popped the piece of the heart into my mouth. I gagged on the strong taste of copper as I chewed it. It was more fibrous than I expected. Something inside my mouth started to foam and fizz. I tried to swallow it as fast as possible.

  My hands began to quiver. My body convulsed. I fell to the floor writhing in pain as my stomach contorted. I let out a shriek.

  In a few moments, the pain left, and every thought I had was clear. I knew exactly where I was. I was at the Enchanted Gardens Memory Care Facility in a body I stole from a morgue. I even knew my real name, but that would not escape my lips anytime soon. I sat up and looked at my hands, expecting them to have turned into those of a young woman. They were still spindly and twisted.

  It’s because I’m not finished with the spell, yet, I reminded myself. I needed a complete heart to break the spell. My full consciousness had returned, but I needed my body back before the sun rose, or I would stay trapped inside Helena’s.

  I stood up and looked in the mirror. “Show me Helena.”

  My true appearance faded into the background, and Helena’s moved forward. I grimaced. Why on this forsaken planet was I wearing stockings over my pants? And why was I using a yellow planter as a hat? I tossed the planter aside and tore off the stockings. I turned to the mirror. “Show me the fairest one as close as possible who can break the spell.”

  The mirror showed me the perfect target, and to my excitement, it was someone inside the building.

  “Show me the huntsman.”

  I saw Michael, a descendent of the huntsman who tricked me centuries ago, walking through the corridors. I scowled. “You wouldn’t dare leave here on a full moon, would you?” The boy was far too much of a nuisance. I would need to keep him distracted, but that would be simple. The sons of the huntsmen followed a strict code, which I had used to my advantage more than once.

  I broke off a piece of the mirror, and held it in my hand as I hobbled to the door. My joints creaked and ached, and I vowed never again to use such an old body as a disguise—no matter how much of a hurry I was in. I stood at the door and watched. I held the mirror next to my lips and, in my softest tones, whispered commands and spells. I watched Michael’s image and waited for the best moment to leave the room. If all went according to plan, it would happen momentarily.

  “Demon!” The panicked shout came from the Preacher’s chambers. He ran out in the hall yelling, “There’s a demon in my room! It crawled out of the mirror!”

  Soon all of the residents were screaming in their rooms, except Violet. All I heard from her was, “Why hello, sexy.”

  Michael headed toward the residents, but he kept his eyes on the hallway. I suspected he was searching for me. While I considered another distraction, I heard the Colonel yell, “Everyone down! It’s Charlie! Cover!” He ran out of the room holding a butter knife he must have stolen from the dining hall. I had to admit the butter knife was a pleasant surprise. The Colonel tried to stab one of the residents. Michael ran over to disarm the Colonel, at which point I made my exit.

  I stepped out of my room, adopted a confused look, and hobbled down the hall. I wandered through the crowd watching Michael wrestle the Colonel to the ground. I opened the supply closet and grabbed the axe, right where Yolanda had left it. I walked down the hall toward the nurse’s station and smiled when I passed the huge mirror by the grandfather clock. It would come in handy. As I reached the corner, I glanced over my shoulder at Michael. We locked gazes, as we had done so many times before I trapped myself in Helena’s accursed body. He released the Colonel and stood up, preparing to run after me.

  I turned the corner and continued to the nurse’s station, but I kept my eyes on the piece of mirror I still carried. I waited for the perfect moment. I uttered a spell, and the hall mirror exploded just as Michael passed. From the mirror I held in my hand, I could see through the reflective shards of glass surrounding Michael that it would take him a while to get up. The boy had gotten lazy while I had been Helena. He forgot to avoid reflections.

  I reached the nurses’ station where Nurse White, my pretty princess, stood in her office alone. I tightened my grip on the axe handle and walked toward her. “Hello, child.” My voice sounded cool, commanding, and deadly. “The mirrors are talking.”

  This time, I did not miss the neck.

  The Cully

  D. B. Jackson

  Boston, Province of Massachusetts Bay, July 18, 1746

  Sephira peered out from between the shops, her body pressed against the side of one building the way Whittler had shown her. The byway stank of rotting greens, rancid meat, and horse piss; flies buzzed around her face, making her flinch and blink. But she stayed still, and she watched.

  Whittler had left her there some minutes before, following the alley away from the waterfront so that he could circle back toward her from Faneuil Hall and give her a proper view. She saw him now, threading his way along the crowded lane, past merchants and wharfmen, his waistcoat and shirt stained, his breeches with holes at the knees. Others on the street looked as shabby as he, but none wore that beatific smile; he appeared to have not a care in the world. Spotting her, he winked. Sephira smiled in return. An instant later, his expression hardened, and he sidled toward a cluster of well-dressed men deep in conversation.

  He was jostled as he walked; everyone was, including the merchants. Whittler, she knew, had been counting on that.

  “Crowded street like this one,” he had said before leaving her in the alley, “ev’ryone’s bouncing up against ev’ryone else. Tha’s what you want, get it?”

  She had nodded, drinking in every word.

