The Devil's Mistress by David Barclay (summer reads txt) 📗

Something hissed through the air, and before Jacob could move, an arrow buried itself in the creature’s neck. There was a high, sharp squeal. It fell to the deck, its legs twitching their last.

“Get off me, then.” Carla squirmed out from under him.

A moment later, Hunter emerged from out of the dark carrying two enormous bales of hay. His torch was gone, and his bow was once more slung across his back. “Found these,” he said, throwing the hay at Jacob’s feet. He plucked his arrow from the body of the wolf, wiped the tip, and returned it to his quiver.

Jacob opened his mouth, stumbled, then said, “Thank you.”

Hunter nodded.

“You’re… You’re that killer,” Carla squeaked.

“A killer who saved your life,” Hunter said. “Look at what has happened to your town.”

There was another great fracas from the shore. An old man had drifted too close to the shallows, and a trio of wolves set upon him. The man called out once, then disappeared in a flurry of splashes. For a long minute, there came nothing but the sound of the churning waters and his final, strangled cries.

Carla could do nothing but stare, overwhelmed by what was happening just beyond the walls of her lemon cake repast. She squeaked again.

“These are wet,” Jacob said, feeling the hay. “Have you any kindling?” When she didn’t respond, he repeated the question.

“Aye,” she said, a little too forcefully. “At the stove!”

“What about an ax?”

She nodded. “In the back. We use it for the stove wood.”

“We’ll need to separate the pier from the tavern, to make sure the fire doesn’t spread.”

“Dirt,” Hunter said. “An ax will take too long.”

“Then I suppose I’ll build the fire.”

Hunter looked toward the town. “I advise you do it now.”

Jacob followed his gaze. Two more wolves stood at the edge of the pier, a mere thirty paces down.

Chapter 27

“Get back!” Jacob yelled, though toward the wolves or his companions, he didn’t know.

Hunter unslung the bow and nocked another arrow. As soon as one of the animals was in his sights, however, they both turned and ran into the darkness.

“They’ll be back. We don’t have much time.” Hunter sliced the ropes holding the bales in place. The hay spilled out onto the pier, and Jacob began to make a pile.

As he worked, Hunter went into the tavern and returned with a giant bucket. He leaped down into the water and began to scoop mud onto the wood to block the spread of the fire. If he felt any discomfort from the icy waters, he did not show it.

“What about me?” Carla said.

“That kindling,” Jacob huffed. “Be quick about it.”

The woman bustled inside, and true to her word, returned with a bowl of wood shavings from beneath The Fancy’s cook stove. Jacob spread them out over the hay. He had created a small semicircle at the head of the pier, one that wrapped in front of the path and led all the way down to the water. The hay wouldn’t burn forever, but he thought that with a little luck, it might last long enough to get everyone inside.

“Are you ready?” he called below.

Hunter jumped onto the pier and tossed the bucket down. “This is a damnable plan.”

Jacob grimaced. He retrieved the torch and thrust it into the pile of wood shavings atop the hay. The pile caught at once, sending a burst of bright orange flame down the line of material. He cheered. Then, just as suddenly, the flame died. The kindling had burned up, but the damp hay had staunched the fire before it could take.

Jacob looked at Carla, his mouth hanging open. “We need more, a lot more.”

“That was all of it,” she said.

Something whizzed past his head, and a yelp came from out of the dark. Hunter had loosed another arrow.

“You’d better hurry,” the Indian said.

Carla squealed and ran back into the tavern.

Jacob looked at her unbelievingly, then took up the torch and thrust it into the hay once more. Nothing happened save for a sputter and sizzle at the end of the stick. The torch flame itself threatened to go out. He swore.

Hunter let fly another arrow, and another, but the wolves had grown wise to his game. The shafts struck empty earth.

“Jacob,” he called. The rest was unspoken. Get back into the tavern.

Then Carla reappeared, lugging two arm-sized flasks labeled with a skull and crossbones. “Death Cider,” she explained. “Strongest stuff we got.”

It took a moment to grasp her meaning. Then Jacob was taking one of the flasks, and the two of them were splashing the stuff from one end of the hay to the next. They emptied both, and Jacob thrust the torch in again. This time, a burst of blue flame leaped into the air, then settled down into a low, peach-colored burn. Almost at once, a choking cloud of black smoke rolled from the hay. It was, perhaps, more terrible than the flames.

Hunter ceased his fusillade and drew a hand in front of his nose. “You are terrible at building fires.”

Jacob ignored him and rushed to the end of the pier. “Here,” he yelled. He tried to yell again and discovered his throat still too swollen from his time at the noose.

Carla took up the cry. “Over here, ye lumbering fools! Swim! Get over where ’tis safe!”

There were a few shouts. Then a great tide of splashes as more and more people caught sight of the fire and began to swim. The wolves caught sight as well. There came a great gathering: twenty, then twenty-five, then thirty wolves leaping and howling on the other side of the black smoke, as if sensing the escape of their prey. They seemed to have almost no fear of the flames.

“Take my baby!”

Christina Morton appeared below the deck, holding her infant daughter up. Carla took her. The woman herself was followed by her husband, Henry. By Michael Gruebe, then Dory Tuttle. The Battone family, Jeff Sommers the tailor, and his wife, Heidi. All of