Dead Man’s Hand

by John Joseph Adams

  “That boorish, judgmental, withered old—”

  “Princess,” Jonathan interjected, before Fran could go any further.

  She stopped dead, her boot heels clicking hard against the floor, which wasn’t softened by so much as a rug. “I beg your pardon?”

  “She’s a princess,” he said. “What did you observe?”

  Fran scowled. “Johnny…”

  “I’m quite serious. What did you observe about her?”

  “That she’s a b—”

  “She’s young enough to be seeking remarriage, but she’s not. Instead, she’s wearing dresses that have been mended repeatedly and running a boarding house that’s well maintained, meaning it shows a profit, yet has the bare minimum in terms of furniture and comforts. She has a daughter we’ve been instructed to stay away from, which should only hasten her toward remarriage. And she demanded to be paid up front.”

  “Not every woman needs a ring on her finger,” said Fran.

  Was it his imagination, or did she sound a little wistful when she said that? “Not every woman, no, but a woman that attractive, living in a place like this, with a daughter to care for? I managed to brush against her hand as we took the stairs. She’s too warm. Not by much, but by enough, when combined with everything else. She’s a dragon princess. They’re notorious misers, and highly suspicious of strangers, especially where their children are concerned.”

  Fran stared at him for a moment before sighing and flopping down on the bed next to him. “Christ above, is there anyone human left in this world?”

  “Most people are human; you simply notice the non-humans more, since they’re the ones most likely to cause us trouble.” Jonathan picked up a chamois and began wiping the fingerprints from his gun barrel. “You’d best get some rest. We go looking for the missing Apraxis swarms tonight.”

  “Oh, that’s just what I was hoping you’d say.” Fran rolled over to prop her chin on her hand. “What all do I need to keep in mind while we’re looking for these Apraxis thingies?”

  “Don’t get stung,” Jonathan replied, and resumed cleaning his pistol. “The ovipositor of the female Apraxis is connected to her stinger, and you don’t want Apraxis nymphs feeding on your flesh. I’m told it’s one of the most painful experiences possible.”

  “Don’t get stung, got it,” said Fran. She eyed Jonathan with some concern. “You gonna get any rest before we go out bug-hunting?”

  “I’m going to stand guard.” Something about Jonathan’s tone forbade further argument. Fran looked at him for a few seconds more before rolling over to face the wall, closing her eyes at the same time. Years of traveling with the circus that raised her had served her well: she was asleep almost immediately.

  Jonathan waited until her breathing leveled out before setting his pistol aside and sliding off the bed. He crossed to the bureau, where he knelt and murmured, “The Violent Priestess is asleep.”

  The mice, who understood the human need for sleep, were quiet as they crept into the open and looked at him with expectant oil-drop eyes. The colony’s head priest stepped forward, and asked, in a squeak, “What would you have us do, O Lord?”

  “Scatter,” Jonathan said, without hesitation. He had long since adapted to the Aeslin tendency to view him as some sort of god, and was content to use it to his own benefit when necessary. “Search. Look for any sign of what moves the wasps. Do not be seen. This is important. We don’t know where the Apraxis are; we don’t know who they may have infected. If you are seen, you may not return to the colony. Do you understand me?”

  “We hear, and understand,” intoned the priest.

  “Good,” said Jonathan. “Now go. Find the wasps.”

  The mice scattered, vanishing under the bureau. A few seconds later, Jonathan heard the distinctive sound of tiny feet inside the walls. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and returned to his place on the bed, picking up his pistol. Let Fran sleep, for now. He had much to do before the sun went down, and time was not on their side.

  * * *

  Fran woke to find Jonathan standing over her with her gun belt in one hand, and a piece of wood wrapped in strips of cotton in the other. She sat up, squinting at him. “You planning to bash my head in with that thing?” she asked.

