by Erin Lindsey
Thomas’s hands flew to the Colt, lowering the barrel and easing the hammer back down. “It is a weapon, Burrows, not a bit of finery. And unless you wish to become intimately acquainted with every other firearm in the room, I suggest you leave it alone.” His glance slid meaningfully to the nearby tables, where a number of scowling cowboys were just now lowering their hands from their own guns.
“My, my.” Mr. Burrows arched a golden eyebrow. “Rather a nervy bunch, aren’t they?”
“With good reason,” I said. “Which is why he probably needs something, Thomas.”
“He has a derringer,” Thomas said, returning his attention to the book he was reading.
“Since when?”
“Since always,” Mr. Burrows said idly. “Though perhaps I ought to have something a little more powerful, given what you’ve told me about your exploits thus far. What about that shotgun?” He nodded at Thomas’s 12-gauge, which stood propped against the wall.
Thomas didn’t even glance up. “My dear Burrows, I’ve seen how you handle a shotgun. The derringer will be safest for all concerned.”
“Come now, I’m a competent shot.”
“A number of unaccountably healthy ducks would beg to differ.”
Mr. Burrows smirked. “You are a perfect bastard, you know that?”
“As long as it’s perfect, I am content.”
Edith cut me a look. “I’m beginning to see what you mean.”
Thomas glanced up, but before he could ask, I said, “Is that the book Mr. Jackson sent you?”
“Indeed, and it doesn’t disappoint. In fact, I think it’s given us the answer we need.” He spun it around to show me, his eyes simmering with barely restrained excitement.
“Magistellus Flora,” I read.
“A plant-based familiar. Specifically, an alraun.”
You can imagine my surprise. The attack at Custer Creek had been a terrifying blur, but I definitely didn’t recall being set upon by a vicious bit of shrubbery. “Are you sure that’s the right entry? That thing was about every fauna known to man, but I didn’t see any flora.”
He gave an impatient wave. “What the creature becomes is less important than how it begins. In the case of this particular type of familiar, it begins with the root of an ash tree.”
“Ash.” I sighed. “That figures.”
“How so?” Edith glanced between us, curious. “I thought ash was used to banish the dead.”
“That is one use, certainly.” Thomas flipped back to an early chapter of the book and pushed it toward her, still wearing that eager expression. “Ash has a number of spiritual properties, the most notable of which is that it acts as a conduit between the otherworld and the physical realm. Just as it can be used to banish spirits of the dead back to the otherworld, so it can be used in reverse, to summon spirits from the otherworld to ours.”
“Why would anyone wish to summon the dead?”
“Any number of reasons,” Thomas said. “But in this case, the spirits in question are not human at all. They are a sort of lesser fae, if you will, ubiquitous in the otherworld, as they once were in ours. Some, particularly of the lower-ranking ilk, occasionally consent to serve humans.”
“Consent?” I echoed.
“They can be compelled, but it’s a vicious enchantment, and difficult to maintain. The spirit is constantly trying to break free, and if it succeeds…” Thomas shook his head. “Let us say it does not end well for the spellcaster.”
“Fascinating.” Edith’s voice was filled with awe. That made me feel a little better, since apparently I wasn’t the only one at the table who’d never heard of such a thing.
“It is, isn’t it? But here’s the important part. The spell originates with a wooden figurine, carved from a root. In this case, an ash root.”
“Hold on a minute.” Even Mr. Burrows was interested now. “Didn’t Elliot Van Dyk have one of those? That creepy little doll he used to send out at midnight to collect herbs in Central Park?”
“Just so, and that is precisely the sort of mundane task one normally expects from a familiar. Sending one on a murderous rampage is thankfully rare.”
I paused, briefly overcome by the image of a tiny wooden man scurrying around Central Park picking purslane. “Is that sort of magic common among your set?”
Mr. Burrows shrugged. “It’s not uncommon, especially among lucky families. Children who don’t inherit the gift sometimes turn to magic instead, as a way of compensating.”
