Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (32 page)

 

By the light of the fire, Catullus examined his Compass. No one had made alterations to the design, not since Portia Graves's time, and it seemed about due for some improvements, incorporating innovation and new technology. Lately, he'd been thinking about adding a means of measuring distance and possibly height. Such options could prove useful for Blades in the field.

He looked up briefly when the breeze carried the sound of a soft moan. Astrid. Out there in the darkness with Lesperance.

Catullus was forty-one years old. He knew precisely what Astrid and Lesperance were doing.

Bending back to his work, Catullus took a small screwdriver from a slim case and began to carefully remove the front plate of the Compass. He knew what he'd find within the Compass, having disassembled his own hundreds of times. Whenever he found himself in the field, away from his workshop, and needing a distraction for his busy mind, he invariably dismantled his Compass to search for ways of refinement.

Yet the mechanism and magnets could not hold his attention tonight. He didn't want to think about Astrid and Lesperance making love, but, for all the attention his brain received from the world, he was still a man, with a man's needs.

Penelope Welham. The last woman he'd taken to bed. That was…six weeks ago? Eight? A prosperous mercer's widow in Southampton, Penny had a long-standing arrangement with Catullus. When he was in town and found time away from his workshop, he made semiregular visits to her bed. Neither Penny nor Catullus expected fidelity from the other. In truth, they expected nothing more than a few hours of sex. Conversation was kept to a minimum. Neither inquired about the other's life. They were convenient for each other, and that was all.

Catullus forced himself to concentrate on the Compass. Such a simple device, yet he knew it could be made better with only a few small adjustments.

He was happy for Astrid, truly. He could not resent her moving forward. And that she had found love not once, but twice, astounded him. Catullus had spoken truthfully when he told her he'd never once been in love. He felt like an alchemist, hearing tales and seeing with his own eyes the transformation of lead into gold, yet unable to make the metamorphosis himself.

When it came to sexual experience, Catullus had his fair share. But beyond the physical act of making love, he was nearly as green as a youth half his age. He found that, when out of bed, he and his lovers barely understood each other. The women were fascinated by either his skin color or his intellect, finding him to be an intriguing enigma but not truly a man. Conversations were awkward, stilted, and he never truly knew what to say. The women were largely blank. His mind drifted back to his work. At least there, he found something that stimulated more than his body.

A growl unfurled from the darkness. Somewhere between a man and an animal. But entirely carnal, utterly erotic.

Catullus gritted his teeth together at the sound. He couldn't fault Lesperance and Astrid for making love this night. Quinn's death hit them all hard, and it was natural to affirm life, and love, through the joining of bodies. Yet still, bloody irritating to be reminded that, while Astrid and Lesperance had discovered love with each other, Catullus was deeply, profoundly alone.

Usually, he could combat those feelings being out in the field. Not this time.

He came from a venerable line of intellectuals, all blessed—or cursed—with extraordinary minds that perpetually churned out ideas and inventions as readily as most people ate. And almost everyone in his family, with the notable exception of odd Aunt Sabrina, had managed to find spouses or long-term romantic partners. Some of the marriages were more successful than others, yet, for the most part, domestic felicity had been attained by generations of Graveses. The very fact that he was alive attested to this.

Why was he different? Were his standards simply too high? Should he try to make himself more accessible to the average woman?

He didn't
want
the average woman. He wanted a woman with whom he could be fully himself, in all his peculiarity, and who engaged him on every level. He knew it would be nigh impossible to find a woman whose brain worked as his did, constantly at work on dozens of inventions simultaneously, his mind picking apart the world and searching eternally for the whys and wherefores. That would be excruciating, for both of them. Yet there had to be a woman out there,
somewhere,
who wasn't silly and wasn't dull or strident or insubstantial or pedantic or…ordinary.

Such women did exist. They were Blades of the Rose. But he had learned early the important principle that female Blades were for friendship and the shared goal of protecting Sources. Not lovers.

