Blood Ties

by Quincy J. Allen

  Cole’s right, he thought, she’s not gonna like this.

  A feeling of dread filled him as he paced through the upcoming conversation in his head. He had to hope she didn’t get riled up enough to hit him with the damn glove.

  He hesitated just long enough for Skeeter to start tapping her foot like a perturbed mother. Jake tried to build up the gumption to say what he had to, but all he could think of was, I can face down a barn full of killers and even go toe-to-toe with a werewolf. Why the hell does this kid scare the shit outta me?

  “Well? What am I not gonna like, Jake?” she repeated. She set the glove on the kitchen counter, and Jake breathed a sigh of relief. He turned to the open kitchen window, figuring it would be easier to have the conversation if he wasn’t looking into those big, baby-doe eyes of hers. They were her not-so-secret weapon, going gray when she got riled or teary-green when she wanted to yank on his heartstrings.

  “Cole and I are going to San Francisco on a job,” he said quietly.

  “San Francisco!” she practically squealed. Both Jake and Cole winced at how loud she was. “I ain’t never been to San Francisco! When do we leave?”

  Jake paused and took a deep breath.

  “We don’t, Skeeter,” he finally said and took a sip of coffee. He found himself looking for the same gophers Cole had vainly sought earlier. He tried to sound caring and gentle and genuinely sorry for saying it, but he knew damn well it wouldn’t help. “Cole and I are going alone. It’s a job—a really dangerous one—and I’m not taking you with us this time.”

  “What?” she shouted. Safely behind her back, Cole winced again, but Jake couldn’t afford to show her any more weakness. Skeeter was a lot like a wolf … a really smart one. If she smelled fear, she only got more ornery.

  “Skeeter, you’ve got your customers to worry about.” Jake wracked his brain for reasons to make her stay. “What about that steam-powered milling machine for the baker?”

  Skeeter’s back stiffened, and she crossed her arms. “Done last week,” she spat.

  “Oh.” Strike one, he thought. “What about that electric churn for Mrs. Pots over at the dairy?”

  “Where the hell have you been, Jake?” She glared at his back. “Mrs. Pots picked that up three days ago.”

  “Oh,” he said even more mutely. Strike two.

  “The Willaker’s cool—”

  “Done, Jake,” she cut in, raising an eyebrow.

  Strike three.

  Jake hated being out of options. He would just have to take the moral high ground. It didn’t sit well with him, though. It brushed up way too close to hypocrisy for his comfort.

  “I ain’t got no jobs coming due, Jake.” Skeeter yanked off her grimwig and threw it onto the floor. “Ya gotta let me go, damn it!” Her long blond braid unfurled and snaked down her back. “I ain’t never seen San Francisco!” Her eyes had gone from green to gray. Filled with frustration, they bored into Jake’s back as he stared out the kitchen window. “Hell, I ain’t even seen the damn ocean,” she added, dejected.

  “What’d I tell you about that mouth of yours, Skeeter?” Jake asked calmly. She could be feisty, to be sure, but Jake had pretty much taken on the job of surrogate father, and there were a few subjects he wouldn’t budge on. Her propensity for swearing was one of them.

  “Sorry, sir,” she mumbled, only slightly mollified. She bent over and picked up her grimwig, placing it back on her head without curling up the braid. “I just—”

  Jake finally turned to face her. Her apologetic tone was the opening he needed. “I know, Skeeter … and I’m sorry. I just can’t take a sixteen-year-old girl into Chinatown, especially not when there could be a whole mess of Chinese assassins waiting for us … no matter how smart you are,” he added gently.

  “But you know I can take care of myself!” she snapped, her tone almost desperate. “Hell, it was me that helped you put Moondog Cullins out of everyone’s misery. You and Cole woulda’ been shit outta luck without me.”

  “Language!” Jake’s reprimand had an edge to it this time.

  “Sorry, sir,” Skeeter said again, sounding almost like she meant it.

  “She’s got you there, Jake,” Cole finally chimed in, his chair squeaking as he leaned forward. “We never would have captured Ratface without her, and without him Moondog wouldn’t have come to town.”

