Jacaranda (The Clockwork Century 6)

“I can’t…oh God, I can’t. Not another one, not—”

Whatever else she groaned was lost when she slammed the office door, and sealed when she turned the deadbolt to secure herself within.

The hard line of Mrs. Fields’s mouth softened, and upturned into a faint smile. “Worthless child, directing the traffic of the damned. She’s not like the rest of us, though.”

“How’s that?” the padre asked. He held out an arm, offering her strength to lean on or merely guidance toward the nearest wicker chaise.

Like all other offers thus far, she refused it. “Sarah wasn’t called here, not like we were. She was only too weak to walk on past. Well…” she swayed, but did not fall. “She can stay here if she likes. Or if she thinks she has to.” Her eyes stayed transfixed upon the front doors. “Even hell needs its civil servants.”

“But we’re still quite firmly on earth. Is it some kind of punishment? Some kind of justice, for a sin left unconfessed?” the padre asked, knowing there wasn’t much time left. There couldn’t be. She couldn’t lose so much blood and skin and muscle, and remain upright for long.

“It’s something like that.”

Sister Eileen had questions, too. “What about the Pattersons? What was their sin?”

“A swindle. An old man with money and trust, but little sense. They took everything, and left him to die alone…”

The nun recoiled, ever so slightly. “Oh God…”

“The Alvarez women had a matriarch once. A different one, I mean. She’s dead now, and you can guess…you can always guess. Silas Andrews had raped and murdered. There was a woman, feeble in the mind but gentle as a…” she swayed again. Her knees locked. “I don’t know about the rest.”

Juan Rios caught her, and felt the press of exposed ribs through his frock. He tried not to notice the pulse of the woman’s breath throbbing through the shredded skin…the shivering spasms of muscles meeting air…or the warm dampness that soaked through to his wrist.

He hoisted her up, and with the nun’s help, he drew her to the chaise where he placed her on her side.

Sister Eileen grumbled, “I don’t suppose Sarah will be helping with the water or the rags after all.”

“Don’t be so hard on her,” the padre urged. “The hotel is hard enough.”

But Constance Fields agreed with the nun. “A woman shouldn’t…shouldn’t run off like that. Not in the face of a little blood.”

“It’s not so much the blood,” he argued softly. He brushed a lock of hair away from her face, and left a smudge of crimson on her cheek. “And this is more than just a little.”

Mrs. Fields nodded, and her lips fluttered. “Tell my husband…tell him I had regrets. Tell him that, would you?”

“I will,” her companions vowed, their words knitting together as neatly as a verse.

She closed her eyes, opened them again. Exhaled.

And the only sound left was the drip, drip, drip as the blood seeped through the wicker and splashed upon the floor. One thin stream, one bubbled drop after another, until there was volume enough to spread through the grout on the lobby floor—snaking around the tiles in that sinister mosaic, staining the white bits red, and the black bits blacker still.

Sister Eileen looked up at the ceiling, as if she’d meant to check the sky—but was surprised to find herself indoors. “I need to leave. Immediately. With my regrets, of course. Will you see to her?” She nodded down at the cooling corpse of Constance Fields in the chaise.

He wanted to complain, to ask why both remaining women must flee and leave him to clean up. But instead he said, “Yes, I’ll see to her.” He didn’t believe that Mrs. Fields had been Catholic, but he’d say his prayers out of principle. “Go on, and do what you must.”

The nun vanished, as fast as the flicker of gold that sometimes sparked in her eyes. For a moment, the padre wondered if her sudden disappearance hadn’t been a trick—or if she hadn’t been some small, peculiar specter all along.

But no, he could hear her footsteps, light and fast.

(Too fast, he thought. And too far away already.)

He rose to his feet, and went to the office door. “Sarah?” He knocked, and he said her name again with his firmest voice. “Sarah, I need your help.”

After half a minute’s silence, she opened the door. Her eyes were glassy and red with tears, and her nose was pink from having been rubbed with a handkerchief. She whispered, “I’m not strong.”

He knew that already, but he didn’t say so.

“I don’t need strength. I need a sheet or a blanket, and a shovel. Also, some information: Is there any church nearby? Her own, or anyone else’s?”