Delilah Dawson - The Damsel and the Daggerman

Jacinda was lost in her imagination, remembering the picture in the paper, the cleaver splattered with blood. And now she knew where that story had come from: this girl. Her, and her knife, and Marco’s blood seeping from those white scars she’d found on his body.

“Running away in shame doesn’t sound like the Marco I know.”

Petra sneered and flung the knife again. It thudded into the wood between his thighs, barely a finger’s width away from his pants. He flinched and looked away. “You don’t know him like I do. He plays a good game, knows how to make a girl scream, but he can’t close the deal. He’s not even a man. Did you know he’s a virgin?” She cocked her head, staring at Jacinda with narrow eyes. “Or he was.”

Stunned, Jacinda looked at Marco’s face, gauging his reaction. His eyes were wide, begging. And she knew, deep down, that if Petra knew the truth, they would both die here tonight.

“Perhaps he has his reasons,” she murmured.

“Damn his reasons!” Petra roared. “What happened in his wagon today? No blasted windows. Did he kiss you? Did he use his mouth on you? Did he say that he loves you? Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t love anything or anyone.” The girl’s eyes closed, tears trailing from long eyelashes. She stormed to the target and wrenched the knife from the wood, slamming it back into the target again and again in the unscarred space between his arm and his leg, closer and closer to his chest. “Why can’t I make you love me, you bastard?”

With Petra’s back turned, Jacinda slipped the bracelet off her wrist and felt around to the reed that had been painted black. Marco’s eyes flew wide, and she shook her head at him. As Petra spun back around, the knife pinched between thumb and forefinger and arm flung back to throw, Jacinda put the reed tube to her lips and blew explosively. A tiny feathered dart found Petra’s cheek as the girl’s arm jerked downward, her knife flying straight for Jacinda’s chest.

The blade pounded into Jacinda’s belly, and she gasped and stumbled backward. She didn’t feel anything at first, just the impact of the throw. And she wasn’t willing to look down yet and see the damage, because as long as Petra was standing, so she would be standing.

Across the room, the slender girl twitched, her fingers clawing at the tufted dart embedded in her cheek. Jacinda felt a small point of pride; the dart’s poison would work even faster, considering the needle had pierced the girl’s mouth. Through saliva and blood, it would swiftly travel all through her body, rendering her paralyzed. Jacinda had picked up the unusual weapon and the skill to wield it in the jungles of Africa and kept it always on her wrist, well aware that most of Sangland’s inhabitants didn’t even know such a thing existed. Brutus was the muscle, but this tiny needle was the brains.

As Petra threw the dart to the ground, she tripped and fell on her side. Only then did Jacinda allow herself to look down at her belly and see the damage done by a spurned woman with wicked aim. But all she saw was a dented scar on her leather corset. Running her hands up and down, she realized that the knife must have struck her with the unsharpened side rather than the piercing tip. Thank heavens for small miscalculations. She exhaled in a rush and plucked the dull silver from the floor before rushing to the target and pulling the stocking from Marco’s mouth.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, breathless, and she could only shake her head no.

“You?”

“Yes. But I’ll live. Will she?”

Jacinda looked down at the girl’s form, still but for shallow breathing.

“There’s enough poison in that dart to take down a lion, so I don’t actually know what it’ll do to a person. The bludgazelle I shot with one never got up again. But she won’t be able to hold a knife for a long time, in any case.”

Petra’s eyes rolled to her, glazed and unfocused, and Jacinda stepped around her to untie the rope choking Marco’s neck. When she’d finished with his wrists and legs, she helped him step down and immediately checked the bloodstained places left on his body by Petra’s knife. She felt the tiniest shred of pity for the pathetic creature and her mad obsession but not enough to unleash her on the world again, no matter Marco’s pride.

“It’s not as bad as it was last time.” He put one hand to his side and pulled it away bloody. “She hasn’t been practicing.”

“I can’t believe you let her go, after that.”

He chuckled ruefully. “To be quite honest, I was in no shape to chase anyone. Just dragged my carcass off to heal. I never dreamed she would be so obsessed. I had no idea. If I had known she was following me, watching me. Watching us . . .” He shook his head, reached to squeeze her hand.

She squeezed back. “You did warn me that being a daggerman is a dangerous job.”

“So is being a daggerman’s lady,” he said with a smile somehow both grateful and mischievous. “Now, aren’t I late for a date in your conveyance?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You are. And as I tend your wounds, you’re going to tell me what it was like, losing your virginity this afternoon.”

He looked down, sheepish. “It was welcome. And way overdue. But I think you’ll be especially interested about what happens now. That’s the part you might regret.”

Late as it was and considering they were both in shock, they blew out all the lamps and left the cottage for the short walk to Jacinda’s conveyance—after tying Petra securely to the target. She was still breathing, and Jacinda planned on delivering her to Criminy Stain’s justice by the light of day. But first, there was business to attend to. With the conveyance door firmly locked from the inside and the sea pounding just beyond, Jacinda dumped her weapons off the bed and stripped Marco of his shirt. It wasn’t the way she had planned to get him naked, but it would have to do.

She tended his wounds with water and a healing salve from her travels, then bound the shallow slices with soft bandages made of her torn stockings. As she fed him biscuits from a tin and brewed the tea, he leaned back against her pillows and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“So that bracelet you always wear—it’s been a weapon all along?”

Jacinda grinned and sat beside him, careful not to jostle his wounds as she held up the bracelet of reed tubes. “Small, pretty, hidden in plain sight. It’s a traditional Abyssinian weapon, although putting it on the bracelet was my idea. They tend to wear them as necklaces or stuck through their ears.” He traced a finger over the inside of her wrist. “A little ostentatious, for my tastes. Liam said . . .” She trailed off, and he curled his fingers around hers.

“What did Liam say?”

Jacinda squeezed her eyes against the tears that always threatened. “He said I should have a hole put through my nose, as the Abyssinian warrior women do. He was half serious.” A few tears escaped, and Marco caught them on his finger and gently stroked her cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“There’s nothing wrong with sadness, and I don’t expect you to stop loving someone you lost. Never be sorry for talking about him.”

“He died defending me, you know. It was so stupid. Should have been just another scuffle in the street. But the man who made a vulgar offer for me . . . he was big, and he hit hard, and Liam’s head struck the stone wrong. He died in my arms. And that’s when I decided I had to learn to defend myself.”

Marco held her close, stroking her back. “I can’t complain about that. You certainly saved my life tonight, sweetness. And I’m grateful.”

For a few moments, she finally gave in and allowed herself to grieve in Marco’s arms, feeling safe for the first time since that night. When the kettle whistled, Jacinda took it as a sign to put away her sorrow. She straightened, brushing the tear trails away and getting up to fix the tea.