Oddly, the flame-haired Miss Murphy from the trading post popped into Catullus's mind like an errant spark. She had a luscious figure, it was true, but he'd seen something in her bright blue eyes that attested to a depth and energy he'd seldom found outside of the Blades. He remembered how she took in the dilapidated saloon, missing nothing, alert to everything around her. Including—nay, especially—him. Intriguing.

He would never see Miss Murphy again, and, even if he did, it would not matter. He reminded himself of this as he closed up the Compass. He, Astrid, and Lesperance were on a desperate bid to protect the Earth Spirits' totems and Astrid herself. Already their search had cost one Blade his life. And, should they succeed, the Heirs still held the Primal Source and would be unleashing it upon an unsuspecting world—soon. Very soon. Nations and the lives of millions hung in the balance. There wasn't time or room for Catullus to brood and feel sorry for himself. The sorrows of his heart held no place here.

Yet, as he waited by the fire for Astrid and Lesperance to return from their nocturnal tryst, Catullus wondered only half in jest if he might be able to replace his heart with one made of clockworks. A mechanical heart could never feel lonely.

 

Swift Cloud Woman stood with her arms crossed, watching from her place in the forest encampment with sardonic detachment as the men who called themselves Heirs swore and spat and blamed each other for their defeat in the caverns.

Back in the caves, their medicine man had extinguished the flames that barred them from the totem's cave, only to find their prey—and Swift Cloud Woman's prize—gone.

Rather than chase their quarry like clumsy idiots, the Heirs and Swift Cloud Woman had retreated, back through the caverns, and then out, past the body of the slain man. He had died well, she thought, a courageous warrior defending his brothers. That hadn't stopped her from rifling through his pockets, searching for anything of value. Nothing there except a bone-handled folding knife and a few wilted wildflowers. She took the knife.

They had staggered back down the mountain, everyone in foul temper, until one of the guides found a good place for the night's encampment. No sooner had the tents been pitched than the men all began arguing, carrying on or else sulking.

“They were right there!” the fat white man whined and readjusted the bandage over the slight bullet graze on his hand. “Already had the totem!”

“You shoot worse than a blind drunkard,” the tall one called Milbourne snapped.

“But
you're
the marksman,” sneered the fat man. “And you didn't even hit the Indian. And
you,
” he yelled, rounding on the bearded medicine man. “Bloody lot of good your spells did us, Bracebridge. Light a few trees on fire and then nothing! Just a sodding flint, you are.”

“Careful, Halling,” seethed the medicine man. “Or I'll make your balls swell like rotten melons and explode.”

“Muzzle it, all of you,” the leader spat.

“Why?” the fat one sulked. “You need silence so you can devise yet another brilliant plan?”

Meanwhile, the remaining two mountain men passed a jug of wretched liquor back and forth, as disinterested in the death of their fellow guide as they were in the argument.

Men were fools—white men especially. Never taking responsibility for their actions. Never thinking beyond a handful of moments in the future. They stumbled forward, fists flailing, cocks out, and then bawled like elk when they didn't get what they want.

Winter Wolf had been different, though. A noble warrior. And wise. Wise enough to know that the territory of the Earth Spirits had to be kept pure from defilement. Her brother understood that, of the two siblings, she possessed the sharper mind. Without her guidance, he acted recklessly, so she planned their attacks against trespassers, their routes for patrol. She hadn't the ability to take an animal's shape, so Winter Wolf became her weapon. And he was proud to do it.

Fresh outrage surged anew to think of her brother's death. He had been foolish, hunting alone while she was busy plying miners with cheap whiskey heavily laced with water hemlock. She had intended to take their valuables when the convulsions began. But she had felt something was wrong, and left the white men to froth and seize. Winter Wolf was not at their little camp, and did not return for many days. Only when she ventured to a nearby trading post did she see him—or what was left of him. His wolf pelt hung off the back of a trapper's packhorse. Where his body lay, she never knew, but she knew precisely where to find the body of the trapper who killed her brother. Behind a saloon, where she had lured him with lusty promises and then slit his throat. Yet it did not bring Winter Wolf back.