The words triggered a memory. I might not have your touch, but I have ways of my own. I read, Ben … As always, remembering the dream brought a chill to my breast, and I couldn’t help shivering.
“Are you all right?” Edith asked.
“Fine, thank you.” I managed a weak smile. “Just remembering something, that’s all. You were saying, Thomas, about a figurine?”
“Yes, the figurine.” He tapped the book excitedly. “According to this, after carving the root into the desired form, the spellcaster anoints it with a drop of his blood. He then bathes it, and eventually feeds it, with the blood of the creature it is intended to mimic. Judging from what we saw of the creature, it would appear that our killer fed his alraun the blood of several different animals, all of them predators.”
Well, that explained a whole lot. “So it was a cougar-bear after all.”
“Not to mention wolf, otter … Who knows what else? One wonders if our killer found inspiration in legends of the underwater panther Little Wolf spoke of. Perhaps those stories are even rooted in truth, if you’ll forgive the pun. Some other spellcaster, centuries ago, might have cast a similar spell, and the result was witnessed by the peoples native to the area.”
“But if it’s the same ritual Elliot used,” Mr. Burrows put in, “shouldn’t that have resulted in something similar to his creepy little doll? A wooden cat, perhaps?”
“In theory, yes. Unless the spellcaster found a way to amplify the magic considerably.”
I groaned, dropping my face into my hands. “You were right all along, Thomas. The portal … It wasn’t a coincidence.”
He smiled grimly. “A brilliantly quick study as always, Miss Gallagher.”
Mr. Burrows glanced between us, swirling his whiskey. “For the slow studies in the room, perhaps you’d care to elaborate?”
I poured out a dram of my own, since Mr. Burrows had ordered a whole bottle. I had to admit, the stuff was growing on me, even if it did bring tears to the eyes. “Remember that piece of Flood Rock we were chasing all over town? The Agency was afraid it could be used to enhance someone’s luck. Apparently, portals do that. The closer you are to one, the stronger your luck, or your magic. The portal Mr. Wang showed us on the map is about twenty-five miles south of here.”
“And highly visible from the road,” Thomas added. “Anyone from the paranormal community would recognize it straightaway.”
Bloody portals. I muttered a curse that would have made Mam blush and tossed back a mouthful of whiskey.
“But this is good news, surely,” said Edith. “Now that you know what the creature is, you can work out how to destroy it! I suppose you would … what? Burn the figurine?”
“It’s not quite that simple, I’m afraid,” Thomas said. “I can only theorize that since a version of alchemy was used to create it, it would take powerful alchemy to unmake it.”
In which case, I knew just the alchemist for the job. “We should send a telegram to Allentown straightaway.”
“Agreed, but in the meantime, there may be a way to gain control over the creature, even if we can’t destroy it outright. According to the book, the spellcaster directs the alraun by means of a talisman, usually an amulet or ring, fashioned from the same root as was used to carve the figurine. Find the talisman, and the creature is ours to command.”
“Which means we need to find Kit,” I said.
“Precisely. That’s where you come in, Burrows.”
“Oh, hurrah.” Mr. Burrows was still swirlin
g his whiskey, as though that might improve the taste. “You know I’m always happy to help, but why on earth haven’t you brought a medium out here? Upton’s ghost must know something of use.”
Thomas and I exchanged a sour look. “That’s a bit of a sore point,” I said. “We wired for one days ago, but we’re still waiting.”
“Very well, then, how am I meant to track this person?”
We explained about the soil samples. Predictably, Mr. Burrows wasn’t thrilled to learn he’d be combing through dirt, but he’d done worse for us. Like sifting through the gastrointestinal tract of a dead man, for example. That had been my idea, and I was terribly sorry for it. Mostly.
Mr. Burrows frowned at his drink. “Even if you’re right about these soil samples, it’s going to be a deuce of a task. Do you have any idea how long it could take?” He tossed back a mouthful, winced, and set his glass down decisively.
“We’re well aware,” Thomas said. “Regrettably, we lack better options.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Mr. Burrows sighed and rubbed his eyes. “But first, I need to rest.”
