If he won’t let her look, then so be it.
Bo Li thought, in any case, your mask will ultimately be torn off by the heroine.
Only after the portrait was completely consumed by flames did Erik allow Bo Li to open her eyes.
Bo Li glanced at Boyd’s corpse and felt a headache coming on.
Although both Tricky and Boyd had received their just deserts—the former living off the murder of the deformed, the latter swindling both money and women—the police did not know this.
Would Erik be arrested by the police?
Would those fleeing “female mediums” go report it?
How was she supposed to clear him of charges?
At that moment, footsteps came from outside the reception room.
Bo Li jolted, thinking the police had arrived. Her mind quickly prepared an innocent excuse, but to her surprise, the one who entered was Mrs. Merlin.
Mrs. Merlin carried a lamp, her face expressionless. She glanced at Boyd’s corpse, then at Tricky’s severed head hanging from the chandelier, and spoke in a flat tone: “They are finally dead.”
She then looked at Bo Li and Erik. “You need not wait. The police will not come. Tricky was in the business of dealing with the deformed, and long ago made arrangements with the police—whatever happens here, the police will not interfere.”
Bo Li: “…Why are you so calm?”
“Because neither of them were any good,” Mrs. Merlin said coldly. “They deceived the mistress into lending them the house, and then committed deeds of rape, murder, and plunder here. I told the mistress many times that Boyd was not a good man, but no matter what, she would never believe that spiritualism was false.”
“Why?” Bo Li asked.
“Because the mistress has seen a real ghost,” Mrs. Merlin replied.
Bo Li furrowed her brows slightly. “A real ghost?”
Yet no matter how she tried to draw her out, Mrs. Merlin refused to speak further.
From beginning to end, Erik had not said a word. Only when Mrs. Merlin asked them to leave did he act—one hand carrying Tricky’s head, the other dragging Boyd’s collar, preparing to walk out just like that.
Bo Li could hardly bear to look. Just as she was about to persuade him to put them down, he said calmly: “They are wanted criminals. There’s a bounty.”
Bo Li: “…”
She could hardly believe it—she had just been taught the law by a horror movie protagonist!
“A bounty?”
Before Erik could answer, Mrs. Merlin spoke impatiently: “Have you never been to the post office or the train station? Wanted posters of those two are everywhere. Dead or alive, fifty dollars each. I originally thought to keep their corpses and exchange them for a little money, but since you want them, then take them away. Leave at once, I must begin scrubbing the floors.”
In a flash, Bo Li understood the crux of it.
So, the reason Tricky had been so eager to obtain Erik was not to make him into a specimen or add him to the “Freak Show,” but to have Erik protect him.
At this time in America, the westward expansion had yet to fully end, and police forces were severely lacking. Anyone could become a bounty hunter.
Tricky must have run into several hunting parties. In his panic, even bribing the New Orleans police no longer worked, and so he set his sights on Erik.
Who would have thought, not only did he fail to obtain Erik’s protection, but instead became a soul ensnared by the lasso.
Before leaving, Bo Li asked Mrs. Merlin: “You said Tricky was in the business of dealing with the deformed. Then do you know where he kept them?”
Mrs. Merlin sneered. “What, do you also wish to make specimens out of them?”
“No,” Bo Li explained patiently, “I want to employ them, to give them proper work.”
“Proper work?” Mrs. Merlin said. “And how proper is that? Making them stand on stage like monkeys, waiting for gawkers to toss coins, or sending them to hospitals for examination?”
Since she had something to ask, Bo Li did not let her temper flare. Her tone remained gentle yet steady. “You misunderstand me. The work I mean is to let them, like true actors, move audiences with story, performance, and personal charm, winning applause and recognition—not relying on a different appearance.”
“And why should I believe such nonsense?” Mrs. Merlin said.
Bo Li cast Erik a subtle glance, lowered her lashes, and said softly: “I am not trying to win your trust. It is because I promised someone… that I would let him see that people’s sympathy is but a privilege. And by using this privilege, even those deemed deformed may become the finest of stage actors.”
As her words fell, Erik’s gaze landed on her.
Bo Li could not tell whether her performance bore too heavy a mark, but recently, whenever he looked at her, his eyes always seemed chillingly cold, like sharp blades ready to cut her open and judge her.
It could only be said that his temperament was becoming increasingly strange.
In the past, when she spoke well of him, she could at least gain a little favor.
Now, when she spoke well of him, he would actually be provoked.
Unexpectedly, her words failed to win Erik’s goodwill, but instead softened Mrs. Merlin’s expression.
Mrs. Merlin looked her over several times and said: “I did not expect that though you look like a street ruffian, you speak like a well-bred young lady.”
