Chapter 29: Curtain Call

Chapter 29: Curtain Call

 The trio neared the bridge north of Denton when Rufus leaned forward, squinting into the distance.

"What the hell's that?"

"What?" 

Levi followed his gaze, eyes narrowing. Edmond did the same, the two of them straining to see through the heat shimmer.

Then he saw it—a dust cloud kicking up fast, closing in on them.

"Some tuned-up steam-cart." 

Rufus whistled, his arm tensing.

 "Movin' quick."

The roar of its pneuma core grew louder. It was barreling straight toward them.

Stepping off the trail, they barely had time to brace before it tore past, kicking up a wall of dust and grit. They yanked their hats down tight, shielding their faces.

"Asshole! Slow down!" 

Rufus hurled a rock after it, shaking his fist as the dust storm settled.

Edmond spat the dirt from his mouth.

 "Wonders and cures? Looks like some hustler."

Levi caught the painted words streaking across the side of the cart before it vanished over the hill. He knew the type. Snake-oil salesmen, peddling lies to the desperate.

"Better hope he ain't there when we get back. I'll shoot a fuckin' bolt into his damn cart next time i see him." 

Rufus cursed, setting his pace again.

Hoisting his pack higher, he pulled out his tin and took a swig. 

"You know, if the kid's stayin', why don't we start savin' for one of them? With three of us workin', oughta be able to get one needs fixin' for cheap."

Levi shot him a look, shaking his head.

 "Shouldn't you fix the house first? No offense, place is kind of a dump."

Rufus gawked, scandalized. 

"Watch it! I'll have you know that buildin' is the oldest in Denton! It's—"

"Yeah, yeah, heard this before. Still a dump."

Woosh.

Levi ducked just in time.

"He's right. Place is a dump."

Rufus froze mid-swing, turning to Edmond like the man had just stabbed him in the back.

Edmond didn't blink. Just pulled out his canteen, took a slow drink, then wiped his beard and brow.

"Roof needs fixing before winter. We don't have food stocked up for it either. Think a steam-cart can wait."

Rufus groaned, tucking his tin away.

"Y'all ain't got no sense of adventure."

Taking stock of the situation, and the current mood, Levi figured it was a good time as any. So he took it to get some answers on something.

"Why'd you take over an orphanage anyway? Don't seem like a good fit for two old bounty hunters."

"That's 'cause the man's got a bigger heart than his brain." 

Rufus clicked his tongue, lighting a smoke.

Edmond didn't respond. Didn't even glance over. Just kept walking.

Levi studied him, the way his jaw tightened. The way his steps didn't slow, but something in him did.

"Does it got somethin' to do with that Black Hand Massacre?"

Edmond stopped.

So did Rufus—but not before he smacked Levi upside the head, mouthing, Idiot.

"You talk too much, Rufus."

Rubbing his goatee, Rufus took a slow drag of his smoke.

 "Kid's got a right to know who he's workin' with."

Edmond sighed, rolling his shoulders before hefting his bag higher.

 "I guess he does. And I guess, in a way, you could say being in Denton was due to what happened. But not really."

The tension lightened, and the two followed him again. Levi, making sure Edmond wasn't looking, smacked Rufus on the arm.

"When we retired, first place we came to was Denton. Should've known better, but I met a woman. Bonnie."

Edmond glanced back, only to find Rufus had Levi in a headlock, the two locked in a silent struggle.

"That's enough! You wanna hear this or not?"

Levi shoved free with a well-placed kick, straightening his hat. 

"Sorry."

Rufus coughed.

 "There was a spider… on his back."

'Next time he's drunk, no stories—just hands.'

Levi did his best to tune out Rufus and his bullshit. The bastard kept kicking rocks into his path, grinning like a fool, but Levi ignored it, keeping his focus on Edmond's story.

Seemed like something he could've guessed. He met a woman, fell for her, she ran an orphanage. She got sick. He made a promise.

Life didn't give a damn about romance. Levi knew that well. He'd heard plenty of men by the campfire, whiskey in hand, talking about love lost and promises broken.

"But that don't explain why you still do it. I get keepin' things going for a bit, but couldn't you find someone better to run it?"

Edmond and Rufus both chuckled.

Levi's cheeks flushed. He was starting to feel like he'd said something stupid.

"That how it's supposed to work? If someone can do it better, you just hand your kids off? They're orphans, sure. But they're our kids. Don't matter about better."

Levi squinted at Rufus, irritated. Why was it that this man—who pissed him off to no end—kept saying things that made you respect him?

"You know, you're real fuckin' irritatin'. You spew nonsense all damn day, then pop off with somethin' like that."

"I've thought that myself since I met him."

Rufus stopped dead in his tracks, glaring at the two of them like they'd just spit in his drink.

"Disrespectful bastards. I'll bet I could outthink both of you hungover and beat half to death!"

"I'll take that bet."

"Me too." 

"Fuck you both!"

Shit-talking and bickering, wrestling and swapping stories—the trip to Clearwater slipped right by them. By the time Edmond finally noticed the sun dipping low, he cursed the two of them and urged the pace.

As the settlement came into view, Rufus gave Levi a nudge.

"Pull that hat down. No use havin' folks recognize ya."

Levi tugged his brim low but couldn't help glancing toward the creek where he'd hidden last. A shiver ran through him. The memory of that night—pain and cold gnawing at him—was still too damn fresh.

