by Tim Akers
IT WAS TWO years. I had enough on my mind during that time to forget Emily. But when I saw her, standing across the bar and smiling… it came back.
Different bar, different district. Different friends. And the pistol I had strapped to my leg wasn’t part of some uniform, nothing ceremonial or exquisite about it. Things had changed for Jacob Burn. But she was still there, still brilliant. I stood up, to go talk to her.
“Wouldn’t,” Matthus said, his hand lightly on my elbow. He glanced at me, then at Emily. “Cacher’s girl, one of Valentine’s people. I wouldn’t.”
The rest of the table looked. One of them said. “Yeah, I know her. Whore. No harm in it, Jacob.”
“She’s not working tonight. Doesn’t pick up men in bars.” Matthus snorted into his beer. “Her clientele make appointments. Not the like of you, son.”
“Then what’s she doing here?” I asked. “Alone. If Cacher cares for her so much.”
“Girl can’t get a drink?”
“This isn’t a safe district, Math. Bad people about.” The table had a chuckle at that. Bad people. I had a sudden flash of her standing over her attacker, the memory rolling through me, the blood on that blade, the look in her eye.
“It’s your funeral, mate.” Matthus said, then wrote me off. Kind of friends I had.
I went to her, my table snickering and being generally bad people. Old noble Jacob, talking to the ladies. Forgotten who he was, or more accurately, who he was no longer. A good laugh, for the crew.
She seemed amused to see me coming. One look, then her eyes were on the bar in front of her, the slightest smile on her face.
“Buy a girl a drink?” I asked. She looked at me, no hint of that smile evident.
“Girls have money too, you know.”
I shrugged. She turned to the barkeep. “Castle Crest on the rocks, compliments of the gentleman in the dull gray coat.” I winced. Crest was expensive stuff. My dad drank Crest, after a good vote in the Council. We sat in silence while the ‘keep poured into his cleanest glass, the ice cracking under the slow amber liquid. She drank it quickly.
“Satisfied?” she asked.
I clattered my empty glass at the barkeep and he refilled it, with less care and flourish. More foam than brew. We stood there in silence again. She started to turn away.
“You could at least talk to me,” I hissed, so the crew couldn’t hear me. “That’s the least you could do for my coin. Don’t make the fool of me like that.”
She turned back. Her eyes were cold as stone.
“I hadn’t realized this was a transaction. Is that what your mates told you? That I have a slot,” she spat. “You can put coins in it?”
“I… godsdamn it. No, that’s not what I meant.” I flushed and busied myself drinking my warm beer. I spilled a little and had to wipe it on my sleeve. “It’s not at all what I meant.”
“Then what, exactly, did you mean?”
I stared off behind the bar. The bottles back there were dusty. A painting hung above, a copy of a copy of a masterpiece I had seen hanging in the artist’s studio when I was a child.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” I asked without looking at her. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her toying with her glass. She signaled the barkeep, waved off another pour of the Crest and pointed to something a little less elegant.
“I do, actually.” She looked at me, a brief flash of eyes, a smile. Her voice was quiet. “I wouldn’t, honestly, not if you hadn’t had such a spectacularly bad day the following.”
I grunted and drank. The people who remembered me usually remembered me for that day. Those who forgot me, too.
“I’ve often wondered, you know. What happened to that boy I met? The one who fell from the sky.”
I turned to her, remembering the ridiculous pose that I’d struck on the night. I looked down at myself, the drab clothes, the stained sleeve. The only thing about my appearance that was in order was the pistol, oiled and black.
“Looks like he kept falling,” she said.
I turned away, signaled for another beer.
“I’ve kept myself,” I said. “Troubles, but I’ve kept myself together. I don’t need sympathy.”
“That’s good. Sympathy’s not something I do well. We’ve all had bad times. Just because your childhood was one of privilege and potential, that doesn’t make your days any tougher than mine.”
“If you say.”