Bo Li: “…I am not a street ruffian.”
She spoke while inwardly puzzled—where on earth did she look like one?
Yet in Mrs. Merlin’s eyes, Bo Li wore a wide-brimmed lady’s hat, shirt and trousers, with a delicate and beautiful countenance, and eyes so bright—so bright that even before a severed head and a corpse, their light did not diminish in the slightest.
Only a street ruffian, a swindler, an unbound woman could have such a radiance.
The radiance of a young lady—like that of her own mistress—would, by contrast, be worn away, swallowed by the house, and turn into a stagnant pool of dead water.
Mrs. Merlin said indifferently: “Your words sound pleasant, but unfortunately, I still do not believe you. Go.”
Bo Li did not persist stubbornly.
She sensed that Mrs. Merlin’s attitude had loosened. If she came again in a few days to work at it, perhaps she could coax the hiding place of the deformed from her lips.
Besides this, Bo Li also wanted to know what kind of ghost the mistress of this villa had seen.
But that seemed to be Mrs. Merlin’s taboo, and could only be spoken of another time.
As she was about to leave the villa, Bo Li turned back to glance at the portrait of the villa’s mistress—Madam Hilly.
Was it her imagination?
The portrait seemed to carry an inexplicable sense of discord, as though something that ought not exist had appeared upon the canvas.
She was just about to look closer when Mrs. Merlin stepped out, expressionless, staring at her.
Bo Li did not wish to offend her, so she offered an awkward and clumsy curtsy before turning to leave.
Erik, carrying the head and the corpse, followed calmly behind her.
The sight was far too eerie.
Bo Li dared not turn her head to look at him at all.
Once outside the villa, Erik’s expression remained indifferent as he lifted Tricky and Boyd with one hand and tossed them into the carriage—the luxurious one that had belonged to Tricky.
Bo Li had originally rather wanted this carriage, but upon seeing this scene, she decided it was best not to.
After finishing, he seated himself on the driver’s bench and took up the reins.
Bo Li, fearing he might abandon her, was just about to clamber up using both hands and feet when, the next moment, he tugged off his black glove, cast it aside, and extended a hand to her.
Perhaps he himself did not realize it—this was the first time he had ever reached a hand out to her—his bare hand.
The thought startled Bo Li.
No one would normally think of a hand as “bare,” but she must have been influenced by his almost taboo attitude toward his own body.
Yet once the thought arose, it could not be pressed down again.
Even beneath the heavy darkness of night, his fingers appeared exceptionally striking—slender and well-defined joints, like some kind of pure, translucent jade, with faint blue veins subtly raised.
So beautiful to such an extent that it was almost forbidden, something one dared not look at directly.
Her gaze lingered far too long on his hand, sweeping back and forth—from knuckle to vein, to the wrist bone, and finally to the taut, lean muscle of his forearm.
At last, he could endure no more. His voice was cold as he commanded: “Get up.”
Only then did Bo Li come back to herself. She grasped his hand and climbed onto the driver’s bench.
The journey was silent.
From the carriage behind them, the stench of blood ceaselessly drifted forward to the driver’s seat.
Bo Li felt as though she had been bleeding from the nose all night, for everything she smelled seemed like blood.
In the dawn hours, the streets were shrouded in fog, the air cold and damp, echoing with the sound of wheels grinding through mud, the ground scored with the chaotic ruts left from the day before.
The homeless were even more numerous than she had imagined. Though the night was deep and still, the streets were not empty—many loitered at the roadside, chatting idly, dazing, or sleeping.
Some were already awake, spitting and washing themselves by the roadside. A woman came out carrying a chamber pot and casually emptied it onto the street.
All at once, Bo Li felt a sharp loneliness.
It was not as if she had never been alone in a foreign land before, but this time was different.
She felt as if her very soul were bound by something; thus, even though she had once been deceived, upon hearing Mrs. Merlin mention “ghosts,” she still wished to pursue the matter.
Suddenly, the carriage made a sharp turn.
Erik’s driving had always been steady, yet this time she was nearly flung out.
Bo Li suspected—had he forgotten there was someone seated beside him?
To keep him from swerving again, she cast aside all thoughts of homesickness and clung tightly to his arm, lest she be thrown from the carriage and break her neck.
Ten minutes later, the carriage came to a halt before the police station.
When Erik entered with Tricky and Boyd’s wanted posters in hand, the sheriff nearly thought he was being robbed—for only robbers would wander the streets in a mask.
Bo Li hurriedly stepped forward to explain, and only then did the sheriff, half-believing, lower his gun.
