Wyman - The Case of the Tattooed Bride

the case of the

tattooed bride

JAMIE WYMAN

An Abaddon Books Publication

www.abaddonbooks.com

abaddon@rebellion.co.uk

First published 2015 by Abaddon Books, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.

Editor-in Chief: Jonathan Oliver

Commissioning Editor: David Moore

Cover Art: Sam Gretton

Design: Sam Gretton & Oz Osborne

Marketing and PR: Rob Power

Head of Books and Comics Publishing: Ben Smith

Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

Copyright 2015 Rebellion.

All rights reserved.

Abaddon Books and the Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-84997-973-3

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

a scandal in hobohemia

T HE CANVAS TENT held in heat like an Alabama kitchen, though it didnt smell nearly so pleasant. The odors of dust and grease paint mingled with the smells of pungent herbs: patchouli, sandalwood perhaps. But there was no mistaking the funk of a blue drag somewhere beneath it all. That scentthe reeferbrought back all sorts of memories. Some good, others best left in the trenches.

Shed sent me in here alone, and though Agent Trenet didnt say it, I knew she meant to test me. No genius needed to figure that out, this being my first case. I turned in a circle in the tent, focusing on all the tiny details: the way the stitches on the psychics garish red scarves were fraying; the coffee stains on the rickety table peeking through the moth-eaten silk cloth. Fingerprints smudged the glass orb in the center of the table. How anyone could read the future through all that oil and muck was beyond me.

But then, I wasnt Madame Yvonde, Seer of All and Mistress of Fate.

According to the painted banners and smooth talkers at Soggiorno Brothers Traveling Wonder Show, the Seer was a direct descendant of Cassandra herself. She can lead you to fame, the barker had said, guide you to money. Help you seek that which you most desire.

I didnt want fame, and I didnt need money. What I needed, strictly speaking, was a man. Or at least his name. Trenet seemed to think Madame Yvonde would lead us there, and with her being my superior in a multitude of ways, I didnt bother to make a fuss. I stood in that sweatbox of a tent and waited.

Madame Yvonde paid me little mind. Probably on account of all the spirits and such vying for her attention. She shuffled about, a rotund bundle of bright scarves, grimy homespun and arthritic old bones. With her came an eye-searing stench of rotgut. Padding from one corner of the tent to another, the hunched old hag murmured gibberish and lit a number of ivory candles. The bracelets on her wrists and the tiny coins at her wide hips jingled with every ponderous step.

Now, she said as she slithered behind the crystal ball. You dont believe, do you, sonny?

I put on my best, most innocuous smile. Excuse me, maam?

Dont maam me, boy. Yvondes voice was deep as a well and just as dark. She withdrew a cob pipe from the folds of her dress and brought it to her lips. She spoke through gritted teeth as she lit it. You come in here wearing a suit like that, it says youre educated. Educated man dont listen to spirits or stars unless hes desperate. And you are not desperate. Not yet.

Im looking for someone, I said neutrally.

She brightened and let out a puff of tobacco smoke. Oh! Well, then I might be able to help you after all. Come. She wrapped on the table twice. The chair across from her slid away from the table, and a brown work boot withdrew beneath the cloth. Have a seat and well see what we find.

With the stiffness creeping into my left thigh, I didnt so much walk as hobble over to join Yvonde. Trying to keep my discomfort to myself, I bit down on my lip as I slipped uneasily down into the chair. Scooting closer was a whole other bargain that I wasnt prepared to make without a shot of whatever liquor the Seer had beneath those rags of hers.

In the flickering candlelight, Yvondes face wavered in and out of focus. Layers of pancake smeared over fishbelly-white skin. The makeup flaked at the edges of every deep wrinkle, particularly around her lips where shed stolen the pink off a peony to color her flabby mouth and bony cheeks. Those pale eyes of hersall done up with black paint like a kewpie dolldrooped and fluttered. One of her false lashes threatened to fall off at any moment. I could see the fibers of her wig coiling out from beneath the scarf on her head.

Yvonde held out a bony hand and snapped her fingers. Cross my palm, sonny.

I paid out front, I said.

You paid for the circus. Now you pay for the pleasure of my company.

I pretended to wrestle with the notion of parting ways with my hard-earned dollar before reaching into my coat and plucking a bill. I handed it to her, and she crumpled it in those skinny fingers. Yvonde grinned around her pipe as the money disappeared. That smile held a sinister edge, but her teeth were straight and white as a Connecticut Sunday social.

Now, you were looking for someone, were you?

An arc of cards appeared on the table. The drawings were intricate, and had probably once been lovely. Now they were just as faded as the rest of this damn circus. Yvonde tapped a card.

The World, she breathed hoarsely. You are a traveler. No roots, just boots. Stomp, stomp, stomping on the ground.

I bristled, my blood running cold. She came close to making me think of old times.

Im not here about me.

Arent you? Youre looking for a man, but you havent stopped to consider that youre searching for yourself. Aimlessly going from South Carolina to Alabama. Over an ocean and back again. Boy, youve just been rooting along the Southern states like a dog hunting for a master thats left him behind.

A master? I snarled, balling my fist on my lap. That supposed to mean something?

She waved me off with a jingle of her bracelets. I dont give a flop about negroes, boy. Your money spends just as well as the next mans. But youve chosen the hardest fields to plow, havent you, soldier?

Her cold eyes fixed me with a challenge. Tell me Im wrong, she seemed to say. We both knew that I wouldnt. Couldnt. We stared at one another, sharing only that meaningful look.

What else? I asked.

With a flourish of scarves and skeletal hands, the arc of cards vanished. Only three remained on the table. The World still stared up at me.

The Empress, Yvonde sang as she slid the card toward me. Lovely thing that you can never touch. Wouldnt want to get her pretty blonde hair dirty with those dark hands of yours, would we? Not that shes noticed you. Shes too busy with her eyes on some other prize.

The old gypsy slammed her knuckles on the next card, a sound like a gunshot. I didnt jump, but my hand flew to a sidearm that was no longer there.

The Devil! You seek him out, but beware, little soldier. Hellfire awaits you down this path.

Hellfire, I whispered, is behind me.

Her lip hitched up in an ugly sneer, smoke curling up from the pipe. Sure it is, soldier.