by Lyndsay Ely
A commotion sounded beyond the front doors. Pity roused as they burst open and a tall woman strode in.
“I’ll be damned.” Luster whistled. “Look who’s here.”
The woman wore a long travel-stained coat and carried a pack that looked like it had seen decades, both of which she shoved at the porter who rushed to her side. Beneath the coat were a pair of holsters. Pity’s interest piqued—only Casimir’s inhabitants were allowed to carry weapons into the Gallery, but no one moved to take the guns. At the bottom of the steps, she paused and looked around, flinty eyes scanning the room.
Flossie met her there. “Welcome back, Ms. Bond. It’s been a while since we enjoyed your company.”
“Him.” The woman pointed at one of the young men lounging on a pile of cushions and then at another. “And him.”
Flossie waited expectantly.
“It was a long trip,” the woman said. “Have them up to my suite in half an hour, with the rest of my gear.” She sniffed. “I heard a funny rumor on my way in that Casimir was closed.”
“Oh, never for you.”
“That’s what I said.”
Flossie snapped her fingers at the men as the newcomer went to the bar and sat down.
“Who’s that?” Pity whispered.
“That,” Garland replied, “is Siena Bond. A bounty hunter.”
“The best bounty hunter,” Duchess added, “and someone you wouldn’t want to cross.”
“Oh, please,” said Luster. “She’s a sweetheart. Too bad she didn’t arrive earlier—she would have had Daneko here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“Speak of the devil…” said Max.
A fresh disturbance overtook the Gallery’s entrance. Santino entered, leading a small army of Tin Men. In their midst was a handful of Old Reds. One, Pity saw, was the wild girl she had shot at the day Max had taken her to the market. All the mad bravado in her face was gone, replaced by a glaze of cold terror. They marched down the center of the room.
“Where’s Daneko?” Pity said as they passed.
“Gone.” Olivia brought up the rear of the parade, rifle in hand. She shrugged off the body armor she wore and gestured to Pity. “C’mon. You should be in on this, too.”
Pity pulled herself up using the crutch Luster had scrounged. The others began to rise, too, but she waved them away and hobbled after Olivia. She didn’t have time to wonder where they were headed; at the back of the Gallery by the elevator, the Tin Men herded the Old Reds into a tight circle and forced them onto their knees. Pity followed Olivia to one side of the assembly.
The elevator opened, drawing every eye in the room. Selene glided out with Beau at her side. The cut on her forehead, now tended, was the only sign of the morning’s events.
Santino went to her and said something, quietly.
Selene’s expression soured. “And where is he now?”
“Probably headed south as fast as he can,” rumbled Santino. “This is on me, ma’am. We thought he was cornered. A few minutes earlier…”
Selene waved him off and stepped forward, regarding the Old Reds displayed before her. After a tense handful of moments, she spoke, her voice carrying through the room.
“You were dead the moment you walked into Casimir.”
The Old Reds shifted and shuddered, their movements audible in the chill silence that gripped the Gallery.
“So there is no reason to pretend to know nothing about what occurred here earlier. You will tell me everything, and you will tell me now.”
None of the Old Reds spoke. Pity kept her eye on the girl, wondering if she was foolish enough to have been in on the plot, but not once did she look up. Her head hung to her chest, defeat and fear like twin weights dragging her down. Selene snapped her fingers at one of the prisoners. Two of the Tin Men yanked him to his feet and dragged him over to her.
“You were one of Daneko’s lieutenants,” she said.
It wasn’t a question, but the man nodded, his face pale.
“Surely you must have something to share.”
The man trembled. “I would tell you if I knew something. But I don’t. Daneko didn’t say one word about… about…”
Beau pulled out his gun and pressed it to the man’s forehead. “Truth. Now.”
“I swear!” he screeched. “I swear I don’t know anything!”
Stern-faced, Selene put her hand on Beau’s and guided it away. “I believe you.”