“Two ways to go, Jacob.” She drank her cheap bourbon slowly, wincing as she ran it around her mouth. “People who have trouble like yours can go two ways. They can get all morose and indignant, and crumble under the weight of their own tragedy. Or,” she whispered as she turned to face the bar. “They can adjust. Get stronger. Help themselves. Stand up for themselves. They become one of those two people. Strong or dead.”
“Which one of those people takes advice from whores in bars?” I asked.
She smiled, thin and tight. Her hands were twisted around her glass.
“Let’s say I don’t pound you for that, Jacob. Just this once. Those your friends?” she asked, nodding to my table.
I looked over. A rough bunch, all cheap coats and pilfered finery that was mismatched and smudged. I remembered that Marcus was there. He was looking at me kind of nervously. At the time it didn’t register. People were nervous around me, around my pewter eyes.
“That’s them.”
“Do you have any other friends?” she asked. I shook my head. “Really? From the Academy, the Council? All those years growing up, you didn’t make one friend.”
“They don’t talk to me anymore.”
“Dressed like that, it’s no surprise. And you don’t seek them out, do you?” She put her back to the bar and leaned on her elbows, looking out over the smoky vista of the room. “It’s safer down here, isn’t it? Folks like this, they don’t expect much of their friends. It’s hard to disappoint them.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re saying, lady.”
She laughed. “I think I do. What drove you down here? Honestly. What puts a boy like you in a place like this? And don’t tell me cursed fate or your father.” She took a drink and winced. “People make choices. People stand up to them.”
“Pretty smart for a whore.”
“You keep saying that. You think it’s clever. I’m getting tired of it,” Drink, wince. “Not because it hurts for you to know my true nature. Not because you’ve shamed me. I’m getting tired of how clumsy it is. I really thought more of you. Thought you’d be better at this.”
I was quiet. I didn’t like the rocks she was flipping over, the scabs she was poking. It had taken me a while to get here, to drag myself up from the shit my life had become. I wouldn’t say I was happy, but I was content.
“What’re you getting at?”
“You think your old friends would talk to you again? If we got you cleaned up. Maybe buy you a pair of those smart pants that suit you so well. Could you mingle in those circles again?”
I looked at her harshly. She was smiling. She turned her face at me and winked.
“There are some people I know, Jacob. Friends. They’d like to have a friend in those circles.”
“I’m not that friend.” I shook my head, indicated the filthy bar. “If you haven’t noticed, I don’t walk in those circles anymore.”
“By choice,” she said. I started to protest, but she put a hand on my wrist. Fire rushed through me. “I know. You’ll say you were forced out. Shunned. But that’s just you, letting yourself collapse.”
“It’s not that easy,” I said.
“Nothing is. But I think, if we give you some money, a place to stay, a chance to clean up, that you’d be surprised how many of your old friends would come calling.”
“I don’t think so. Not the people I knew.”
“Well. You’re no longer the friend they knew, either. You’re something else. Something dangerous. And people in those circles, they like to have dangerous friends.”
“Maybe.”
“Believe me. I know.” She flashed a devious smile, almost angry. “The beautiful people like to have dangerous fucking friends.”
I looked back at my table, and the drunks and the criminals I’d spent the last two years around.
“What would I do?”
“Favors,” she said. “That’s how this whole thing works. Favors and friends.”
I nodded. Emily smiled, then hooked her arm around my elbow.
“Pay up, then let’s go see someone. A good friend. A particularly dangerous friend.”
“Who?”
“A man by the name of Valentine.”
My bones went cold, but I nodded and she led me out.
I WOKE UP, startled, then stood. My chair clattered back, banging against the desk before spinning to the hardwood floor. Emily was looking at me, her eyes half-open.
“Dreaming?” she asked. Her voice was dry and harsh. I went to get some water, awkwardly aware of my rapidly softening erection. I ran my hands under the cold water from the tap, then brought Emily her glass.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”
Emily pulled herself into a sitting position, wincing once then not putting any pressure on her injured arm. She drank some water.
