by Sarah Gailey
“I’m glad to see you, too, ’ero.” She thrust the saddlebag at Hero and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Hero panted. “Wait, this isn’t—this can’t be enough. I need at least four times this much dynamite.”
Archie turned back, her eyes still glinting with delight. “Ah, well, you see. They were all out of dynamite.” She patted the top of the bulging saddlebag. “This is something different. Something . . . better. You’ll see. We will discuss it further in the morning, oui? You’re busy now, and I’m so very sleepy.” She yawned theatrically. “Off to bed with both of us, is it not?”
She sauntered away down the hallway, pulling off the false moustache. “Oh, ’oundstooth,” she murmured to herself, a smile overtaking her face as she remembered the longing look on Winslow’s face when Hero had touched his arm the day before. “I can’t save you this time, mon copain. You’re done for.”
* * *
Archie, Hero, and Houndstooth met in the lounge at noon, each of them still blinking sleep from their eyes. Adelia was already seated in her chair, a small armory’s worth of freshly whetted knives on a table by her side. The knife she was sliding along the whetstone was familiar; Archie noticed it before Houndstooth did.
“I thought that thing was lodged too deep in the bull’s brain to get out? And—’ow did you get those back from Travers? I thought they were all locked away . . . ?”
Adelia grinned and continued sharpening Houndstooth’s ivory-handled blade. “I’m determined, Archie. Determination is everything. Besides, I had a few years of saving Cal’s pistol-ridden ass. You know how it is, in the water.”
Archie watched Adelia’s expert hands work. “I do know ’ow it is. Knives are a ’opper’s best friend. Pistols that can’t get wet, on the other ’and? A nightmare.”
Adelia laughed. “Well, Cal was an idiot, wasn’t he? I told him, a hopper with no knives is a dead hopper. But he didn’t want to listen.” She lowered her voice in a perfect imitation of Cal. “‘Well, actually, Adelia, a gun is more effective at a distance.’ See how well that worked out for him, hm?”
Hero and Houndstooth walked to the dining room for coffee, their heads tilted toward each other as they walked. Archie sat across from Adelia, her elbows resting on her knees.
“Adelia, mind if I ask you a question?”
Adelia did not look up from the knife. “Yes. It’s Cal’s baby. No, I am not sorry that he’s dead.”
Archie shifted uncomfortably. “Well, that’s . . . that’s good to know, but it’s not what I was going to ask.”
That made Adelia look up. Her face was, for the first time, completely open—Archie realized she had not seen plain emotion on the woman’s face before.
“What would you like to know, Archie?”
“I don’t mean any offense, of course—you are incredibly skilled, obviously you are an asset. But . . . why are you ’ere?”
Adelia’s face split into a wide, white smile. Archie realized that one of Adelia’s canines was made of gold, and she was reminded strongly of Ruby’s deadly sharp tusks.
“Why, Archie. I’m here to kill you.”
Archie was startled into laughter. Adelia went back to sharpening Houndstooth’s knife. She tested it against her thumbnail, then returned it to the whetstone.
“What? Me?”
“Well, not you precisely. But, all of you. Everyone on the team.”
Archie went very still. “I think perhaps I misunderstand your joke, madame.”
“Oh, it’s not a joke,” Adelia said, although her smile had not faltered. “I’m here to kill you all. If anyone goes rogue, if anyone tries to steal the money, if anyone sabotages the plan. I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, per the boss.”
“You mean the Bureau of Land Management? Or ’oundstooth?”
Adelia did not reply.
“Aha,” Archie said. “So you’re keeping an eye on us for this ‘boss’ of yours. But who keeps their eye on you, Adelia Reyes?”
Archie stood after a long, silent moment, and walked into the dining room after Houndstooth and Hero. Adelia watched her go, testing the knife on her thumbnail once more. This time, she found it more than sharp enough.
Chapter 11
THEY MET THE NEXT DAY in Hero and Houndstooth’s suite to assemble the bombs that would drive the ferals to the Gate.
“So,” Hero said, staring into Archie’s saddlebag.
“The man I bought it from, Mr. Wolffenstein? ’E said you would know what it is. ’E called it ‘the Mother of Satan’?”