Another gesture and the Tin Men returned him to his pack.
“You were dead the moment you walked into Casimir,” Selene repeated. “But another stack of bodies does me no good. As of this moment, the Old Reds are disbanded. You and the rest of your gang have twelve hours to leave Cessation. Anyone left in the city come sunrise will sincerely wish they hadn’t ignored this brief measure of clemency.”
She raised her chin, looking out over the upturned faces that filled the Gallery. “Is that clear? No one is to harm any Old Red in Cessation until the deadline has passed. After that… do what you please. That’s twelve hours… starting now.”
At that, Selene turned on her heel and headed for the elevator.
“Turn them loose,” Beau instructed Santino before following her.
“That’s it?” After how Selene had dealt with the assassins, Pity had expected threats, intimidation, even blood—but not mercy. And why didn’t she ask who helped them get into Casimir?
“Seems like,” said Olivia. “Well, looks as if I’ve got some work to get back to.”
“Wait!”
Pity shuffled after, but Olivia outpaced her. She slid over the bar and went immediately to Siena Bond, where she poured brown liquor into a glass until it was at the rim.
“Good to see you, Siena. It’s been too long.”
“Good to see you, too, Liv.” The woman’s voice was as dusty as her clothing. “Nearly had to have someone else pour my drink for me. I miss something exciting?”
“Just a little ruckus.”
Pity caught up, settling herself a few stools down from the bounty hunter. Up close, she could see that the woman was middle-aged, with a narrow face and cropped, ash-brown hair, fading to gray. But the eyes that snagged Pity’s in the bar mirror were bright and sharp. They lingered briefly before dropping back to her drink.
“Good timing, though,” Olivia continued. “If you’re looking for a job.”
“Could be.”
“I’ll let her know you’re available.”
Siena drained her glass in one go and stood to depart. “Then I guess I should take what rest I can.”
When the bounty hunter was gone, Olivia turned. “Okay, now you can tell me what that look is for, Miss Pity.”
Pity leaned over the burnished wood. “Even if Daneko is gone… what about the other thing? The help. Why didn’t Selene…”
“Shhh.” Her voice dropped low. “Because Selene wasn’t about to advertise that there might be a traitor in Casimir. Could be anyone: a worker, a Tin Man, even a regular.”
Pity stared ahead, at the reflection of the Gallery. The prisoners were gone, but the crowd remained, loosening and unsure of what to do now. It was filled with the faces of strangers, acquaintances, and friends. Max’s black-and-blue hair drew her attention like a beacon, and she saw that he was looking at her.
She dropped her gaze quickly. “Then everyone is under suspicion.”
“Not as far as they know,” Olivia replied. “So keep your eyes open, mouth shut, and those guns close.”
CHAPTER 21
Keeping her eyes open wasn’t a problem. Despite the madness of the day and Starr’s narcotics, sleep visited Pity in slim measure. And when it finally did, it brought frenzied, broken dreams, feverish images impossible to knit together.
Inhale, aim… exhale…
Twelve bullets for twelve men, who shattered into shards of glass when she fired, each one a burst of crimson and wearing Finn’s face… Empty chambers, and still the killers came and came and Finn lying
everywhere… everywhere…
She awoke drenched in sweat. At first, Pity thought the knock was one of the gunshots that had scored her nightmares. But when she didn’t answer, it sounded again.
Slipping a gun from beneath her pillow, she hobbled to the door, ignoring the pains of protest in her leg. “Who is it?”
“Santino. There’s someone with me who’d like to speak to you.”
The tension in her muscles released. “Hold on.”
She traded the gun for a robe and opened the door.
“Pity.” Sheridan was with Santino, a rim of red around his eyes. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“I wasn’t nearly as asleep as I’d like to have been, Mr. Sheridan.”
“Patrick. May I come in?”
She moved aside so he could enter.
“Clock’s ticking,” said Santino.
