Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection

by Margo Bond Collins

  So far, my hastily concocted plan flowed smoothly. After some discussions, the mayor supported my official visit. I had enough money to buy a ticket to Brimbank.

  I'd find Glynn, give him the protective amulet, and suss out what the blazes Brimbank played at.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  4

  Dry grass prickled my ankles as I walked to the waiting coach in the stable. Wyn gave me a long, fixed stare from the top of the solid vehicle. His weather-beaten cheeks rotated slowly as he chewed on gum. The team of draught horses stamped their feet and raised a cloud of dust that filled my eyes with grit.

  He looked like he expected me, and his eyes tightened as I approached.

  I lifted my palms in a pleading gesture. "I'm covered from top to toe, I won't get burnt. And I won't be any trouble."

  He shook his head slowly. "I'll not be responsible for a lass with too little sense."

  He didn't know my capacity for getting in and out of trouble, and I wasn't about to tell him.

  If Wyn were even slightly dead, I could have tried commanding him, but he gazed at me very much alive. The family traveling together — a farmer, his wife, and four children — already squashed against one another in the coach. The woman couldn't be much older than me. She'd already melted into the seat, her head back and eyes closed, her hand loosely around a fan she waved in front of her face every few seconds. Riding on top next to the driver couldn't be any worse than being cooped up in that heat box.

  If I were a different witch, maybe I could snap my fingers to make things happen, open doors, or make myself invisible. But all I had at my disposal was me, and my limited skills. Having power over the dead wouldn’t help me persuade Wyn.

  "She's responsible enough, Wyn." Mrs. Crowder crossed through the stables at the back of her post office and handed bottles of water and sandwiches through the coach window. "It's official council business. So she says."

  "I've discussed it with the mayor. I have her full support."

  Wyn harrumphed as if the mayor's support meant little to him. He cast his gaze across the stable. "She's still a lassie with too little sense."

  Mrs. Crowder handed him two bottles of water, and two brown paper bags. "I've already made her morning tea, and she's paid her fare."

  She'd baked cinnamon rolls for us; the sweet buttery scent had my fingers itching to take the bag meant for me. Wyn cast a gaze in my direction, taking in my huge hat, the bulging satchel draped across my chest, the oversized shirt and long linen trousers. His gaze stopped at the boots on my feet.

  "Not even my toes will get sunburnt." My poor feet would swelter in calf-high leather boots, but at least they were safe from the sun.

  The lines around his eyes relaxed, he nodded and blew out a deep sigh as if used to giving in to her. "We stop halfway to change horses, if she's any bother, she gets off there."

  The tension across my back eased. I wouldn't be any bother. I cast a grateful glance at Mrs. Crowder, clambered up to the seat next to Wyn, and pushed my small overnight bag into a gap among the family's luggage weighing down the roof rack. Evie had spent all night attaching a veil to my sun hat, long enough to completely cover my face and drape over my shoulders. To keep the sun off she'd said, and flies away from my eyes. The flies were big and aggressive at this time of year. The bites they gave itched for weeks unless you covered them liberally and immediately with wet plantain leaf. As Evie had pointed out, wet plantain leaf would not be easy to find on this trip.

  Wyn clucked to the horses. Nothing happened. I held my breath. Would they be able to pull us along? The carriage lurched forward, and we moved out of the shade onto the main road to New Maidstone. A nervous tingle swirled in my abdomen. I'd been nowhere but Winterhurst and St. Stephen’s Orphanage in the village of Seven Oaks. I hadn't left the orphanage until Father Andrew left me to die at the old stone. The healing wand around my neck clunked against my dragon pendant. Would the inhabitants of Brimbank be as welcoming as the people of Winterhurst? Witches plied their trade everywhere, at least as far as I knew. But it might be better not to take the risk. I undid the clasp and lifted the heavy crystal wand from my shirt. Better not raise alarm while traveling in public.

