by Lia Habel
“Not for people like us. It’s how we survive. It’s only because Mártira coddles you that you get away with such pathetic work.” She smacked the wall. “If our parents’d thought about how ‘wrong’ it was to steal, you’d’ve been a corpse years ago. You’d’ve starved in infancy!”
I’d heard this argument before. My father had been a road agent, preying on travelers outside New London. He and my mother were in prison—had been since I was ten. He was the reason Mártira set up shop in the city. He’d told her to be smarter than him. Get other people to steal for her.
I took a different tack. “If they’d done right, they wouldn’t be away from us now.”
“Oh, shut up! I’d yank out the things growing in you if I didn’t think your intestines would come with them.” Claudia rolled back onto her blankets, glaring at the ceiling. “Get out of here!”
I obeyed, shimmying my way onto the ladder and helping Dog mount it above me, doing my best to support him as he learned how to climb down with one hand. The Grave House on Ramee Street was large, a dilapidated and abandoned old place, its dirty rooms smoky and mostly devoid of furniture, but nonetheless overly crowded with people. It was located in the run-down northwest section of New London, the part most New Victorians liked to forget about—the slums where children begged and charity workers cringed and aristocrats never ventured. Once, it had only been our center of operations, our main den. Now it was all we had, even if it couldn’t fit everybody.
Taking Dog by the hand, I wove my way over the warped wooden floor, past tables crammed with card sharps and beggars and pickpockets and frightened ordinary folks, most of them gambling to pass the time. In the corner, one of the street performers was sawing away on his fiddle, the tune horribly cheery in the face of all that had happened. A few people laughed; a few people cried. Everyone appeared ill at ease. A group of streetwalkers, now forever out of work, were gathered about the filthy front windows smoking cheroots, ashes raining on their colorful skirts.
Near the fireplace where Smoke had often sat, burning small objects on the hearth for his own quiet amusement, I found my eldest sister. When confronted with her, my first instinct was to stare, as always. Mártira’s skin was smooth, the color of new parchment. Not a single wound marred her flesh, and her only blemishes were the many black veins that seemed to crawl through her skin like cracks in a piece of fine pottery. Her hair hung to her waist; her black eyes were clear, like chips of obsidian, her lashes so long and dense that the whites were often shaded. She moved with a spectacularly disturbing grace, like a mermaid dancing in the oily River Styx.
To think, I’d created such a thing.
“Mártira?”
She looked at me and smiled. “Laura. Dog.” She spread her arms. She didn’t have to say anything more; I flew to them. Wrapping me up, she kissed me and told me, “It’ll be all right, dove.”
“Are you all right, though?”
“Yes. We’ll recover from this. It’s just been a day of disappointment and pain …” She let go of me, and Dog moved to my side. Looking at him, Mártira said, “I’m so sorry about your hand.”
Dog shrugged. It might’ve been from fatigue, but I decided to say, “He’s taking it like a man.”
“Good.” Mártira sighed. “I confess, I’m at a loss for what to do. But we’ll figure out a way. We always have.”
“If you need money … I don’t think Claudia’s found the last coin you gave me to hide for the gnomes.” Leaving a penny for the gnomes that lived in Grave House was a bit of mummery from my childhood, one I still enjoyed. I’d grown up on Mártira’s stories. The Rat King in the sewer who ate bad children, the gnomes that could be bribed to protect a thieves’ den.
“No, dove. Leave it.”
“She’ll find it anyway. She always does.”
Mártira smiled softly at me. “But perhaps she won’t. Nothing is guaranteed. Anything, anyone, can change.”
For the first time since that morning, I smiled. Mártira was my only protector, and the only one I needed. She’d opted to join me in my condition back in December; she wouldn’t even abandon me to the jaws of death. She was going to turn her life around, my life around. I had to believe in her.
I heard the door opening, a new wave of voices. “Hagens!” Claudia shouted.
