fingernails were stained the same brown as the muck she’d spat in the bucket. She had a face like a weathered saddle, and her mussed-up white hair failed to hide the flakes that coated her brow like fish scales. It was the kind of appearance to make a hungry man suddenly full.
“That’s me. How’d you know?”
Jeb pointed to the sign bearing her name at the back of the counter. “That, and the sheriff put in a word for you.”
“Did he now? Mighty nice of him. So, tell me, son, where you from?”
“Malfen,” Jeb said, knowing the reaction that would get.
“Oh,” she said, and spat again, a great bubbly wad of phlegm that clung to the side of the bucket and trickled its way to the floor.
Parting shot like that wasn’t hard to miss, and so Jeb untethered Tubal and led him farther along the high street, hoping to find someplace else to stay, somewhere he’d not chance running into Sweet or Maisie, and somewhere with stabling close by.
He slung the coffee in the gutter when Tizzy Graybank was out of sight, and he was about to ditch the pastry and pie in a side alley when he glimpsed Davy Fana trying to scrounge from the passing fisherfolk and getting nowhere. Hurriedly situating his tin mug back in the saddlebag, Jeb walked Tubal across the street toward him.
“Davy,” he called. “Davy Fana.”
Dozens of wary eyes turned his direction, and people muttered and shook their heads. Davy, though, ambled over, brow creased in confusion.
“Don’t you go using my name, Mister; not when you don’t know me.”
Jeb held out the food he’d bought from Tizzy Graybank’s. “We met the other day, on my way into town. I gave you a copper, remember?”
Davy chewed his lip and closed one eye, scrutinizing Jeb with the other.
“I remember, hmm,” he said, though there was no recognition in his face. “Gave me a copper, you did. Copper for some broth.” He looked at the food for a moment then snatched the sweet pastry and started cramming it into his mouth.
“You can have the pie, too,” Jeb said.
Davy paused in his chewing long enough to take the pie and thrust it in his coat pocket.
“I’m looking for somewhere to stay,” Jeb said. “Somewhere other than the Crawfish, that is.”
Davy pointed to a lane across the way. “Carey’s Hostelry, if you don’t mind whores and drunks. Other than that, there’s just them fancy hotels top of the high street.”
“They got stabling?”
Davy shook his head, crumbs spraying from his mouth as he spoke. “Not Carey’s, no, sir. It’s got loose women, but not much else. Can’t speak for the others; they don’t like me hanging round that part of town.”
Jeb cast a long look toward the lane but decided against it. It was a rare thing, but he was in no mood for whores, especially the scabby kind that no doubt serviced the needs of the fishermen. He didn’t like parting with money unless he had to, but he’d take his chances with one of the highfalutin hotels, if they’d admit him in his condition.
“Listen,” he said, fixing Davy with a serious look. “Your sister—”
“Thanks for the food, Mister.” And with that, Davy turned his back and shuffled in among the crowd.
12
T HE SEA BED was a looming three-story hotel overlooking the cove that sheltered the better part of Portis’s fishing fleet. Someone obviously found the name amusing when the place was built, but to Jeb it was the sort of lame pun his Uncle Joe would have made, had he still been alive; if Mortis hadn’t slaughtered him at the foot of the stairs.
No need for it, Jeb thought, for the thousandth time. His aunt and uncle had been common folk, as much of a threat to the masked hunter as newborn lambs; yet he’d killed them just the same. What was it, a lesson? Or was it something more innate, some personality trait? From what he’d seen and heard over the years, it’s just what Mortis did: killed as indiscriminately as a plague, which was funny in a way—funny, ironic,
“That’s me. How’d you know?”
Jeb pointed to the sign bearing her name at the back of the counter. “That, and the sheriff put in a word for you.”
“Did he now? Mighty nice of him. So, tell me, son, where you from?”
“Malfen,” Jeb said, knowing the reaction that would get.
“Oh,” she said, and spat again, a great bubbly wad of phlegm that clung to the side of the bucket and trickled its way to the floor.
Parting shot like that wasn’t hard to miss, and so Jeb untethered Tubal and led him farther along the high street, hoping to find someplace else to stay, somewhere he’d not chance running into Sweet or Maisie, and somewhere with stabling close by.
He slung the coffee in the gutter when Tizzy Graybank was out of sight, and he was about to ditch the pastry and pie in a side alley when he glimpsed Davy Fana trying to scrounge from the passing fisherfolk and getting nowhere. Hurriedly situating his tin mug back in the saddlebag, Jeb walked Tubal across the street toward him.
“Davy,” he called. “Davy Fana.”
Dozens of wary eyes turned his direction, and people muttered and shook their heads. Davy, though, ambled over, brow creased in confusion.
“Don’t you go using my name, Mister; not when you don’t know me.”
Jeb held out the food he’d bought from Tizzy Graybank’s. “We met the other day, on my way into town. I gave you a copper, remember?”
Davy chewed his lip and closed one eye, scrutinizing Jeb with the other.
“I remember, hmm,” he said, though there was no recognition in his face. “Gave me a copper, you did. Copper for some broth.” He looked at the food for a moment then snatched the sweet pastry and started cramming it into his mouth.
“You can have the pie, too,” Jeb said.
Davy paused in his chewing long enough to take the pie and thrust it in his coat pocket.
“I’m looking for somewhere to stay,” Jeb said. “Somewhere other than the Crawfish, that is.”
Davy pointed to a lane across the way. “Carey’s Hostelry, if you don’t mind whores and drunks. Other than that, there’s just them fancy hotels top of the high street.”
“They got stabling?”
Davy shook his head, crumbs spraying from his mouth as he spoke. “Not Carey’s, no, sir. It’s got loose women, but not much else. Can’t speak for the others; they don’t like me hanging round that part of town.”
Jeb cast a long look toward the lane but decided against it. It was a rare thing, but he was in no mood for whores, especially the scabby kind that no doubt serviced the needs of the fishermen. He didn’t like parting with money unless he had to, but he’d take his chances with one of the highfalutin hotels, if they’d admit him in his condition.
“Listen,” he said, fixing Davy with a serious look. “Your sister—”
“Thanks for the food, Mister.” And with that, Davy turned his back and shuffled in among the crowd.
12
T HE SEA BED was a looming three-story hotel overlooking the cove that sheltered the better part of Portis’s fishing fleet. Someone obviously found the name amusing when the place was built, but to Jeb it was the sort of lame pun his Uncle Joe would have made, had he still been alive; if Mortis hadn’t slaughtered him at the foot of the stairs.
No need for it, Jeb thought, for the thousandth time. His aunt and uncle had been common folk, as much of a threat to the masked hunter as newborn lambs; yet he’d killed them just the same. What was it, a lesson? Or was it something more innate, some personality trait? From what he’d seen and heard over the years, it’s just what Mortis did: killed as indiscriminately as a plague, which was funny in a way—funny, ironic,
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