“Anything good? Your dream?”
I shook my head, took the empty glass and set it on the desk.
“Are you feeling hungry?” I asked.
“Maybe.” She rubbed her eyes with one hand, then looked around the room. “Are we safe here?”
“No. Not completely. The owners could come back, or a neighbor could get curious and report us. But that hasn’t happened yet.” I went into the kitchen, wrapped some cold cured bacon into a roll and went back into the dining room. She was staring out the window. “Eat this.”
She took the sandwich and dutifully consumed it one mechanical bite at a time. When she was done I gave her more water, cut with what was left of the wine.
“Thanks,” she said, wiping her hands on the priceless virgin calfskin divan. “I owe you.”
“Probably not,” I said. “Just friends doing favors.”
She smiled.
“Is this how you think of this, Jacob? That I’m just a friend, doing you a favor, helping out with this problem of yours?”
I shrugged and turned away, busying myself with the plate and empty water glass. She gathered the blanket up under her breasts and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
“Well,” she said, quietly, “I’m still grateful.”
I took the dishes back to the kitchen and put them into the sink. When I came back she was still staring at the ceiling.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Still shot. But better. What about you?”
I hadn’t thought about it. My ribs ached, and I realized there was a crushing pressure around my head. “I’m fine. Have you heard, Wilson says I can’t be killed.”
I ran my hand over her forehead. Her skin was cool and slightly moist. Her hair fell across her face, so I pushed it aside with one finger. She looked up at me with those watery brown eyes that hinted at red and gold.
“Jacob. Uh.” She bit her lip and looked over my shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”
“For getting shot?” I sat on the couch. “Yeah, I’m pretty sore at you for that. Inconsiderate.”
“No, no.” She put her hand on my chest, rubbed my collar between finger and thumb. “This whole thing. It’s such a complicated situation, and I’m sorry you’re having to go through it. I almost feel like, if I hadn’t sent you to the Heights, none of this would have happened.”
“Nah. That thing would have just come for me in the city. Maybe come for you, too. It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe. Still, I feel bad. And the last few years, Jacob. I know it’s been difficult for you.”
“What? Being thrown out of my wealthy family, living as a bandit? Nothing to it. And I’ve met some interesting people, at least.”
She laughed, then winced and deflated.
“Take it easy, Em. You’re not—”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I know it’s been difficult for you. With me, and Cacher.”
“Oh.” I straightened up. “Well, I mean. Yeah.”
“Yeah. It’s just a tough thing, Jacob. Cacher’s an important guy, and I need him. Him and Valentine, both.”
“I know.” I started to stand up. “Maybe you should try to get some more sleep. I can go get Wilson, probably.”
She pulled me back down.
“Listen to me. Okay? For one second, brush off your wounded pride and your goddamn pathos and just listen. It’s been tough for me, too. What I do isn’t glamorous, or even pleasant. But it’s what I have to do, and you know it. And without Cacher, it would have been a whole lot harder. I couldn’t risk that, losing that protection. No matter how I felt.”
I sat looking at her for a minute. She seemed genuinely sorry. Though that might have just been the blood loss talking.
“Well, I mean.” I scratched my hand. “You could have given me discount, at least.”
Emily moaned.
“You’re such an asshole, sometimes. Such a damn asshole.”
She grabbed my collar with her one good arm and pulled me down. Our lips met, teeth clicking, and then I was buried in warmth and softness. She tasted like… nothing I knew. She tasted perfect.
When I sat up she was crying, and there was fresh blood on her shirt.
“Maybe next time don’t lean on me like that.”
“Oh, shit, Em, I’m sorry. Damn it.” I stood up quickly and got more bandages and a clean alcohol swab. When I came back into the room she was leaning up on her good arm. “Lie back and let me—”
“Shut up,” she hissed. I stopped. There was a clatter on the front sidewalk, like someone spilling coins.
