The Damsel and the Daggerman: A BLUD Novella Read Online Free Page B

on you, perchance?”
    Jacinda’s skin prickled, remembering the warm, dry feel of Letitia’s palm against hers, the fingers gripping tightly as a little ripple of something passed between them.
    Before she could speak, Imogen chuckled softly and said, “Of course she has, or else they’d never have allowed you in to question us. I’m sorry we can’t be of more help, Hen—I mean, Mr. Murdoch and me. Good luck.”
    As Imogen swept her dishes off the table and left, Jacinda looked down at the creased old paper and unfolded it. It was the London Gazette , one of her favorites. She’d made a habit of picking it up in major cities around the world during her travels. Skimming went against her nature, but she would save her in-depth reading for another time. Instead, she flipped through until she found the Wanted poster, only a quarter of a page and clearly done by a sensationalist hack. The image looked nothing like Marco Taresque as she’d seen him.
    The drawing showed a devil of a man with a cleaver in his hand, dripping black blood.
    WANTED: THE DEADLY DAGGERMAN
    In conjunction with the underhanded disappearance of one Petra Incanta on 22 February 1906, being a petite woman with dark hair and the knife thrower’s ill-fated assistant. Deliver to London Coppers dead or alive. Reward ten silvers.
    And that was all. It didn’t even mention his name, which explained how he could perform here without being dragged off by a lynch mob. She pored over the periodical, but there was no reporting, no quotes from family, friends, or Coppers. Just the poster, sure to induce fear in the easily frightened children of London. Jacinda folded the paper and snorted. Idiots, all of them, and sloppy reporting to boot.
    Journalism was more than work to her—it was a passion, a calling, one that her husband had died pursuing by her side. Although she was outgoing and accustomed to learning quickly the customs of a given society, she missed having someone insightful with whom to discuss the day’s findings over a cup of tea. All the people she had met so far at Criminy Stain’s caravan had been kind and welcoming, if not actually helpful. But she missed Liam more than ever, the way they had worked so intuitively as a team to unearth secrets and treasures and stories. He would have loved the caravan.
    Try as she might, there were some things that men would only tell other men, and her late husband had been adept at sidling in with a cigar or a bottle of brandy. But he was gone now, and she was alone, and she wasn’t giving up, even if this was one story that was going to have to come straight from the bludmare’s mouth, as they said.
    Standing, she took a last look around the dining car. Marco wasn’t here, which meant the story wasn’t here. Stuffing an apple into her pocket, she nodded to herself and made for the door and the weak sunshine beyond. These days, the next story was the only thing that kept her going.

    This time, when she approached the clockwork bird, she found Mr. Murdoch blocking her path. She could barely see his eyes through the thick goggles that hid the rest of his face.
    He cocked his head at her as if she’d forgotten her shirt. “Lose your mutt?” he asked.
    “Your clockworks appear to be the only ones that don’t require recharging. Brutus sleeps more than I do.” She pulled out her disruptor, and he held up a hand covered in a thick leather glove.
    “Put that device back where it goes, madam. I can’t have you mucking about, destroying my work.”
    She waved the disruptor under his nose, her finger hovering over the red button. “How do I get by, then?”
    He harrumphed. “I suppose we’re stuck with you for a while, at least until you finish your blasted tell-all book. Look, they’re guards. You see? Keep the rabble out of our private space. You want in, you walk up to this clockwork—this bird only—and say, ‘posthumous orangutan grotesque.’ He’ll freeze for a minute, and you can squeeze