Story's End (18 page)

Effie Lou led the way to the barn, but it wasn’t easy. Two guards strolled around the perimeter of the laundry area, their cloaks black as night against the white washing. Effie Lou doubled back, circling a different fire, and the hot steam hid them from sight. There was clothing on the lines in this section, but it didn’t look Western. Snow recognized Villainous dresses, capes of varying shades, and at least one sorcerer’s robe.

Effie Lou snorted when Snow asked her about it. “The newest arrivals. They ain’t natural. No lie.” She swiped some clothes off the line, and ducked under to the other side. “Hoity-toity things can’t even do their own laundry.” She grabbed another wad and shoved it at Snow. “Put that on.”

Snow was getting tired of people telling her what to wear. She dropped the bundle onto the ground and shook out each garment. The black tunic and tight fitted pants looked like something her cousin Horace might pick out, right down to the barbed chains that were sewn up and down the legs.

“You wanna get to the barn in one piece?” Effie Lou wrapped an emerald-green cape around her hefty shoulders. “Gotta look like ’em.”

Snow didn’t want to tell Effie Lou that she didn’t exactly look like a wizard in her stolen cloak. She looked more like an overgrown Western wearing a green bathrobe. But Snow thought better of it. Instead, she slipped into the stolen black outfit and followed Effie Lou out onto the dusty streets of the Ranch.

Chapter 20

I
t didn’t take Snow’s mother long to convince Effie Lou that they could work together. And it required almost as little time to multiply their numbers. Effie Lou had been a lucky choice of ally. She was the sheriff’s daughter, so many of the girls followed her lead without question.

“Duessa’s
Protectors
”—Snow’s mother spit out the word with venom—“are going to regret this day.” The Western girls had told them that the Protectors had come into town that morning, rounding up all the grown-ups and the boys, and forcing everyone else into servitude. The Western girls had not been happy about this, to say the least. The Ranch felt like a pile of straw that only needed a small spark to turn into a raging fire. And Snow and her mother were that spark.

“They’re keeping the grown-ups in the branding pens,” Snow’s mother said in a low voice. “But all of them are unarmed.”

“Westerns are always armed,” a small Indian girl said. “With or without weapons.” This set off a chorus of hoots and hollers.

“Shut your big bazoos.” Effie Lou silenced them quick enough. “Now ain’t the time. Wait for it, girls, wait for it.” Her eyes had a wicked gleam to them, and Snow had a momentary flash of pity for anyone foolish enough to underestimate the Western girls. Finally, the Western they had been waiting for, the scrub girl Snow had first seen talking with Effie Lou, appeared. Her name was Pearl, and she looked like anything but.

“I got the stuff,” she said as she set three bulging sacks and a pile of clean cloths in front of Snow’s mother.

“Thank you.” Her mother gingerly moved the sacks apart from each other. “Now who will volunteer to set off the explosives?”

Snow kept her arms firmly by her sides, but she needn’t have worried. Every other hand went up.

Her mother’s laugh sounded genuine. “Very well. Effie Lou, pick your team.” While the Western girls fought over who got to blow up buildings, her mother handed Snow one of the cloths and showed her how to fold it into a small pouch. “I need one scoop of this for every packet. Take care, Snow. This isn’t ordinary salt.”

Snow held the cloth between two fingers. Her mother didn’t need to tell her to be careful. Everyone knew gunpowder was the farthest thing from stable. The Weapons Master at Perrault didn’t even have any in his storeroom. Snow unwound the tie around the biggest sack, painstakingly measured out a level scoop, and poured it onto the clean fabric. Her mother worked along behind her, completing the concoction by mixing in the rest of the ingredients.

By the time the others had sorted themselves out, Snow and her mother had crafted a row of tiny mounds. Effie Lou hovered over Snow’s shoulder as her mother gave them instructions.

“We’ll circle around the pens and wait for your signal, Effie Lou.” Her mother began folding the fabric over the explosives to make little packets. “Divide these up among your team. Don’t let them brush against each other. And don’t let them get too hot.”

Effie Lou’s friends had to have heard her mother’s warning, but they didn’t seem to care. They jostled around the stockpile and began stuffing packets into their pockets and down the sides of their boots; a few even shoved them under their shirt fronts.

