Chapter Text
Dim oil lamps flickered in the soot-stained windows of the house. It was Victorian style, weathered porch neatly repainted with a haint blue ceiling, masking the slight sag of the wood. A flea-bitten cur dog slapped his tail under the porch, eyeing me but making no move to stir. The thick haze of the evening hung across everything, from the slightly swaying tiffany lampshades over the tarnished porch sconces to the drag of a goose-down comforter on the drying line.
Alabama was hot, but the weight of what I was about to do made my blood boil and sweat drip down into the red bandana I had tied round my face. My breath fanned hot across my face beneath the stifling fabric. James was next to me, crouched beneath the low-hanging branch of a sprawling live oak. The leaves scratched the back of my neck, curling my toes in my boots. I just just barely seek the tip of my leftmost digit poking through the worn leather. The top of the boot sagged from the weight of the knife holstered on it.
“Are we sure this is the right house, Moons?” James’s slow, thick drawl cut through the quiet of the night like a razor blade. Even the crickets stopped to listen.
"Prongs, it’s the only goddamn two story house in Tuscaloosa, I’m reckoning it’s the damn Governor’s house.”
James shifted on his heels, nervously plucking leaves from the branch like a fretting hen. “But, Moons, why’s it gotta be him? Why couldn’t we kidnap, say, the mayor’s son? Or the county councilman’s?”
I rolled my eyes, the grind of my teeth muffled behind my mask. “Cause they ain’t got kids, you wuss. Asides, this one will be worth it. Old Orion loves his kid, preens over the bastard. He’d sell his soul to get the boy back, and that’s just short of what we need to get outta this debt with Wormy.”
I heard James suck his teeth and scoff at the mention of Wormy, ex-partner and crooked fiend to boot. After our last heist in the Colockum went bust and we were forced to move down to the South to lick our wounds, Wormy went yellow-belly and tucked slimy tail, telling us we had two damn months to send him a thousand greenbacks or he’d send the five-stars our way. Called it “payback for the pain and suffering.” James called it something I couldn’t repeat in the presence of a lady.
“Are we sure what room he’s in? I don’t trust that drunken Snape farther than I could chuck him.”
I squinted up into the night, looking closely at the sway of cream drapes in half-opened windows. Third window from the corner of the porch, Snape had said. Right below the trellis of roses, so’s the boy could climb down after dark. Whatever the hell a boy of eight has business doing climbing out of his window at night is his own business, I reckon. “Well, would you rather us just knock and ask for confirmation, Prongs?”
James rolled his eyes and shuffled further into the brush, “I’ll knock you for confirmation, Moons.”
As the moon crept higher in the sky, I kept my eyes trained on that third window. There’d been some movement downstairs, the snuffing of a lamp, the hum of quiet conversation. But, so far, there’d not been a single flicker of life in that upstairs window. The dog yawned, stretched, and ambled over into a lean-to shed for the night. A hoot owl grumbled above us. There was a bullfrog in the ditch that had a whole lot to say. Two restless Stallions and an ill-tempered mule stamped their feet far behind us, tucked into the brush of the swamp.
“Moons, it’s been two hours. Either the tyke is asleep or dead. Can we get a move-on?” James’s collar was soaked in sweat, tugged loose around his neck. The bite of raw gravel cut into my shins. I adjusted the brim of the black felt hat atop my head, pulling it low across my brow. The beaded band around it was smooth between my fingers. James pulled his own blue bandana up around his nose, tying with a sharp tug at the base of his skull. The pearl handles of the twin pistols around his waist glinted in the moonlight.
“Remember the plan?” My knees popped as I stood, bones grinding together from years of rough riding.
“You bag the kid, chuck him down, we haul ass, ransom in three days, outta dodge in five?” The thick Oregon Country twang coated James’s words as he wound a few feet of rope around his forearm, tanned skin beaded with sweat.
“That’s the plan, Prongsy. And if we get caught?”
James’s eyes crinkled from under the brim of his wide hat, green eyes glinting. His hands went down to his waist. “This one’s for you, this one’s for me, Re.” His hands rested lightly on those two pearl-handled pistols.