Foolish boy.
Swift Cloud Woman dragged her fist across her leaking eyes, furious. With herself, for leaving her reckless brother alone. With Winter Wolf, for being so rash as to get himself killed. With the white man, who befouled her lands with their greed. But most of all, with the Earth Spirits.

She would have retribution. She would make the Earth Spirits suffer. In the best possible way. They thought themselves so proud and free, valuing their independence most of all. But they would bend to her. Each and every one. Even, and this was best, the One Who Is Three. The most powerful Earth Spirit, hers to control.

Such wonderful plans she had. A hard smile twisted her mouth. With the totems in her possession, Swift Cloud Woman would command the wolves to eviscerate their own parents, the bears to tear the limbs from their own children, the hawks to peel at the flesh of their spouses. And One Who Is Three would drink the blood of his white lover.

Oh, Winter Wolf, you will see from the Hunting Grounds, and you will laugh, as we laughed at the pleadings of unclean intruders, begging for their lives.

She would see this all come to pass. Hate was such a wonderful fuel, burning cold and clean.

“Silence, everyone!” She strode into the middle of the encampment and felt a thrill of triumph when every one of the men was rendered speechless. She regarded all of them, each in turn, and they gaped at her like mice beneath a hawk's shadow.

“Stupid white men,” she said, derisive. “Perhaps your medicine man can conjure up some testicles for each of you.”

They continued to stare at her, stunned, until the fat one recovered enough to trundle forward. “I'll thrash you, red-skinned bitch,” he blustered, finger pointing through the bandage on his hand.

His howl split the air, followed by an arc of red that spattered in the dirt. The fat man cradled his hand and gawked at the tip of his finger, now lying in the dust. “You cunt!”

Swift Cloud Woman sheathed her knife coolly. “Threaten me again, and I will flay you. Slowly. Beginning with your big pink belly and ending with your big pink rump.”

The medicine man and the tall man chuckled as their fat companion sniveled, retreating. The leader, Staunton, however, narrowed his eyes as he gazed at her.

“I'd appreciate it,” he said, silkily, “if you don't wound any of my men. They're no good to me injured.”

“Make sure they give me no cause,” she answered.

He tipped his head in acknowledgment, then held out a hand. “Now that the floor is yours, please enlighten us.”

She ignored the thread of sarcasm in his voice. “Tell me—what is it you all seek? Why have you come so far from home?”

“We come for the glory of England,” Staunton answered at once. “We seek whatever means we can to help our nation.”

“The triumph of Britain,” threw in the medicine man.

“All the world will belong to the Crown,” added the tall man.

“
Most
of it,” amended Staunton quickly, seeing her flare with alarm at this idea.

The fat man only whimpered.

She shook her head. “No, this is what you claim, but it is not truly what you desire. Each of you claims to work for a greater power, yet in each of your hearts, all you covet is power for yourselves and none for your fellow warriors. Like a child hoarding berries, stuffing them into his face until his belly aches. Then one of you is sick and the rest have nothing. As you have nothing now.”

The medicine man and the tall man both snorted in derision, but the leader raised a brow at her. He was truly listening to what she said. It seemed he was well suited to his role.

“If this is true, what would you suggest to remedy the situation?” he asked, only slightly ironic.

“Remember that all that matters is the tribe,” she counseled. “Do not try to be the lone warrior with the most coups, for that does not bring victory, only boasts. You are all part of the same tomahawk, working as one to cut down your enemy, and you”—she pointed at Staunton—“are the tomahawk's blade.”

The leader made an ironic grimace. “I'd ask you to refrain from saying the word ‘blade.' However,” he continued, “I see your reasoning. Perhaps we can work somewhat more…cooperatively.”

“Yes, a plan for the next battle. Each of you to play a part that leads to one thing—conquest.”

“What would you know of tribes?” challenged the tall man. “Yours exiled you.”