Cameo and the Highwayman (Trilogy of Shadows Book 2) (5 page)

Opal saw Kyrian behind him in the mirror where he had been trying to brush his hair. The lad looked so distraught that he was uncertain what to make of it. “What are you talking about?”

“Cyrus told me. If she goes to find the bones, this time she won’t come back.”

“Cyrus?” He pulled his hair into a tie. “Do you really expect me to believe your dead grandfather is hanging around dropping you hints?”

“Yes,” Kyrian answered sarcastically.

“Really? Then what else did he say?”

“What do you mean? About Cameo?”

“Of course. Are we talking about someone else?”

Kyrian’s brows furrowed. “He didn’t say anything else about her. Just that warning.”

Opal grabbed for his purse, the one with all of his paints inside, laughing to himself. “You can’t be serious? Why just clues? Why doesn’t Cyrus provide us with specific information?” He set the paints out before him on the table. “How do you expect me to believe you?”

“When she doesn’t come back, you’ll believe me,” Kyrian said, moving toward the door.

“Just where are you going?”

“What do you care?” He and the maid nearly collided as he bolted out the door.

“Here we are, sir,” she smiled sweetly at Opal.

The dandy looked up at her from the makeup table, then stood and moved toward the pot of coffee.

“Shall I pour that for you, sir?”

“No, thank you, my dear.” He appraised the tasty breakfast basket that she had delivered to him. “There is really so much here, why don’t you take some of it with you?”

Her mouth opened in awe, “What? No, no sir I couldn’t.”

“Yes you can,” he smiled and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Take what you like.”

She took a pastry hesitantly and thanked Opal.

He handed her another as she left the room.

The dandy shut the door with a smile on his face. The sun was shining into the exquisite room rather cheerfully, Cameo had begun her quest, Kyrian was out, and besides the fact that they were in Shandow—the dreariest place in the kingdom—he had plans to enjoy himself. Plans that might well include spending money, sleeping too much, drinking more wine than he should, and well—he paused and evaluated himself in the looking glass—perhaps more, only time would tell.

Of course there was the little problem of acquiring the coin he needed in order to spend it. Opal reclined against the back of a settee, with coffee in a fine porcelain cup, and relaxed against the silk cushions.

* * * * *

Jules was ravenous after having been tied to a tree for days. He devoured half a loaf of bread, and most of the fowl that had been cooked for dinner that evening, washing it down eagerly with beer. It was a bit difficult to eat in front of spectators, but he had little choice.

He glanced down at the family of four that he had taken hostage, bound, and left sitting on their kitchen floor. Their horrified eyes were wide, tracking his every move. They knew him: he was one of the Association, a cold-blooded killer.

His hand trembled as he examined the haphazard bandage Cameo had tied around his shoulder. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he exited the cottage, suddenly vomiting in the pine needles.
Must’ve eaten too fast.
Jules wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and staggered back into the dwelling. He threw himself back into the wooden chair, weak. The assassin drank down another cup of beer and gathered more of the family’s dinner into a sack then, without a word, simply turned and walked out the door and never looked back, simply leaving the four of them tied to each other, bewildered.

It was dusk, and he wanted to make it back to town. He needed to reach Wick’s tower tonight. He wanted to straighten out some lies that Cameo had told him about Wick; he needed to speak to the woman herself. And he needed rest and a doctor.

The assassin made his way north, staggering, bumping into trees that he couldn’t see and falling to the ground. He looked up, trying to check his position by the stars, somewhat confused.

A twig snapped behind him.

He spun around. There was only black.

Jules felt his heart hit his ribcage suddenly. He turned again and sprinted in the direction that he had been heading in.

“Jules....”

There was a voice speaking into his ear but he was stumbling along—no one was with him. He tripped over a fallen tree, and as he attempted to pull himself up, he saw a man, just the edge of his top hat and the outline of his face visible in the dark.

“Hello, Jules.” The voice sounded amused.