  Despite my fears for Glynn, I couldn't help a jolt of excitement from climbing up my spine. I gripped my satchel against my lap. The amulet hadn't wriggled a fraction since Monday afternoon. Now it lay quiet and still, wrapped in a silk scarf at the bottom of my bag. My library hadn't been helpful, but a knot in my belly told me Glynn needed all the protection he could get.

  On top of the coach to New Maidstone, in the small seat next to the driver, my body swayed in the heat. Sitting upright proved difficult, thinking straight almost impossible. I'd nibbled all my delicious cinnamon roll and drunk all my water ages ago.

  "Not far to halfway point," Wyn said with a drawl.

  Domes of slate gray clouds swirled ahead of us. A flash of lightning brightened the sky and almost immediately thunder boomed. A hot wind stirred dust into my face. Only a few weeks ago, we'd welcomed the warming sun after a long icy winter. Now I couldn't wait for the temperature to drop again.

  At the halfway stop Wyn took care of the horses. I drank another bottle of water and refilled it ready for the second half of the trip.

  "You okay, Lassie?" Wyn asked as I clambered back into the seat.

  I flourished my full bottle of water. "I'll drink it more slowly this time."

  Wyn spoke little on the trip. To stay awake, I mentally listed all the reasons rushing to Brimbank was a good idea. Whatever happened, if it involved dead people, then Glynn couldn't have a better helper than me. He trusted me, and I trusted him. I struggled to stay confident in the heat. Doubts crept into my thoughts. Was I really that good at dealing with the dead? Maybe Glynn would be far from glad to see me, maybe he'd be angry with me for barging in. Maybe he deliberately excluded me because he didn't want to deal with what he called my lack of discipline.

  After climbing a small hill, the spire of New Maidstone's Church soared into the blue sky.

  I blew out a deep sigh and wriggled in the seat. Its wooden edge scraped painfully against my hip. All feeling in my butt disappeared hours ago. I'd have an hour in New Maidstone to walk, stand, and wriggle about. Anything to get the sensation back.

  "Not far now." Wyn drawled out the words but didn't take his eyes from the road ahead.

  I sipped the last of the hot water in my bottle. My mouth moistened at the thought of a cold drink to ease the parched ache in my throat.

  "The train has a dining carriage, doesn't it?" I'd already read it did. Suddenly, almost at New Maidstone, almost at the train that would take me to Brimbank and Glynn, I felt the need to make conversation.

  "Aye." Wyn kept his eyes on the road.

  We clip-clopped over a small bridge that led to the town's Main Street, and a hodgepodge mixture of buildings and colors. The town hall stood opposite the train station, next to a police station three times the size of the one at home. The small, town hall looked centuries old, the police station large and brand-new. Exactly opposite to home. A rush of satisfaction spread through my body. We got the proportions right, and in Winterhurst everyone glowed with pride at the attractive multilevel paved town-square at the center of town.

  At the train station, Wyn stopped the coach. He handed me my bag and touched his cap. I thanked him and darted into the station while the exhausted farmer and his family clambered from inside the coach.

  The train already waited on the tracks. A green engine at the head of a red dining car, and four black carriages. Smaller than I expected. Dirtier and more beaten up. All the pictures I'd seen were of shiny engines that looked huge next to their crews.

  It would leave at 11am and arrive in Brimbank at 4pm. I'd have plenty of time to find Glynn before dark.

  A bored-looking clerk doodled on a large writing pad at a small window. He looked up when I tapped on the counter.

  "One ticket to Brimbank, please.
"

  He reached for a folder above his head, scanned the first few pages and blew a noisy sigh through his lips. "You'll be wanting a return?"

  "No." I hadn't got the money, and besides—I drummed my fingers against the counter top—I'd be coming home with Glynn.

  The clerk stared into my face for a few seconds then shrugged. "That's one hundred and twenty-five new shillings. I take none of the old stuff."

  Mrs. Crowder must have quoted me a return ticket price. I'd have more than enough cash for any emergencies that might crop up. I unrolled the wad of notes in my satchel, found the right number and handed them to the clerk.

  He glanced at the clock above his head. "Train leaves in 45 minutes on the dot. Don't be late."