When all the bombs were stowed away, Effie Lou and her band of merry girls crept silently out the back of the corral. Each of them had stolen Villainous apparel off the laundry lines, but it didn’t do any good. They looked exactly like what they were: Western girls dressed up as Horrors. Snow gave them about two minutes under close scrutiny before a Protector called them out on the spot. But two minutes might be enough.

In Snow’s group, she and her mother were the only two who looked Villainous. The small pack of girls that were sandwiched between them bumped and shoved one another, acting like the mutinous lot they were. There was a chance that Snow and her mother would be able to pass unnoticed, that they would look like two Villains rounding up more Westerns for the pens. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the best they could hope for. Even if they did pull the deception off, it wouldn’t do much good if Effie Lou and her crew weren’t able to finish their assignment. It was bad odds against them. But, as Pearl had said, “We’ll do our darnedest, and that you may tie to.”

Snow was playing the role of rear guard. There were more than a few pairs of chaps and jangling spurs on the girls in front of her, but there were also printed dresses and bonnets, the whisper-soft footfalls of leather moccasins, and even one brightly colored frilled petticoat. She had been wrong about the Westerns. Sure, the brash way they acted got on her nerves, but they were refreshingly frank. After spending so much time with her mother, the queen of not saying what she was really thinking, the brutal honesty of the Westerns was a welcome change. Besides all that, Snow admired their bravery. Even members of this group, who were at the greatest risk of joining their families in the prison of the holding pens, were in good spirits, laughing and bickering among themselves.

Snow gathered courage from their example. The least she could do was play her part well. “Stay in line!” she barked at the girls as she tried to swing her hips to match the way Horace used to saunter around Heart’s Place. Her mother’s brief pep talk hadn’t done much to calm her nerves, but she ran the phrases through her mind anyway.
Horrors are devil-may-care. Act like you own the Westerns.
She glanced up at her mother, who was surveying the street like she ruled it. She sailed past painted storefronts and swinging pairs of saloon doors. No sound of conversation or plucky piano music seeped out of them. Silence had fallen over the Ranch.

Snow was uneasy. The streets were completely empty. The lines of imprisoned Westerns she and her mother had expected were nowhere to be seen. A tumbleweed drifted down the main thoroughfare as if to underscore the point. Snow had no idea if Duessa’s Protectors were peering out at them from behind the shuttered windows, but, if they were, their plan was a failure. There was no way Snow and the others were going unnoticed. The Western girls seemed aware of it, too. They stilled their feigned resistance and now crept along like cats bristling for a fight. As her mother turned down the alley that led to where the animals were kept, Snow felt a faint glimmer of hope that they might get through all this without encountering a single Taleless.

And then it was gone, replaced with the dreadful certainty that they were about to get caught. None of the Taleless were patrolling the streets, because they were all here at the branding pens.

One of the cowgirls swore.

Snow’s mother silenced her. “Remember why we’ve come. Spread out. Wait for Effie Lou’s signal. Be ready to fight.” Somehow the girls found places to hide, and in a matter of moments they had melted into the dusty landscape. Snow joined her mother in the shadow of a building and looked on in dismay.

The branding pen was enclosed with barred-off gates, which were designed to hold waiting animals. But that would’ve been on an ordinary day at the Ranch. Today, the narrow passages were filled with Westerns. Young and old alike were crammed in close, shoulder to shoulder and toe to toe. None of them were moving, and they stood like frozen sleepwalkers. In the center of the pen, a crowd of the Taleless milled about, and presiding over all of them was a large-mouthed woman wearing a purple robe. A gold tiara crowned her head, and she spoke with the authority of a queen, but she had the face of an ancient witch. Snow didn’t know if she had ever been pretty, but she looked like death now. Wrinkled skin hung over her cheekbones, and wisps of gray hair trailed from patches in her scalp. In her hands was an iron wand, which she waved overhead.

“Everyone ready for another?” Her toothless mouth opened wide, and her cackle filled the eerie silence.

The other Taleless crowded together as the witch let loose a stream of enchantment. The Western at the front of the branding gate stirred to life, but while he was still drowsy, two guards gripped him firmly by the arms. The cowboy came fully awake, and his feet kicked as he struggled against his captors. It did him no good. In a moment he was before the witch.

Snow had been wrong about her. She didn’t have a metal wand. She had a branding iron. One end flared red as the Witch twisted it in her clawed hands.

