The Damsel and the Daggerman
Page 7

“Bugger. Then I take it back.”
“You can’t. Where did I . . . ?”
Jacinda tried to make her mind work, but it was as useless as harnessing mad bludmares to a moving wagon. He’d unnerved her, and she’d been on the verge of asking him where he’d learned to kiss like that. At least he’d stopped her in time. What a waste that would have been. And knowing what she did so far of his capricious nature, who knew what she would have to do to win the next answer?
“Where did you hide the body?”
He shook his head sadly, disappointed with her. “Oh, sweetness. There was no body.” With a melodramatic sigh, he slipped his hands into his pockets and turned away.
“Marco?”
He didn’t stop walking.
“Marco! Are you going to unbind me?”
He paused but didn’t look back. “No more questions.”
She opened her mouth, first to demand and then to beg that he undo the straps and let her down from his blasted bull’s-eye. The knife was uncomfortably close to her skin, and without his presence to distract her, she was beginning to feel the cut of the leather against the softness of her flesh. But she could tell he wouldn’t respond to demands, and she wasn’t willing to lower herself to pleading—yet. And so she closed her mouth and ran her tongue along her top lip, remembering with a shiver the exotic feeling of being kissed in an entirely new way. Damn, but the man was a mystery.
It took a few moments for her to realize her fingertips were to her lips, and it took a few moments more for her to chuckle at herself and reach to unbuckle the strap around her other wrist. She’d utterly forgotten that one hand was free all along. With both hands on the buckle at her waist, she stopped. She couldn’t reach her ankles until she undid this buckle, but as soon as the tension was gone, she would flop right over. Silly as it was, injury was possible, especially if the creaking sway of the bull’s-eye indicated, as it seemed to, that the thing could spin freely. She’d be upside down and making bets on how quickly her skirts would rip if she continued in her stubborn streak to free herself from Marco’s clever cage.
But he was long gone, and she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of causing a scene. The lizard boy was the only person she could see, and she hissed at him until her tongue went dry, but he didn’t open an eye. She had just set her hands to the buckle at her waist and prepared for the worst when she noticed someone moving furtively along the outside of the wagon circle. It was one of the girls from the dining car this morning, the one with the odd speech and wistful, faraway manner. Jacinda’s orderly and journalistic mind shifted through mental cue cards as she put on a warm smile.
“Demi, dear? Do you have a moment?”
“Mrs. Harville? What are you doing?”
For a Bludwoman, Demi had a hesitant walk, almost as if she was doing something that would get her in trouble. Her strange costume showcased the casual resplendence of a life lived in the caravan, with vibrant colors and patterns carefully fitted and ruffled by hands more expert than her own. The girl’s hair was in a low ponytail, rippling over her shoulders in careless curls that matched the bangs cutting across her forehead. Something about her struck Jacinda as foreign, but she couldn’t place the girl’s looks or accent in any culture she’d visited.
Jacinda sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I made a bad bet, I’m afraid. Would you be so kind as to spin this machine around so that I’m right-side up?”
Demi stared her up and down, taking in the placement of the pins in her skirt and the tightly buckled leather around her waist and ankles. Something dark flashed behind the girl’s brown eyes, and they narrowed.
“Did Marco do this to you?”
Jacinda blinked, going a little colder, recognizing instantly the ire of a woman with no right to be jealous. Since Liam’s death, she’d been plagued with such indignation across the globe any time she chose a lover and inadvertently gained rivals for his affection. She always knew she would stake no future claim, but the women of the cities and villages she visited never believed her. It was rare, in today’s world, for a woman to take what she wanted without expecting more down the road.
But Demi was young and sweet, beyond the raised hackles. And Jacinda knew better than to forget for even a moment that the slender girl was a Bludwoman and that she herself was pinned to the target as surely as a piece of staked meat over a fire. So she smiled warmly and shook her head as if the whole thing were very silly, which it was.
It was.
“He said he would answer a question if I let him throw a knife at me, and I was fool enough to take him up on it. And then he left me here like a goose. It’s beginning to hurt a bit. Would you mind?”
She twirled a finger, and Demi followed it hungrily for a moment before snapping awake and moving the wheel until Jacinda’s head was finally where it belonged. She reeled for a moment with the rush of blood, and Demi thoughtfully reached down to pull out the pins holding her skirts to the wheel and unbuckle the leg straps. Jacinda undid the waist belt, stepped down, and nearly fell, the blood rushing to and from all her body parts in an awkward dance that left her dizzy.
