Dead Man’s Hand (10 page)

Jonathan knew the message in her words all too well, having encountered it repeatedly
since Fran began her accidental apprenticeship with his family: it was the “no one
lives in sin under
my
roof” judgment beginning. Sometimes he claimed Fran was his sister, which worked
poorly if it worked at all. Other times, when the hotels were large enough, they simply
checked in on their own and worked things out later. Here, at a small boarding house
in a smaller town, he couldn’t see where either option was going to work.

Fran surprised him by smiling, taking his hand, and saying, “No, we’re traveling to
California to see my folks. That was the agreement, wasn’t it, sugar-pie? We live
on the East Coast with his kin, and once every few years, we take the train out to
see mine.”

Jonathan tried to follow her lead as best he could, saying, “My Frannie gets anxious
if she doesn’t see her family once in a while, and I prefer she be as tranquil as
a mountain stream.” From the way her mouth tensed at the edges when he said that,
he was going to pay for it later. He was too amused to be particularly concerned.

“Why aren’t you wearing rings?” asked the boarding house owner.

Jonathan gritted his teeth, wishing that the woman’s eyesight wasn’t so keen. “We
left them at home,” he said.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What on Earth would make you do a thing like that?”

Once again, Fran came to the rescue. “We don’t want to tempt robbers more than we
have to,” she said. “I mean, my Johnny’s not much of a fighter. If we’re going to
travel, we’re going to do it with as few valuables as possible.”

The woman sniffed. “That explains your attire as well. I suppose I have a room for
the two of you. Payment is expected up front for the first night; you can settle up
at breakfast for any nights you choose to stay after that. Meals are included, but
they’re served when they’re served, and you’re not to expect me to hold them for you.
I’ll thank you to wear skirts while you’re in my household, and refrain from any harsh
language or lewd behavior. I know how you city folk can be.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Fran, with such exaggerated politeness that Jonathan knew she had
to be seething inside.

“You folks have names?”

“Jonathan and Frances Healy,” said Jonathan. Saying the words aloud was almost startling,
like he’d been waiting to hear them for years. The pressure of Fran’s fingers laced
through his was suddenly very distracting. “And you are…?”

“Eleanor Smith,” said the woman. “My daughter, Betty, is at her music lesson right
now. I’ll thank you not to bother her. She’s a good girl.” Her eyes flicked to Fran,
carrying another silent message:
She’s a good girl, and you are not.

“We wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am,” said Jonathan. “If we could come inside, we’d love
to pay for our room and unpack. It’s been a quite long trip.”

“Well, come in, then,” said Mrs. Smith, as if she hadn’t been the one blocking the
door. She moved to the side, and Jonathan and Fran stepped into the hall.

* * *

A short time later, the two of them were safely locked in their second-floor room,
Jonathan sitting on the bed and cleaning his pistols while Fran paced and the mice—freed
from their confinement in his satchel—explored the hidden space beneath the bureau.

“That boorish, judgmental, withered old—”

“Princess,” Jonathan interjected, before Fran could go any further.

She stopped dead, her boot heels clicking hard against the floor, which wasn’t softened
by so much as a rug. “I beg your pardon?”

“She’s a princess,” he said. “What did you observe?”

Fran scowled. “Johnny…”

“I’m quite serious. What did you observe about her?”

“That she’s a b—”

“She’s young enough to be seeking remarriage, but she’s not. Instead, she’s wearing
dresses that have been mended repeatedly and running a boarding house that’s well
maintained, meaning it shows a profit, yet has the bare minimum in terms of furniture
and comforts. She has a daughter we’ve been instructed to stay away from, which should
only hasten her toward remarriage. And she demanded to be paid up front.”

“Not every woman needs a ring on her finger,” said Fran.

Was it his imagination, or did she sound a little wistful when she said that? “Not
every woman, no, but a woman that attractive, living in a place like this, with a
daughter to care for? I managed to brush against her hand as we took the stairs. She’s
too warm. Not by much, but by enough, when combined with everything else. She’s a
dragon princess. They’re notorious misers, and highly suspicious of strangers, especially
where their children are concerned.”