It happened fast. Too fast for Snow to look away. The burning brand sank into the cowboy’s cheek. He didn’t cry out. When the witch was finished, he had a fiery black
W
scored into his skin. “This one goes to the Wizards.” She cackled victoriously, and a cheer rose from a corner of the pen, where a group of Taleless held out grasping bony hands to welcome the cowboy. The air smelled like barbecued beef. The next minute Snow was on her knees, vomiting into the dusty dirt.

When she was finished, her mother’s arm drew her up firmly. A cluster of sorcerers whispered and pointed in their direction.

“Say nothing,” her mother hissed in Snow’s ear as she dragged her roughly toward the pen.

“This one’s weak.” Her mother’s voice was cold, and Snow felt the sting of the mockery in it. “Perhaps you have a lesson that will make her stronger.”

Snow felt the heat of the witch’s gaze as her mother pulled her through the gate and into the midst of the others. Snow’s skin was clammy with cold sweat, and it wasn’t just from throwing up. Up close, she saw that all of the Taleless were in the same state of disrepair as their leader. Papery strips of flesh hung from their sagging jaws. Bloodshot eyes bulged out of skeletal faces. Snow fought down the sour taste of bile rising in the back of her throat.

Her mother seemed unmoved. “Where are the brands?”

“Who are you?” The witch looked from Snow to her mother, a greedy glint in her eye. “And why are you whole?”

“King Fidelus sent us.” Snow’s mother shooed aside the hooded guards as though they were pesky flies. “There’s been a change of plans.”

The witch stopped grinning. “Too late for that.” She poked her brand into the ground like a cane. “My spirit aches for young flesh to clothe it.” Her gnarled hand swept over to the enchanted Westerns, the ruby ring on her skeletal finger glinting in the sun. “King Fidelus promised us bodies. These belong to us.”

The hulking figure next to Snow sighed greedily. The skin around his mouth was coming off, and she could see his jawbone. He gripped his brand, and a flake of yellowed flesh drifted to the ground.

The old witch reached out and brushed a crooked finger against Snow’s cheek. “So fresh. So perfect.”

Snow’s knees felt weak. She willed them to support her, to stay steady.

“She’s not available.” Snow’s mother’s voice was hard. “Get your rotting Taleless hands off her.” The witch released Snow. “Whatever sorting you’re doing here can wait.”

Snow realized as soon as her mother said it that she was right. This was some grotesque divvying up of the Westerns, a bartering for flesh and blood.

The other Taleless began murmuring angrily. A fading sorcerer raised a crumbling fist. “He promised me a castle. Where’s my castle?”

“The King promised us all castles in the new Story.” The monster next to Snow reached for her mother. “And new bodies.”

Snow leaned in closer to her mother’s side, which felt like solid rock. Her mother raised one arm and released a stream of fire. The monster crumbled into dust.

“You want your castle?” Her mother’s voice was barely a whisper. “You do as I say.”

The Taleless went silent. Snow couldn’t tear her gaze away from the tiny mound on the ground next to her. A gust of wind blew about them, and a cloud of the monster’s ashes swirled upward. A low murmur ran around the crowd of half-dead Taleless.

“Take heed,” Snow’s mother said as she nudged the monster’s remains with her toe. “Taleless that put on flesh and blood can die like any other living thing.”

The witch eyed Snow’s mother appraisingly. “Very well,” she said. “What does Fidelus wish?”

Snow didn’t get to hear how her mother would have responded because at the next moment, the whole world exploded into fire. The outbuilding across the way was a crater of flames and smoke. The Taleless dropped their branding irons and began scurrying out of the corral. Snow’s mother raised her arm, and a giant web of light flashed out toward the imprisoned Westerns. In a matter of seconds, they were awake and storming toward their captors, faces distorted with fury. Everything was chaos. Bright trails of magic pierced the smoke-filled air as the Taleless fought for their lives, or what was left of them.

Another deafening blast cracked the air, this one coming from the building closest to them. Clouds of black smoke raced toward the branding pen. With a start, Snow jolted into action. She scooped up a forgotten branding iron and maneuvered her way through the dueling figures. A werewolf materialized in front of her, and Snow lashed out hard with the makeshift weapon. Her arm hurt with the impact, and then the werewolf was gone. Snow sprinted through the madness, past a screaming cowboy, whose punch made a soft squishing sound as it connected with the half-dead sorcerer.