  “No; I’m fond of your skull in its present configuration. If we’re unfortunate enough to find an Apraxis hive, I’m going to set it on fire. Are you ready to go?”

  “Just let me hit the privy and rinse my mouth out, and I’m all yours.” Fran leaned forward and grabbed her boots. “Anything I need to know?”

  “The mice are surveying the town; I’ve sent a telegram to Father with the boarding house address, but I haven’t heard anything back from him yet. I don’t expect to for some time, all things considered. For right now, assume we’re on our own.”

  “Aw, city boy.” Fran’s smile was sharp and sudden. “That’s always how I’ve done my best work.” She pulled her boots on and stood, heading for the door. Jonathan followed her. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned toward the hall, while he proceeded into the parlor. Cheapness of the furnishings aside, the boarding house was equipped with indoor plumbing, for which Jonathan was grateful; the last thing he wanted to do with Apraxis wasps in the area was lock himself in an outhouse. Some risks were necessary. Others were simply foolish.

  Mrs. Smith was sitting on the couch when Jonathan walked into the parlor. She frowned at the sight of the makeshift torch in his hand, and frowned more when she saw the pistols at his waist. “I don’t tolerate late nights or carousing,” she said.

  “We’re not planning on any carousing, and I promise, it is our intent to be safe in bed before the night can be considered ‘late,’” said Jonathan.

  Her frown deepened. She stood. “Are you sassing me, young man?”

  “No, ma’am.” The trouble with dragon princesses was their vulnerability: they were essentially human women in all the ways that counted, now that the great dragons they had evolved alongside were gone. That made them suspicious and unfriendly when confronted with anything that looked as if it might threaten them.

  But they were also targets for the Apraxis. Jonathan looked at the woman in front of him, with her business and her child to protect, and made a decision.

  “My wife and I haven’t been entirely honest with you, ma’am,” he said.

  She sniffed. “That’s no surprise.”

  “We’re entomologists. We collect exotic insects from around the world. We heard that you had a wasp problem here, and we thought it might be worth investigating.”

  Her eyes widened. “If you’re here about that, then you’re damn fools.”

  “No, ma’am. We’re well-equipped fools, who’d like to remove a threat to you and yours from this town. I just have to ask that you not tell anyone about our comings and goings.” Jonathan continued to meet her eyes. “If you know anything about strange disappearances or unusual insect sightings, that information would be useful as well, but really, all we’re asking for is a little discretion while we resolve a problem and further our careers.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Beyond the removal of the danger? We’ll happily pay double for any night when we leave the building after sunset.”

  He could all but see the equations running in her eyes. Finally, she said, “Fine. If the two of you want to risk your lives on a fool’s errand, it’s no skin off my nose. But if you’re not back by dawn, whatever you’ve brought with you is mine—I won’t hold a dead man’s things a minute longer than I have to. It’s bad luck.”

  “I would never ask you to,” said Jonathan.

  “And don’t you dare lead those things back here. I run a respectable establishment.”

  The idea of “respectable establishment” being determined by whether or not your place of business was regularly attacked by mind-eating wasps was almost ludicrous enough to make Jonathan laugh out loud. He managed to suppress the urge, replying only, “I promise you, we have no in
tention of leading them anywhere, save perhaps into a killing jar.”

  Mrs. Smith sniffed, and said nothing. They were still looking at each other when Fran came down the hall, wiping her hands together. She stopped, looking between the two.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

  “No,” said Jonathan. “We were just leaving. Good night, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Good night,” said the dragon princess stiffly.

  Jonathan and Fran turned toward the door. Before they could reach it, however, it was opened by someone on the other side, and a young girl—no more than six or seven, with hair the color of sun-bleached corn silk—walked into the room, followed by a woman in her early twenties. Jonathan froze.

  The woman was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and somehow, he knew that he had known her all his life.

  Her hair was black; her eyes were blue; her skin was paler than it should have been, given the desert where she lived and her lack of a bonnet. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that she was looking at him, a smile on her lips, and asking him a question.

