by Sarah Gailey
“Excellent!” Houndstooth released the innkeeper’s lip and drew the knife back in one fluid movement, eliciting another scream. “I knew we could come to an understanding.” He smiled, wiped his blade on Percival’s sleeve, and set it aside.
“I don’t—don’t hurt me, please, I’ll tell you everything I know. But I don’t know exactly where they went.” He spoke in a rush. Motivated at last, Houndstooth thought, and he felt his smile grow wider. “I just know who sent for them. But you have to swear you won’t tell him that I’m the one who told you—he’ll kill me, or he’ll have someone else kill me, please, you have to promise me—”
Houndstooth propped his foot on the edge of Percival’s chair, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “And who, pray tell,” he asked softly, “might that have been?”
“’Oundstooth? What are you—mon dieu. ’Oundstooth!”
Houndstooth rolled his neck, letting out an involuntary sigh. “Just a minute, Archie,” he called over his shoulder—but it was too late. Archie was already rushing up behind him. He braced himself for the warm weight of her hand on his shoulder, half longing for the contact and half dreading it.
“Help, please, he’s lost his mind,” Percival began to whimper, slurring the words over his mangled lip. Archie stood beside Houndstooth, not touching him, and took in the scene.
“I most certainly have lost my mind,” Houndstooth said, his eyes fixed on the innkeeper. “Who knows what I’m liable to do next, if you don’t give me that name?”
“’Oundstooth.” Houndstooth held up a hand. Archie grabbed his arm and yanked until he faced her. “You’ve gone too far, ’Oundstooth. No—” She held up a finger, hissing so quietly that the man in the chair leaned forward to hear, dripping blood onto Houndstooth’s boot. “Is this what you think they would want from you? Is this what you think they would ask you to do for them? Is this what you think they want you to be, when they’re not around to tether you to your humanity? Mon dieu, ’Oundstooth,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You ’ave become a demon.”
Houndstooth wiped sweat from his top lip with a shirtsleeve. His hand had the slightest of tremors. He eyed it with suspicion. “We can ask them in person, Archie, my friend. Percival here was just about to tell me who’s housing Adelia. And Hero.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Houndstooth could tell that Archie was watching him, evaluating. He knew that she was weighing his behavior over the last two months against all that she knew about him. He gritted his teeth and turned to meet her eyes, schooling the fury from his face. He smoothed himself to a semblance of his usual wry calm, raising an eyebrow at his flushed friend. She studied his face for a few long seconds, then nodded. “Don’t let me interrupt, then, by all means,” she said, waving a decorous hand at Percival.
Houndstooth gave her a smile, which she didn’t answer. Then he returned his attention to the limp, bleeding man in the ladder-backed chair. He tapped Percival’s lower lip with the nail of his pinky finger. “Well?”
Behind him, footsteps pounded down the stairs. He ignored them—ignored the sound of Archie explaining things to Carter in a low murmur, ignored the sound of them whispering about him. None of it mattered, because Percival was finally gathering his courage.
“Alright—okay. The girl who delivered the message. She works for a lot of folks—steals from a lot of folks too, knocks over taverns from time to time. It’s why I let her work out of my bar, see? I figured, if this was her base of operations…”
Houndstooth shifted in his chair, raising an eyebrow and making a rolling “get on with it” motion with one hand. Percival took a shuddering breath.
“The man she’s been running for most often lately is named Whelan Parrish. He’s a federal—”
Houndstooth didn’t realize he’d risen to his feet until he heard his chair hit the floor. “A federal agent with the Bureau of Land Management,” he finished, and Percival gaped at him for a moment before nodding.
“Yes, he’s a—he’s with the Bureau of Land Management, how did you…?”
Houndstooth snatched his hat from his head and threw it to the ground. It landed in the pasty puddle of sawdust and blood near Percival’s feet. “Son of a whoring hop-shitted fuck,” Houndstooth spat.
“Did he say Parrish?”
Houndstooth turned on his heel and stalked toward the foot of the stairs where Carter stood. “Yes, Carter, yes, he said Parrish. I believe you’re acquainted?”