“Madre del Diablo?” Adelia asked. “I’ve heard of that before, I think. But I thought it was just a rumor.”
Hero took a rapid step away from the saddlebag. “No, no, it’s not a rumor at all, Adelia. Triacetone triperoxide.” They aimed a pointed look at Archie. “It’s extremely volatile.”
Archie shrugged. “Wolffenstein said it was so pure that it could be considered relatively stable.”
Hero pulled a single tiny white crystal out of the saddlebag and threw it to the ground. It exploded with a loud pop.
“ . . .’e said relatively,” Archie said with a shrug.
“Well then you can be the one to handle it,” Hero replied. “I hope you brought gloves.”
Archie pulled a pair of long leather gloves from the back pocket of her green breeches. “’Ero, darling, I always bring gloves.”
For the remainder of the afternoon, Adelia sat cross-legged on the divan, massaging wax into leather pouches, rendering them effectively waterproof. Archie filled each wallet with the tiny white crystals of madre del Diablo, then handed each one to Hero, who inserted wires and bits of metal in a configuration that seemed to make sense to them and them alone. Archie asked what Hero was doing, and the response was in no way illuminating.
“Would you like to discuss the inner workings of a blasting cap, Archie? Because we can discuss the inner workings of a blasting cap, if that’s what you’re looking for here.”
Archie had groaned and shoved Hero’s shoulder. “If you don’t want to tell me, then don’t tell me.” Hero had grinned and gone back to work, and Archie had caught Houndstooth beaming at them.
After Hero had finished doing whatever it was they were doing to make the bombs sufficiently dangerous, they wrapped each leather pouch around itself a few times. There was more room than they needed, since the crystals were so much smaller and lighter than the dynamite Hero had been expecting.
“You’ve worked out the equivalency, I suppose?” Houndstooth asked.
“More or less,” Hero replied. “We might get a little bigger bang than we expected, but I think it’ll all even out in the end. Don’t worry, Houndstooth. This hippo caper will go off without a hitch.”
Houndstooth opened his mouth to reply, and they all responded with him: “It’s not a caper; it’s an operation.”
The final step was left to Houndstooth. He had a pot of melted wax, kept liquid by water boiled in his travel kettle—Adelia had rolled her eyes at him for bringing it, but there wasn’t an inn north of Lafayette that could brew an acceptable pot of tea. He sealed each leather pouch, pouring wax over the seams.
After the first one was finished, he held it up. It was about the size of both his hands, and didn’t look remotely dangerous.
“Are you certain that this will be enough of a bang, Hero?”
Hero looked up at him with a half smile. “I think I know how to create a bang, Houndstooth.”
Houndstooth’s ears turned violet, and he didn’t speak again until they had finished making all twenty bombs.
* * *
That evening, Hero prepared to ride into the Harriet to set up the bombs. Houndstooth accompanied them to the dock at dusk, carrying one of the two loaded saddlebags that they’d need to take out onto the water.
“Now, remember, don’t place the charges too close—”
“Too close to the dam, I know. You’ve only told me a thousand times, Winslow.” Hero smiled. “I know the dam has a crack. I know we
don’t want to be the ones to blow it. Trust me, why don’t you?”
Abigail waited for Hero dockside, impatient. She blew bubbles in the water when she saw them approaching. Houndstooth looked at her apologetically, then whistled for Ruby, who slipped up to the dock like butter sliding across the bottom of a hot pan.
“You don’t have to go alone, you know,” Houndstooth said, dropping his saddlebag.
Hero regarded him with their steady gaze. “Oh, Winslow. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were worried about me.”
Houndstooth rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I just want to go with you. Keep you company.”
Hero dropped their saddlebag beside his, taking his hand. “Or maybe you don’t know how to stay behind?” Houndstooth grimaced at the insight. “I’ll be with Ruby. You can’t come with me, not riding Abigail—she’s louder in the water than a passel of fighting alligators, and if she sees ferals, she’ll probably try to make friends. Besides, you need to stay here. If Travers catches wind of this . . . you can say I went rogue, that you didn’t know I had this planned. You can say that the whole idea was to get the hippos out one at a time, nice and slow, like they thought. If they catch both of us, though—it would be bad for everyone, Houndstooth. You know that.” Hero kept going before Houndstooth could interrupt them. “Plus, you’ve got to dispose of the rest of the madre del Diablo—it only took about half of what Archie brought to get us set up, and we don’t want to leave that stuff lying around.”
