The Damsel and the Daggerman: A BLUD Novella (3 page)

But the enigma came first. And the enigma in question was watching her walk toward him as if trying to decide whether to run away or swallow her whole.

The daggerman’s posture was almost smug, the curve of his back suggesting a sleek jungle cat, asleep with one eye open. His dark hair was pulled back today, except for the bits that fluttered around his face. A beard shaded his cheeks and dusted his upper lip, enhancing the cut of his jaw. At first, Jacinda thought he used kohl on his eyes as the Bludmen did, but as she stepped closer and stopped about ten feet away, she thought it must be dark eyelashes. But then—no, it was both, the bastard. He blinked, long and slow, his arm never stopping as it flicked knives lazily at a spinning target. A human shape was painted over the red and white bull’s-eye, which spun with the nearly silent ticking she’d come to associate with Mr. Murdoch’s clockwork machinery.

“See something you like?” he asked.

“The surface isn’t what intrigues me, Mr. Taresque. It’s the truth I’m looking for.”

He chuckled and flicked his eyes at the bull’s-eye. Faster than Jacinda could follow, a knife
thunk
ed into the target, right in the middle of the outlined figure. Right where its heart would be.

“The truth. You want the truth?” She nodded, and he jerked his chin toward the knife sunk in the wood. “Some things are better left buried, don’t you think?”

Jacinda knew well enough when someone was trying to scare her. With a toss of her hair, she marched to the target, her boots crunching over the broken blades of grass. Wrapping both of her gloved hands around the knife’s handle, she managed to tug it out as neatly as possible, considering the blasted thing was rotating slowly with the wood. She held it up, testing its weight, her fingers carefully pinching the leaf-shaped blade.

Marco grinned at her, hands on his hips. “Don’t cut yourself, sweetness.”

Jacinda snorted, raised her arm, and let the knife fly in a black and silver blur to quiver in the ground a few inches from Marco’s boot. He didn’t move. “Even I know throwing knives aren’t sharp, Mr. Taresque.”

His grin widened in appreciation and surprise, and Jacinda’s cheeks flushed with sudden heat. “The tips are sharp enough. If you threw with any spirit, you could strike me down from there.”

Tension rose as they considered each other. Jacinda felt rooted to the earth and yet as if she might fly free at any moment. His violet eyes went a shade darker, which didn’t seem possible. Finally, Jacinda winked, knowing he would go on staring forever, trying to impose his will on her. Let him try. She knew his type well enough. She walked to him, then yanked the knife from the dirt and wiped it on the folds of her brown skirt. Holding it out, she risked looking at his face again, suspecting he would think the dimple in her cheek silly and frivolous. Not that she cared.

“You say I could strike you down, and yet you didn’t budge.”

He chuckled. “I never budge.”

“And I do everything with spirit. I want an interview.”

“I don’t.” He took the knife from her glove, his kid-swathed fingertips dragging over the crease of her palm—the love line, as an old gypsy woman had once told her. Jacinda shivered in spite of herself.

Her palm burning, she pulled out her notebook and pen. “I have influence. The truth could exonerate you. Surely you’d like the world to know you’re innocent?”

Marco stepped closer as he slipped the knife back into a loop on his vest with a whisper of metal on cloth, a strangely intimate sound. From far away, he’d seemed a normal-sized man, but up close, the tips of his blades winking inches away from her body, he seemed large and solid and made of rocks and vines and wildness barely held together by his indigo waistcoat.

“What do I care about the world so long as I know the truth myself?” he said, barely loudly enough for her to hear. It seemed impossible, that his voice could be nothing more than a breath, a warm breeze on her jaw.

She swallowed hard. “You would have freedom. Your good name.”

His glove cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking hot over her jaw as she struggled to hold still. “I always have freedom. I don’t need a good name to know who I am. You, on the other hand . . .”

He released her, but she was frozen in place, chin up where he’d last held it. He walked around her, a few simple steps, but it was as if the polarity of the planet reversed and she was suddenly the moon, something cold and foreign and powerful in itself. Something caught in uncontrollable orbit.