Carter didn’t flinch, even as Houndstooth came close enough to him that their noses nearly touched. He placed a firm but gentle hand on Houndstooth’s chest, applying just enough pressure to put a few inches between them.
“I corresponded with him several months ago about the Harriet job,” he said, his voice low and even. Houndstooth’s pulse pounded in his ears—he wanted Carter to hit him, wanted to fight him, wanted anything but this calm, cool response.
And then, of course, it got worse.
“From what I understand,” Carter continued in that unbearably soothing tone, “you know him better than anyone else in this room, Houndstooth.”
“Who the ’ell are you two going on about?” Archie demanded.
Houndstooth closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. He answered Archie with his eyes closed. He could handle Hero’s disappearance—could handle the weeks of searching, and the sleepless nights, and the wondering if they were even alive. But somehow, the idea of looking at Archie in that moment was nearly enough to break him.
“We’re talking about Whelan fucking Parrish,” Houndstooth said, failing to keep his voice level. “The federal agent who hired us for the Harriet job.”
Archie didn’t quite succeed in holding back a gasp. “’Oundstooth—do you mean—”
“Yes, Archie.”
“But isn’t he—”
“Yes, Archie.”
“But didn’t you two—”
Behind them, there was a clatter as Percival finally fainted, knocking his ladder-backed chair to the floor and crushing Houndstooth’s best grey hat. Houndstooth gritted his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. “Yes, Archie,” he said. “The man who’s got Hero and Adelia right now is Whelan Parrish, federal agent for the Bureau of Land Management. My blue-eyed boy.”
Chapter 9
Hero watched from under the brim of their hat as a bead of sweat traced its way down Adelia’s temple. They wondered how much longer she’d last.
They shifted their weight against the white-painted wainscoting in Whelan Parrish’s parlor and scanned the room again, letting their eyes skip over the white-blond man seated across from Adelia.
“You’re an idiot, Mister Parrish.” Adelia brushed the bead of sweat away with a remarkably steady hand. Her voice was even. A little too even. Keep it together, Adelia, they thought. Just stay upright until he’s gone. “I had already guessed that you were a fool—you would have to be, to invite us to your home. But it appears that I overestimated you.”
“Oh?” Parrish ashed his pipe into a tall, fluted vase next to his rocking chair. “How do you figure?”
“Adelia’s retired,” Hero murmured. They said it just quietly enough that Parrish could have pretended not to hear them—but he didn’t.
“I don’t give a piping hot damn,” Parrish drawled, not looking away from Adelia. “She’s coming out of retirement tonight.”
Adelia’s head snapped up. Hero had pushed off the wall and was standing between Parrish and Adelia before they knew what they were doing. “Tonight?” they snapped, louder than they’d intended.
Parrish smiled, showing a row of teeth that were so even they couldn’t be real. Hippo ivory, probably, and recently fitted at that. Hero wanted to knock them out of his mouth.
“Tonight,” he said, leaning over to look at Adelia. “You’ll kill Mr. Burton tonight. Or I’ll throw your baby into the Mississippi and let the ferals crush her soft little skull between their teeth.”
Adelia didn’t make a sound. Hero
didn’t turn to look at her—couldn’t turn to look at her, couldn’t risk the appearance of concern.
“Why tonight?” they demanded. “Why can’t it wait for us to make a real plan?”
Parrish finally looked at Hero, his lip curling. His eyes were a startlingly bright blue, incongruous in his dishwater complexion. “Tonight is Mr. Burton’s seventy-eighth birthday,” he sneered. “He’ll be feted here on the Duchess. There will be drinking and dancing and toasts and gifts and then do you know what will happen?” He waited, staring at Hero with lead-weighted malice writ plainly across his features.
“What? What will happen then?”
“He’ll go back to the Bureau of Land Management headquarters in Atlanta. He’ll sit behind his desk and he’ll continue running the bureau into the ground, and I’ll rot underneath him until the day I die.” Parrish pulled at his pipe, fuming smoke.
Hero laughed, incredulous. “You must be joking,” they said. “All this is for a job?” They shook their head and ran a hand across their face. “You kidnapped a baby for—what? For a promotion?”
