by Lyndsay Ely
“When we’ve finished here.” Selene brushed the dust from the front of her dress. “Patrick? Are you okay?”
Sheridan, to his credit, did not look nearly as bad as Pity felt. His face was flushed, and a line of sweat painted his brow, but he took in the proceedings with restrained aplomb. “I am.”
“Good.” She addressed two of the Tin Men. “Take him back to his suite.”
“Selene, I—”
“This isn’t something you need to see. My apologies, breakfast will have to wait for another day.”
As the men escorted him to the waiting elevator, Pity made a move to follow.
“Pity, you stay.” Selene gestured at the prisoners.
The Tin Men pulled them into kneeling positions and ripped off their helmets. The one from the terrace had pale hair and a ratty face. His companion was older, with a red scar over one eye.
Santino looked them over. “Mercenaries. And not cheap ones, judging by the armor and weapons.”
Selene considered the pair. When she finally spoke, her voice was as soft as a kiss. “Who sent you here?”
Neither replied.
“Ma’am,” Santino said, “would you like me to—”
“No.” The kiss turned to ice. “I’ll give you a choice. The first one to tell me who sent you dies right now, quickly. The other will be interrogated for everything else. Hours, days, weeks… as long as it takes me to feel satisfied that anything of importance has been disclosed. Do you believe that I will do this?”
One nodded, and then the other.
“Good. Now… talk.”
An edged silence fell. Even from the safety of the prevailing side, Pity tensed as anxious seconds passed, a bitter taste in her mouth.
The remaining assassins stared at the floor, eyes blank, as if they were seeing nothing. The one with the scar began to shake. But it was the ratty man who spoke first, one word that looked to pain him more than his injuries.
“Daneko.”
“Daneko?” growled Beau.
Selene waved a hand, silencing him. Then she took his gun and went to the confessor. Pity turned away as a single shot rang out—worse, somehow, than all the ones that had preceded it. A meaty thump followed. When she found the courage to look back, the Tin Men were wrenching the remaining assassin to his feet.
“Please… wait… He wasn’t alone.”
Selene signaled for the Tin Men to pause. “What do you mean?”
“Daneko wasn’t the one who paid us,” the man panted. “I don’t know who did, but I overheard him say something to our team leader about help from back east.”
“Hmm.” Selene stared at him for a moment. “I look forward to hearing the details Santino pries out of you on that topic. Take him away.” Any hope for mercy—of any kind—evaporated from the assassin’s face. “To the interrogation cell, not the regular ones.”
Beau accepted his gun back from Selene when they were gone. “Daneko didn’t get them into Casimir unseen. Not with that amount of gear.”
Selene nodded. “He didn’t get them onto my terrace, either.”
“They must have had assistance here as well—codes, maps, a way to bypass the surveillance cameras.”
“I know.” Selene turned back to Pity. She smiled neutrally. “Ugly business, this.”
Pity could think of nothing to say. Selene had just executed someone. Maybe not in cold blood but lukewarm at best. But I killed, too. It felt unreal, though it had happened scant minutes before. Whatever had burned within during the attack was extinguished, leaving a hollow that clawed at her, trying to fill itself. She stared at the tangle of still forms on the marble floor.
I killed them.
“Santino, take a team,” Beau ordered. “I want Daneko here, now. We never should have believed him or the bullshit peace he—”
“Beau, relax.” Selene pulled out her chair and sat, paying no mind to the fresh bullet holes in it. “We don’t need to exert ourselves. Why not have the dogs corner the rat? Send a message to the other gang leaders. Find Daneko, contain him, and send word. If he isn’t cornered by sundown, Cessation shuts down.” Her eyes narrowed. “And Casimir is closed until I decide it isn’t.”
The side door opened. Rifles snapped up, but it was only Adora.
“Everything okay in here?” she said as if she had found them out of drinks rather than surrounded by bodies.