“Thank you so much. I don’t know how I would have gotten out without you.”
Demi nodded and turned to go, her head hung a little low. Jacinda remembered well enough what it was like to be young and have crushes on older men; of course, she also remembered seducing her anthropology professor, marrying him, and taking off behind him on a camel for the six best years of her life. But Demi wasn’t her, and Marco wasn’t Liam, and she sensed in her bones that the young Bludwoman’s destiny lay elsewhere.
“Honey, I’m sure everybody in this caravan has already told you he’s too old for you.”
Demi opened her mouth to deny any interest whatsoever in the desperately attractive man before wisely swallowing down the act and shuffling her boots a little in the muddy place where he stood to throw his knives. “They have. I mean, I know.”
A few wooden crates sat just under the edge of the tent, and Jacinda walked to one and tested it with a hand before sitting. When she jerked her chin at Demi and flashed a dimple, the girl shrugged and followed her, sitting on the other corner.
“Have you ever been out of the caravan, Demi?”
“When I was younger.”
“Lately?”
“Not in five years.”
Jacinda tsked. “Have you ever been out of Sangland, then?”
Demi thought for a moment. “Sangland is the only part of Sang I’ve ever seen. But I want to see more.”
“I know caravans are exciting from the outside, but I’m guessing that when you live in one, they’re just as boring and normal as anything else.”
Demi chuckled. “Yeah. The glitter rubbed off pretty quickly.”
“Do you know, I once thought joining a desert caravan would be glamorous. But the moment I wrapped my fingers around a bludcamel’s teats and squeezed out the pink milk while she pissed on the lace edge of my skirt, I knew I was in for it. Thus began three weeks of sand, raw meat, and blud-tinged tea that I still crave.”
“But it was an adventure, right?”
Jacinda’s fingers roved unconsciously to the pocket watch Marco had recently tucked back into her corset. An etching of Liam grinned within, opposite the clock face. She hadn’t wound the watch since his death. Her smile was soft, touching her lips as gently as a last kiss. “Oh, yes. It was the adventure of a lifetime. I very much advise determining the boundaries of your comfort zone and getting the hell out of it.”
“That’s not what people usually tell me when I act antsy.”
“What does Lady Letitia tell you?”
It was Demi’s turn to smile softly. “Only that when it’s time to leave, I’ll know.”
“Waiting really is the hardest part, isn’t it? Every day, you walk out your door, always trying to figure out when you’ll decide not to return.”
They sighed in unison. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”
“Your time will come, Demi. I promise. But until then, please keep in mind that Marco Taresque is at least ten years older than you and wanted for murder.”
Jacinda gave the girl a companionable nudge with her elbow, and Demi went stiff all over, whether from the nudge, the bluntness, or the sudden realization that flirting with fire was, in this case, cavorting with carving knives.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Yeah.”
“I’m not sure if it’s any consolation, but I heard those two handsome daimon boys whispering about you this morning in the dining car.” Demi perked up, and Jacinda hid her smile of triumph. “I know a little Franchian. The words ‘limber’ and ‘pretty’ came up repeatedly.”
Demi blushed, and Jacinda remembered that she was gossiping with a girl, not a grown woman.
“But let’s focus on the ‘pretty’ part. Maybe add ‘smart’ and ‘funny’ to the mix, yes?”
Demi stood with a regal, liquid languidness in her spine that reminded Jacinda again that the girl was a predator. “I’m twenty-six, not sixteen,” she said stiffly as she placed a handful of pins on the crate. A smile broke through, briefly. “But thanks.”
As Jacinda watched the girl walk away, she hoped Demi would one day come to trust her and share her story. Everyone she met piqued her interest like books waiting to be read, and she felt that Demi’s past and future held tales worth telling.
The contortionist had left a neat pile of pins on the crate, the ones Marco had used to secure Jacinda’s skirts to the target. Jacinda picked one up, noting that they were hatpins, each with a delicate wood flower for the head and a capital P carved into the back.
Was the P for Petra? Had these pins once held down another girl’s skirts as she spun, waiting to feel the accidental kiss of Marco’s blades? She looked closer, checking the steel points for blood, but found nothing. She had to find out what had happened to the knife thrower’s missing assistant.