Parrish leveled a cold stare at Hero. “I kidnapped the baby for the well-being of this country,” he said. “Burton is the damned fool who let the Hippo Bill through.”
“Congress let the Hippo Bill through,” Adelia rasped from behind Hero. “The Senate let the Hippo Bill through. President—”
“No,” Parrish shouted, jabbing his pipe at Adelia. “They let the Hippo Bill become a law! Burton let it through! There are so many ways he could have stopped it—so many—you can delay anything,” he sputtered, then closed his mouth with a click of those false teeth. His jaw worked as he breathed heavily through flared nostrils. After a moment, he closed his eyes and ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, taking deep, slow breaths. Hero watched, fascinated, as he continued stroking his own hair, growing visibly calmer with each pass of his pale hand. “The man loves hippos,” he muttered. “He thinks they’re delightful. He let the bill through because he is an idiot. He’ll never approve the extermination of the American variant of the species. And I can’t for the life of me get him fired. If that disaster at the Harriet couldn’t do it—no, this is the only way.” He opened his eyes and nodded to Adelia. “So you’ll kill him, tonight, and I’ll be promoted into his position, and I’ll clean up the mess he left behind.”
“How?” Hero asked. “The hippos are here to stay. What can you do that he can’t?”
“It’s not what I can do that he can’t,” Parrish said. “It’s what I will do that he won’t. Those beasts are a menace, and he thinks they should be treated like—like deer!” His eyes narrowed. “I think they should be treated like the vermin that they are. And when I’m in charge of the bureau, I’ll be able to declare a state of emergency, bringing the full might of the United States military down upon the Hippo Problem. We’ll wipe them out within a few months, at the most. Each and every one. The farms will be shut down, and this long, embarrassing chapter in our nation’s history will be over at last.” He sniffed, smoothing his hair again, then muttered, “That includes your little pets, by the way. Enjoy them while they last.”
Hero blinked. Their face felt numb. “You can’t kill the livestock, too,” they said. “That’s insane, Parrish. It’s madness. People will starve.”
Parrish grinned, suddenly looking like a cat with feathers in its teeth. “People will have jobs.”
“What?”
He ran a tongue over his teeth, then spoke to Hero in a tone that implied he was uncertain of their ability to understand. “I am currently the owner of ninety percent of the boats that are on the Mississippi, the Ponchartrain, and the Ohio River.” He fondled the corner of a waxed leather folio that rested on his desk. “I’d like to be able to operate them. Once the vermin is out of the water, I’ll be able to do so. Do you comprehend this?”
Hero shook their head. “Travers seemed to think that having the hippos in the water made his work quite a bit easier.”
“Yes, well, Travers was a sadistic simpleton,” Parrish snapped. “I’d rather not have to replenish my staff due to grisly deaths. His empire was one of blood and sweat.” Parrish stood, tugging at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Mine will be one of money.”
He gave Adelia a final, appraising look. “You have ten hours until the party begins, Miss Reyes.” He jerked his chin toward a small silver bell that rested on the table next to his chair. “Ring that when you’re ready, and my staff will show you to your quarters for the evening.”
“What about me?” Hero asked.
“What about you?” Parrish snapped at them, his face reddening again. “I didn’t send for you. I sent for her. You were not invited to this party, and I can’t imagine a use for you. You’re lucky I don’t have you shot for trespassing on my property.”
“Hero is with me,” Adelia said, pushing herself up out of her chair. “They’re my partner, and where I go, they go. And if you harm them, I will slit you open like a letter and read the contents to the river.”
Parrish shook his head at Adelia. “I’d been told that you work alone. You’re supposed to work alone.”
“Your opinion is not of interest to me,” she replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse us. We have a plan to pull out of our asses.”
Parrish stalked from the room, his pipe clenched in one white-knuckled fist. The instant the door had slammed shut behind him, Adelia collapsed back into her chair.
“Pollas en vinagre,” she murmured, pressing her hands to her face.
Hero stared at her. “Partner, eh?”