  Now, as he stepped around the men, he allowed himself to be shoved into them. Sephira saw his hand dart into one gentleman’s coat and emerge a moment later, but she could make out no more than that. And she had been looking for it. He was good; at sixteen, he was already better than anyone else she had ever seen.

  He continued past the men and toward her, his hands in his pockets now, his face relaxed. He didn’t join her in the alley, didn’t so much as glance her way as he walked by. But he turned at the next corner. Sephira eyed the wealthy men for a few seconds more. They still talked and laughed like fools, oblivious. Proud of Whittler, and of herself for being his friend, she retreated into the shadows and crept to the far end of the byway.

  Whittler was waiting for her, beaming.

  “Did ya see?”

  “Hardly,” she said. “I saw your hand go in, bu’ that was all.”

  “Aye, the fat cull never felt a thing.”

  He pulled a leather pouch from his pocket and held it in his palm, hefting it, a grin on his face. Sephira heard the muffled clink of coins from within.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?”

  She nodded, eyes fixed on the purse.

  He loosened the drawstrings and poured the coins into his other hand.

  “Not bad,” he whispered. “Not bad at all. One, two...there must be four pounds here, maybe four an’ ten.” He plucked three shillings from his bounty and held them out to Sephira. “There’s your share.”

  She searched his face for some sign that he was joking. “But I didn’t do anythin’.”

  “You was my watcher, my lookout. You’d have told me if th’ sheriff was behind me, wouldn’ ya?”

  “’Course!”

  “Then ya earned it. Come on: put out your hand.”

  She held her hand under his, and he dropped the shillings. They rang like bells an
d kissed her skin, cool and comforting.

  “I want to try,” she said, curling her fingers over them.

  “Try what?”

  “Pinchin’ a purse, of course!”

  He scowled. “Ya’re not ready.” He returned his remaining coins to the purse and shoved it into his pocket.

  “Sure I am! You’ve been teachin’ me. You said I’ve been doin’ good.”

  “Yeah, well doin’ good ain’ the same as bein’ ready, is it?” When she didn’t answer, he repeated, “Is it?” barking the words like a cur.

  “No,” Sephira whispered. She blinked hard against a sudden stinging in her eyes.

  Whittler rubbed the back of his head, his mouth twisting. “Look, Seph, with some time I think you could be good. But ya’re just a kid, an’ there’s other ways for a girl like you to make some coin in th’ lanes, know what I mean? Safer ways. Ways that won’t wind up with you in th’ town gaol or hanging from a gallows.”

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t go tellin’ me ‘no,’” he said, his tone growing stony again. “Ya’re good-lookin’. And there’s coves that don’t mind a girl’s body, if you take my meaning.”

  She ground her teeth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’m not whorin’. Tha’s what my Ma did, an’...an’ I’d rather take my chances with the sheriff.”

  “Well, then take it to the North End. I won’t have ya gettin’ caught here and ruinin’ things for the rest of us. One diver gets caught with a hand in a pocket, and the rest of us has it twice as hard for a month.”

  “But we work together! You said so!”

  “Only if you follow my rules.” He started away from her.

  Sephira ran after him, threw herself in front of him, and grabbed his arms to make him stop. He was a full head taller than she, and stronger, too, though for a girl of twelve years, she was strong enough. “But, you promised me—” She made no effort to stop her tears.

  He pulled his arms from her grip and put his hands on her shoulders, none too gently. “My rules, Seph. Follow them, or go spend your shillin’s without me.”

  He pushed past her, and she let him go, although not without trying a dive of her own.

  “Not ready, eh?” she called, just as he reached the end of the alley.

  He turned. She couldn’t help grinning as she held up the rich man’s coin purse and gave it a little shake so that its contents jangled.

  Whittler’s expression didn’t change. He walked back to where she stood, his steps slow, deliberate. Upon reaching her, he took the purse from her hand and stared at it for what seemed an eternity. Then, without warning, he smacked her across the cheek with the back of his hand. Sephira staggered back and fell on her rear.

  He leveled a rigid finger at her like it was a bayonet. “Don’ ever try a dive on me again,” he said, the words thick with fury.

  He turned and left her there. Sephira made no effort to stop him. Her skin blazed where he had struck her; pain throbbed with every heartbeat. She was crying again, sobs sticking in her throat, snot running into her mouth, mingling with blood.

  Men had hit her before. Her uncle, who had lived with Sephira and her mother before Sephira ran away, used to drink himself into terrible rages, and often beat both of them. And one man, who thought to use her as he had used Sephira’s mother, struck her when she resisted. Only her mother’s intervention kept the brute from doing worse.

  But she’d never thought that Whittler would hurt her. They’d been together for nearly a year now, him teaching her to pick pockets and slip merchants’ wares under her shirt without being spotted, and her finding them what food she could, even when it meant begging like a pauper. Sure, he got angry with her sometimes, when she didn’t listen to him or got sloppy with her dives.

  This was different, though. She’d used him as a cully, diving for his purse. And he had been none the wiser. If she hadn’t called to him, he would have left her there, and the four pounds ten would have been hers.

  She swallowed the last of her sobs and wiped her tears with the dirty cuff of her shirt sleeve.