  Fran’s elbow introduced itself roughly to his side. Jonathan snapped back to reality, and realized he hadn’t heard a single thing anyone in the room had said since the door was opened. “I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “Jonathan Healy, at your service. This is—”

  “I’m his wife,” said Fran, with a thin smile. “Frances Healy, at your service.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” said the black-haired woman. “My name is Heloise Tapper. I’m Betty’s music instructor.”

  The little girl gave the woman a besotted smile before curtseying to Jonathan and Fran. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, Betty,” said Fran. “Your mama’s been real sweet to us, but now we have to be going. We’ve got some sights to see before the night gets too far along. Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Jonathan didn’t reply. Fran elbowed him again. He jumped, barely aware that he’d been staring at Heloise, and said, “Yes, yes, of course. We must be going. I do hope we’ll see you again, Miss Tapper?”

  Heloise smiled. “You can be sure of it,” she said.

  “Must be going,” said Fran, and all but dragged Jonathan out of the boarding house. Even as he stumbled down the steps he was looking back over his shoulder, toward the door, where Heloise stood outlined by the light like a paper cutout.

  * * *

  Jonathan was walking on his own by the time they reached the main street. Fran glanced over, assessed the bewildered look on his face, and continued dragging him along. He pulled away after they turned a corner, putting the boarding house out of view. Fran stopped.

  “What was that about?” he asked.

  “Funny; I could be asking you the same question,” she shot back. “I thought we were here hunting giant death bugs, not so you could make eyes at some black-haired lady who ain’t never seen the sunlight. Or is this what you do every time you go out to the desert?”

  “What?” Jonathan looked at her blankly. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I suppose I should expect it. Last time you came to the desert, you brought me home with you. It’s past time you went out and got yourself a new pet project. Can’t say as I think she’ll be half as good with a gun as I am, but hell, maybe you don’t like girls who can outshoot you. I swear, Jonathan Healy, you are the most arrogant, idiotic—”

  He clapped his hand over her mouth, cutting her off in mid-sentence. Fran’s eyes widened, filling first with confusion, and then with the sort of fury he really preferred to see directed as far away from himself as possible.

  “Shh,” he whispered, before she could pull away or, worse, bite him. “You can be furious later. Right now, listen.”

  Fran glared at him, but relaxed against his hand, doing as he asked. Then her eyes widened. He pulled his hand away, nodding. Fran nodded back, and the two of them started down the street, moving toward the sound of buzzing wings.

  * * *

  Jonathan’s chest tightened as the source of the buzzing came into view ahead of them: the train station. It made sense. The station was the largest standing building in town and, if something was truly upsetting the swarm, it also afforded the most opportunities for a rapid escape. He’d never heard of Apraxis migrating by train before, but he’d never heard of them moving during their settled season, either. If the one could happen, the other also became plausible.

  He led Fran up the station steps in silence, wishing he could make her fully understand the scope of the threat. Apraxis wasps were smart. If they’d just been killers, they would have been a horror and a threat, but they wouldn’t have been half so dangerous. As it was, he was leading Fran into a building containing an unknown number of flying opponents with human-level intelligence and inborn weaponry.

  It was almost enough to make a man rethink his choice of profession.

  “Fran, if you don’t want to go inside, I would quite understand. You’re still an apprentice, and it would be unfair of me to ask you to endanger yourself in this fashion.”

  “Are you joshing me, city boy?” Knives appeared in Fran’s hands, no doubt pulled from somewhere in the lining of her coat. He had long since given up all pretense of knowing how many weapons she carried at any given time. It seemed safer to admit ignorance until she started calling for backup. “You drag me halfway across the country and make me share a house with the Wicked Bitch of the West, and then you try to keep me out of the interesting part? You know me well enough to know that’s not going to work.”