  I folded the ticket into my pocket. Enough time to walk the numbness out of my legs and drink like a camel after a desert walk. But first, tidy myself up in the bathroom.

  I still looked like a head above a bundle of rags. I hung my head over the sink and splashed my face and head with lukewarm water from the cold tap, shook the water from my hair and wiped my wet palms across my thighs.

  Glynn wouldn't recognize me in the oversized clothes and hat. I didn't want him to think I'd acted irrationally. I'd wanted something from him all week. Wanting him to share our anniversary weekend with me, wanting him to approve of my dash to Brimbank to be by his side.

  But I also wanted answers from him. And once I found out what was happening in Brimbank, I'd take needed action, whether he approved or not.

  The conductor blew a loud, high-pitched squeal from the whistle around his neck. A cloud of dirty steam billowed around the engine and misted the small group of passengers waiting for the door to open. I cupped my hand across my nose and mouth to keep the grimy-tasting steam out. No wonder people argued in favor of electric power rather than steam to get public transport moving again.

  The conductor beckoned us to move forward. We shuffled into an orderly queue and one by one climbed the metal steps into the dining carriage.

  At an empty table on the shaded side of the carriage, I slumped against the fingerprint smeared window. A waiter hovered nearby. I took the copy of the Brimbank Sunday newspaper he offered, and ordered cheese and crackers and iced tea. Behind me two old men spoke in loud whispers. Another person dead, or missing. But no names, no other details. An old man sat stiffly opposite me. Holding his shoulders tense, he waved the waiter away, as if annoyed with everything and everyone. Mind reading would be handy. I sighed into my reflection in the windowpane. I couldn’t change what I was, but I would welcome a few powers more useful than dealing with the dead. I bet the old stiff guy knew something, or thought he did.

  The iced tea was too sweet and warm—definitely not iced—the cheese a little like soft rubber, and the crackers had lost their crunch, but I ate everything. Who knew when I'd get to eat again. The two-week-old paper didn't mention an undead issue. What could have happened in the last few weeks to cause an undead uprising as serious as the latest Winterhurst newspaper reports suggested? Flicking through the paper, one long article caught my attention. A military raid against a group of drug addicts. All of them killed. It was an old drug craze reborn according to the writer. They called it twitch, and its addicts, twitchers. As their desire for the drug grew, they stopped eating, stopped living, stopped everything except stealing to buy the drug.

  I stayed in the dining car, dozing fitfully. The old men behind me forgot to whisper. One said something about a bunch of twitchers captured by the military. The other answered that he had a friend who knew someone whose addict son was missing. No information from the military, no matter how many times they asked.

  Drug addicts injured Glynn in the raid that lead to him leaving the military, was it related somehow? If a link between the twitchers and the undead existed, I couldn't see it.

  Hot dry air gushed through the open windows in the carriage and brushed across my face. Rivulets of sweat trickled down my chest. Spirits didn't care about the weather. But what about the walking undead? How long could an undead body last in heat like this? All the research my ancestors did had been long ago when the summer was cooler.

  This heat had to make a difference. I jolted awake. Perhaps the killed twitchers became troubled undead.

  The train whistled two long blasts, then a third, and slowly pulled to a stop.

  The hum of conversation muted. I twisted in my seat and craned my neck to see down the line. We couldn't be in Brimbank; brown farmland stretched on both sides of the track as far as I could see.

  The conductor paced through the carriage, loudly counting the passengers, ticking our names on a sheet of paper clipped to a wooden board.

  The old stiff man stood with a loud, "Excuse me."

  An even older woman tapped her walking stick on the floor. "Young man..."

  The conductor ignored them both and disappeared back through the connecting door. If we weren't at Brimbank, then where were we? And what were we doing here? I opened the window to see further along the track. Soldiers paced the length of the train as if on guard duty. All the passengers twisted in their seats to see what they could.

  "There's a checkpoint on this side," one passenger called out. He walked the length of the carriage and checked the doors. All locked.