“Sorry,” Adelia groaned. “I was—it seemed like the right thing to say. I don’t know. Manda huevos. Ten hours?”
Hero eased themself into the rocking chair Parrish had recently vacated, trying to ignore how warm the seat still was. They imagined Abigail, Ruby, Rosa, Zahra, Stasia—all dead, along with every hippo ever bred on U.S. soil. They couldn’t wrap their head around it. “We’ll figure it out.”
“What did we bring with us?” Adelia asked, eyes still closed. “Just the one bag, right?”
“I grabbed what I could,” Hero said. It had been a frenzy—they had shoved everything they could see into the bag, tossed it out the window. Some things had surely fallen out as they’d tried to half carry, half drag Adelia through the back alleys of Baton Rouge and along the winding road to Port Rouge. “And let’s see—I’ve got…” They turned out their pockets, dropping a few paper-padded vials on the table, along with a waxed brick of explosive putty the size of a deck of playing cards.
“Plus your knives, plus my knives,” Adelia murmured, kneading her temple with her fingers. “Ah, my head is bellowing.”
“Why don’t we take a look at our ‘quarters,’” Hero ventured. “Maybe you can get some rest? We’ve been traveling all day.”
“There’s no time,” Adelia breathed, but her eyes didn’t open.
“We’ll plan after you’ve had a nap and I’ve had a bath,” Hero said. “Nine hours isn’t that much less than ten.” They stood a few feet from Adelia and held out a hand. After a moment, Adelia cracked one eye, evaluated the hand—and took it. Hero helped her out of her chair.
“Alright,” Adelia said. “Alright. One hour. But only because you wanted a bath.”
“Oh, trust me, you could use one too,” Hero said, reaching for the bell with a grin. “But I get to go first. Partner.”
* * *
The bath was everything Hero had hoped it would be, which is to say the water was warm and mostly clear. There was even soap, and it was good soap, with some kind of smell to it. Hero couldn’t put their finger on the smell, but it smelled much better than anything they’d been smelling over the last two months, so they lathered themself with it until their skin squeaked.
On the other side of a painted silk screen, Adelia was asleep. Hero knew that Adelia was still asleep because she wasn’t muttering to herself about how she wasn’t tired and resting was a waste of time. They endeavored to get out of th
e tub quietly—although they doubted that any amount of noise would rouse Adelia now—and reached for the length of linen that had been left for them to dry off with. It wasn’t exactly soft, but it didn’t scratch and it wasn’t dry clothes over wet skin, which was nice.
Hurried footsteps sounded in the hall, and Hero pulled the towel around themself. They opened the door, startling the hell out of the maid who was about to knock on it.
“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I—uh, they told me—there was a lady staying here? Miss Reyes?” The maid blew a lock of curly red hair out of her face.
“She’s resting. Did you need something from her?”
The maid held out another length of linen, this one folded into a thick packet. She spoke so quickly that Hero could barely keep up. “The chef for tonight sent these. She’s, um. She lost a baby last month and she had some problems and the butler—he showed you up here?—well, he talked to her about what’s going on with Miss Reyes and she said it sounds like Miss Reyes has the same problems she had. I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she said to bring this to y’all.”
Hero took the cloth from the girl and unfolded it. They could hear Adelia stirring behind them. “Cabbage leaves?”
The maid shrugged. “She said to put ’em on Miss Reyes’s, uh, ‘inflamed areas.’” She started to edge away down the hall with the unmistakable air of someone who does not wish to discuss the matter any further. “Good luck!”
When Adelia had applied the cabbage leaves—a scene Hero did not witness, as they chose instead to take their time getting dressed behind the silk screen—she seemed to brighten. “I don’t know if it’s working or not,” she said, “but they’re cold, at least.”
“Aha,” Hero said, because there was not a single other thing they could think of to say. Adelia was sitting upright in the bed, and Hero perched awkwardly at the end of it.
“So,” Adelia said. “The plan.”
“Right. The plan. I took an inventory, and we have a good variety of poisons, although—”
“No.” Adelia pulled her hair off of her neck and fanned herself with the flat of her hand. Her eyes were still worryingly glassy. “The plan for after.”