“So these two swindlers are now called Tricky and Boyd… truly impossible to guard against!”
The sheriff blew his nose into a handkerchief, seeming altogether ignorant of their misdeeds in town. If Mrs. Merlin had not mentioned that Tricky had greased the palms of the police, Bo Li herself might almost have been deceived by his look of innocence.
“These two frauds must have gone by more names than one can count, swindling wherever they went, harming the people. Put them there. Here is your bounty.”
Bo Li picked it up and counted: “Why is it only fifty dollars? Wasn’t it fifty each, a hundred for the two?”
“That’s enough.” The sheriff waved a hand, reclined back in his chair, and propped his boots upon the desk. “You two don’t look like professional bounty hunters. I won’t pursue your killings, and even giving you fifty dollars is already generous.”
Bo Li’s thoughts turned swiftly. She removed her wide-brimmed hat, revealing her short hair, placed one booted foot upon the chair beside her, and spat upon the floor like a bandit:
“Why would you assume this is my first time bounty hunting? Let me tell you something—before Tricky and Boyd died, they confessed quite a few interesting matters… However, we are not good Samaritans. Just give us the remaining fifty dollars, and we will guarantee to keep our mouths shut.”
The sheriff’s expression shifted slightly. “Are you threatening me?”
Bo Li smiled. “I wouldn’t dare. You know, in our line of work, we prefer to stay on good terms with the police, and dislike meddling in other people’s business.”
Seeing this woman with cropped hair and trousers, who had taken down two troublesome fugitives, the sheriff began to suspect she truly had some skill.
In these times, there were indeed female gunfighters. For a woman to be a bounty hunter, she had to be more ruthless than a man, shoot straighter, and act more swiftly.
The sheriff, not wishing for trouble, rummaged in his drawer, pulled out another fifty dollars, and tossed it to Bo Li. “Fine, fine—consider it for a lady’s sake.”
Bo Li received the money, her face instantly breaking into a radiant smile. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
Erik, watching coldly from the side, suddenly spoke: “Let’s go.”
Bo Li paid no mind to his tone. She happily counted her money as she walked out of the station.
The fog had thinned somewhat, and the lamplighter had begun extinguishing the gas lamps one by one. That inexplicable feeling of loneliness once again flickered through her heart.
The nineteenth century was in some ways very like the modern age, yet in others utterly unlike. This sense of being out of joint with an entire era was not something she could dwell upon—for if she thought too deeply, her heart would be thrown into turmoil.
At that moment, she caught sight of Erik’s figure, and that helpless loneliness was instantly driven away by other concerns.
She had far too many things to do—continue currying Erik’s favor, coax Mrs. Merlin into revealing the hiding place of the deformed, and discover just what ghost the mistress of the villa had truly seen.
Beyond that, she needed to write scripts for the deformed, rehearse their stage plays, and devise a way to use them to convey to Erik her belief that outward appearance did not matter.
Most important of all, she had to stop Erik from killing at random.
This time, he had killed fugitives, and there was a bounty to collect—but what about the next time?
Nineteenth-century America might have been imperfect in its laws, but it was not lawless.
She must find a time to speak with him, to urge him only to kill the wicked, and leave the good untouched.
And as for the carriage—the cabin was drenched in blood. She would have to hire someone to clean it.
The moment she saw Erik, she felt herself busy to the point of exhaustion, leaving no place for loneliness to rest. Why, then, had she felt lonely before? How strange.
No wonder, she thought, she had always felt a peculiar sense of safety about him.
So this was the reason.
Bo Li climbed onto the carriage, seated herself beside Erik, hesitated for a moment, then braced herself on the driver’s bench and leaned sideways to press a kiss upon his white mask. “Thank you.”
It was both flattery and gratitude.
The nature of their relationship had not changed.
She was still the prey, and he the hunter—the one who stalked, pursued, drew near, and so easily held her throat in his grasp.
Yet her feelings toward him had undergone… a subtle shift.
It was, without doubt, a mistake—improper, unhealthy.
But she needed this mistaken change in order to live on.
Bo Li clung to his arm and closed her eyes.
Erik’s gaze betrayed no change, but if one looked closely, one would see that from jawline to arm, his body had grown unusually taut.
The dagger was in his boot.
The rope was at his belt.
He need only reach out his hand to strangle her.
He did not even require such tools—just a flick of the wrist, and she would be cast down, neck snapped in an instant.
He had countless ways to dispel the discomfort of her closeness.
And yet, in the end, he did nothing.
He allowed her to lean against his arm, permitted the warmth of her body to seep into him, inescapable, all-pervading.
Like needles, like thorns, rendering him unable to move.