  “And you know me well enough to know that I have to offer,” said Jonathan, pulling his own pistol from his belt. “Very well, then. If we’re both set on risking our lives before midnight, we’d best get on with it. The clock isn’t going to stop while we argue. There are, however, a few rules.”

  “When aren’t there?” Fran asked.

  The look he gave her then was so uncharacteristically serious that she quieted, a small frown forming on her lips. “Will you listen?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, all levity gone.

  “Thank you. First, you stay behind me. It’s not simply a matter of my trying to cover for you—Apraxis often attack from the rear, and we’re going to need the cover if we’re going inside. So stay behind me, and watch my back. In exchange, I’ll watch yours. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Second, if I say run, you run. Don’t take one more shot. Don’t decide that I’m being overly cautious. Run. I’ve seen what the Apraxis do to their victims. You haven’t.” With any luck, she never would. With even more luck, he never would again.

  “Anything else?”

  Jonathan sighed. “Please try not to die. There aren’t any convenient circuses to steal a replacement trick rider from.”

  “I’ll keep breathing if you’ll do the same, city boy,” said Fran.

  “It’s a deal,” said Jonathan, with a brief-lived smile. Then he began advancing on the train station, his pistol held ready. This time, Fran followed him, not into the streets of Boggsville, but into Hell itself.

  * * *

  Night and darkness had transformed the station from a bright, airy building into a cavern filled with suspicious shadows and sounds that had no obvious source. The buzzing was constant, so loud it seemed impossible that the entire town wasn’t coming to investigate. Fran crept along at Jonathan’s heels, and decided that anyone who was still alive and living in Boggsville must have learned to ignore the buzzing, because to do anything else was to deal with the question of its source.

  Jonathan continued forward until they reached the middle of the station’s main waiting room, where the sound was at its loudest. He stopped there, gesturing for Fran to do the same. She nodded and turned, locking her shoulders against his back. Then, and only then, did the pair look up toward the rafters, and the sound of thousands of wings beating in unison.

  It took a moment for their eyes to process what was
in front of them. The ceiling seemed to be pulsing, like it was breathing in time with the humming of the wings. Jonathan’s mouth went dry. It was a living curtain of bodies—some small, proving that the Apraxis were continuing to breed, while others were almost a foot in length, wasps grown far past the point which Nature intended. The only mercy of the scene was that the darkness sapped the brilliance from their colors, turning them into gray-banded shadows. Seeing them in the light would just have made it clearer that they were never intended to exist.

  He felt, rather than heard, Fran’s indrawn breath. There was no need to motion her to be quiet; she knew as well as he did what would happen if they baited the apparently sleeping beasts above them. The wasps must have taken shelter in the train station for the night. They would remain there until morning, unless startled. Slowly, Jonathan reached back with his free hand and gestured toward the door. He and Fran needed to exit. Reconnaissance was complete: the hive existed, and could be tracked. Now it was time to decide what to do about it.

  A normal Apraxis hive would contain ten to thirty individuals. When he’d heard the sound of wings, he’d believed that was what they were moving toward: a single hive, ready to be examined and exterminated. He hadn’t been expecting to discover all the missing hives from the area clustered together in a single place, apparently united against whatever had caused them to move.

  Fran nodded, once, before starting to walk back toward the door. Jonathan matched her steps, trusting her to guide him out. He didn’t want to turn around; he didn’t want to do anything that might risk his losing sight of the pulsing mass that was the hive for even an instant.

  They were almost out when a rock hit the station window. The sound echoed through the room like a crude imitation of a gunshot. The buzzing stopped a split-second later, like the monstrous wasps were holding their breath in anticipation.

  “Run,” whispered Jonathan.

  Frances ran.

  Jonathan ran after her, and behind him came the roar of wings as hundreds of Apraxis wasps launched themselves from the ceiling and swept down upon the perceived threat to their hive. Fran reached the door first, grabbing for the knob. It refused to turn.