  Jake turned and gave Cole an annoyed scowl. “I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am, Jake. I’m just sayin’ that she’s right. You can’t dismiss her like that. Hell, she’s smarter than the two of us put together.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow that said, Don’t help me if you ain’t gonna help me.

  “Well,” Cole said apologetically, “you know what I mean.” His voice trailed off, and he bit his lips together to keep them from flapping.

  Jake looked down at Skeeter, noting the genuinely disappointed look on her face. She looked up at him with those baby-doe eyes, green once again and on the brink of tears. She even threw in a sniffle for good measure. He hated when she did that. He’d caved in to the routine far too often. He squatted down and put his hands on her shoulders, looking at her softly with his good eye.

  “I ain’t saying you’re not smart, Skeeter, and you did bail us outta that fiasco with Moondog. That’s not what this is about. Look, Chinatown just ain’t a place for kids, especially not girls. One look at that braid of yours and the slavers would have you strung out on opium and whoring before you could say ‘excuse me.’” Jake looked deep into Skeeter’s eyes, trying his best to make his point without getting frustrated. “And then I’d have to track them down, and there’d be all the shooting and the killing … followed by a high-tail-it out of San Fran with a bunch of assassins and slavers on our backs. We’re supposed to be going to help someone out, and I can’t do that if we’re running for our lives. The organization that wants to hire us tried to kill me last time I was there.” Jake deliberately left out the fight with Quinn. Skeeter would jump on that the same way Cole had, and he didn’t want to have that discussion again. “This is gonna be tricky enough without having to protect you.”

  “But—” she started.

  “No buts on this one.… Please,” Jake implored. “I can’t take you with me … okay?” He gave her shoulders a squeeze for emphasis. “I promise I’ll take you after the job is done and things settle down. We’ll all go to San Fran and stay in a real fancy hotel … by the ocean. I promise.”

  Skeeter’s face softened a bit, but Jake was too good a card player not to know there wasn’t much give in the girl. She was probably just biding her time. She turned her nose up at him.

  “I’m going to my workshop,” she said flatly and grabbed the stun-glove. “I’ll see you two when you get back,” she added, turning on her heel. She marched out stiffly but didn’t slam the back door—she knew better than that. But she didn’t close it gently either.

  “She’s gonna be pissed at you for a while, Jake,” Cole said, pointing out the obvious.

  Jake sighed, got to his feet, and sat down in the chair across from Cole. “I know. At least it’s settled, though. I sure as hell didn’t know what I was getting into when I decided to take her in.”

  Cole chuckled. “I warned ya. But she is a hell of a kid, and with no place else for her to go, you did the right thing.” Cole gave him an appraising eye. “You’re a good man, Jake, no matter what them other people say.” Cole took a sip of his coffee and looked towards the back door. “So when you want to head out?”

  “As soon as I can get dressed. The sooner we’re out of the house, the less likely it is she’ll corner me with a better argument. Besides, with Qi in the middle of this I’d like to get there straightaway.” Jake eyed Cole. “You sure you want to come along? You don’t have to, you know. This could turn into a real shit storm.”

  “I know Jake, but if it is a trap, who the hell is gonna bail your ass out if it isn’t me?”

  Jake thought about it a moment and grinned. �
��Good point,” he admitted. He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back, looking at his partner.

  Riding partners like Cole came once in a lifetime. “Thanks, Cole,” he added more seriously, warm friendship filling his voice.

  Cole only nodded, the unspoken friendship between them beyond simple words.

  They finished their coffee in silence and heard a muffled explosion from Skeeter’s workshop. Jake sighed, shook his head, and stood up. “Can you go saddle Koto and Lumpy while I get dressed?”

  “Sure, Jake. I’ll have ’em ready in no time. You want me to bring the Thumper?”

  “Probably a good idea,” Jake agreed. “I hope it doesn’t, but this whole thing could turn into a fiasco faster than a frog jumping off a hotplate.” Jake headed upstairs while Cole went out to the barn to saddle their mounts.

  Jake clumped to his room and closed the door behind him. He pulled a lever and waited as the closet opened with a quiet hiss of steam. He pulled off his nightshirt and dropped it on the floor. The filigreed surfaces of his artificial limbs caught his eye. It had been four years, and he still wasn’t used to how they looked, although they felt perfectly natural.