The bullfrog halted his tune as we stood from the shadows of the yard, creeping forward like panthers. The spur on my left boot clinked as I walked. James hummed low under his breath, head on a swivel. The bottom floor of the house was cloaked in darkness, only the light flicker of an oil lamp upstairs giving away any signs of life.
“You reckon they just forgot to smother that light, or is he still up?” James hissed the words, eyebrow cocked as he eyed the warm light.
“It’s half-two, Prongs. We’ll hope it's the former. Give me a leg-up.” The raw wood of the trellis was firm beneath my gloved hands. The thorns of the roses tried to bite through the buck-skin, dull pressure beneath my palms. The wood held firm beneath my weight, not even creaking as I rose. I held my breath and prowled like a tomcat across the tin-roof, stepping flat as to keep my spurs from knocking. The first window was shuttered, and the second led to what looked to be a good-sized powder room, walls pretty-peach and plastered. I about jumped back off the roof as my face was reflected in the vanity mirror, squint-eyed and shiny.
“You good, Re?” James’s voice was a strained hiss from below, barely carrying without a breeze to ride on.
I threw my hand up in what I hoped was an optimistic wave, side-stepping closer to the third window. The bottom pane was about two-inches cracked, enough for me to slide my hands into and pry. It slid up with barely a squeak till the opening was large enough for me to step into. The floor was a rich, dark wood, shining beneath a layer of varnish you could pick your teeth in. A large, four-poster bed rested in the middle of the room, thick blue curtains draped like a damn princesses would be.
“Spoiled brat,” I mumbled under my breath, taking stock of the rest of the room. There was a worn desk against the far wall, stacked with papers and littered by fancy fountain pens. An instrument, cello I think, rested in the corner, bow thrown carelessly on the floor by it. The door to the room was a monstrous black-cherry affair, with a tarnished bronze handle that was shaped like the gaping maw of a snake. I eased across the room and turned the lock with a dull click .
The light came from a kerosene lamp by the bed, a thick book dangerously close to the flame. One gust of wind and the whole house would go up in flames. The only other thing on the table was a long telescope, still extended from a nighttime view. S. O. B. was etched into the side.
From the bed, the high hum of a sleeping boy rang out, every exhale punctuated. I could see the shadow of a body through the curtains, nestled down into the comforter like a little cherub. 8 years old and living like a damn King.
I pulled the heavy knife from my boot and tested its weight in my grip, the bone handle familiar in my palm. With my other hand, I eased back the curtains on the bed, tucking them into the iron ring on the corner post as best I could. I could see the hint of fanned black hair on the pillow, the cream blanket up nearly over the boy’s head. The hair was long and wild, straight at the top and nearly curled by the ends. A piece or two shifted with every breath.
I held my own as I reached for the hem of the blanket, the goosedown soft in my grasp. As I eased down the blanket, brain flooding with ideas of how to get him out of the bed and out of the house with as little resistance as possible, my mouth went dry.
The body in the bed rolled over, seeking the warmth I was pulling back. The long, black hair parted to show alabaster skin, free from blemish or line. A thin, dainty nose sat in the middle of his face, atop red lips that parted softly with each breath. The naked dip of a collarbone peeked from where I’d pulled back the blanket.
“Fuck.”
As the eyes of the boy in bed snapped open, wide and startled, pupils blown wide in the dull light of the room, my toes curled up. The boy, I’d figured, was most definitely not a boy. As he tried to scramble up, collarbones giving way to a long, lean torso, I was sure of it.
“ Awe, hell. ” The groan ripped out of my body against my will, fingers going slack around my knife. His eyes flickered fast from my face to my hand and the blade glinting in it.
Before he could open his mouth to scream, I did the first thing I thought of. I grabbed that damn gilded telescope and I walloped him the best I could, like a boat paddle on a catfish. He started flopping like one, too. A second smack and he was still, dropped in the bed like a bad habit.
I had two options. I could leave him here, tuck tail, and make a disappearance. Wormy would look for me for a while, but he’d always been a quitter. Or, I could take this very much not young boy and get the ransom I needed, regardless. As the telescope rolled from the bed where I’d dropped it to the floor with a shard thud, resting by my boot, I made my decision.