“Me too,” said Edith. “Assuming I can fall asleep with all the heads.”
“Heads?” Thomas arched an eyebrow.
She nodded at the elk trophy hanging crookedly on the wall. “There’s one in my room, too. And in the lobby. And on the landing. Everywhere, heads. It’s enough to give one nightmares.”
“Er, speaking of nightmares…” Thomas and I exchanged a look, and I gave Edith another apologetic smile. “You’re going to need some salt.”
CHAPTER 23
A PROMISE FULFILLED—ANOTHER PROSPECT ENTIRELY—EXPOSED
“I don’t know what’s more bracing,” Mr. Burrows said as we stepped out into the morning sunshine. “The fresh country air or the fact that we can’t leave the hotel without the two of you resting your hands on your guns.”
I scanned the rooftops, shading my eyes under the brim of my hat. “If you’d been shot at as many times as we have, you’d do the same.” Things had been quiet for the past couple of days, but Thomas and I weren’t taking any chances. George Howard was still out there, and Bowie Bill too.
“Call it an excess of caution,” Thomas said. “It would be foolish of our would-be assassin to make a second attempt here in town, but one never knows.”
“Can’t the sheriff do anything to help?” Edith asked.
“He has declined to summarily execute Two Horses, despite the urging of a local rancher. I imagine he considers that contribution enough to our cause.”
Urging was putting it mildly. We’d heard Gus Reid’s bullyragging from clear down the street. He’d had a few choice words about Thomas and me as well, all but accusing us of murdering Skinny. The sheriff wasn’t biting on either line, but that wasn’t much of a comfort. It had been four days since Two Horses was arrested, which meant he was on borrowed time. At any moment, the order could come in from a judge, and that would be that.
“Well?” said Mr. Burrows. “Is the coast clear?” Without waiting for an answer, he hooked his arm through mine, and we started for the saloon. Lee Granger’s breakfast wasn’t exactly inspiring, but it was better than what was on offer at the hotel.
“Oh, look,” Edith said as a rider trotted past with a pair of wolf carcasses slung over his horse. “More heads.”
Thomas sighed. “Yet another hunter out for the reward. As though anyone could mistake those poor creatures for the Monster of Medora. At this rate, there won’t be a wild animal left within fifty miles.”
“And what about the real creature?” Mr. Burrows asked. “Any word from your friends?”
I shook my head, trying to ignore the fear wriggling in my belly. It had been two full days since we’d last seen John and the others. “I choose to believe that means they haven’t found anything. A small town like this, I’m sure we would have heard if…” I trailed off, distracted by the sight of a dozen or so riders heading toward us at a jog. “Thomas,” I murmured, resting my hand on my gun once again.
At first they were just a bunch of anonymous hats, but as they drew nearer, their features came into view. No Bowie Bill or George Howard, thank heavens, but they were heavily armed, and as they rode past, I saw that their ponies all sported the same familiar brand.
“Buckshot Outfit,” I said in an undertone.
Thomas nodded. “Jonathan…”
“Of course. We’ll see you inside.” Mr. Burrows touched Edith’s arm, and the two of them hurried across the street.
The riders reined in outside the jailhouse, and a moment later Bill Jones stepped out, along with Gus Reid. The sheriff looked sour as ever, and I had no doubt Reid had been working on him again, trying to convince him to hang Two Horses, or arrest us, or both.
Reid squinted up at the riders. “’Bout time you showed up. You Terrence?”
A flat-brimmed hat tipped in acknowledgment. The man called Terrence sat his horse like he’d been born in the saddle, and he wore his weapons that way, too. They all did, with their bandoliers and bowie knives and nickel-plated six-shooters. They looked like they’d ridden straight out of a yellowback novel, and only the hero could run them out of town.
“They say you’re the best. That true?”
Terrence shifted a wad of tobacco in his mouth. “You got the money, we’ll do the job.”
“Didn’t figure there’d be so many of you.” Reid scanned the riders. I could practically see him tallying up the cost.