  She’d bested Whittler. That was why he hit her. She had done nothing wrong; just the opposite: she had been too good.

  Sephira managed a shaky smile at that and climbed to her feet. Her face still hurt. She could feel the skin tightening over the bruise and she knew that she would look a mess for a day or two. But there was nothing she could do about that. She might even use it to her advantage.

  I’m ready, she told herself. She left the alley and walked down to the South End waterfront, near Long Wharf. The streets here were nearly as crowded as they had been up at Faneuil Hall, though mostly with laborers, shipwrights, and wharfmen. She saw few men of means.

  Take it to the North End, Whittler had said.

  “All right, Whit,” she said under her breath. “That’s what I’ll do.”

  She followed Mill Street over the creek into the North End, and angled north and east toward the wealthy homes around Copp’s Hill. Now that she had it mind to steal from someone—someone other than Whittler—her heart had begun to labor and her mouth had gone dry. The streets here were not nearly as crowded as those near the markets of Faneuil Hall, and the men and women abroad in the lanes were all well-dressed. The men wore matching silk suits of green and blue, beige and red. The women were dressed in luxurious gowns, also silk, with matching petticoats and stomachers. Many wore straw hats, trimmed in satin.

  Never in her life had Sephira been more aware of the roughness of her own garb: the stains on her ill-fitting shirt, the frayed length of rope that held up her torn breeches in lieu of a proper belt, the very fact that she wore no coat or waistcoat or hat.

  Whittler had looked no better than she, but in the teeming streets of the South End, he had blended in. She did not; not here.

  She thought about retreating to Cornhill, but she heard again his warning, his dismissal. I won’t have ya gettin’ caught here and ruinin’ things for the rest of us. Those lanes were his; they had been long before he started teaching her. And he had as much as banished her.

  She continued along Salem Street, holding herself the way he had taught her: not so proud that she drew attention to herself, but not so furtive that she appeared to be skulking. Look like ya belong, he had told her once, not so long ago, and look like ya’re goin’ somewhere. Her cheek throbbed at the memory.

  A cluster of men caught her eye: six of them, gathered at the corner of Hull Street, near the base of the hill. They were talking—rich men always seemed to be talking. Two of them gestured pointedly at each other while the rest of their group smiled and laughed, as if the source of their argument were of little consequence. All of them wore silk suits; several carried brass-tipped canes.

  She approached them, marking their positions, their postures, where they held their hands, whether their coats were buttoned or open—the things Whittler had told her were important. When she was within five strides of them, she chose her cully. Her hands trembled, but she kept them loose at her sides. Casual. Unassuming. As she passed the cully, she darted a hand in, just the way Whittler had taught her.

  Except for one thing.

  Ya gotta watch a cully first. Ya can’t just dive without knowin’ the waters. Ya’ve got to know where your cully keeps his purse.

  The pocket she chose for her dive was empty. And as she extracted her hand, she felt powerful fingers close around her wrist. She tried to bolt, but the man’s hand held her like irons in a gaol.

  “What have you caught there, Caleb?”

  The gentleman holding fast to Sephira’s wrist gave her an appraising look from uncovered head to poorly shod foot, his gaze lingering for a moment on her bruised cheek. He was not much taller than she, but he was round and double-chinned; his stubby fingers ground together the bones of her wrist.

  “You’re hurtin’ me,” she said,
struggling once more to break free.

  He peered at her through the small lenses of his spectacles, his pale blue eyes overlarge behind the circles of glass, his nose small, almost delicate, and utterly out of place on such a homely visage. Sephira could see wisps of red hair poking out from beneath his powdered, plaited wig.

  “I believe I’ve captured a brigand,” he said, sounding amused.

  Several of his companions laughed, though not the man who had asked the initial question. He regarded Sephira with unconcealed disgust.

  “The sheriff will know what to do with her.”

  Sephira’s captor frowned. “I’m not certain we need involve the sheriff. Her hand is empty; there’s no harm done.”

  “She’s a miscreant. Let her go, and she’ll make the attempt again; perhaps next time she’ll be successful. Give her to the sheriff, and no one need worry further about her.”

  Still gripping her wrist, the one named Caleb bent down to look her in the eye.

  Sephira tried yet again to pull away, but to no avail. Her wrist was growing sore, and she feared the men would indeed turn her over to the sheriff. Did they hang pickpockets in Boston? Tears welled in her eyes.

  “What’s your name, child?” Caleb asked.

  “Let me go!” Tears coursed down her cheeks again—she couldn’t remember the last time she had cried this much in one day.

  “You’re wasting your breath, Caleb.”

  The man glanced up at his friend. “It’s mine to waste.” To Sephira he said, “I just want to know your name, so that I can see you returned to your parents, where you belong.”

  She said nothing, but merely glared at him.

  “I fear Benjamin may be right,” another man said. “She’s not worth your trouble.”

  Caleb straightened, and for a moment Sephira thought that he would follow the counsel of his friends and seek out the sheriff. Instead, his grip on her wrist relaxing somewhat though not so much that she could escape his grasp, he tipped his hat to his companions, bid them good day, and led Sephira up the lane on a steep incline toward the top of Copp’s Hill.