“I won’t be long.” Sheridan closed the door behind him and gave her a frayed smile. His shirt collar was open, and the faint sour scent of sweat clung to him.
He looks like he’s gotten even less rest than me. “What did Santino mean?”
“Only that in an hour Selene’s mandate of protection for the Old Reds expires. From what I gather, Cessation is about to become even more perilous than usual. There’s a train departing from Last Stop shortly. I’ll be on it.”
“You’re leaving?” said Pity. “But I thought… your business with Selene…”
“That may be the problem.” Worry weaved into his words, turning them reluctant. “It’s possible Selene wasn’t the only target yesterday. I’d hoped that my visit here would be chalked up to the usual debaucheries, but there are… certain parties who would be displeased with her interference, even for an unlikely candidate like myself.”
Pity remembered what the final assassin had said: help from back east. Max might think Selene unable to elevate Sheridan to the top of CONA, but perhaps someone else disagreed.
“But before I left, I wanted to thank you,” he continued. “If you hadn’t been there, things would have ended very differently.”
She felt a pang of guilt. “They almost did.”
“But here we are, still standing. Us traitorous Patriots need to stick together, right?”
A bit of warmth stirred within her. “My mother was the Patriot, not me.”
Sheridan gave her a knowing look. “The other night I asked you what brought you to Cessation. But after learning who your mother was, I’m no longer surprised. I hope you’ve found whatever it is you’re looking for here.”
“Thank you,” Pity said. “I’m sorry you didn’t.”
Some of Sheridan’s fatigue fell away. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a waste of time. It’s a shame I can’t stay longer.”
“Maybe,” Pity said as Santino tapped lightly on the door. “But if Cessation is about to hit a rough patch, perhaps it’s best that you get moving. While you still can.”
The sun had set and pinprick stars had begun to appear in the purple velvet sky as Pity gazed out at the dim, empty streets of Cessation. From Eden, the occasional staccato of gunfire could be heard, and earlier, something had been aflame. She could still detect acrid hints of burnt rubber and wood on the wind, the perfume of the last two days.
Sheridan had been right to leave when he did. With the demise of the Old Reds, the other gangs were carving up their former territory bit by bit. Santino had assured her it would calm down soon, but for the moment it remained a bloody progression. During the daytime, the Tin Men patrolled the city and kept the peace as best they could, but at night they withdrew to hold the asphalt moat around Casimir. Like an island, it floated—safe but isolated.
The danger without was easy to see. It was the troubles within that still had Pity on edge, coupled with the enduring memories of what had already passed.
The attack played out in her mind, over and over, intertwining with the morning of Finn’s death until frustration made it difficult for her to tell them apart. The questionable decisions she had made, the opportune moments lost. Talons of doubt targeted her like the assassins’ rain of bullets. The more she thought about it, the more it felt as if each shot had hit her, lodging somewhere in her gut, festering in a way she couldn’t quite—
“What do you think of the view?”
Pity pivoted on her crutch, gun halfway out of her holster before she could stop herself.
It was Siena Bond. The woman had approached as quietly as a coyote in the brush. Eden’s sallow lights carved hard shadows into her face.
Pity relaxed. “Sorry.”
The shadows cracked as Siena’s mouth twitched up on one side. “Can’t blame you for being jumpy, I suppose. So? The view?”
“Not quite as nice as it was a few days ago.”
“Ain’t that true. When this city is good, it’s very good, but when it’s bad…” The bounty hunter put out a hand. “Siena Bond.”
It was as rough as unsanded wood. “I’m—”
“Serendipity Jones.”
“It’s Pity when I’m not performing.”
“Pity, then.” Siena gazed out at the dusk-drowned city. “From what I’ve heard, your show is something to be seen. And those are some nice guns you have, too. Theatre fixed you right up.”
“It wasn’t the Theatre,” Pity replied. “They’re mine.”
Siena reached for a nearby vine and plucked a flower. “They must have cost a pretty penny.”
