Elysium Girls - Kate Pentecost Page 0,37

Jameson’s bedroom—the light that would only come on if Miss Ibarra was doing as expected and the whole idea wasn’t some magical flimflam. Jameson rolled out of bed and pulled on some trousers. He snugged into his boots and pulled his shotgun down from its spot on the wall. His jaw was set. His eyes were grave. He did not look at the photograph of his wife and daughter, standing in front of their ranch in Amarillo. He did not.

But he did look up at the church, at the window where Miss Ibarra was wide-awake and shouting to wake the dead. Across the hall from her, he saw a light come on in Sal’s room. He saw Sal, carrying a kerosene lamp, head out into the hall, probably to try and comfort the woman. That would be like her. Then, through the hall window, he saw Mrs. Winthrop come up the stairs and shoo Sal back into her room. After a moment, the kerosene light went out. But Sal wouldn’t be asleep. Not after that. He sighed. He’d have to tell Sal about her one day. But not today.

Mr. Jameson strapped his rifle onto his back and looked out into the night. Making his breaths and boots as quiet as he could, he pushed open his door and slipped out into the dark streets. From his place in the night, he scanned the walls, looking through narrowed eyes for something, anything out of the ordinary.

And then he saw it.

Up on the wall, a shadow moved. It was smaller than a man, larger than a child. Familiar. And it too was good at moving quietly. It had scaled the wall with a rope and pulled the rope up behind it. Then it secured the rope on the lip of the wall and crawled down. Were there more? Jameson felt like there were—there had to be. No one could survive in the desert alone. But if there were, they didn’t follow. This shadow, solitary, slipped down the wall. Then it pulled the rope free, caught it, and coiled it around its torso. As it turned, Jameson could see that it had a dark bandanna around its face and a satchel on its back. It looked one way, then another, then darted directly under a guard tower and hid in the shadow of a nearby house.

Jameson looked up at the guard tower. The guard, young Joe McPherson, was asleep and drooling, his arm dangling down at his side. Jameson almost cussed him; then he saw the others. All the other guards in all the other towers—or at least all the ones Jameson could see—were fast asleep. A dreamy blue silence had fallen, hanging around each tower like a low cloud.

“Goddamn magic,” Jameson muttered. That’s what it had to be, after all. Only magic could do something like that. And this wasn’t good. This complicated things. He loaded his shotgun and followed the shadow.

It slid from dark place to dark place, weaving through streets and under clotheslines. Jameson followed at a distance, watching to see what it did. It kept moving, past the church and toward the building that housed the sacrifice to the Dust Soldiers.

Just like the guards in the towers, the guards placed at the front of the doors were slumped down, asleep in the dust. A damn powerful spell, Jameson thought, to work over such a distance. The shadow slipped between them soundlessly, pulling the keys from the pocket of the one on her right—the shadow was a her now, he knew—and fitting the key neatly into the lock.

It clicked and the shadow disappeared into the yawning darkness, shutting the door behind her. For a moment there was a glow under the door—Mother Morevna’s trapdoor spell, perhaps. Then it went dark again. She’d gotten past the circle somehow.

Jameson slunk closer. He had options. He could trap the thief inside the building—there was only one way out, after all. That would be the easiest thing. Perhaps the smartest thing. But it somehow didn’t seem fair. And if the thief was who he thought she was, it didn’t answer any of his questions. No, he would see what she did.

He sat still, holding his gun out of sight, watching the guards snooze, their breaths stirring little puffs of dust. Then the door opened, and the thief emerged. She adjusted her bandanna and shrugged her satchel over her shoulder. It had weight now; there was something in it. She looked down at the guards,

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