Fran stared at him for a moment before sighing and flopping down on the bed next to
him. “Christ above, is there
anyone
human left in this world?”

“Most people are human; you simply notice the non-humans more, since they’re the ones
most likely to cause us trouble.” Jonathan picked up a chamois and began wiping the
fingerprints from his gun barrel. “You’d best get some rest. We go looking for the
missing Apraxis swarms tonight.”

“Oh, that’s just what I was hoping you’d say.” Fran rolled over to prop her chin on
her hand. “What all do I need to keep in mind while we’re looking for these Apraxis
thingies?”

“Don’t get stung,” Jonathan replied, and resumed cleaning his pistol. “The ovipositor
of the female Apraxis is connected to her stinger, and you don’t want Apraxis nymphs
feeding on your flesh. I’m told it’s one of the most painful experiences possible.”

“Don’t get stung, got it,” said Fran. She eyed Jonathan with some concern. “You gonna
get any rest before we go out bug-hunting?”

“I’m going to stand guard.” Something about Jonathan’s tone forbade further argument.
Fran looked at him for a few seconds more before rolling over to face the wall, closing
her eyes at the same time. Years of traveling with the circus that raised her had
served her well: she was asleep almost immediately.

Jonathan waited until her breathing leveled out before setting his pistol aside and
sliding off the bed. He crossed to the bureau, where he knelt and murmured, “The Violent
Priestess is asleep.”

The mice, who understood the human need for sleep, were quiet as they crept into the
open and looked at him with expectant oil-drop eyes. The colony’s head priest stepped
forward, and asked, in a squeak, “What would you have us do, O Lord?”

“Scatter,” Jonathan said, without hesitation. He had long since adapted to the Aeslin
tendency to view him as some sort of god, and was content to use it to his own benefit
when necessary. “Search. Look for any sign of what moves the wasps. Do not be seen.
This is important. We don’t know where the Apraxis are; we don’t know who they may
have infected. If you are seen, you may not return to the colony. Do you understand
me?”

“We hear, and understand,” intoned the priest.

“Good,” said Jonathan. “Now go. Find the wasps.”

The mice scattered, vanishing under the bureau. A few seconds later, Jonathan heard
the distinctive sound of tiny feet inside the walls. He nodded to himself, satisfied,
and returned to his place on the bed, picking up his pistol. Let Fran sleep, for now.
He had much to do before the sun went down, and time was not on their side.

* * *

Fran woke to find Jonathan standing over her with her gun belt in one hand, and a
piece of wood wrapped in strips of cotton in the other. She sat up, squinting at him.
“You planning to bash my head in with that thing?” she asked.

“No; I’m fond of your skull in its present configuration. If we’re unfortunate enough
to find an Apraxis hive, I’m going to set it on fire. Are you ready to go?”

“Just let me hit the privy and rinse my mouth out, and I’m all yours.” Fran leaned
forward and grabbed her boots. “Anything I need to know?”

“The mice are surveying the town; I’ve sent a telegram to Father with the boarding
house address, but I haven’t heard anything back from him yet. I don’t expect to for
some time, all things considered. For right now, assume we’re on our own.”

“Aw, city boy.” Fran’s smile was sharp and sudden. “That’s always how I’ve done my
best work.” She pulled her boots on and stood, heading for the door. Jonathan followed
her. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned toward the hall, while he proceeded into
the parlor. Cheapness of the furnishings aside, the boarding house was equipped with
indoor plumbing, for which Jonathan was grateful; the last thing he wanted to do with
Apraxis wasps in the area was lock himself in an outhouse. Some risks were necessary.
Others were simply foolish.

Mrs. Smith was sitting on the couch when Jonathan walked into the parlor. She frowned
at the sight of the makeshift torch in his hand, and frowned more when she saw the
pistols at his waist. “I don’t tolerate late nights or carousing,” she said.

“We’re not planning on any carousing, and I promise, it is our intent to be safe in
bed before the night can be considered ‘late,’” said Jonathan.

Her frown deepened. She stood. “Are you sassing me, young man?”