  Curls and strange patterns decorated every surface. Set within the patterns were sigils and runes their creator had imbued with magic. That magic allowed Jake’s limbs to be more than just brass clockwork and plating. He traced some of the patterns on his arm with his right index finger, feeling the warmth of the metal underneath. So complete was the magic within that his metal arm could even feel his finger tracing the patterns, as if it were living flesh. He said a quiet thank you to old Tinker Farris and another to Maggie Mae Swanson, and even one to old Forsythe who had made it all possible.

  Like many Tinkers, Farris had hired on a capable witch, Maggie Mae, to enhance his inventions. Jake’s arm and legs were a combination of the best clockwork available with top-notch witchcraft. Both Farris and Maggie Mae were as good as they came. It made the limbs smooth, quiet, and strong, so real looking that most people didn’t even know he had them when he walked around in regular clothes … and gloves.

  Jake stepped up to a small dresser at the back of the closet and pulled out three small cigars from a large tin can. He worked the catch on his forearm and opened the compartment. He slid the cigars in and grabbed several matches. They went in next, and he closed the cover.

  He put on tan riding pants, brown boots, and leather spats, followed by a high-collared white shirt, green paisley cravat, and burgundy paisley vest. Opening a small wooden box atop the dresser, he pulled out his father’s leather and brass pocket watch.

  Jake’s gun belt, with scrollwork and curls embossed into the heavy leather, came off a hook on the back of the closet door, and he strapped on his pistols. He pulled several boxes of shells from another drawer and filled the leather pouches on the back of his gun belt with .45 rounds, half of them longer than the others.

  With a quick and easy pull, the modified cavalry officer’s revolver came free of the right holster. It had a dull nickel finish, and he spun it like the gunslinger he was, quickly checking the load. The pistol had been a gift from Colonel Forsythe, presented as Jake lay in the army medical tent where they’d taken his limbs. It used longer .45 rounds than a standard Colt, and Jake had them made special whenever he was in a big city. He tilted it sideways and read the inscription Forsythe had engraved into a brass plate set into the mahogany grip.

  Apologies never make up for blood. ~ Forsythe 1864

  Jake frowned at the words, tracing his finger over them and remembering when Forsythe laid it on his chest. He felt the all-too familiar swirl of anger and remorse over Forsythe, the two feelings fighting with each other for control of his heart, despite the years that had passed. The pistol had seen its fair share of use, and although it was bigger and heavier than the Colts most men in his line of work used, he simply couldn’t bear to part with it. Besides, with its longer barrel and hotter rounds, it had better range, was accurate as hell, and hit like a locomotive. With a single backspin, the Officer’s Colt slipped almost silently back into its holster.

  In a motion faster than a normal man could follow, his left darted to the bronze-finished, heavily filigreed Peacekeeper at his left hip. The glinting metal blurred as it came free, and the etched bronze highlights shone subtly in the weak light. The Peacekeeper, one of a kind, had been custom-made by Tinker Farris, although Tinker had sold the design to Colt, which later released the Peacemaker model 1871 based on the pistol in Jake’s hand.

  Jake’s finger traced the patterns and the sigils etched into the pistol. Maggie Mae had done it up just like his limbs. There were times, like last night, when he saw pale green flashes of light tracing through the runes, but whenever he looked again they were gone. Maggie Mae had imbued it with all sorts of magic that still surprised him from time to time. She had told him once that even she didn’t know everything it could do. She’d said she used a variant of a Loki spell that she’d picked up during her travels through Europe.

  Jake had no idea what that meant, but to date, he’d never had cause to complain. The thing had saved his life more times than he could count. And it was particularly useful against unnaturals, like demons and werewolves, and whatever the hell Quinn was before the Peacekeeper turned him to ash. Jake checked the load and slid it silently back into its holster.

  Slipping a thick fold of bills into his pocket, he stepped out of the closet, hit the lever, and let it close. He pulled his old, battered Army officer’s cloak from off of the coat rack, draped it over his arm and placed his short leather top hat over his head, taking a moment in the mirror to make sure the turquoise stones set in the hat band lined up just right. He did, after all, have his reputation to think about. Black leather gloves slipped easily over his hands. He grabbed his saddlebags off the bedpost and draped them over his shoulder. He made it downstairs and out the back door in a flash.