“I know who I am, thank you very much.”

“But you’re not free.”

She shook her head, her mouth open in surprise. “Really?”

His eyes were oddly soulful, gazing into hers, belying a peculiar sort of sorrow she didn’t care to contemplate. “You think you’re free. But something holds you back.”

“Do not toy with me, Mr. Taresque. I’m a widow, not one of those giddy girls by the fire, mooning at you. I know what you are.”

“You think I did it, then?” His voice changed as his teeth clenched, and he circled away from her, their connection broken. He pulled the knives from the target one by one, so quickly and roughly that even though she knew there was no danger, she expected to see blood. Jacinda could feel that she was losing him, would have to reel him back in with sure hands.

“I think you’re hiding something. And I want you to tell me what it is. And why.”

He spun, and his fine eyes narrowed at her, taking in her figure, her face. If those attributes would weigh in her favor, she would use them, and gladly. She let one corner of her mouth play up, slow and sly, her eyelashes lowering just a little, just enough.

But instead of softening, he stiffened, cocking his head. “Is this a game to you?”

“A game?”

“Are you as brash as you pretend to be? Or is it part of your little act?”

“My act?”

He grinned. “You’re echoing, sweetness. Might want to work on that.”

Jacinda took a deep breath, trying to focus. He unnerved her, as much as she hated to admit it. “I’m not scared of you, Mr. Taresque. The truth is not a game. And I wouldn’t say I’m brash. Simply that I don’t base my decisions on fear.”

That earned her a wide, toothy smile that made her nervous. And rightly so, considering what happened next. “So prove it.”

And he reached into his vest and held out a playing card.

.5.

Jacinda took the card from between his fingers, careful not to touch his black suede glove.

“The Queen of Hearts? Really?”

“Really.”

She held it up to the light. It was an old card, the image in sepia-tinged tones that might very well have been painted by hand. “There’s a knife slash in this card.”

“Let’s add another one.”

Her body stiffened before her mind caught up. “Exactly what are you proposing, Mr. Taresque?”

“A dare.”

She rolled her eyes. “Elucidate.”

He chuckled. “Let’s make it simple. I strap you to the target. You hold this card out, as close to or as far from your body as you wish. I’ll throw one knife. If I hit the card, you go back to wherever you came from and leave me the hell alone. If I miss . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, if I kill you, I suppose I’m on the run again.”

She shivered but swatted him with her notebook to cover the true frisson of fear. “If you miss?”

“I’ll answer one question with complete honesty.”

“Only one?”

That grin again. “I have fifty-one more cards, if you find you like the game. Should be enough for your book.”

Jacinda turned the card over in her hands. One knife-wide slice through it. Not a drop of blood, as carefully as she looked, and the paper was old and unwaxed, so she would have noticed. Her eyes flicked to the target, where a single gash of knife-struck wood marred the black-painted figure from his throw just moments ago. The bull’s-eye still spun lazily, a constellation of scars outlining a body she could almost imagine as her own, if naked and corseted, the legs delicately spread and the arms up in what almost seemed triumph. Or surrender.

She shook her head. That was ridiculous.

“What if I walk away right now?”

“Then you’ll never know the truth.”

She walked past him in a huff, the card held in one hand, the edges of the paper cutting into her fingers.

“But I don’t think you’re going to walk away, sweetness.”

And that’s when she stopped.

“Consider it carefully. This is your last chance.”

His voice was mocking, taunting, luring. And beneath all the posturing, the cruelty, the danger, there was something else. Pleading? So low, so deep, that even he surely didn’t know it was there.

Could it be possible that he wanted to tell her the truth as much as she wanted to hear it? Even if it was a confession of guilt? But surely if Lady Letitia had seen her dying in a pool of blood in the carnival, she wouldn’t have allowed Jacinda to stay. That had to mean it was safe.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her ribs creaking against her corset as she focused her will. With a cold, slow smile, she held out the playing card between two fingers. “Then let’s play, Mr. Taresque.”

“That’s the second part of the deal. First, you have to call me Marco.”

