Delilah Dawson - The Damsel and the Daggerman

“Lady Letitia told me nothing of my heart. But I can’t complain, you see, for she saved my life.”

By the time he left to practice, she had grown accustomed to the galloping of his speech and realized she now saw him as the hero of his own story, one she hoped would have a happy ending that included the love he deserved and would cherish. To think—he looked so big and scary, but inside he was a kitten. Filled with renewed purpose and shoving away thoughts of Marco, she turned the page on her notebook and approached the booth shared by Demi and Cherie.

Both girls looked up at her in surprise with red-painted lips, and she realized that they were most likely unaccustomed to being approached by Pinkies while drinking Pinky blood. From the bludcaravans of the desert to the lively bars of Darkside, Jacinda had never been threatened by a single Bludman and had no patience for anyone who feared them, nor did she have patience for gloves unless they were required for propriety. She hadn’t approved of prejudice even when she’d been expected to live a normal life in the city, and she smiled warmly and asked, “May I sit with you?”

“If you want to,” Demi said, licking her lips clean and swirling blood around in her teacup with doubt written in her eyes.

Cherie, by far the meeker of the two, scooted over, daintily sliding her teacup away across the scarred wood of the table. Jacinda murmured, “Thank you,” and sat beside the slender blond girl, realizing that, oddly, between the two of them, the predator was probably more frightened of the human.

“We don’t know anything more about Marco, if that’s what you were going to ask,” Demi said quickly.

Jacinda rolled her eyes with the slight head shake she would use to discuss a mischievous child. “Consider him pigeonholed. He’s a tough nut to crack, that one. I’ve got something bigger in my sights.” She leaned closer, twirling her pen between ink-stained fingers. “I’m writing a book about the caravan, and I’d like to write a chapter about the two finest contortionists I’ve ever seen.”

“Us?” Cherie asked innocently.

Jacinda’s smile was real. “If you’re willing. I’d like to know all about you both.”

Demi reared back, panicked, her eyes shooting around the dining car. “What about me?”

“Nothing you don’t want to share. I just sense you have a good story. As a journalist, nothing fascinates me more than learning about new people. I think your tales would greatly intrigue the young women of the city. And you can always give a pseudonym, if you wish.”

Demi and Cherie had a conversation of gestures and squeaks, prompting Jacinda to get up and fetch a cup of coffee. Criminy hadn’t said anything about food, but she could always toss coppers at him if he got too ornery. She had been careful to leave her notebook on the table, writing-side up and pen on top, so that the girls could see exactly what she did. The page was open to the tail end of her interview with Torno and included scrawled notes and a few unobtrusive sketches, all very favorable, if she did say so herself. One of her attractions as a journalist was her ability to write, draw, stay sober, and ride a bludcamel, as most practitioners in the field could manage only one of the four.

Sure enough, the girls were huddled over the book, Demi’s dark hair almost touching Cherie’s blond curls. They broke apart as she neared, Cherie blushing and Demi looking up in reckless challenge.

“A book, huh?” Demi asked, and Jacinda nodded.

“I’m known for writing about the places that most consider no more than dreams. The pyramids of Kyro, the native villages of Almanica, the daimon cabarets of Paris, the hidden jungles of Africa. But I’ve never seen a single book about the truth behind a caravan.”

“And Criminy knows? He doesn’t mind?” Cherie glanced around nervously.

Demi smirked. “If she’s here, he knows. And he probably loves it. Crim’s got an ego the size of a Mack truck.”

“A what?” Jacinda asked, as it was rare that anyone mentioned anything she hadn’t heard of at least once.

Demi, blushed, her eyebrows drawn down as she looked away, annoyed. “Just something from where I’m from.”

“And where’s that?” Jacinda’s pen was poised over a fresh sheet of paper, and she felt the familiar thrill of the blank page, the pause before the story started.

“Demi, don’t,” Cherie said, but Demi just shook her head.

“Almanica. But I won’t talk about that.”

Jacinda knew well enough how to dance around forbidden topics and still get the pieces she needed to enthrall an audience. And having been there herself for more than a year, she also knew well enough that Demi wasn’t actually from Almanica.

“Tell me about Sangland, then. How long have you been here, and how did you get into contortion?”

Demi sighed and drank the last of the blood from her cup with a determined air. “One question, first. Can you make me famous?”

Jacinda didn’t want to let the girl down; she looked so hungry and earnest and, suddenly, very innocent. “My books do fairly well, and I believe the city folk would be riveted by the tales of the caravan. But tell me, aren’t you already a star? I’ve seen the crowd gathered around your act, and I can tell you’re very popular. Every girl in London dreams of what you have, this freedom and applause.”

“It’s not enough. I want more. I want to be famous.”

Poor Cherie looked as if she was about to collapse in on herself, her fair head ducked down between narrow shoulders and her face in her hands, although whether it was in embarrassment, worry, or fear, Jacinda couldn’t tell. But Demi had her head high, her eyes gazing out the window and past the moors to the sky with near-feral determination.

“Being in a book is a good start, darling. I’ll do what I can.”

Demi took a deep breath and focused. “My name is Demi Ward. I was attacked by bludbunnies, and Criminy Stain bludded me and pretty much adopted me, and when we were trying to think of some sort of work I could do to earn my way in the caravan, he suggested contortion. I was young enough and had a little acrobatic training, and Cherie was willing to teach me.” She looked at her friend fondly, and Cherie looked up and smiled. “We were instant best friends and have been performing together for five years. But that’s not really interesting, is it?”

Jacinda shook her head, her pen scritching over the paper. “Think about what it would be like to be fifteen years old, living in a cramped, dark apartment in London. Most girls your age have never been outside the city walls. You almost died and were saved at the last moment by the most notorious and handsome magician in the country. They’d salivate to hear it.”

Demi chuckled. “Never thought about it that way. I’ll try to make it sound juicy. Um. One time, the Magistrate raided the caravan with a bunch of Coppers and dogs, looking for Lady Letitia, and all the Bludmen ran away into the moors. But Cherie and I didn’t want to run far, so we hid in the lookout box on top of our wagon and watched. It was totally brutal. They pulled out the old costumer and carried her away tied to a bludmare’s rump. She beat three guys up with a sword hidden in her umbrella first.”

“But what about you? Any exciting stories of your own?”

Demi thought about it for a few moments, her face slowly falling. “I can’t think of a single freaking thing. I mean, I wake up, drink blood, perform, drink blood, and sleep. I don’t leave the caravan or go into the cities.” She swallowed hard and let her head fall to her chest. “I’m just as trapped as they are.”

The interview was not going the way she had hoped, and when the dining-car door opened, Jacinda was grateful for a reason to look away from the girl’s tears. Marco didn’t pause as he stepped into the trailer, but he did tip his head just a shade to smirk at her.