My belly tightened and I quickly ushered Dog behind Mártira. We moved just in time. Soon the crowd was parting to let Maria Hagens and a few other zombies through. They looked like they’d been through hell, and they moved toward the fireplace without hesitation.
Hagens terrified me. Everything about her was sharp—her eyes, her voice, her short hair. She’d served in a zombie-only army company before joining up with us, and looking at her, you could believe she might have a pile of human skulls saved up somewhere, horrible war trophies. Her features were angular, her eyes hard. Her exposed cheekbones glowed in the firelight like ossified war paint.
“You made it!” Mártira cried. “Thank God!”
“God, maybe. You, no.” Hagens cut her eyes at me momentarily. Claudia soon appeared at her side, gazing up at her almost adoringly. “But maybe I shouldn’t snap at you right off the bat. Maybe today was the object lesson it should have been.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
“I told her,” Claudia said. “I told her we should have gone out to find you.”
Hagens moved closer to Mártira, her expression growing even more furious. “Let me put it this way, in words that’ll be real easy to understand. You’re out of chances. We have to show the humans that we are not to be trifled with, or they will keep doing this. You—”
“Cicatriz! Your gang better reach for the sky!”
At the sound of the voice calling from outside, the newcomers started to panic and the old-timers did their best to hush them up. Several men lifted sections of the floor and tossed their bottles and weapons within, while others moved closer to the half-boarded front windows, on alert. One looked at my eldest sister and nodded.
Mártira took a moment to compose herself, then brushed past Hagens. “We’ll discuss this later.” She made her way to the door and stepped out onto the front porch. I followed, Dog at my heels.
Outside in the darkness stood twenty living constables, guns at the ready. Heading up the group was a dark-haired man with the intense blue eyes of a husky dog. I’d hoped I’d never see him again.
“Inspector Ramirez,” Mártira said, moving forward. “It’s been a while. I expected you before now.”
“Yeah, well. End of the world and all that.” He looked Mártira up and down. “Death’s been good to you, Márta.”
“You’re too kind.” For once, my sister didn’t sound hopeful or wistful. She was all business. “I’ll save you some words. If you’re looking for your protection money, we don’t have it.”
“Because you spent it on swill,” Claudia muttered, moving to join us.
“And we likely won’t again,” Mártira said, eyeing Claudia. “We’re turning over a new leaf.”
Ramirez glanced past us into the house, sizing up the situation. His fingers tightened uneasily around his gun, while the men behind him remained labile and anxious, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. “Honestly, I heard your entire gang was killed. I’m surprised to see so many of you.”
“You probably heard that the Grave House Gang is no more, which is true. Maybe a quarter of the old group reanimated, and a quarter of that number well. We’re about fifty original members, forty newcomers. Some from other gangs, some not.”
“Well, that’s a shame.” Ramirez looked at me as I lowered my arms to hold Dog, and then back to my sister. “Especially after today, when it’d be right easy to tell my boss you’re harboring more crazies. Saw some of your people in the cage. Realized a visit was long overdue.” As he spoke, several members of his crew backed up, as if expecting us to attack.
“Even if I wanted to give you your money, I couldn’t,
” Mártira said. “The beggars are making less because the living don’t think they need money for food. The whores are out of work, naturally. The street performers have had to start wearing masks and gloves when they can, even the ones that don’t normally dress up. And they’ve been going out without the pickpockets, because I will no longer accept money from illegal act—”
“So your people are still going out?” Ramirez tipped his hat back a bit, his smile slow. “You know they can’t work on the streets for free. That’s not the deal.”
“The deal changed the minute you died,” I heard Hagens hiss. I didn’t dare turn around to look at her. “We can take them.”
Mártira ignored her. “Fine,” she said to Ramirez. “Give us a few weeks.”
“They want to question you guys about today. That’s why I rushed over here.”
“Give us a few weeks, keep the coppers off our backs—I’ll pay you double.”
“No!” Hagens protested—all for naught. After a moment’s contemplation, Ramirez nodded his agreement. He and his men retreated into their LED-festooned police carriages, and we retreated into our den. It was over in seconds. Like usual.