A vague itch of discomfort ran over her skin. Not a single direct question had been asked, and yet Pity felt as if she were being interrogated. “They were my mother’s.”
One by one, Siena picked the petals from the flower and let the evening breeze take them. “She give them to you?”
“She would have,” Pity said, “if she hadn’t died first.”
Siena stopped plucking. “Hmm.” One petal left, she let the ruined stem fall to the grass. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to open any old wounds. Lucky for Selene you know how to use them, though. Olivia tell you about the porter?”
“What porter?”
“The one they found hanged in his room this morning. Used to be an Old Red, though it seems he opted to side with his old boss instead of his new one.”
That answers the question of who helped the assassins into Casimir. “Sounds like he made the wrong decision.”
Siena chuckled. “Made the right one at the end, though. The last thing you want to do is betray Selene and then have her get her hands on you.” She looked at Pity askance. “But you know how that shakes out, don’t you?”
Beeks’s screams echoed in Pity’s memory. “I do.” But there was enough weighing on her mind without dwelling on the Finales, too. “You’re a bounty hunter, right?” she asked, changing the subject. “Are you looking for someone in Cessation?”
Siena’s stony eyes glinted at her, a gaze to set strong men fleeing. There was something disconcerting about the woman. She didn’t have the dominating authority of Selene or the dreadful iciness of Beau. Whatever it was about her was more… raw.
“Maybe,” Siena replied carefully. “Though I’m considering another offer at the moment.”
Maybe? Pity took a step backward, sensing a significance masked by the simplicity of the word. Something hinted at. Her stomach tightened.
No, she thought. It wasn’t possible.
The better offer was undoubtedly Daneko—so far he had eluded capture, and there were plenty of rumblings about what Selene might pay to see him dragged in dead.
And how much more to bring him in alive.
“’Course,” Siena continued, “I’m a patient sort of woman, so I suppose any business I have here could wait.” She hooked her thumbs through her belt. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Pity Jones.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” she replied mechanically, breathless.
As Siena strolled toward the garden’s exit, Pity’s blood turned cold. It wasn’t possible, she thought again. Her father didn’t care so much that he’d send a b
ounty hunter looking for her.
Would he?
CHAPTER 22
“Again!” she ordered.
A volley of targets launched. Pity picked them off, one by one, reloaded, and took out the next set. Bits of ceramic and glass twinkled in the air and crunched beneath her boots.
Draw. Shoot. Reload.
Draw. Shoot. Reload.
Sweat beaded her forehead as she lost herself in the rhythm, pushing until everything beyond the boundary of the arena was nullified. Here, there were only two things: the target and the shot.
“Again!” She reached into her ammo pouch. Empty. “Dammit!”
Widmer popped through one of the hatches in the floor. “Don’t you think that’s enough for today?”
“No! I just need to get some more bullets.”
He cleared his throat and pointed at her leg. A line of blood had appeared, pasting the fabric to her wound.
“I’ll change the bandage, then—”
“The generators need a rest. And so do you.”
Pity wanted to argue, but his tone left no room for negotiation. By the time she returned to her room to clean up, the small measure of solace she’d gained was already gone. Ruminations floated about her mind like rotten apples in a pond. Any effort to keep them submerged was useless. Push one or two down and another bobbed to the surface.
The men she killed.
The ones she didn’t.
The bounty hunter.
Max.
With every moment she spent alone, the thoughts thickened, pressing in on her from all angles. She put on fresh clothes, wanting nothing more than to return to the arena and lose herself again. Instead, she went to the Gallery, only to find it nearly empty, collateral damage from the strife just beginning to recede in the city.
She did a quick scan of the room—no Max. Something in her ached. She hadn’t seen him since the day of the attack. But she no longer needed his guidance around Casimir. After saving Selene, its residents now treated her as if she had been around for years, not weeks, and it was a good feeling, one that filled the void left by Max’s absence.
Or at least that’s what she tried to tell herself.