We stayed perfectly still, staring at the door. The sound came again, closer. I dropped the bandages and went for my gun. It was still gone.
“Can you walk?” I whispered.
“Maybe.” She was already sitting up, her legs tossed sluggishly over the edge of the couch, feet on the ground. She leaned forward and rested her head in her hands. “Maybe.”
I gave her my arm. Together we got her upright and began to shuffle to the hallway.
“We’ll hide downstairs, on the dock,” I said. “I’ll swim. There are other docks nearby, have to be. One of them must have a boat.”
“And if they come downstairs?” she asked, her teeth grinding. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight.
“Then I’ll perform a heroic rescue. That might be better, actually. I’ve always favored the idea of heroism.”
“Looking forward to that,” she said, little laughs escaping around the pain.
The front door burst open. There was a machine. It was a twisted array of pipes, crudely bolted together and animated by a set of arms and legs of rough artifice. It stumbled into the room. A valve clapped open and emitted a low moan. Its voice sounded like a pipe organ channeling a hurricane.
“Jacob godsdamned Burn, don’t you let them keep me like this. For mercy’s sake, you kill me, you fucking horrible bastard. You fucking kill me again.”
Emily slumped against me, gaping. I nearly dropped her. I knew that voice, twisted as it was through metal.
“Marcus?”
“Oh, hell.” Emily buried her face in my shoulder.
“Marcus, indeed. Good boy, Marcus,” Sloane said as he walked through the door. He reached down and banged a lever on the thing’s back. The machine that spoke with Marcus’ voice clattered to the floor.
“Now. Stand still.” He pointed a pistol at us. Dozens of Badgemen flowed in behind him. “We need to have a chat, Jacob Burn.”
Chapter Fourteen
Things That Always Hurt
IT WAS A short fight; it wasn’t a fight at all. I stepped forward to meet them and Emily collapsed from my arm. In turning to her, I turned away from them. They were on me
in half a breath. They trussed me tight in leather belts and steel. I lay on the couch. Emily was still on the floor.
“Don’t leave her there, you bastards,” I gasped through bloody lips.
“She’ll be attended. In good time,” Sloane said. He lay his pistol on the desk, then removed his thin leather gloves and tossed them next to it. I saw that the revolver was brass inlaid, just like the one I had, from the Glory. “Anyone else in the house? Tell us, or we’ll kill them when we find them.”
“No one,” I said. He nodded, then signaled five men to search, and another five to secure the door. They rushed off, as though anxious to be out of his presence.
Leaning against the desk, he stared at me with casual indifference. When the men came back and shook their heads, he sent them out into the street. Once we were alone he turned his attention to Emily.
“You’re concerned for her. She’s breathing still, if that’s your interest.” He craned his neck. “And she appears to be bleeding.” He turned back to me, his eyebrows up. His tone was conversational. “She’s been shot? Or stabbed? Good stuff. Ah, here we are.” He bent closer to her and raised his voice. “Good morning, dear.”
Emily moaned and stirred. I twisted to see her, but couldn’t get my head around too well. Sloane pushed me back with one foot.
“Yes, good morning, lovely. Feeling well? You’d be Emily, I suppose? Gone off the treaty a bit, haven’t we, my dear?”
She levered herself up, panting in pain. He nodded to her.
“Up, up, up. Onto the couch, quickly now.” He picked up the pistol, delicately, as though it would leave a foul stench on his hand if he gripped it too firmly. He waved it indistinctly in Emily’s direction. “No laying about on Mr. Sloane’s time, is there?”
“Where did you get that?” I asked, hoping to distract him from tormenting the girl. It was definitely a service revolver of the Air Corps.
“You like it? I thought you might be interested.” He held it so I could see the crest. Glory of Day. “Tell me, where do you think I got it?”
“From the Fehn. From the river.”
“Good. Dots are beginning to connect. And where do you think you got your pistol?”