The Damsel and the Daggerman

Drawing her curtains, she realized what was missing. She wouldn’t feel safe again until the dangerous daggerman was back in her arms.



.12.



Once she was fortified with a cup of hot tea splashed with whiskey, Jacinda took great care preparing herself for Marco’s visit. She’d spent time within the labyrinthine walls of a sultan’s harem once, and the women had taught her all the ways to entice a man using the full force of her beauty. With candles arrayed along the windowsill and soft rain beginning to play in counterpoint to the song she hummed under her breath, she bathed with a soft cloth and rubbed rich creams into her arms and legs. She plucked every hair that was out of place, lined her eyes with kohl, and brushed her hair a hundred strokes until it shone like fire in the candlelight. And although she’d told Marco she’d wear nothing, she slipped into a nearly transparent lace shift she’d found in a Paris boutique while shopping with a daimon courtesan.



Midnight came, and she arranged herself on the bed like an odalisque, waiting for Marco’s knock to ring out over the sudden thunder of raindrops on the conveyance roof. At one o’clock, she yawned and went to check the door, to see if perhaps a shadowy form was crossing the moors under a dark umbrella, his eyes deeper than the sky. The door swung inward, and movement caught her eye. An envelope, pinned to the wood by one of Marco’s knives.



Her hands shook as she pulled out the knife and slammed the door on the sputtering raindrops. Had he made good on his earlier threat and run from her, even after the intimacy and mutual hunger they’d shared? Was he having second thoughts about having a physical relationship, much less the real one she was starting to crave?



There was no wax seal, and the paper was damp but not soaked. She hadn’t heard the knife, nor had she seen a shadow under the door. Moving to her bed, she clicked on the lamp and unfolded the paper. The familiar writing was hurried and frantic, the paper crumpled as if he’d written it against the conveyance wall.



Meet me at 3 Cocklebur Lane in Scarborough. I’ve leased a small cottage by the shore where we can be alone for a while. I’m ready to tell you everything.—M.



Her heart had sunk upon seeing the envelope instead of the man, but it rose again when she read the last line. If he was ready to tell her the truth, surely that meant he felt the same attraction, longing, and fondness, that the dangerous daggerman was ready to finally open up.



She shed the nightgown and dressed in her heaviest adventuring gear, because even if her heart was ready to rush to him, her mind knew well enough that crossing the moors alone at night could be dangerous, even in a conveyance as well appointed and rugged as hers. Although the seaside was lovely, there were still bludseals to consider. Strapping her leather corset on over her canvas dress and pulling on thick gloves and the bracelet she always wore, she willed her heart to still and sought her thickest boots. Best-case scenario in this getup: she’d enjoy Marco’s delicious slowness as he labored to undress her.



Brutus hadn’t returned to her conveyance, which troubled her. The mechanical dog was programmed to return when its orders were in question, but sometimes heavy rain could cause it to short out. She dug out her emergency homing beacon and pressed the red button, willing the dog to live up to the grand price she’d paid for it and function according to its programming. When it hadn’t arrived at the door within five minutes, she decided she would ready her weapons and go anyway. Making brash decisions was her general mode of operation, and she wasn’t about to let one malfunctioning metal mutt keep her from Marco’s body and heart. She’d never trusted clockworks too much, anyway; not enough brain for her needs.



Powering up the conveyance, she flicked on the outside lights and rain wipers and undid the brake. The caravan was dark as she rumbled past, with only one light shining from the dining car. She smiled to herself, hoping that Demi and the daimon boy might be sitting in a booth, fidgeting with their cups and flirting awkwardly. For a homeless collection of mismatched wagons and people, the caravan was starting to feel a little like home.



Scarborough was the nearest city, and she remembered passing the white chalk cliffs and mostly abandoned seaside villages on her way to find the caravan. She followed the black ruts left by the banks over the lashing moor grasses, all the way to a high hill that showed the shifting sea, black and unfathomable, beneath a towering, jagged city like a beehive plastered in flotsam. When the bank tracks met the road to Scarborough proper, Jacinda turned left, maneuvering carefully down the white shell path that led to the beach roads. The rain had turned to drizzle, and the road was cut diagonally to keep it from being too steep and toppling the various conveyances of seagoers and fishermen. Her fingers clenched the trembling wheel as hard as they had curled around Marco’s bed earlier.



As the main road leveled out and began to split off onto smaller avenues, she anxiously looked for Cocklebur Lane. She nearly missed the narrow white path bordered by a cliff, turning the conveyance on two wheels at the last possible moment. It was a tight fit, and the road was more of a footpath, but she wasn’t about to get out in the dark, alone, to feel her way along sharp rocks.