“Double?” whined Joe. “We’re gonna have to get back to hittin’ businesses.”
“This is what I’m talking about,” Hagens shouted once the door was shut. “You have no reason to submit to that slimeball, none! He’s a human, he’s weak. We have sharper senses than the humans, we have the ability to infect them if they’re not vaccinated or the vaccine doesn’t work … He should be groveling on the ground, begging you to spare his life.”
“Miss Hagens, hush.”
Mártira moved through the crowd, back to the fireplace. As she passed a few of the older gang members, they mumbled things to her. I caught one saying, “For a moment, you sounded like the old you.”
“Like hell will I hush!” Hagens pushed her way after us. “Twice now—twice—humans have hunted me through the streets like an animal! I’m not standing for it anymore. I’ve been telling you for weeks that we have to leave! Regroup somewhere safe, make some plans!”
“Suit yourself, Miss Hagens. I am not having my people attack a group of living coppers. All that would do is get every single one of us killed.” Mártira frowned. “Remember, for all your blustering, you’re clean. We’re not. Even now, we need to avoid undue attention. Same reason I knew we couldn’t tell the people we met today everything we know, even though we should’ve.”
Hagens didn’t even pretend to listen to her. “Oh, I’m leaving. And I’ll take anyone who wants to go with me. I know not everyone here is content to pay to play humanitarian. Some of us want to do more. And if that involves violence, so be it.”
Mártira spun around and snapped, “Do none of you hate your past lives the way I do? Has death filled none of you with regret? A desire to change?”
Her questions hung unanswered in the air. In time, a few of the older gang members shook their heads to indicate that no, death had had no such effect on them. Then a few more. Mártira’s expression stiffened. Claudia glared at me, as if I’d somehow infected my eldest sister with my ideas of right and wrong.
Perhaps I had.
“They have the right of it,” Hagens said. “There’s no shame in doing what you have to do to survive. Thrive. From everything I hear, you knew that once—and you were damn good at it.”
She was right. I knew there were people out there who still feared my sister because of the things she’d done before she died. That was half the reason she was still our leader now. I was grateful to be ignorant of the details.
And yet, I wasn’t so ignorant that I didn’t feel the cold crush of fear. If Mártira was cast down as leader, what would happen to us?
After a time, Mártira asked, “Who would go with Hagens? Leave the city?”
Claudia said, “If we’re calling a vote, the leaders have to—”
“Enough! Who would leave?” Mártira shouted. “Tell me now!”
About half the gang raised their hands. One of the streetwalkers came forth and said, “They chased us, ma’am. They meant to kill us. You ask me, it’s crazy you want to stay! What if they pin Smoke on us, like Joe said?” A hum of approval punctuated the end of her sentence.
“Smoke?” Hagens said. For a split second I couldn’t tell if it was fear or fury I saw in her eyes. “What about Smoke? Has something happened to him? Where is he?”
Mártira looked to the crackling fire, her movements slow. She ignored Hagens’s questions. “Very well. Then I will take you. We’ll leave tonight.” She lifted her head, turning her black eyes on Hagens. “But we will not act out of anger. Not anymore.”
Hagens stared hard at Mártira before rolling her shoulders and catching Claudia by the arm. “You will soon, if you’re smart.” Hagens turned her back on us, dragging Claudia along. “Soon enough, you will.”
“Lord Allishter?” my father’s mistress asked as she stumbled into the pool of pale morning sunlight designed to fall—through the magic of custom architecture—directly on my faux ivory desk. I took my breakfast on a silver tray there every morning. “Oops, wrong Allishter!” She giggled. “Wrong bedchamber!”
“Miss Perdido,” I said, squinting up at her. Catherine “Coco” Perdido was highly beautiful—and at the moment, apparently highly intoxicated. The young woman’s fat honey-brown curls, which had no doubt been arranged becomingly around her heart-shaped face the night before, were drooping, and her kohl-smudged eyes were narrowed against the light. “Do come in. Wouldn’t do to have the servants see you.”