Houndstooth was silent for a long moment, staring at Hero’s face as though trying to find a constellation in a sea of stars. “I wish you weren’t so damnably brilliant, Hero. You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” He touched Hero’s face with a tentative hand. “You’ll be a hero, Hero. If this works. You’ll be a hero. I just don’t want you to be a dead hero.”
“I’ll be fine,” Hero said, smiling. “Ruby’s the best there is. She won’t let anything happen to me. You can trust her, and you can trust me. You don’t have to w—”
But Hero’s words were stopped by Houndstooth’s mouth on theirs, his hands on their waist. “I do trust you, you know,” he whispered against their lips—and just like that, there was nothing left to say.
* * *
Adelia found Houndstooth at the bar half an hour later. He was already half drunk, and well on his way to getting whole drunk, if the speed at which he gulped his whiskey meant anything.
“Mind if I join you?” she said, hoisting herself onto a bar stool.
“Of course, please do,” he said politely, signaling the bartender to get her a glass of water.
“Ever the gentleman.”
“Ever the Englishman, you mean,” he replied, speaking into his nearly empty glass.
Adelia handed Houndstooth the ivory-handled knife. “Here—cleaned and sharpened. Sorry for, you know.” She gestured to his jacket pocket, wiggling her fingers. “Reaching in there, like that. Without asking first.”
Houndstooth turned the knife in his hand a few times, examining the blade. “It looks better than it has since I got it. You have a gift, Adelia.”
She smiled. “I suppose you could say I have the touch.” She sipped her water. “You left England to open a ranch here in the States, didn’t you, Houndstooth?”
He nodded. “Left home for good when I was fifteen. It was all I wanted. I didn’t know any better.”
“Do you miss it?”
“What? England? Every day. And, not at all. They didn’t like me there, you know,” he said, swaying a little on his bar stool. “They didn’t like a damn thing about me, other than my name.”
Adelia laughed. “I meant being a rancher. You used to own a ranch, sì? You used to breed your very own, like Ruby.” She put a hand on his arm, steadying him, then quickly withdrew her hand.
Houndstooth signaled for another drink. “I’d rather not discuss it, if you don’t mind. It ended . . . badly. And I am, after all, English. We don’t like to discuss.”
“It’s okay,” she said, resting a hand on her belly. “I actually already know about what happened. About the fire. Cal told me.” She watched Houndstooth closely. He stared into the glass of brown liquor that appeared in front of him.
“Did he now?” he murmured to the whiskey. “Did he tell you?”
Adelia waited.
“Did he tell you?” Houndstooth repeated. “Did he tell you about who burned down my ranch? Did he tell you about why he hid on the Harriet for all these years, knowing Travers wouldn’t let me in? Oh, he knew,” Houndstooth said, mistaking Adelia’s stillness for doubt. “Travers would never let me through the Gate. I turned him down when he asked me to help introduce more vicious strains into the feral population. He spent years trying to change my mind, but I wouldn’t budge. Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t burn my ranch down himself—” He glanced over at Adelia, understanding dawning across his face. She interrupted, talking fast and low.
“Don’t you ever wish you could go back to it, Houndstooth? Just . . . leave this place, give up the capers, give up the vendetta? Just take the money and run?”
He stared at her, his brow knit. “Run?”
“You know.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Leave.”
He shook his head, and it made him sway hard. “I can’t just—”
She grabbed his face in both hands, steadying him. She looked into his eyes with urgent intensity—he feared for a moment that she was going to try to kiss him. She hissed through her teeth. “Forget what you came here to do, Houndstooth. Forget revenge. Leave. Leave tonight.”
“’Oundstooth, you rascal, I ’ave been looking for you everywhere!” Archie’s voice filled the bar, and Adelia jumped away from Houndstooth. He looked at her as though she’d suddenly grown hippo ears, bewilderment writ plain across his normally stoic Englishman’s face. Archie stood in the doorway, beaming, and walked toward them.
