Lilith Saintcrow - The Damnation Affair

Crunches. Howls. Terrible sounds, and gunshots, spitting crackling mancy and thuds against the walls. Cat stood locked in place, trembling, staring at the body on the floor, her gloved fingers working against each other. Walking dead. Here. Oh, God.

The graveyards were well-policed in Boston, and bodies properly handled. Still, sometimes the more amenable of the wandering dead were set to work—supervised, of course, but used for brute and drudge tasks. There was a Society for Liberation of the Deceased, but Cat’s mother had always sniffed at such a thing. Liberation indeed , she would say. Next they shall be wanting franchise. And her father would chime in. Though how that would differ from the usual ballot-box stuffing, I cannot tell. Come, Frances, speak of something less unpleasant.

She had watched as they put the true-iron nails in her father’s palms, but she could not bear to see such an operation performed on her mother. Nor could she bear to witness the other appurtenances of death—the mouthful of consecrated salt, the branding of dead flesh with charter-symbols, the sealing of the casques. Thankfully, the Barrowe-Browne name, not to mention the estate’s copious funding, meant her parents would not be set to drudgery but instead locked safely in leaden coffins inside a stone crypt, with chartermages making certain of their quiet, mouldering rest.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, do not think on that!

Cat squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness made the sounds worse. So she opened them wide, and counted dust motes in the air. Why she did not find a spot more conducive to cowering and hiding was beyond her, unless it was the sheriff’s queer certainty.

Stay here.

Said very decisively, the gun smoking in his hand, then he had been gone, moving faster than she could credit.

If this was a prank, it was a very good one. The body on the floor was certainly none too fresh. Would someone cart a corpse all this way, and charm it, too—a dangerous occupation, to be sure—all for the sake of a laugh? Not even Robbie would go so far.

Though there had been the episode with the frogs, long ago in their childhood. And their dry-rusty dead-throat croaking. Robbie’s Practicality was just barely acceptable in Society, and their father had more than once reminded him never to allow it rein outside the house. Especially after the poor frogs, the nursery full of the stink and…

Oh, I wish I had not thought of that.

A shadow filled the doorway. She had to swallow a scream, but it was merely Mr. Jack Gabriel, hat clamped on his dark head, his eyes narrowed and his hands occupied in reloading his pistol with quick, habitual movements. She supposed he must do so often, to be so cavalier during the operation.

“You can move now,” he said, mildly. “Don’t think there’s more, but we should step lively back closer to town.”

“Is this…” She had to cough to clear her throat. “Is this normal , sir? I cannot be expected to teach if—”

“Oh, no, it’s not normal at all, ma’am.” His eyes had darkened from their hazel, and his gaze was disturbingly direct. “Matter of fact, it’s downright unnatural, and I intend to get to the bottom of it. You won’t be setting foot out here, teaching or no teaching, until I’m sure it’s safe.”

Well. That’s very kind of you, certainly. “That is a decided relief,” she managed, faintly. “I am sorry for the trouble.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am. You’ve a good head on your shoulders.” A high blush of color—exertion or fear, who knew—ran along his high, wide cheekbones.

For a single lunatic instant she thought he was about to laugh and tell her it had all been a prank, and she was, in Robbie’s terms, a blest good sport. But his mouth was drawn tight, he was covered in dust, and there was a splatter of something dark and viscous down one trouser leg.

“Thank you.” She tried not to sound prim, probably failed utterly. And who wouldn’t sound a little faint and withered after this manner of excitement? “I don’t suppose you, ah, knew the…the deceased?”

He actually looked startled, his gaze dropping like a boy caught with his fingers in a stolen pie. “Can’t say as I looked to recognize them, ma’am.”

“Oh.” She found the trembling in her legs would not quite recede. Her throat was distressingly dry. “I suppose you must have been…yes. Busy.”

“Very. You’re pale.”

I feel rather pale, thank you. “I shall do well enough.” She took an experimental step, and congratulated herself when she did not stagger. “Returning to town does seem the safest route. Shall we?”

There was a dewing of blood on his stubbled cheek. Where was it from? “Yes ma’am.”

Cat decided she did not wish to know precisely what the stains on him were from, and set off for the rectangle of dusty sunlight that marked the front door, her bootheels making crisp little clicking noises. The sheriff caught her arm, his grimy fingers oddly gentle.

“Just a moment, Miss Barrowe. I’ll be locking the back door, and then you’ll let me go through that’un first.”

Oh. “Yes. Of course.” Please let’s not dally.

“Just you stay still and don’t faint. Don’t want to have to carry you over my shoulder.” He paused, still gazing at her in that incredibly odd manner. “Would be right undignified.”

“That it would.” She clasped her gloved hands, her heart in her throat and pounding so hard she rather thought a vessel might burst and save the undead the trouble of laying her flat.

What a charmingly gruesome idea. Use that organ of Sensibility you so pride yourself upon, Cat. Behave properly.

The trouble was, even Miss Bowdler’s books, marvelous as they were, had nothing even remotely covering this situation. She decided this fell under Extraordinary Occurrences, and checked her hat. An Extraordinary Occurrence meant that one must take care of one’s person to the proper degree, and simply avoid making the situation worse .

Her gloves were in good order, though her parasol was completely ruined. Her dress seemed to have suffered precious few ill effects from scurrying across the floor. A few traces of sawdust, that was all.

She found the sheriff still staring. “Sir.” It was her mother’s There Is Much To Be Done tone, used whenever something had gone quite wrong and it was Duty and Obligation both to set it right, and it was wonderfully bracing. “Do let’s be on our way.”

At least he stopped staring at her. “Yes ma’am.” Another touch to the brim of his hat—and by God, must he wear it inside? It was insufferable.

He approached the body cautiously, grabbed it by the scruff of its rotting shirt, and hauled it outside through the back door. It went into the sunshine with a thump that unseated Cat’s stomach, and despite his shouted warning, she fled the barnlike schoolhouse. She leaned over the porch stair railing, and she retched until nothing but bile could be produced.

He wished the wagon wouldn’t jolt so much. She was paper-pale, trembling, and had lost damn near everything she’d probably ever thought of eating. She clutched at the broken stick of the parasol like a drowning woman holding on to driftwood. Damp with sweat, a few stray strands of her hair had come free, and now they lay plastered to her fair flawless skin. He wished, too, that he could say something comforting, but he settled for hurrying the horse as much as he dared.

He’d lied, of course. There hadn’t been just a few undead. He’d stopped counting at a half-dozen, and there was no way a single man could put down that many.