  Skeeter’s workshop doors were closed, but Jake could hear her inside hammering frantically on something metal. The hammering stopped as he approached the barn. He heard a high-pitched, metallic whine and then the chattering of a machine first spinning slowly and then increasing in speed to a whirring sound. It wasn’t that much different from the sound the telegraph boy’s zeppelin motor had made, and Jake wondered what the hell Skeeter was working on this time.

  The barn doors opened and Cole came out leading Koto, an Appaloosa he’d been riding since he’d fought Apache raiders in the Free Territories before and after the Civil War. The paint had been a gift from a Comanche warrior. Cole had saved the warrior from a band of outlaws that had taken to robbing banks and killing everything in their path. As Jake understood it, the outlaws were about to butcher the bound Comanche warrior when Cole came up on them, and while there was no love lost between Cole and the Comanche raiders, he couldn’t see his way clear of sitting by and watching the man get cut to pieces.

  “Is Lumpy saddled?” Jake asked as Cole slid up onto Koto.

  “Sure is,” Cole replied and winced as he rubbed his shoulder. “But he ain’t in a good mood about it. The son-of-a-bitch shoved me into the wall when I wasn’t looking.”

  “Aww, shit.” Jake shook his head and breathed a deep sigh. Lumpy was big enough to carry Jake’s weight without a problem, but the critter could be as moody as the spinster that ran the Temperance League in Denver.

  Cole smiled as Jake stepped into the barn, thinking his partner looked like a man heading for the gallows.

  “Lumpy, don’t you give me no trouble, you hear?” Jake called into the dark barn. He opened the lid of a large, wooden box near the door, reached inside and pulled out a handful of sweet feed kept there for when Lumpy was grumpy.

  Hearing a hand in the box, Lumpy put his massive head over the stall door and flared his nostrils, sniffing at the mix of oats, barley, corn, and molasses that Jake held out as he approached. Jake undid the latch and let the door swing open. Lumpy’s tan head drifted out of the stall, followed by his massiv
e shoulders, and Jake had to step aside to avoid the wide horns. Jake was convinced Lumpy had Longhorn in his lineage, but the man who sold him the bull had sworn up and down that Lumpy was pure Brahma. Jake put his hand up to Lumpy’s muzzle and let the huge bull lick up every last morsel. “There you go, boy. We gonna be friends today?” Jake asked suspiciously.

  Lumpy turned a big brown eye to Jake and locked gazes with him, as if to say, We’ll see about that. Jake got the message and, grabbing the bridle, led Lumpy over to the box. He reached inside and pulled out another handful of sweet feed. Lumpy sucked it up as quickly as the first.

  “How ’bout now?” Jake asked a bit sternly, with a Don’t press your luck tone of voice.

  Lumpy gave him a satisfied shake of the bridle and stepped forward, putting the stirrup directly in front of Jake.

  “Good boy,” Jake said and slipped his foot into the stirrup. “I guess we got ourselves a deal.” He pulled himself up into the brutally wide saddle, patted Lumpy’s neck, and eased him out of the barn. With slow, plodding thumps, the massive Brahma stepped out into the sunlight.

  “You sure do have a way with that fella,” Cole said, smiling.

  “I s’pose,” Jake offered slowly. “You just gotta know how to bribe him is all.” He spurred Lumpy into a fast walk, wincing slightly at every bounce. Cole fell in beside him. “Besides, most of the mean musta’ come out when he put you into the wall.” Jake winked. “Much obliged.” Jake tipped his hat to Cole in gratitude for his partner’s sacrifice.

  “I’d say ‘anytime,’ but I’d be lyin’.”

  “Don’t blame ya one bit,” Jake replied.

  “So, Jake …” Cole asked slowly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Ummm … you know the Tong is probably gonna try and stick sharp things in us the second they see us, right?”

  Jake nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Look on the bright side,” he said way too easily. “At least we’ll know who’s trying to kill us this time.”