No trouble on the way in. A few folks recognized Edmond and Rufus, offering thanks for dealing with Mad Gear. No questions, no prying—just grateful nods. They got a room at the only inn, surprised to find it came with a discount.

Now, the earlier banter was gone. No more jabs, no more jokes.

Levi could see it plain—these men were getting ready.

Getting ready to hunt.

 Rufus slid his bag in front of him, pulling it open. Bolt after bolt clicked into place as he loaded his arm, the sharp hiss of vapor escaping as his bolter sprang open. 

He grabbed a rag and a tin of oil from his pack, running the cloth over the intricate mechanisms, wiping away dust and grit.

Across from him, Edmond had stripped off his coat, both blacksteel arms bare under the dim lantern light. Like Rufus, he worked oil into his joints, steam venting from his shoulders, shoulder blades, elbows, and wrists in short bursts.

Glancing down at his own arm, Levi flexed his fingers. Should he be oiling it too? Maggie hadn't mentioned it, so he pushed the thought aside and turned his attention to his bowie knives instead. 

He ran a sharpening stone over the edges, slow and steady, each drag of steel against rock cutting through the quiet. When that was done, he asked for some oil and worked it into the inner mechanisms, making sure nothing would jam when it counted.

Didn't take long before there was nothing left to do.

The room settled into silence, thick and expectant. Levi waited for the call.

So did Rufus.

Across from them, Edmond gripped the hilts of his sabers, testing the weight out of habit. Then, without another word, he stood. His eyes had hardened, that steel edge replacing any trace of ease.

"Let's go."

Pounding in his chest. Pounding in his ears. Levi's blood was pumping so loud he barely caught Rufus's voice.

"Levi. Don't forget the plan. Once the fightin' starts, don't try bein' a hero. Every hero I know of's dead, so nothin' stupid."

Levi nodded. He knew the plan. Rehearsed it in his head. Wasn't nervous. All he had to do was—

'Wait… did he just say my name?'

Watching Edmond and Rufus leave the room, something settled in his gut. This wasn't a time for jokes. Lives were at stake. His included.

Just a bit, the excitement dulled. Just a bit.

Clearwater didn't have much for light this time of night. Even the moon had done them a favor, barely more than a sliver in the sky.

With the story set that they were out picking off coyotes, no one paid them any mind as they left the inn and moved north.

As they walked, a thought hit Levi, one that almost made him laugh. This was it. This was where he'd planned to make his break.

He was supposed to be watching for a distraction, waiting for the right moment to slip away.

Now? Funny enough, his plan was the opposite.

A slow smirk crept across his face as he walked.

'Maybe I'm gettin' soft.'

Clenching his fist, he felt no shame. If anything, it was the opposite.

Never before had he felt so able. So willing.

Whether they meant to or not, Edmond and Rufus had made sure of that.

Crimson Song.

If they found her, she was coming with them. One way or another.

Dead or alive.

----

"Miss Darrow… we're ready for you."

The voice was distant. Soft.

She barely moved. Her head tilted, lips parting just enough for breath to slip through.

 "Is my audience waiting?"

The words were sweet, delicate, almost childlike.

Warm candlelight flickered against deep red velvet. The scent of fresh roses—hundreds of them—hung heavy in the air. A grand mirror stood before her, its golden frame polished to perfection, reflecting back the image of beauty.

Her.

Flawless porcelain skin, eyes deep and blue like flawless sapphires. Her hair cascaded down in fiery waves, tumbling over the shoulders of an immaculate violet gown, the fabric sparkling with every breath.

She stared.

Her reflection smiled back.

The world around her pulsed with life, hushed voices in the concert hall beyond murmuring with anticipation. She could hear them shifting in their seats, waiting, eager.

Turning, the heavy curtain parted.

Golden chandeliers bathed the grand hall in soft light. The audience stretched endlessly, faces radiant with admiration, eyes wide and glistening. 

They adored her. Worshipped her.

 Needed her.

A string quartet swelled in harmony. The moment had arrived.

She limped forward.

Reaching center stage, hands folded gently before her, eyes half-lidded with quiet grace.

The music built.

A perfect moment.

She lifted her chin.

Opened her mouth—

And what came out was wrong.

A choked, gargled wail.

The chandeliers flickered. Their warm glow soured into something cold, sickly yellow.

 The audience blurred, their smiles stretching too wide, teeth black and rotting. Roses at the stage's edge withered, curling into brittle husks.

Her reflection in the piano's surface—wrong.

The silk gown was in tatters, barely clinging to her. Her skin, too tight, too stretched, marred with dark seams and jagged stitches. Her bloodshot eyes, dull and sunken, barely clung to the hollows of her skull.

Drip.

The golden concert hall cracked, crumbling like burned paper.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

Drip.

Her hand felt stone.

The damp cave walls pressed in around her, the air thick with mildew and rot. Her breath came sharp and uneven, rattling through a throat lined with scar tissue. Her body jerked, muscles twitching.

Her hand—stitched and fused with metal—twitched at her side. The arm that once held elegance, poise, grace, now nothing more than a mockery of movement.

They were still waiting, waiting to hear her voice. But they left her. Everyone does. They all die too easy.

'They're waiting.'

She didn't scream.

She didn't cry.

She simply raised her mangled arm and slammed it into the stone wall.

CRACK!

Flecks of rock crumbled down around her.

She sat.

Still. Silent.

And she stared.