The assassin backpedaled now, trying to pull himself to his feet, away from this
person,
but he couldn’t get away quickly enough. The man cracked him across his body with a cane and threw him against the trunk of a nearby tree. Jules felt the cane against his throat, cutting off his air. He pushed back with all of his strength, but the cane didn’t budge.

The clouds rolled across the sky and the waning moon shown down brightly over the man. He was clad in black, with a tall top hat, long black hair, and a smile on his corpse-like face. Jules recognized him the instant he was able to see: He was that vampire who had killed Bel so ferociously. The one Cameo was somehow acquainted with. He was only inches away from the undead, staring into the
thing’s
eyes. They were black.

“Ahg....” He tried to say something, but his voice box was being crushed, and that was all that would come out.

Haffef’s smile brightened, and then he pushed Jules up the trunk of the tree by his throat.

The assassin’s green eyes widened. He felt himself being literally lifted off his feet by this monster, and the beast didn’t seem the slightest bit fatigued.

Jules had lived through being stabbed and starved and had managed to escape a pack of wolves, and now he was going to be killed by a vampire.

Haffef lowered his cane and set him back on the ground.

For one brief moment Jules thought maybe he would go away. He gulped for air.

The vampire pushed against the assassin’s weakened form, and his teeth entered the jugular vein with such speed and power that Jules couldn’t protect himself. He battered the vampire’s back weakly with his fists. Having barely taken a breath, he couldn’t call out.
Who would come anyway? The people he had just left to rot in that hovel? Who would care that a member of the Association was going to die? And for that matter, who would really care that he was going to die?
Jules could think of no one.

He knew that he was going to die now. Die against the brittle corpse that was gorging on his blood. He would never get to take revenge on Cameo, and he’d never have the chance to talk to Wick. He felt himself unable to keep his eyes open anymore; his body went limp, and that was when Haffef pulled away from him, letting him drop to the forest floor as if he were worthless.

Jules collapsed onto the snow-covered lichen. There was nothing; a wide expanse of blackness....

* * * * *

It was bright and very cold as Jules awoke. He lay on his side, and his long, dark hair was in his eyes. For a moment he had no idea where he was. He moaned as he sat up, tangled in his cape. His throat felt bruised.

He hefted himself from the cold ground and sat back against the tree trunk. Snow fell from his shoulders, and he shook it from his hair and brushed it from his eyes. As he sat there, trying to remember just why he was in Lockenwood forest, he thought he saw the shadow of a man standing over him for a moment.

Jules jumped to his feet, ready to fight. But there was no one.

He touched his throat and realized there was dried blood. Then he remembered, and feeling a bit faint, he fell back against the trunk. He had fought with a vampire, and he had been overcome by the beast. Jules tore the bandage from his chest. The wound he’d been nursing for days was closed. Only a scar remained.

He needed to get back to the town of Lockenwood. Wick was a witch, and she could help him. He took a clumsy step forward. The assassin felt almost drugged. He staggered north. He had seemingly lost his coordination, and he found himself tangled up in the thick overgrowth, as if he were moving too fast to keep up with his new-found pace. He reasoned that it must’ve been the loss of blood that had left him feeling weak and awkward. Nevertheless. within an hour he could actually see the town through the trees.

Jules glanced back, perplexed. He felt certain that he was confused by the stress of being attacked by a monster, and that was why he had lost track of time. One would have to travel for miles to get out of the forest, so it must’ve been much later than he thought.

There was a wanted poster nailed to a tree just at the edge of the forest. It was for the former members of the Association.

He tore it down and read it in disbelief. The Association had been disbanded and were now wanted for the murders of the innocent, as ordered by Avamore, King of Sieunes “... and for the murder of Isadore Guise, also known to her friends as ‘Wick,’” he read. Murder?

Jules crumpled up the page and peered out of the woods at the little town. In the distance he could see the burned-out carapace of Wick’s tower on the Avon.
When did Avamore become the king? He was friends with Wick. Why would he close down her company?

The assassin turned toward Lockenwood and made his way out onto Haberdasher Street. He moved toward the coach stop. The handbills on the wall rustled and something caught his eye: a woodcut of him.