“You want it done right, this is what it takes.”
“There’s only a handful of ’em.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Sioux’s clever. He’ll run decoys, make you think it’s just a brave or two. So you chase ’em, and next thing you know, you been bushwhacked. I don’t aim to be bushwhacked, Mr. Reid.”
I glanced at Thomas, and saw my own grim thoughts reflected in his expression. Gus Reid had made good on his threat to muster a band of vigilantes—and he’d chosen the Buckshot Outfit. Under other circumstances, I could have laughed at the irony. Damn fool. Doesn’t he realize he’s hiring wolves to guard his sheep?
“You the sheriff?” Terrence asked, inclining his head at Bill Jones.
Jones hooked a thumb under his shirt. “You can see the tin, can’t you?” It was no more than the growling of a chained-up dog. I could tell by the way the sheriff was standing—hands on hips, wearing that same worried scowl I’d seen the other day—he had no idea what to do about these men. “Are you gonna ask for my blessing? You won’t get it, but I expect that ain’t gonna stop you.”
“All right, then.” Terrence leaned over with an unhurried air and spat.
“Should we do something?” I whispered to Thomas.
“Such as?”
“Tell them what’s going on. That Little Wolf and the others have nothing to do with—”
“They’re mercenaries, Rose. They’ll do whatever they’re paid to do. And the sheriff has made it clear he’s in no position to stop them.”
I was practically shaking with fury by this point, but I knew Thomas was right. Men like these didn’t care about the rights and wrongs of things. They were there to get paid, and if that meant taking lives—especially Lakota lives—that was just fine by them. “Shouldn’t we at least warn John and the others?”
“They already know Reid is looking for them. If we ride out now, we’ll only lead the Buckshot Outfit straight to them.”
He was right about that, too.
“The best thing we can do for our friends is get our hands on that talisman, and quickly.”
Thomas steered me away, but not before I caught Bill Jones’s eye, and I sent him a clear message. If there’s blood, it’ll be on your hands.
He held my gaze for a moment, unflinching. Then he looked away.
* * *
“Well, I have an answer for you.” Mr. Burrows set the last vial down and picked up his handkerchief, wiping the soil from his fingers. “But I don’t know that you’re going to like it.”
I sighed. “This day just keeps getting better.”
We were back at the hotel, crammed into the most discreet table we could find—which, given the size of the dining room, wasn’t all that discreet. But there simply wasn’t room for us upstairs, so we had to make do. Fortunately, we had the place to ourselves, at least for now, so we could speak freely.
“I’m no expert, but I think it very unlikely your Mr. Upton discovered gold anywhere near here. There isn’t a trace of it in any of these vials.”
“Upton did say those samples were disappointments,” I pointed out.
“But then why collect them?” Thomas shook his head. “He must have sensed something.”
“He did,” said Mr. Burrows. “Something much more valuable, at least potentially.” He tapped the lantern in the middle of the table.
I didn’t follow. “Kerosene?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Oil.” Thomas sighed and closed his eyes. “Of course. No wonder Kit is willing to gamble the hundred thousand. He’s betting on a million-dollar return.”
A million dollars? My Five Pointer’s brain could hardly conceive of such a sum. “Would it really be worth so much?”
“Very possibly,” Mr. Burrows said. “If not more. And of course that’s just the beginning. A million is easily converted into two, if one knows the right broker.”
“Oh, really? Please do introduce us.” I gave him a wry look.
“Yes, well.” He at least had the grace to look embarrassed, dusting an imaginary speck from his ruby-red waistcoat. “All I meant was that a million dollars gives one a substantial foothold on Wall Street, which is more than enough incentive for murder.”
“I suppose that explains these sketches,” Edith said, holding up one of Upton’s journals. She’d been reading through both of them carefully, absorbing every detail with her photographic memory. “It seems your Mr. Upton was trying to work out how to drill for oil. From what I can see, he was on the right track, too. This drawing here reminds me of an illustration I once saw of salt wells in China. The article referred to it as percussion drilling.”