Ava’s Revenge (An Unbounded Novella) (9 page)

Ignoring his outstretched hand and the way his smile made my heart trip harder in my chest, I stepped around the bale of hay to look at the sprawled man. His pants were on, but sagging around his hips, his untucked shirt hiding most of him. He was obviously out for the count.

“So this is Johansson,” I mused. He was dressed for a party. Not nearly as nicely as his more dangerous boss, but he clearly wasn’t hurting for cash. No wonder, if he was abducting people from the North.

“My plan,” Smith came up beside me, “was to have him arrested tonight, and when I learned about the party, I thought the more witnesses the better. But after this”—his head indicated the inert figure—“I may be the one who ends up in jail.” He meant because the slave girl was Johansson’s property, and if he wanted to molest her, it was his business in most men’s eyes. Not in Smith’s, though. I warmed a little more toward him and mentally cursed the fact that we’d run into each other like this instead of tomorrow at the hotel.

“He’ll never remember you.” I stepped across Johansson’s body and squatted on his other side where I could still keep an eye on Smith and the girl. “Make sure no one is coming,” I told Smith. Finding a liquor flask in Johansson’s pocket, I unscrewed the cap and began splashing him with the contents. No one else was approaching, of course, or I’d sense a new life force, but I didn’t want Smith to see what I was going to do next.

Smith obeyed me with that amused glint in his eyes, one that for some reason made me want to jump into his mind and discover his secrets. But I didn’t invade people without a reason, especially good people, and I believed he was honorable.

Placing my hand on Johansson’s head, I pushed into his mind. Unconscious thoughts were much less volatile than conscious ones. No sand stream of rushing thoughts, just a placid lake. I dove into it. Down, down—until I saw bubbles of thoughts. Not everyone’s unconscious state represented as a lake, but most did, and I was glad he was typical.

Stepping aside from an oncoming bubble, I began searching for the one that held memory of this night. There. Dragging the girl to the barn, his body burning with anticipation, the girl’s struggle heightening his lust. Her soft, warm flesh as he felt her breasts through the cloth and pushed aside her skirts. Her scream as he pushed her down and forced her legs apart. Then outrage as he was yanked to his feet, his lust not yet fully satisfied.

I plucked the entire bubble, pulling it to me until it disappeared. I didn’t know or care where it went, but for him it no longer existed. I took the next one, too, where, after a few furious blows, Smith’s fist plunged him into blackness.

Disgusted, I opened my eyes to see the girl watching me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, for her ears only.

A heavy single tear dripped from her eye and skidded down her cheek. “Not the first time. I had a baby once.”

I saw in her thoughts the rest she didn’t say, that she’d only been twelve and her mulatto son had died at birth.

I wanted to castrate Johansson right then, and every other male slave owner for good measure. Or take all his memories so that he’d be as helpless as a baby. Only Frances stopped me from taking the time, because I’d seen her in his mind, along with the rest when they arrived with Cardiff. She was in the house and that meant, one way or the other, I had to go inside and free her.

I arose. “We need you to keep quiet about our being here,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “Get back to the house. Not a word.”

Her eyes fell to Johansson. “He’ll kill me when he wakes.”

“He won’t remember, I swear to you. I have this.” I reached inside my jacket and down my shirt, pulling out the small talisman nestled between my breasts. It had been carved back in 1755 by the oldest slave on the Savannah plantation. At the time, I’d been with Wymon and Eva for ten years. Ten years since I’d murdered Simon, and my nightmares had disrupted the household. The slave told me it was African magic and that it would make the nightmares stop. They did stop, and though I was sure it was more because of his kindness than any magic, I’d carried the talisman with me on missions ever since.

The girl’s soft gasp told me she believed in magic. This would be more understandable to her than my own ability, which I supposed could be viewed as a magic of sorts instead of an inborn skill.

“Go on,” I said. She nodded and hurried into the darkness past Smith. I stood as he abandoned his watch and strode in my direction. He carried a dark bag I hadn’t seen before.

“A little alcohol isn’t going to stop Johansson from remembering what I did to him,” he said. “And if I don’t go into that party and give my people the signal when he finally wakes from his sweet dreams, he won’t be arrested and the people he kidnapped will be sold as slaves.”

“If you clean up, he won’t recognize you.” I almost added, “I didn’t,” but stopped myself. “But at this point, I’m not sure you should do anything. Johansson isn’t calling the shots anymore, if he ever was. Some man called Cardiff is in charge.”

“The man who owns this place.” He shrugged, his expression hardening. “Doesn’t matter. If he knows that Johansson has been abducting free people, he should be arrested as well.”

His eager righteousness was admirable, but he knew nothing of the Emporium and their viciousness. If they couldn’t free their agent by bribery or force, they’d simply fake a death and move him elsewhere. A shot through the head might hurt Cardiff temporarily, but he’d awake to do more damage within days.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “Cardiff is dangerous. You stay away from him. He’s
my
problem.”

Smith’s eyes regarded me unwaveringly. Even in the dim light, I could see their color, but I didn’t recognize his expression, and for once, his emotions, though I could feel them, were unclear. My heartbeat increased.

“All right,” he said finally. “You can have Cardiff while I’ll take on this clown.” He thumbed down at Johansson. “I’ll go in the house and make sure it’s all set up.” He dropped his bag and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you doing?” I asked, as it dropped to the ground.

“Well, I can’t go in looking like this.”

He had a nice wide chest, covered with curly blond hair that beckoned to be touched. I didn’t avert my gaze. Unbounded weren’t concerned with nudity the way most mortals were. Something about living two thousand years and fighting in close combat often made it necessary for us to disrobe in front of our comrades, regardless of gender. I’d seen Ritter and many others in various stages of dress without reaction.