“Adelia, ma nénette, ’ow are you feeling? Do your feet pain you at the end of such a long day? Ah, I thought they might, so I asked the bellboy to prepare you a soak of warm water and lavender in the lounge.” Ignoring Adelia’s protests, Archie helped her down from the barstool and began walking her toward the lounge. “I asked ’im to bring a little glass of wine with honey in it, to settle the bébé.” Her voice was as bright as the edge of a freshly sharpened knife. “I know she ’as been kicking you right in the gut these past few days.”
They rounded the corner to the lounge, leaving Houndstooth to stare, lost, into his whiskey at the bar. The moment he was out of sight, Archie rounded on Adelia, sticking a finger into her face.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?”
Adelia’s nostrils flared. She jutted her jaw toward Archie, saying, “It’s called flirting.”
Archie snorted. “I would ’ardly call it anything that advanced. What are you thinking? For the first time in the ten years I’ve known ’im, ’e likes someone who’s worth ’is time. You stay out of it, Adelia.” Archie’s eyes went wide with surprise as she registered pain in her side.
“I’d gut you right here, if I didn’t think he’d jump on the blade right after you,” Adelia whispered. Her knife dug into Archie’s side, the point of it pressed between her ribs. “If there’s one thing I know about Winslow Houndstooth, it is that he cannot be tied down, no matter how much he ‘likes’ the latest flower he’s landed on.” An ugly, brittle smile crept across her face. “Just because he wouldn’t have you—”
Archie cut her off with a laugh. “’E’s not my type, cherie. Put your knife away. You’re embarrassing yourself, even more ’ere than you were at the bar.” She took a deft step away from Adelia’s blade, and turned to walk back into the bar. “Try to calm yourself down, eh?” She called over her shoulder. “I think the baby is making you crazy.”
Adelia stared after her. Archie’s voice drifted back to her from the bar—“Ah, Houndstooth, right where I left you! ’Ow about some water to befriend the whiskey in your bell
y, eh? You should be keeping your wits about you during our big caper.”
“It’s not a caper—” came the weary reply.
Adelia looked down at the knife in her hand; a drop of Archie’s blood fell from the tip of the blade to the plush red carpet at her feet. It blended right in.
“Well, well, well. Miss Reyes,” came a smooth, sleek voice from the shadows of the lounge. “What on earth have you been up to?”
* * *
Hero finished rigging the bombs in the wee hours of the morning. They were pleased by the simplicity of the setup; each one of the waxed-leather wallets was fixed to the top of an existing buoy in the Harriet, keeping them safe from accidental bumps and early detonation. The wax was a precaution—one never knew what might happen to a buoy during a stampede of ferals—but Hero felt fairly confident that the risk of immersion was low, and that the chances of success were incredibly high.
As they nudged Ruby toward the floating dock next to the hippo paddock of the Sturgess Queen, Hero raised one hand to their lips, and felt a smile lingering there. Houndstooth. He had a reputation—every one of the hoppers on this team had a reputation—but he had turned out to be so much more than an English snob with a taste for pretty eyes. Hero wondered what would happen when the job was over—would they go home together, to Hero’s little house with its little pond? Retirement alone had been dull, and lonely, and not the respite they’d so needed. But what if Houndstooth were there? Maybe sitting on the porch and drinking sweet tea and watching the fireflies come out wouldn’t be such a lonesome proposition anymore. Maybe it would be the peaceful retirement they’d been hoping for when they bought the little house with the little pond.
Maybe, Hero thought, closing the paddock Gate and turning Ruby loose.
Maybe.
They walked up the dock, exhausted, and walked into the entryway of the Sturgess Queen. Upstairs, they knew, Houndstooth would still be awake, watching the window for their return. They could sleep beside him for a few hours, before it was time for the action to begin.
To Hero’s surprise, there were voices in the lounge. The Sturgess Queen was supposed to be empty during the night—all the gamblers and drinkers headed to the Inn or to one of Travers’ pleasure barges to recover from their losses and their headaches. The voices that Hero heard weren’t shouting over a craps table, though. They were soft ones—voices that didn’t want to be heard. Hero paused at the foot of the stairs when they heard a familiar accent drifting through the doorway.