“No, ma’am.” The trouble with dragon princesses was their vulnerability: they were
essentially human women in all the ways that counted, now that the great dragons they
had evolved alongside were gone. That made them suspicious and unfriendly when confronted
with anything that looked as if it might threaten them.

But they were also targets for the Apraxis. Jonathan looked at the woman in front
of him, with her business and her child to protect, and made a decision.

“My wife and I haven’t been entirely honest with you, ma’am,” he said.

She sniffed. “That’s no surprise.”

“We’re entomologists. We collect exotic insects from around the world. We heard that
you had a wasp problem here, and we thought it might be worth investigating.”

Her eyes widened. “If you’re here about that, then you’re damn fools.”

“No, ma’am. We’re well-equipped fools, who’d like to remove a threat to you and yours
from this town. I just have to ask that you not tell anyone about our comings and
goings.” Jonathan continued to meet her eyes. “If you know anything about strange
disappearances or unusual insect sightings, that information would be useful as well,
but really, all we’re asking for is a little discretion while we resolve a problem
and further our careers.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Beyond the removal of the danger? We’ll happily pay double for any night when we
leave the building after sunset.”

He could all but see the equations running in her eyes. Finally, she said, “Fine.
If the two of you want to risk your lives on a fool’s errand, it’s no skin off my
nose. But if you’re not back by dawn, whatever you’ve brought with you is mine—I won’t
hold a dead man’s things a minute longer than I have to. It’s bad luck.”

“I would never ask you to,” said Jonathan.

“And don’t you dare lead those things back here. I run a respectable establishment.”

The idea of “respectable establishment” being determined by whether or not your place
of business was regularly attacked by mind-eating wasps was almost ludicrous enough
to make Jonathan laugh out loud. He managed to suppress the urge, replying only, “I
promise you, we have no intention of leading them anywhere, save perhaps into a killing
jar.”

Mrs. Smith sniffed, and said nothing. They were still looking at each other when Fran
came down the hall, wiping her hands together. She stopped, looking between the two.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked.

“No,” said Jonathan. “We were just leaving. Good night, Mrs. Smith.”

“Good night,” said the dragon princess stiffly.

Jonathan and Fran turned toward the door. Before they could reach it, however, it
was opened by someone on the other side, and a young girl—no more than six or seven,
with hair the color of sun-bleached corn silk—walked into the room, followed by a
woman in her early twenties. Jonathan froze.

The woman was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and somehow, he knew that
he had known her all his life.

Her hair was black; her eyes were blue; her skin was paler than it should have been,
given the desert where she lived and her lack of a bonnet. But none of that mattered.
What mattered was that she was looking at him, a smile on her lips, and asking him
a question.

Fran’s elbow introduced itself roughly to his side. Jonathan snapped back to reality,
and realized he hadn’t heard a single thing anyone in the room had said since the
door was opened. “I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “Jonathan Healy, at your service.
This is—”

“I’m his wife,” said Fran, with a thin smile. “Frances Healy, at your service.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” said the black-haired woman. “My name is Heloise Tapper.
I’m Betty’s music instructor.”

The little girl gave the woman a besotted smile before curtseying to Jonathan and
Fran. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Betty,” said Fran. “Your mama’s been real sweet to us,
but now we have to be going. We’ve got some sights to see before the night gets too
far along. Isn’t that right,
dear
?”

Jonathan didn’t reply. Fran elbowed him again. He jumped, barely aware that he’d been
staring at Heloise, and said, “Yes, yes, of course. We must be going. I do hope we’ll
see you again, Miss Tapper?”

Heloise smiled. “You can be sure of it,” she said.

“Must be going,” said Fran, and all but dragged Jonathan out of the boarding house.
Even as he stumbled down the steps he was looking back over his shoulder, toward the
door, where Heloise stood outlined by the light like a paper cutout.

* * *

Jonathan was walking on his own by the time they reached the main street. Fran glanced
over, assessed the bewildered look on his face, and continued dragging him along.
He pulled away after they turned a corner, putting the boarding house out of view.
Fran stopped.