“Everything is fine now, Adora,” said Selene. “Get someone in here to deal with this mess, would you? And the one below my balcony as well.” She paused. “Beau, why not send a head along with each message. It will add a touch of urgency, don’t you think? And, Santino, our new guest will wait a bit. See to Pity.” Selene reached across the desk and squeezed Pity’s arm affectionately. “Thank you, my dear. I’m in your debt.”
Pride joined Pity’s stew of emotions as Santino scooped her up again. It was a pleasant addition, though it didn’t quite neutralize the others.
“I can walk!” she protested.
“Miss Selene said take care of you, so I’m taking care of you.”
“Hold on.” For a moment Beau considered Pity, eyes chilly. “That was stupid. You should have waited for me.”
She held his gaze, acutely aware of the odds they’d overcome. “They would have gone for you first and then killed me and Sheridan anyway. You had more ammo and you miss less. It made sense.”
He glanced at Selene, then back to Pity. “Next time I give you an order, you follow it.” He paused. “But Selene is right—you did good.”
“Thank you.” Pity heard the sincerity in his words.
She could only hope her own belief in them would come later.
“A few more,” said Dr. Starr. “Keep still.”
On the rigid exam bed, Pity lay on her stomach, a towel draped over her bare hips. The wound had been cold fire by the time Santino got her to the clinic, but thanks to an injection from Starr, the pain had receded to a dull, warm throb. Still, with each new stitch, each pull of the thread, Pity squeezed Santino’s broad hand tighter.
“You’re almost done, chica.” He chuckled. “You’ve been blown up and shot at, and look at you—green over a few stitches.”
Pity gritted her teeth, trying to lose the sensation to the narcotic tide. “It feels weird.”
“Not as bad as getting shot.”
“Or getting blown up.” She looked into Santino’s golden-brown eyes. “How many times are you gonna have to get me fixed up?”
“No sé. Seems like you’ve got nine lives.”
“I think I’m down a few.”
Santino chuckled again. “Any gunfight you make it to the end of is a good one. I’m starting to think Beau underestimated you. Seems to me you’d be a good hand to keep nearby.”
“And here I was thinking how much nicer it is to shoot when you’re not being shot at.”
“Still, if you ever get tired of the Theatre, say the word and I’ll see what we can do.”
Pity shifted, uncomfortable with the path of thought the offer led her down.
I killed two men.
Two.
Only two.
She winced as Starr made another stitch, and changed the subject. “Beau, he… Are he and Selene…?”
“It’s no secret. Money and power can command good protection. But you want the best? There’s no better safeguard than someone who is willing to die to keep you breathing.” He sighed dramatically. “May we all find un hombre who cares that much, yeah?”
“There,” announced Starr. “A little bandaging and you’ll be good to go. Try to stay off it for a couple of days, but you can use a crutch if you’re—”
“Pity!” Luster barreled into the clinic, a satin robe fluttering about her diminutive frame. “Are you okay? Oh, my Lord—you’re shot!”
“She’ll live.” Starr finished the bandaging. “These, however, will not.” He tossed the bloody remains of Pity’s pants into the garbage.
“I liked those, too.” Her body felt t
hick and heavy as she cautiously pushed herself into a sitting position. “I’m okay, really. Just peachy. The men that attacked us, though…” She giggled, unable to help herself.
Luster blinked and turned to Starr. “What’d ya give her?”
“Nothing that won’t wear off in a few hours. When it starts to hurt again, she can take one or two of these.” He put a glass vial of white pills on the exam table. “For Pity, got it? None of these better end up in with your—ahem—party supplies.”
“Oh, shush,” snapped Luster. “What happened? One of the Tin Men came and woke me, but he wouldn’t say—”
“Assassins. They were after Selene. We… we stopped them.” Suddenly, Pity’s eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away, frustrated. “It’s not funny. I don’t know why I laughed.”
“Oh, honey.” Luster’s arms enveloped her. “You’re just a little messed up right now. What kind of fools would go after Miss Selene like that?”
“Dead fools,” Santino filled in.
“Speaking of which,” said Starr, his black bag in hand. “I need to give Miss Selene a look over and then… see to a few other things.” He tossed a bone saw into his kit.