“Oh! Kind opf you. Very dutiful son, you are. Sh’know, while I’m here, I wanted to ashk you …” The woman shut the door, turned the lock, and instantly sobered up. “You left a note behind the loose wainscoting again?”
“I did.” I paused, because I was honestly too exhausted to elaborate yet. I’d gotten my mask off and hidden mere moments before her arrival. I was dirty and my muscles ached and my thoughts were consumed by just how much time had been wasted last night, just how much money pissed away—and all for nothing.
I was taking too many risks. More than I’d planned on. This couldn’t be all for nothing.
Coco didn’t prod me. She tossed her valise upon the Turkish carpet and collapsed into one of the overstuffed green velvet armchairs flanking the whitewashed fireplace, fussing with her hair. She’d thrown a tan duster over her sparkling black evening gown, but the garment still clashed against the forest-and-cream décor of my suite.
“Question.” I leaned forward. “When you deliver my notes, do you make sure they go precisely where I tell you? The Silver Bridle pub in La Rosa, yes?”
“I follow your instructions to the letter. If you actually put names on them instead of numbers, I could try to get them into someone’s hands, but …” Coco shrugged. “I’m not usually invited into the best houses, now, am I?”
“You can get into any house you like, Miss Perdido,” I informed her, doing my best to keep my temper in check.
“How?” she snorted.
“The same way you got into this one. I believe, to put it indelicately, that the keys to the castle are kept between your legs.”
Coco’s eyes opened fully. “I won’t be talked to like that! I might be a—a—”
“Prostitute?” I tried, helpfully. “Former two-penny actress?”
Twisted with rage though her features became, she was still sublimely beautiful. My father never employed less than the best. He’d kept a mistress as long as I could remember, and I’d never had cause to dislike any of them. They’d played with me when I was a child, told me how handsome I was as a youngster, and now treated me to kind and deferential conversation. Although their continued youth was beginning to disturb me, somewhat. Coco looked young enough to be my sister.
“Lord Allister’s mistress! I’m an honest woman.” She stood and picked up her valise. “You know what? Deliver your own damn letters. I don’t even see why you bother with paper not
es, you obsessive little freak. Write your friends emails like a normal boy, and never speak to me again. Or I’ll tell your father everything!”
All at once, the fear I’d tried so hard to ignore all night burned through me. My father aside—without Coco I’d have to deliver the notes myself. No. That wasn’t an option. I’d be spotted, or my carriage recognized. Everything would unravel. God damn it, I’d not spent the night riding around New London, watching ten thousand things go wrong, just to be talked back to and possibly unmasked by an overglorified whore!
I would not be humiliated again. Ever again.
As Coco started to storm out I gained my feet and caught her by the arm, twisting her around to face me. Boy though I might be, I was still taller than her, and able to squeeze her flesh till she released a cry of pain.
“Stupid,” I told her. “What is it with mouthy, stupid women ruining my life lately?”
“Let go of me!”
“Not until we get a few things straight.” I gripped her arm even tighter, and she dropped her bag. “First of all, you work for my father, you work for me. Or I’ll tell him a pair of cuff links came up short, a silver knife—oh, the things you could be accused of taking. And a slut who steals is a slut who never works again.” She opened her mouth, but I spoke first. “You think he’d side with you? You’re nothing more than a plaything for him. Don’t act like you’re some king’s pet, the balm for his loveless marriage. He makes you sneak in and out like a streetwalker. You are not his first pillow-warmer, and you certainly will not be his last. If I were you, I wouldn’t jeopardize my chance to save up while my flesh is firm and the work is steady.”
Coco’s eyes rounded. Finally, she was listening.
“For your information, my parents have access to my email and Aethernet history now, and digital ghosts are hard to exorcise. Ashes tell no tales. Which is why I need you to shut your trap and continue to do what I pay you for, before I’m forced to … well. Have I made myself clear?”
It took a moment, but she nodded. “Please … don’t. I have a little boy …”