“Where do you want me, Marco?”

A lesser man would have betrayed himself at such bold speech. Swallowed hard, gasped, at least allowed his eyes to widen the tiniest bit. But not Marco Taresque. Not the Deadly Daggerman. No, he just raised one eyebrow and grinned. “Right over the silhouette, sweetness. I’ll strap you in as gently as I can.”

That was the first time she noticed the narrow platforms at the base of each painted leg and the leather straps at each wrist. Fear trickled down her veins, starting with numbness in her hands and feet and a chill, heavy feeling that settled deep in her belly. But she wouldn’t show Marco that. He was watching her so very carefully for any sign of weakness, for the smallest betrayal of her determination. After disparaging the flibbertigibbets of the caravan, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking her a coward or a lesser woman.

After a second’s consideration, she took the card in her left hand and held out her right. “A warrior in the forests of Almanica once dared me to something similar involving a tomahawk,” she murmured, low and dulcet.

“And you took the dare?”

“I did. I got a great story out of it. And a tattoo in a very personal area.”

He ignored her baiting and took her hand to help her step up onto the platform, her skirts crushed between her stocking-clad calves and the painted wood. The abrupt change in her posture forced her chest out, knocking it into his arm. He absorbed the blow with a gratified grunt but neglected to make any comment. His fingers skimmed along her left arm and trailed over her bracelet before firmly holding her wrist against the wood and strapping it down gently. She understood then that he wasn’t a man who allowed second chances, that the die was cast, and herself along with it. And she was the kind of woman who preferred it that way, so she tested the leather and nodded her approval.

“Why do you wear no gloves?” he asked. “Do you wish to be eaten?”

“I’ve been to the far corners of the globe, and it was never the sight of my bare flesh that earned me a brush with the stewpot. It was usually ignorance.”

“Or perhaps you simply overestimate a creature’s self-control.”

He stroked the crease down the palm of her trapped hand, and she couldn’t stop herself from shivering.

“But what of the card?” Her right arm seemed oddly heavy and useless, the card suddenly flimsy in her grasp.

His fingers grazed her shoulder, indicating worn, curved prongs of wood a scant inch above her jacket. “These notches will keep you in place. Hold the card as close as you wish.”

As Marco’s hands caught the ankles of her boots, the breath rushed out of her with a
whoosh
, and she already felt as if she were spinning. What was she supposed to do with the card again? Did she want him to hit it—or did she want him to miss? The terms of the deal had been . . . but no. It was forgotten. No heat passed from his gloves to the thick leather of her boots, sewn thick to ward off the biting creatures of the jungle, but still the warmth crept up her legs as he fastened the leather straps with almost impersonal strength. She’d had men since Liam, sure. But none of them had left her breathless, not before or after the act. And here she was, quivering like a girl under the knife-wielding hands of a supposed murderer.

What in heaven had she gotten herself into? She was just here to write a book. It should have been safe. But, suddenly, it wasn’t.

Marco knelt at her feet, and she looked down on gleaming hair the color of oiled teak.

“What are you doing?”

He looked up, grinning, showing a handful of steel pins. “To hold down your skirts,” Marco said, his voice barely a murmur. Jacinda felt the flush travel all the way up her body, lingering in places like puddled rainwater. “Keep things decent.”

At the word “decent,” her head jerked up, and she scanned the area around the tent. She had forgotten that anyone else existed. The lizard boy was draped over his pillows nearby, but otherwise, everyone was engrossed in his or her own work. That was good. She felt silly, strapped spread-eagle to the target, and that was before he stepped back and gave her a better look at the long line of knives snaking down his body as naturally as stripes on a bludzebra.

Being pinned down was dangerous enough before she remembered the reason for it.

“Do you ever miss, Marco?”

Saying his name was like blowing a kiss, the way it made her purse her lips together. Maybe that was why she’d resisted saying it for so long. Now that she was strapped onto the round target, her boots snug against the platforms, he had to look up to meet her eyes, and what she saw there made her breathless. Amused satisfaction, complete confidence, and an indolent, languid slowness that spoke of long patience. He liked her exactly where she was. The way his gaze raked her with open admiration told her plainly that she was but an object, and the way her breath sped up told her plainly that she didn’t mind being objectified.