I stripped the blanket fully back off the bed, thankful in the moment that he was at least wearing a set of drawers. His body was warm in my arms as I hoisted him up across my shoulders, head lolling against my arm. “You are most certainly not eight.” I grunted the words as I stepped back out of the window, wincing as I slammed his leg into the frame. The blood from the gash I’d opened on his forehead started to soak into my shirt.
“Re!” James’s voice was panicked from the ground, choked and tight. I peered out over the edge of the roof, where I could barely see his eyes beneath the brim of his worn tan hat.
“James, we fucked up.” His eyes flitted to the boy-man-across my shoulders, widening noticeably in the moonlight.
“Who the fuck is that?”
“If I don’t get off of this damn roof, my judge, jury, and executioner. Stand clear!”
With only a bit of a wince, I heaved the body from my shoulders and half-dropped, half-lowered the comatose form to the ground, scrunching my nose as he fell the last few feet with a dusty thunk.
By the time I’d made it to the ground, Jame had tied the boy’s hands in knots and bound his feet, which seemed a little overkill with the corpse-like way he was slumped in the dirt.
“Moons, this is not an eight year old.” James nudged the leg of the boy with his toe, chest heaving under his thin henley shirt.
“Good fucking observation. Help me get him to the horses, we’ll deal with this when we’re not standing in his goddamn garden.”
The boy was lightweight between us, no more than five and half feet tall and sunken in round the ribs. The hollow rise and fall of his chest was the only indicator I hadn’t knocked him to death.
Our mule was less than happy to have a body atop him, braying heavily in the knight air and taking a sideways swipe at James’s kneecap.
“Fuck, Re, couldn’t you have gotten us a nicer damn mule?” He rubbed at the side of his leg while I strapped down the boy, limping over to his own gray-coat ride. His horse, Pancho, pawed the ground with nervous tenacity, throwing his head in excitement to ride.
“James, the day you find a nice mule, you give me a holler. I want to see it.” The creak of rope on rope signaled a tight tie. I patted the side of the mule’s neck, barely jerking back to avoid the gnash of teeth and pinned ears he sent my way. My sturdy red and white Indian paint snorted, bumping his head against my shoulder as I tightened the stirrup on my saddle.
“Let’s just get back to the cabin before daybreak, or before this guy wakes up and gets to hollering.” My horse jerked forward with a dig of my spurs, hauling along the ill-tempered mule with a straining drag. James brought up the rear, his horse nipping at the mule’s rear like cattle. We’d picked up his horse from a large ranch outside of Boulder, sneaking him from the round pen under the cover of a night much like tonight. Sometimes, he went back to his cutting ways and worked our other animals like Holsteins, feet digging in the earth. When he got into those moods, James just held on.
My horse plodded along, ears twitching to catch strains of sound around us. He’d been a risky investment. I’d bet forty dollars and my knife on him in an Indian camp horse race, barely winning on James’s steed. I’d just hollered like a true cowboy and let the horse fly, fingers tight on the reins. He’d finally stopped about a half-mile past the finish line, chomping at the bit and sweat-slicked. The horse was perfect for James- overenthusiastic, overachieving, and overdramatic. My horse was just right for me- slow, steady, and always on guard.
The mule was a damn nuisance- ornery, mean as fire, and slow as molasses. I’d named him Fred and loved him dearly.
As the sky began to glow yellow and the cicadas began to quiet, we eased up to the sunken cabin that had become our home the last few weeks. James had nicked some sheets and pillows from the nearest neighbor’s clothesline, making up two half-decent beds. The corral around back had needed some mending, but it was nothing a Sunday afternoon and some nails didn’t fix. A crooked stone chimney huffed out the last strains of the night’s fire.
James slid down from his horse first, giving Fred a wide berth as he walked over to me.
“Re, what do you propose doing with this fella?” He’d pulled the bandana down from his face and tipped his hat back, the scruff on his tanned face making him seem older than his 21 years.
I looked over at the body tied to Fred, skin rubbed raw by the ropes I’d bound him with. To be frank, I wanted to take him home, dump him on the back lawn, and get the hell out of dodge. But damn if we didn’t need the money.