He peeled a wanted poster from the board. It was his wanted poster. Jules was wanted in connection with several murders in the area. He glanced around uneasily to see if anyone was up and walking around yet at this early hour. According to the poster, he was wanted for the murders of a local banker, several miners, and a little girl. He had assassinated people working for the Association, powerful people. He felt a bit conflicted; the actual assassinations that he had been part of were quite a bit more impressive than the murder of a banker.

He quickly tucked the poster into his shirt and then took another look around. Being fingered in the slaying of the regular people could actually be much worse for him than the killing of some out-of-the-way baron. Regular people saw him every day. They worked on the farms, in the mansions, at the shops. Jules looked over the other posters; there were so many now, all Association members he recognized. They were covering older posters, the ones he had looked at not so long ago, of Cameo, Black Opal, and Bellamy Roucherquimp.

He ripped down Bel’s wanted poster, crumpled it up and tossed it on the ground. Beneath it was the well-weathered poster for Francois Mond.

“Excuse me, sir, do you know when the first coach is supposed to leave this morning?”

He turned to find a rather attractive woman standing in front of him, pinning her hair into place.

“You!” she shrieked as she looked at his face.

He covered the brand on his face instinctively. He could thank the good people of Furnaceville for the scar they had left him with so long ago. An
F
for fire-starter.

“Help! Help!” She ran off, shrieking.

Jules ran down Haberdasher Street, past a row of gibbets. He wasn’t exactly sure where that woman had gone, but he couldn’t hear her screaming anymore.

The local sheriff was just up ahead talking to several residents. Jules stopped suddenly and dropped down. On one side of him was the common stable. He half crawled, half stumbled inside, all the while worried that the sheriff would look up.

The horses within went crazy as he came in, staggering and panting. He moved to the end of the barn and buried himself in the loose hay, exhausted from this new scare.

The barn door scraped open, and Jules could hear the distinct sound of creaking leather.

“Jules?” It was a man’s voice.

Jules lay buried in the pile of hay, motionless.

“It’s your old friend Chadvick.” The man took a couple steps forward until he was in the sunlight. “I saw you come in here while I was sitting on one of the rooftops.”

Jules could see the other assassin more clearly now. His face was wrapped in that scarf he always wore, presumably to hide his identity.

“I was lucky. I wasn’t there when Cameo killed Wick, though I was supposed to be. I was out looking for Cameo, for the bounty on her head. I guess you were, too?”

Chad was standing at the edge of the hay.

“What do you want?” Jules stood up and asked, “Are you here for the bounty on my head?”

“Certainly not. One Associate kill another Associate? You know that just isn’t done,” he said, looking up at Jules, who was a full head taller than he was.

“Is that the way things still are? Now that Wick is—” he forced himself to say it, “dead.”

Chadvick cocked his head to one side, amused, and then he noticed what was left of the loose bandage sticking out of Jules’ shirt, “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re nursing a wound?” His eyes, the only aspect of Chad’s face one could read, were smiling. Without warning he lunged at Jules.

The assassin caught the glint of light reflecting off the blade in Chadvick’s hand and dodged the swing.

Chad fell forward, unbalanced, and Jules struck him in the back with his fist, knocking him to the ground. Jules scrambled to pull his only weapon, the dagger, from his belt. Chadvick was a member of the Association, albeit a fairly new one, and he was not to be taken lightly. Wick was quite picky about just who was skilled enough to join her business. She had the most infamous killers in Lockenwood in her operation, and she had seen to it that all of them had a spark of some promise before they were a full member, and that they were all given training.

As Jules pulled the dagger from his belt, he did so with possibly too much haste, worried that his nemesis would leap to his feet and attack with any number of weapons he had at his disposal. He’d claimed he’d been watching Jules from a local rooftop, so he’d had a few moments to collect his thoughts and decide just what he planned to bring to this scrap.

Jules stood over Chadvick for what seemed to be endless moments, the blade posed over his prone body.