Jim DeFelice - The Golden Flask

"I did not kill your son," he said as he tied her hands. "And I did not make the promise to help find him lightly."

"You are a liar and a devil."

"You accepted my kisses readily enough."

"Don't flatter yourself," she said.

"I notice you're not trying to escape."

"I'm not as foolish as you think. You would grab me in a second, wouldn't you? And slit my throat. Kill me now, then. Go ahead. Kill me as you have devastated the rest of my family."

A sudden energy flooded into her body. Jake caught it just in time, clamping his hand over her mouth.

"I'm not going to kill you," he said, a second before she bit his fingers.

Daltoons checked his pocketwatch warily as he squatted by the stone pillar along the roadway. His men would have deposited Clayton Bauer at the front door and ought to have neutralized the guards by now.

No matter whether in the city or not, operations on Manhattan were always fraught with danger. Daltoons, by now an experienced veteran of irregular warfare, habitually felt his palms sweating at some point during a mission. They had turned to raging torrents now, and he wiped them on his freshly bleached white breeches, anxious for his men to arrive and tell him everything was going as planned.

His hope was in vain. Hasty footsteps down the path and labored breathing announced a messenger.

"One of the sons of bitches got away," said the man. "He ran from the back when we secured the horses at the barn. You said not to shoot."

"Shitten hell." Daltoons turned his eyes back to the road. There was a redcoat encampment less than a quarter mile away.

"Pull everybody from around the building. March up to the crossroads with me," said the young lieutenant, loosening the worse curses in his arsenal as he began trotting up the hill, guns ready. "Shitten damn hell in a British dandy's rogering hatbox."

"It was some manner of rebel plot," Clayton Bauer told his brother-in-law as he was helped to the couch. "They were trying to get information from me on Sir William's plans. At least I believe that is what they were doing. I told them he was going to Boston." He managed a wry smile as he sat down. "The idiot has probably changed his mind several times now, and reversed course from Philadelphia, so lord knows I may have told them the truth.” He noticed Egans. “Who the hell are you?"

Bauer jumped upwards, still struggling with the effects of the drugs. Bebeef s sleeping powder had a nasty habit of leaving the joints knotted with pain for several hours after the primary effect had worn off.

Egans did not react.

"He's a messenger from Burgoyne," said Lord William.

"Gentleman Johnny is using clowns?"

"My name is Egans," the white Oneida said. "I was told to extend the general's personal regards before reporting to General Clinton."

"What the hell would you be told that for?"

"I am not in the habit of questioning my orders," said Egans. "If you wish me to leave, I shall."

"No, I do not wish you to leave," said Clayton, who waved off his brother's attempts to pull him back to the couch. "I want you to explain who the hell you are, and what you are doing here. The last time I saw Burgoyne I promised to see him in hell for his slander. He would no more extend me greetings than he would address a horse in the street."

Jake nearly screamed with the pain as Lady Patricia clamped her teeth on his fingers. He caught her as she tried to squirm away and pulled her back, hesitating to punch her but finally seeing no choice.

Just as his fist found the side of her head, a dark brown figure rushed through the door and flew at his back, snarling and barking. The mastiff that had once guarded him on the beach now sent him flying forward on the bed; Jake reached for his Segallas in his belt but lost his balance and fell over as the animal slashed its teeth into his side.

For nearly a full minute he fought the dog with his bare hands, wrestling desperately to keep its mouth from his throat. Finally he managed to fall to the side and roll to his stomach, his back and coat offering some protection from the angry beast's slashes.

Jake found the handle of the knife and pulled it from his boot, but dropped the blade as the mastiff slashed at his arm. He rolled over the knife and had to fight to his knees, the dog pulling viciously at his clothes before the spy finally managed to grab the weapon again. A sharp plunge with the blade into the animal's stomach drained the fight from it; he finished the job quickly by slitting upwards, all the way to its throat.

He rose to find a servant at the door holding a pistol on him.

"I have told you who I am," Egans said coldly. "If there is ill blood between you and my superior, it is none of my concern. I will take my leave. I am already several days late."

"Stop, Indian, or whatever you are," Bauer reached for the side of the couch. He didn't do so to steady himself. Ripping away the cloth, he retrieved a loaded pistol and pointed it at Egans.

"George, what the hell is going on with that dog!" Bauer yelled before turning to the sailor who had helped bring him into the house. "Get the guards from outside and have him arrested," he ordered. "Move, man, before I have you thrown in chains as well."

The sailor quickly headed for the door.

"Drop the knife, I say."

"Come now," Jake told the servant. "You're not going to shoot me for a brief indiscretion."

"Drop it or you're as good as dead."

Jake complied as the man steadied his aim. He was holding the pistol with more confidence than David displayed toward his slingshot.

"What have you done to her ladyship?"

"Just put her to sleep." Jake took a stagey glance toward the bed, but George was too smart to allow him an opening. He circled around to the other side, out of reach for a lunge.

Jake's blow had sent her slumbering, but otherwise left her unharmed. The servant placed his hand briefly at Lady Patricia's mouth to make sure she was still breathing.

There was barely six feet separating them. Still, it would take more than Jake's normal dose of good luck to keep from getting a gut's worth of trouble if he dove for the pistol. Nor did a plunge through the door into the house seem like a good option.

The Segallas was still in his belt, tucked beneath his coat. He tried to ease his hands down where he might grab it, but the servant returned his attention to him.

"Keep your hands up and walk through the door."

"And what if I don't feel in the mood for a stroll?" asked Jake.

"Then I will kill you here and not bother cluttering the courts."

Egans's face betrayed no emotion. He knew the "sailor" would soon return with either some story or his weapon drawn, or both. He already had the information he had come for; all he need do now was wait.

That he could do for a long time, as difficult as it was to stomach the stench of the cowardly Englishmen. If duty had not required his returning with the information Jake Gibbs and his friend the Dutchman sought, Egans would surely have attempted killing them all with his bare hands. In such a way, he decided, his mistakes would begin to be corrected, blood for blood.

"You are not a native," said Bauer. "Why are you dressed that way?"

Egans did not answer.

"Speak, you race turncoat. Speak. That is an order." Bauer waved the gun in his face.

"I was born white and adopted. I am an Oneida and a member of the bear clan. No one can steal that identity from me, for it has been sealed with blood."

"White blood, I would bet," said Clayton. "Your soul has been poisoned by the pagans."

Egans had many rejoinders, but offered none.