A light soon appeared—a lantern hanging from the front porch of a stone cottage that would have been charming with just a little more attention. The porch sagged, the flowers in the pots were dead and crumpled, and a mobile of shells and bones clattered helplessly in the breeze from the ocean. At least there would be no blud creatures about, this close to the salty sea spray. Well—almost.



She parked the conveyance and went to her bed, where she’d laid out the many weapons she’d picked up during her travels. The boomerang, the machete, the crossbow, the seawater gun, the brass knuckles with claws that fit over her fingers perfectly. Her main concerns here were giant lobsters and bludseals, which had developed a special oily coating that allowed them, alone of all blud creatures, to touch the sea’s salt and survive. Practically nothing worked against lobsters, of course. Nodding to herself, she tied the machete’s leather holster around her waist, took up her notebook and pen, and stepped down to the sand.



Outside, the drizzle had given way to air heavy and cold with mist, the sea spray floating toward her like formless ghosts and stinging her eyes. The wildness of the place appealed to her, and she smiled up at the sky, at the electricity latent in the clouds. She started up the path, her boots crunching on the crushed white shells. When the door opened to reveal Marco’s shadow silhouetted with light, she sped up and gave him her fondest smile.



“I’ve been waiting for this,” she called over the sea’s pounding.



He said nothing as she skipped up the creaking steps, and she squinted to see his face in the blinding light. What she saw chilled her to her bones. It wasn’t Marco. It was a woman with a knife.



“I’ve been waiting, too,” the woman said.



.13.



“Where’s Marco? What is this?”



The woman stepped forward until Jacinda could separate her form from the shadows. She was petite and perfect, with large, arresting golden eyes and shiny black hair cut short to show ears heavy with tribal baubles. Looking Jacinda up and down, the girl twirled one of Marco’s knives between her fingers, quick and sure.



“So this is what Marco was waiting for? You’re so pale and round, like a city cow. To tell you the truth, I’m disappointed.” She pointed the knife at Jacinda’s hand, now on the hilt of her machete. “Throw that into the yard, and put your hands up. Now. I’m as quick with a blade as my beloved Marco, you know. He taught me well.”



Slowly, her eyes never leaving the girl, Jacinda obeyed, untying the belt and tossing the heavy knife out into the sand. The girl nodded slowly, and with a sick turn of her stomach, Jacinda suddenly realized whom she faced.



“So you must be Petra. Funny, you don’t look murdered.”



“Neither do you. Yet.”



Jacinda stiffened, her eyes sliding sideways, looking for a weapon, an egress, an ally. The girl was clever. She must have been responsible for Brutus’s disappearance, and Jacinda had utterly fallen for it, despite her paranoia. But where was Marco, and why did he say nothing? If he was in the house, surely he would come to her rescue?



“What have you done with Marco?”



The girl smirked as if they shared a joke. “Nothing he hasn’t done with you and me. He’s tied up. Come in and see.”



Jacinda didn’t move, and the girl twirled the knife in her face.



“Let me be clear: come in and see, or die on the porch. And don’t try anything funny, or he takes a blade in his soft parts.”



Swallowing hard, Jacinda nodded. The girl opened the door wider and jerked her head inside. With one last, desperate look to her conveyance and the freedom of the sea, Jacinda stepped into the blinding light of the windowless cottage.



Lamps were hung everywhere, and a fire smoked in the heart. The walls were whitewashed and crumbling, the wind whistling in through cracks and carrying flurries of sand and dust. The smells of salt and fish and decay were overwhelming, with just the faintest hint of copper. Bile rising in her throat, Jacinda turned to find Marco pinned to a makeshift target of weathered wood. Ropes held him spread-eagled, tied tightly around wrist and ankle and wrapped thickly around his neck, his face an angry shade of puce. Knives nestled in the wood against his sides in blooms of blood. His eyes were wide with fear and anger, and her gray silk stocking trailed out of his mouth, silencing him.



“Marco . . .”



He shook his head no.



“You wanted the truth, didn’t you? Here’s the truth. Marco is mine and always has been.”



Jacinda’s temper flared. Before she could stop herself, she said, “He wasn’t yours this afternoon.”



Quick as a whip, Petra slapped her—using the hand not holding the knife. Jacinda’s cheek went red, her fury burning up to the roots of her hair.



“Did Marco tell you he likes to take his time? Because that’s where I learned it.” Petra walked to Marco, slender hips swaying in patchwork breeches, and gently ran the blade of the knife down his cheek. “Can’t go killing you quick, no matter how much you try to provoke me. Plus, I promised I’d tell you everything, and I think someone should know, at least for a little while.” She snatched Jacinda’s notebook and tossed it into the fire, where the pages caught and curled over, black.