#yes i am still running with the devil/hell imagery because it worked last time lol

[mischievouslittlecreature]

WIP Whenever

Was tagged by the lovely @eclecticwildflowers to do this!

Tagging @confidentandgood, @areyenotfondofmelobster, @scaryscarecrows, @roofgeese, @emilynightshade89, @shelbydelrey, @detectivelokis, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @angryvengeful, and anyone else interested!

It may be a little while before any of this gets posted, since I’m trying to get more into the habit of finishing my WIPs before I start posting them, but I figured I’d give you guys a little blurb from the my upcoming sequel to These Devilish Intentions. 

Red Right Hand Chapter 1: In the Depths of Hell

Lucy could feel the powerful muscles in the horse’s side move against her legs with every step it took. The morning air was still cool, and as always full of smoke and the smell of burning coal. Shifting forward, she settled her hands on Tommy’s waist for balance, her chest pressed to his back as he clutched the horse’s reins in his hand. They rode without a saddle, her hand petting unencumbered along the soft black fur that covered the horse’s back.

As they walked in a steady, unhurried stride down the road, the people gathered there gasped, scrambling to the sides to get out of the way. Many of them rushed into their houses and closed the doors, drawing the curtains across the windows. Lucy tilted her head, well aware that her gray cap obscured the top half of her face from view. With every step the horse made her red curls bounced and swayed around her chin rhythmically. 

Tommy pulled them to a stop in the center of the road. As always she kept her head on a swivel, eternally aware of the weight of the gun resting in her holster against her ribs. It was unlikely that any of these common people would try anything. They all knew what would happen if they did. But still, one never could be too careful.   

Two figures raced around the corner. One, a man, garbed in all black. The other, a woman, in a teal shirt. Cutting it a bit close, as far as punctuality could be concerned.

They skittered to a stop in front of them, looking up with eyes full of fear.

“Sir?” the man said to Tommy. “This is her.”

Tommy shot a lazy glance to the woman, examining her carefully. “The girl who tells fortunes?”

The woman said nothing, but looked at Tommy levelly. Tommy reached into his pocket, and passed a few folded notes to the man. Lucy spotted a gaggle of children, watching from behind a box. A man and woman half-obscured from view by the shirts and skirts flapping on a clothesline. Families peeking behind the edges of curtains to look out their windows. Good. Let them all watch. That was what they were here for, after all.

The woman in the teal shirt pulled a red bag from her pocket, pouring from it a fine, bright red powder into her palm. Red like blood. Red like a ruby. Red like Lucy’s hair.

The woman began to chant softly, her eyes fixed into the horse’s eyes, her lips lowered to just above her outstretched palm. And then, with one great exhale of air, she blew the red powder out and into the horse’s face. He neighed, tossing his head back, but did not rear. Just snorted and shook out his mane.

The man gripped the woman tightly by the wrist. Never once did he take his eyes off of Tommy. They backed away slowly, bowed once, and, after Lucy gave a jerk of her chin in permission, they took off running back the way they came.

Tommy guided the horse in a small circle, its hooves clicking against the cobblestones.

“The horse’s name is Monaghan Boy,” Tommy’s voice boomed across the silent street. “Kempton, three o’clock, Monday. You ladies have a bet yourselves but don’t tell anyone else,” he began to urge the horse forward again. When she glanced over her shoulder, Lucy could see that the people were beginning to emerge from their hiding places, some going back to their usual business, but many of them watching them leave with expressions that were in equal parts full of wariness and wonderment.

As soon as they’d vanished from the view of the street, Tommy urged Monaghan Boy into a steady trot. Lucy relaxed somewhat, letting her chest press more firmly against his back, feeling his warmth even through the layers of his clothes. He always ran hot, like the fires of hell itself lived within his veins. They rode swiftly past Charlie’s yard, the roar of the factories, the creaking screams of heavy machinery echoing around them. Like the cries of damned, tortured souls wailing to the sky for absolution.  

They’d left early that morning. Early enough that most people were still in bed, the streets almost empty. But now they were alive and bustling, people dodging and jumping out of the way of the black horse. Jeremiah was walking the streets, bible in hand, shouting something about Abraham. He nodded in greeting when he saw them, a grin spreading across his face. Tommy gave a small tilt of his head in acknowledgment. Lucy smiled. They passed a group of blind beggars, seeking their way with the help of sticks and a dog, a metal cup stretched out in a silent plea. The handful of coins Tommy tossed in their cup clinked.

Monaghan Boy turned a corner, a few of the men gathered outside of the Garrison mumbling greetings. There was a sudden boom from up a head, and for a moment the horse jerked in surprise and fright, a high sound emitting from its throat, but all it took was a firm jerk of the reins from Tommy and he settled. Two coppers, dressed in their uniforms, nodded and tipped their hats as they passed.

“Good morning, Mr. Shelby.”

As they continued down the street, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, smirk tracing over her lips at the people looking up at them as they rode. Birmingham was quite likely hell on earth, dark and black with soot and smoke, rage and pain. 

But hell wasn’t so bad, when you have the Devil on your side.