Page 44 of When the Sky Breaks

“Doesn’t mean they’re not a threat,” Sorcha muttered.

Conversation felt forced, but we kept up appearances. It was nearly midnight when Sorcha had finished eating and Ansel finally put out the light. He pulled the drapes and settled in to keep an ear out for any trouble. I curled up with Sorcha in bed, her back against my chest, my revolver still tucked into my waistband, her knife under the pillow, Milkweed curled up in the hollow between her breasts and her growing belly.

It was past two in the morning when the screeching sound of nails on a chalkboard jarred us all to alertness. I grabbed my gun and waited, poised to fight if need be. After a few minutes Ansel cautiously pulled back the curtains and we found a sigil etched into the glass—an eye, surrounded by a spiral. Just like we’d seen on the mutilated cattle on the road into town.

Ansel immediately went for our bags, grabbing his shoes.

“Come on,” he urged. “Work to do.”

I just stared in disbelief. “No. What the hell? We are not going out there right now.”

Ansel glared and both of us looked to Sorcha, bleary and disheveled from sleep, Milkweed hopping around her lap.

“This is urgent,” Ansel said.

“It’s dangerous,” I countered, “and our goal is getting to New York safely. Not solving every esoteric threat this side of the bloody Mississippi.”

“Dawn,” Sorcha said, yawning. “We investigate at dawn. Ansel, sit up and keep watch.”

“But . . .” Ansel tried to protest, but Sorcha held up a hand to stop him.

“I said, we investigate at dawn,” she snapped, then pressed her face into my shoulder and fell back asleep in an instant.

Howard and his wife apologized profusely when we showed them the blood-etched symbol. His wife crossed herself a dozen times while we asked them about it.

“That was productive,” I muttered as we made our way into town. “Fantastic use of our time while we’re supposed to be getting somewhere safe and civilized.”

“They don’t get that much traffic and they probably don’t get out much,” Ansel said. “We’ll try the shops. They’ll talk to more people. Hear more stories. We’ll see what we learn and decide if it’s worth interfering.”

“What about that one?” Sorcha asked, gesturing to the big general store that had turned us away the night before. I stopped and turned to look at her, hands on her shoulders.

“Do you remember last night at all?” I asked.

“Not clearly,” Sorcha admitted. “I was so tired by the time we got in it just didn’t stick.”

“That shop”—I took her hand again and kept walking—“turned us away because we looked like vagrants.”

“We did look like vagrants,” Sorcha pointed out. “But we don’t now. Might as well give it another try? It’s the biggest store in town. They’re sure to have heard something.”

“We have certainly upgraded,” I chuckled in reply, glancing down at my new, clean suit and Sorcha’s tidy, decently fitted floral-print dress—now with a corset underneath. I noticed she wasn’t pressing her palms to her low back quite as often now. Ansel had, again, insisted on her wearing an apron to make her belly look bigger, saying it would make them more sympathetic.

“We’re practically respectable,” Sorcha said. “So let’s give it a try.”

She looked Ansel up and down, eyes tracing over his gaunt face, dark suit, weathered skin.

“You stay outside,” Sorcha instructed. “You’re memorable. And . . . somehow you’re still grimy. Take Milkweed.”

Ansel huffed as she dropped the jackalope into his outstretched palm, but he obeyed.

The storekeeper didn’t think twice before welcoming Sorcha and me in. I doubted he even realized we were the same couple he’d turned away the night before. Per Ansel’s instructions, honed by centuries of intelligence gathering, we planned to browse, make conversation, and then casually bring up the awful thing we’d seen at a local hotel last night. So I let Sorcha look around the store for a bit, following her like a shadow, until the shopkeeper cheerfully asked, “Are you two staying in town long?”

“We were,” Sorcha replied. “But then . . .” She trailed off intentionally, leaving a puzzled look on the shopkeeper’s face.

“Did you not hear about it?” I asked. “Last night?”

“What happened?” The man was invested now, intrigued.

“Someone etched an occult symbol into the window glass over at one of your hotels,” I said. “We were planning to stop for a week to rest our horses, but if things like that are going on I think we might have to cut north and head into the Kansas Territory. Don’t want to be settling somewhere if people are getting involved in things they shouldn’t.”