“Yo también,” said Santino, rising. “There’s a living fool still left to attend to.”
They departed with grim determination.
Luster chewed at her bottom lip. “I can’t believe anyone would… How did they…” She shook her head. “You stay put. I’m going to get Max and then we’ll get you back to your—”
“No!” Pity cried. “I mean… I’m sure I can manage.”
Luster’s eyes narrowed. “There something other than an assassination attempt that you want to tell me about?”
Pity hesitated. She didn’t need to say anything. Max was no gossip. Her embarrassment didn’t need to be anything other than a regrettable secret, swiftly buried. And yet she spoke anyway. “Um… I… after the show, I tried to kiss Max.”
“Tried to kiss him?”
“I did kiss him. But he… he didn’t want to kiss me back.”
“Oh.” Luster pulled a stool over and sat. “Idiot.”
“I know, I never should have—”
“Not you, him!” Luster wrapped the robe tighter. “Stupid boy doesn’t know what’s good for him. No wonder he’s been scarce. He’s probably holed up in his room painting everything that isn’t moving. I swear, he’s the only soul in Cessation who doesn’t exorcise his demons by drinking, fighting, or—”
“Painting?” A fuzzy realization floated into her mind. “I’ve never even seen his room.”
“Not many have,” said Luster. “Look, I love Max. And Garland and Dutch and I are closer to him than anyone here. But sometimes he’s so… I don’t know. There’s a distance to him. And he gets into these moods. Like right before you arrived. I’d never seen him so morose.” She sighed. “Then he went off with Santino and Olivia, and by the time he got back, he was his old cheerful self. To be honest, I thought that was because of you.”
“Guess not.”
Luster nudged Pity’s good leg with her foot. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re not the first one to be taken in by that sunny smile of his. But whenever anyone tries to get too close… He’s never said anything, but I think there was someone before he came to Cessation.”
Is that it? He’s pining for someone else? Pity felt more foolish than ever. “Oh.”
Luster’s face puckered. “Don’t sound so defeated. You think if there were a happy ending to that story he’d be here now? Life goes on, if he’d be smart enough to realize it.”
Pity wiped at her eyes again, suddenly exhausted. “Lord, I’m so stupid. I almost died an hour ago and I’m sitting here talking about Max.”
“Well, if you had died, you couldn’t have done much about it, right? Max, on the other hand…” She shrugged. “Look, let’s get you back to your room and—”
“No,” she interjected. “Can you get me some clothes? I want to go to the Gallery.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re going after Daneko,” Pity said, grabbing her guns. “And I want to be there when they drag in the son of a bitch who almost got me killed.”
CHAPTER 20
It was partially true. There’d be no avoiding Max now, and Pity wanted to pick the battleground on which she faced him again—upright and resilient in the Gallery rather than lying in bed, looking like an invalid.
As she had expected, Max appeared quickly. Nervousness and anticipation snaked through her, twisting together in a perplexing knot as she stared at him from across the room. But before she could begin to unravel it, Max spotted her, the vague panic on his face relaxing only slightly. He rushed over, breathless, his silver piercings turned coppery by the Gallery’s low light.
“I went to the clinic when I heard, and then your room, but you weren’t—” He stopped when he spotted her bandaged leg, stretched out on one of the Gallery’s cushioned couches. “It’s true, you were shot?”
“Yes.” She kept her tone even. “It’s nothing serious.”
He stared, lips parted slightly. “But you—”
“I’m okay, Max.” A few days ago his concern would have been a balm. Now it grated on her, poked at the invisible wound. What hurts worse, she chided herself, your leg or your pride? “Dr. Starr patched me up.”
“Keep on the way you’re going,” Garland said as he returned from a trip to the bar, “and you’re going to be as patched as an old quilt. Here, it’s ginger ale.”