“I reckon we go along with the plan. He’s gotta be Orion’s kin, at least. You get the horses settled, I’ll get him situated.” It was light work getting the boy in the house and onto my bed, ropes still firm around his wrists and legs. I heard James cuss as Fred took another swing at him, screeching as he was turned loose into the corral.
I sat in the off-kilter chair by the two-plank table and sighed, staring down at the giant fuck-up before me. I was prepared to deal with a little kid. I could handle a mean eight year old, might even have enjoyed a nice one. This was not in the fucking cards. Hot, sticky, and ruffled from the evening, I pulled off my bandana, balling it up and tossing it onto the table. Next came my hat, curls matted and damp against my scalp. Then a pistol, my bone handle knife, a little watch from my pants pocket, my gloves, and a chunk of blue sea-glass from the breast pocket of my shirt. I toed off my boots, feet barely clad in socks past due-for darning- or burning.
I looked out of the window to see James patiently walking after his horse- who was backing around the corral in circles and tossing his head, bridle still on. Damned fool.
The boy groaned, eyes tight and face pinched. I held my breath, but his features smoothed back out into mild discomfort, body slumped down into my thin pallet of a bed. His forehead was caked in blood.
Before I could overthink it, I rose with a groan, grabbed my bandana and wetted it from the pail by the door. I approached him like a wild animal, squatting down next to him as slowly as I could. With one scarred hand, I tilted his head to the side, dainty chin pinched between my fingers. It felt wrong to hold the soft skin between the rough, calloused pads of my fingertips. The bandana dragged roughly against his forehead, blood coming off in chipping chunks and maroon smears.
After I’d gotten the worst of it off, I smoothed his wild hair down enough to get a look at the cut on his head, already clotted and barely a pin’s length. He’d live, for sure. I licked my thumb and gently scrubbed at the edge of it, swiping away the prick of red blood that rose to the surface.
“Did you kidnap me?” The words were slurred, but clear enough I knew right away what he’d asked. I froze, looking down slowly to where those gray eyes were cracked open, nose slightly wrinkled as he looked up at me. His face was surprisingly serene for someone who’d been ripped from his bed in the middle of the night.
“Yes.” I didn’t know what else to say other than the truth.
He pursed his lips, nodding once, slowly. He looked me up and down, glanced quickly around the room, and locked eyes back with me. His mouth crooked up at the corner, the ghost of a smile, and he spoke once more: “Wicked.”
Then, he was out, slumped down on the pillow again with a soft snore passing through his lips.
I fell back, sitting heavily on my rear. A breath huffed from between my lips. Wicked . What was this, the damn county fair? I’d kidnapped him! Knocked him unconscious with a pretentious fucking telescope, for Pete’s sake. I felt mildly offended to be a wicked kidnapper.
As he continued to sleep, I stole a few glances at the boy before me. He was surely in his late teens, probably well into his twenties like me, at that. A crude tattoo of what looked to be a star pattern was peppered on his ribs, ink fading fast. His hands and feet were dainty and fine-boned, feet that had never walked far and hands that had never worked hard. The thin canvas drawers hung low on his hips, and I tossed James’s blanket over him for a bit of modesty.
James slumped into the cabin, feet dragging with tiredness. His sleeve was rolled up, a Fred-shaped crescent bite on his forearm. “I hate that mule.” He kicked off his boots with a groan, dropping his gun sling on the table with a clatter and setting his hat atop my own.
“He hates you, too.”
James took a long draw from the ladle in our bucket, dumping the last of it over his head to rinse the dust from his thick black hair. He jerked his head toward the sleeping area, where the boy was full-on snoring. “He wake up yet?”
“For a minute. Long enough to tell me I was a good kidnapper.”
James snorted, pulling down his trousers and unbuttoning his shirt. A blooming purple bruise was developing on his upper thigh. “Yeah, ok, Moons. We are dreadful kidnappers. I’m going to get a few winks in, alright?” He didn’t confirm that it was “alright” before flopping down onto his pallet, eyes closed before he hit the pillow.
I walked back over to my chair, easing down into it with my eyes still trained on the rise and fall of the boy’s chest. “Yeah, alright, Prongs.”
He was too far gone to hear my words.