I was reacting now.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t only the idea of having children that stopped my last relationship. Maybe it ended because I didn’t have these feelings. I had cared for my suitor, had enjoyed his kisses, but I’d never wanted to lose myself in him. Never wanted to tell him about my past or my true self. I’d begun to wonder if Simon had forever ruined the part of me that made me a woman.

Except at the moment, that part was working overtime. I stood there shocked, whether because that kind of emotion had returned at all or because it was so powerful, I couldn’t decide.

Smith pulled on a white silk shirt and began removing his boots. “Maybe you ought to keep watch. I won’t be a minute.” Again his voice was teasing, as though it didn’t bother him that another man was staring at him as he dressed. Maybe he liked men in that way. But, no, I’d felt his attraction to me earlier.

Remember Frances,
I told myself, stepping across Johansson, who, as if by signal, jerked. Not conscious yet, but it wouldn’t be long.

I stopped to get my hat and wig, and by the time I reached the dark corridor between the horse stalls, my mind was working on a plan. My own clothing would need to be adjusted in order to get me inside the house undetected by Cardiff. Or maybe a different disguise altogether. He’d probably remember the physician’s assistant with the scar. I had everything I needed in one of my bags.

I told myself I was going in for Frances, but I knew it was also for Smith. He might be man enough to take down Johansson, but I’d barely broken a sweat immobilizing him, and that meant Cardiff could easily kill Smith and his contacts. I wished Ritter at least were here, but hopefully the surprise on my side would allow me to handle a lone Emporium agent.

If there was only one.

Smith looked like a new man as he approached me in a burgundy tailcoat with a deep V opening that revealed his shirt and a dark cravat that matched the snug pants. Only his face looked odd with spots of the face paint that he was attempting to scrub off with his bloody handkerchief.

“I will let you know what happens,” he said. “But tell me, is all this off my face?”

“No. Here.” I pointed to my own face to show him where. “I’m going inside with you.”

His eyes fell over my clothes. “I went to a lot of trouble to obtain an invitation, but they won’t let you in like that, even if I vouch for you.”

“I have other clothes. No, not there—you’re missing it.” I pulled out my own handkerchief and scrubbed off his cheek near his ear. This close he was even more compelling. “There.” I gave him my handkerchief, feeling heated under his stare.

“You really intend to accompany me?”

“I have supplies outside. Just give me a few minutes.”

“All right. But I must tell you that you are losing something.” His hand went to my face and pinched, pulling off a large piece of my fake scar.

Oh, no.
The piece kept coming. When he’d hit me earlier, it must have broken lose. The next thing I knew his other hand was on my chin and the realistic beard stubble Locke had worked so hard on came away.

Realization changed his expression to one of surprise. “Why you’re . . . not a man at all!” He laughed, a glad sound that was unexpected in this dark place. “The woman from the hotel! I thought you seemed familiar. Your eyes. I’ve never seen gray that color before.”

My cover was blown, but maybe I didn’t need it anymore. Maybe in this case no disguise was the best disguise. Without responding, I turned and started toward the barn doors. Steps from behind told me he intended to come along.

I retrieved my bag, and we went back inside the barn, though not past the stalls this time. Rummaging inside the bag, I pushed a canteen filled with water at him. “You still have blood on your forehead.”

It probably said something about his character that, though I could sense he urgently wanted to, he didn’t once look my way as I traded my pants and shirt for a blush rose gown with a pointed waist and sloping shoulders. It had been packed tightly in one of my bags, but the material was impervious to wrinkles, or impervious enough not to attract notice. The neckline showed a good deal more cleavage than my usual choice, but left me freedom to fight. I didn’t use a corset, of course, as that would have hindered movement. The gown had been specifically designed in England by our Renegade allies to hide weapons—mostly knives and a short sword, of which I was rather proud.

Brushing out my hair, I swept it up into something that would be appropriate for a party. I used a solution to wipe off the rest of my disguise, and my small mirror revealed that I hadn’t escaped my fight with Smith unscathed. Under where the fake scar had been, my chin sported a large bruise that was fading fast, and a cut on my lip was knitting itself back together. I had other bruises on my body, but only the one on my shoulder showed slightly. A little face paint would hide all the damage well enough, especially if I let another fifteen minutes pass. Before the hour was out, I’d be completely healed.

I mentally checked on Johansson, then hurried toward the barn door where Smith waited. “Time to leave. He’ll be awake any minute.”

Smith’s eyes widened, and it did something inside me to feel the tug of his desire as he regarded my new self. “I have just one question,” he said, his voice strangely husky.

“I might answer.” I thought he would ask my identity, or how I’d become involved with abolitionists—none of which I could tell him.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Ah, now I detected a bit of wounded pride. I laughed. “Around.”

I tried to move past him, but he remained motionless, his eyes still locked on my face. “Your bruise. It’s gone.”

“You just can’t see it. It’s dark.” We had left the lantern with Johansson at the other end of the barn, but Smith was apparently seeing enough.

His gaze dropped to the cut on my lip, though he couldn’t possibly see it under the red I’d painted there. My Unbounded genes boiled, demanding that I take what I wanted. What I’d been thinking of since the moment I’d seen his chest. Two steps would be all I’d need to get closer to him. I wouldn’t have to raise myself far to meet his lips.

He dragged his eyes back to mine, and they echoed the passion that had sprung between us, heavy and aching.

I was lost. I hadn’t expected this reaction in myself. Yes, the Unbounded gene was driven to survival, and I’d learned to control simple urges, but this was different.

No, this was a mistake. I stepped past him. “Johansson’s waking.”

“But—”

“Hurry.”

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice still rough.

“You can call me Ava.”