Pity used it to wash down one of Starr’s pills. Garland pushed in beside her so that she leaned against him. When he dropped an arm around her, she didn’t object; his scent drowned out the smell of blood that lingered in her nostrils. Being close to him sent a heady sensation through her, one she doubted came entirely from the painkillers. But guilt stained its edges. She stole a look at Max as Luster pulled him down beside her.
“Better injured than dead.” Duchess curled in a chair like a thoroughly cross cat. His fingers dug into the plush arms. “Just think. If you hadn’t been there, Selene might have—”
“Don’t even say it!” Luster said.
Max remained quiet, his face troubled.
Pity told herself it was because of Selene. Without her it would all fall apart—that’s what Max had said. She understood Selene’s sway over the city, but it wasn’t until that moment that she realized the fierce loyalty Selene garnered as well.
“Has anyone seen Patrick Sheridan?” She hadn’t spared him a thought since Selene dismissed him, but now she wondered where he was. “He was there, too.”
“He’s probably hiding in his room,” Duchess said, “regretting ever coming here in the first place.”
Garland repositioned so that Pity was more comfortable. “He’s spending an awful lot of time with Selene.”
“They have business,” said Pity, unsure if she should say more.
Luster leaned in conspiratorially. “Ooh, what kind?”
“Politics,” Max interjected. He noticed Pity’s surprise. “What? It wasn’t hard to figure out. CONA politicians always have something about them—like a bad smell.”
“He’s right,” Pity said. “Selene says he’s going to be the next president of CONA.”
“Huh,” said Luster. “I know Selene can do a lot of things, but I didn’t think she could fix a presidency.”
“She can’t.” Clouds gathered in Max’s eyes. “She’d need too much help—especially from the corporations. And even then she wouldn’t get it from the one she really needs: Drakos-Pryce.”
“Tsk,” chided Garland. “Such little faith in Selene.”
“It’s not that,” Max said. “No one back east rises that high without Drakos-Pryce’s approval, and they’re the one corporation that won’t have anything to do with Cessation. They don’t like a candidate? All it takes is a scandal here or an ‘accident’ there, and that candidate is gone. If Sheridan thinks Selene can get him the presidency, he�
�s on a fool’s errand.”
“Well, maybe Selene knows something you don’t.” Pity couldn’t stop the annoyance that leaked into her voice. “And Sheridan seemed like the decent sort to me.”
“Not to mention you saved his life.” Luster grinned. “I bet a future president owing you his life is worth a whole lot more than a bottle of wine.”
She hadn’t considered that. Sure, she had helped save Sheridan, but only in the course of saving Selene. And herself. It had been easier than she would have expected, in the moment. Pulling the trigger. Surviving. But instead of pride she felt bitter guilt.
If those scroungers had cornered both you and Finn, would she be alive?
Pity shook her head. “No. He doesn’t owe me anything.”
They waited. On the heels of long minutes came longer hours. Silence ruled in the Gallery, a blunt contrast to the usual revelry. A few patrons bent over the gambling tables, quiet and intent, but most remained sequestered in their rooms. As Selene promised, no one was let in or out. The only breaks in the tense stretch came when someone would approach Pity to thank her. Flossie gave her a big kiss on the cheek; Kitty gave her a hug so fierce that she could hardly breathe. Halcyon burst in and out like a tornado, fussing fiercely over Pity and then stalking off to find Starr, declaring loudly that she would be fit to perform again before she knew it.
As the afternoon crawled into evening, Pity dozed against Garland, lulled by his warmth and the pills. Sleep was never far away, but every time she crossed the threshold she heard a pop of gunfire or saw the burst of red from the assassin’s eye. Or, worse, heard the thump of dead flesh against marble. Once she started so hard that she knocked over her drink. Max reached for the glass, but she snatched it away before he could get it. A porter instantly appeared and offered to get her another, sounding like he would have retrieved the moon for her if he could.
“You sure you’re okay?” Garland asked quietly.
“Still spooked, I guess.” Pity closed her eyes again, chasing the rest that eluded her. You did good. She repeated the words over and over, but the more she did, the more they bothered her, like an itch she couldn’t quite reach.