  "I will complain to my councilor." The old woman banged her walking stick on the floor. "Bring whoever is in charge to me."

  No one answered her. I'm not sure what she expected a fellow passenger could do.

  The connecting door swung open and everyone turned to face the newcomer. A young soldier climbed on board and stood at attention at the front of the carriage.

  He blew a short high-pitched whistle. "Everyone out."

  5

  No one moved. Like me, the other passengers stared at the young soldier who'd boarded the train to Brimbank and now stood at attention at the front of the carriage.

  He blew his whistle again. "Everyone out. Please."

  The stiff old man stood and lifted his arms. "Our bags—"

  "Will be returned to you, sir. Exit quickly, please."

  The soldier gripped a long rifle against his chest. He didn't look old enough to shave, let alone carry such a weapon.

  An older man swung through the door.

  "Captain Flint." The young soldier snapped to attention. "This is the last cabin to be cleared."

  "Good. Get these people moving." Captain Flint ran his hand across his brow. The tightness around his mouth and eyes didn’t invite questions.

  I strode to the exit and jumped down the two steps to the rocky ground. They hadn't stopped us at a station. More soldiers directed us to keep moving. At the front of the train, another group of soldiers huddled in the shade of a huge canvas shelter. I spotted my bag among a pile of luggage, grabbed it and joined my fellow travelers in the shade.

  "Who's in charge here?" A stout woman nudged one of the soldiers with the tip of her sun umbrella.

  "I am." The captain pushed his way through the crowd.

  "I am visiting my daughter. When will we be permitted through?"

  He lifted his hands and his voice, and addressed us. "Only residents will get into Brimbank."

  Loud groans echoed through the crowd.

  "I live with my daughter every summer." The large woman raised her voice to match his.

  He pointed to a small table, a glower forming on his face. "Form a queue. I'll see anyone who can prove they live here. Everyone else, get back on the train."

  My stomach rolled. So close to Brimbank. I wouldn't give up now.

  Three people grouped around the desk. A few people seized their bags and sauntered back to the train doors. The rest of us milled uncertainly in the shade. Other people as keen as me to get into the town, all of us trying to think up a story that would get us in.

  The captain slumped into a seat behind the desk. A junior officer stood next to him taking names and addresses.

  A soldier pushed my back. "Make up your mind, miss."<
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  A group of soldiers hovered behind me. Another two patrolled the length of the train. I couldn't easily sneak into Brimbank and try and find Glynn on my own, I didn't know where he’d be. Bloody heat made it too hot to walk, anyway. I wrung my hands together. Could I trust the military if I asked for him?

  The mayor had approved my visit as official council business. Perhaps I should ask to speak with the commander in charge of Brimbank? No. I had to find Glynn before I did anything else.

  Each person before me seemed to take forever. We squashed together in the shade. Peeeuuuww. Breathing in other people’s body odors and various scents trying to cover them, made my stomach roil. The soldiers’ boots flicked up dry dust as they marched from one place to another. The glare of the sun made it painful to look anywhere but at the ground.

  Finally, it was my turn.

  I stepped to the front of the desk.

  Captain Flint stared up at me. This man looked to be much the same age as Glynn, who would be celebrating his twenty-ninth birthday in a few weeks. Perhaps they knew one another, trained together, trusted one another. He wiped sweat from his eyes. "Don't try and tell me you live here." He leaned back against the seat.

  I handed my councilor’s card to him. "I'm visiting from Winterhurst."

  He dropped the card on the desk. "You don't live here. Get back on the train."

  "It's an official visit." I stiffened my shoulders.

  He crossed his arms across his chest, fixed his stare on my face. "Sergeant."

  A soldier as big as a bear filled the space behind me.

  I snatched my card, squashed it back into my satchel. "I'm visiting Captain Glynn Buckley."

  "If you are visiting Major Buckley in an official capacity. "Why isn't he here to meet you?"

  Surprise sounded in the captain's tone, surprise that Glynn hadn't arrived to meet me. He had to be alive, and well.