“Is that your question? Because you’ll have to wait until I’ve taken my shot if you want an answer.”

“That’s not my question.” The words tumbled out too fast, and she struggled to maintain her professional calm. She’d stood up to kings and shamans and shambling corpses. Why was this man disarming her so totally?

Oh, right. The knives. And the leather straps. Not to mention the curling lips. And the eyelashes. She couldn’t forget those.

He winked as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and moved behind the target. Turning her head, she found only wood. The leather creaked as she unconsciously tested her bonds, feeling vulnerable now that she couldn’t see him.

“Get ready.”

So smoothly she barely heard it, the motor started, and the bull’s-eye began to turn, her body with it. Jacinda had been hung upside down by booby traps and even suspended once by vines over a cauldron of boiling water, but she’d never felt this strange, controlled, secure, mechanical movement. It was so very oddly smooth, perfectly balanced. He’d strapped her down so carefully that as she turned fully upside down, the only real change in her person was a cascading of red curls into her eyes and the cold kiss of metal as her pocket watch fell out of her jacket. With a swift intimacy, as soon as she was right-side up again, Marco dropped it down the throat of her blouse and tightly between her chest and her corset—an intimate gesture, but a necessary one, if she wished to keep the metal from smacking her in the face with each revolution. Her breath caught at the intimacy of the touch. Not until he had finished tucking her hair behind her ear did she remember to breathe again, and by then, she was upside down.

“The card, sweetness.”

Oh. She had forgotten utterly that one arm was free, clutching the card against her chest in a white-knuckled grip. With a shaking hand, she pinched just the corner of the card, holding it against the painted wood as far from her face as she could allow without looking like a complete coward.

Marco nodded and walked to the exact place she’d found him standing earlier, marked by a muddy, trampled spot in the grass. The lazy smile had never left him, but it deepened as he regarded her, reaching his eyes with pointed heat. His hand almost caressed the knives down his side, and he didn’t look down as he drew one from its loop and weighed it in his palm, turning it this way and that. Jacinda watched, right-side up and upside down and sideways, unsure whether the spinning was all in her head or in the clockwork revolutions of the bull’s-eye.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Always.”

“Don’t move, sweetness.”

She held her breath and willed the card to stop twitching with the beating of her heart. Marco narrowed his eyes, kissed the dagger with solemn reverence, and waited until she was perfectly right-side up. Then his arm flicked forward in a blur of motion.

She closed her eyes at the heavy
thunk
. She didn’t feel pain or impact. But perhaps one wouldn’t feel a knife, especially if the strike were fatal? She’d never been stabbed before.

“You can look now. Cheater.”

The amusement in his voice told her she was unhurt, because surely even a man as contained and unflappable as Marco Taresque, a man who could walk away from a blood-spattered murder scene, wouldn’t stand in the open air of a public place and watch her scream after using that tone.

It took great control to unscrew her eyelids and look down.

The knife was stuck in the painted wood, right where the card had been.

The card lay on the ground, hearts up.

As she stared at the queen’s smug smile, the machine stopped, and he stepped out from behind it, suddenly very close. She was turned sideways, suspended only by the leather straps on one wrist and around her waist. Marco knelt and held the card out to show her.

“I hit the place where the card would have been. Hit it perfectly. But you, my dear, dropped the card.”

She smiled, coyly, feeling strangely free with her feet off the ground. “Oops.”

“That’s not good enough, sweetness.”

“You didn’t hit the card.”

“You made that impossible.”

“I never promised to make it easy for you.”

He twirled the card in front of her face for a moment before placing it against the wood. He let go, and she thought for sure it would flutter against her cheek. Instead, it fell barely an inch before he’d whipped out a blade and plunged it into the wood beside her eye with a heavy
thunk
, so close that she could count her eyelashes reflected in the shining steel. She gasped.

And while her mouth was open, he bent and covered it with his.