Comeuppance Served Cold, page 10
Was that a smile? He nodded. “Sure.”
“If something happens to me, open it. You and your sister will know right away what it is. I’ll pay you twenty-five cents a day.”
“It must be important.”
“Just some insurance. I’ll bring it by the next time I come.” She slid a quarter across the bar, a tip. “See you soon.”
* * *
“What were you and Dolly White talking about last night?”
Philippe watched his sister make up Gabriel’s plate, hoping she would forget the question. He didn’t want to lie to his sister, but he’d promised Dolly White he wouldn’t tell anyone about their deal.
Violet put the Spanish ham at twelve o’clock, the greens at six, and the rice at three. “Well?”
“Just talking,” he said, leaning over to inhale the aroma of his own plate. Aunt Lily had made this, and it was one of his favorites. Violet often couldn’t find the ham, but when she did, hers was almost as good.
“She’s an interesting one.” Gabriel tasted the rice and sighed. “Delicious.”
“Thanks.” Violet sat down. “You be careful, brother.”
“Why? Like Gabriel said. She’s interesting, that’s all.”
“Should I be worried?” Gabriel’s expression was serious, but there was laughter in his voice.
“’Course not.”
“Yeah . . .” Violet chewed thoughtfully. “She’s as sharp as a sliver of glass, that one, and she’ll cut you just as fast. That’s what I hear.”
“You’re working with her.” Sometimes his sister didn’t make sense. It was safe enough for her to help the woman out; why couldn’t he make some cash that same way?
Violet drifted her fork through the grains of rice. “She’s paying. And she’s making a run at the Earnshaws. Francis Earnshaw will never swing for what he and his gang did to Pedro. Anyone who pokes him where it hurts is all right in my book. But that doesn’t mean I want you in the middle. The White King doesn’t care whose blood he leaves on the floor, long as it’s not his family. And you’re a shape-shifter.”
Philippe shrugged.
“She leaves people behind, Dolly does,” Violet said. “That’s what I hear.”
“Grifters.” Gabriel took a swallow of beer. “They all do. It’s just how the job goes.”
“Doesn’t make it right,” Violet said, “ever. You”—she pointed her fork at Philippe—“you be careful.”
“You’re just mad because the White King took a swipe at you in the papers again.”
“Yeah, in the same article with the Doucette family. I have a right to be insulted.”
“He doesn’t name just the Doucettes, though, does he? He paints all the shape-shifters with the same brush.” Gabriel folded his hands. “I’m starting to see the pattern.” He looked worried.
“What pattern?” Violet said. “A week ago you said you didn’t understand it.”
“He can’t prove the Doucettes are shim runners, because they’re too well connected. But he can poison the well by calling them out as shifters. And they’re getting squeezed by this Eastside gang, I hear.”
“You hear everything,” Philippe said. He longed to run his fingers through Gabriel’s braids but kept his hands flat on the table.
“I do hear a lot. It’s getting bad. There’ve been a couple of knifings on Queen Anne Hill, your old neighborhood, Violet. And a shooting.”
“The Eastside gang must be connected too,” Philippe said.
Violet shook her head. “I know what’s going to happen. First they’ll pass a curfew for shape-shifters, and they’ll say, ‘It’s for your protection.’ The Commission’ll get involved, and pretty soon there’ll be laws against shape-shifters.”
“Whoa, Violet!” Philippe held up both hands, laughing. “Settle down! Nobody’s doing that yet.”
“That is how it goes, though. Usually,” Gabriel said.
Philippe’s stomach turned over. “They can’t outlaw us, can they?”
“Can’t they?” Violet said, glaring at Philippe as though it were all his fault. “You be careful. You be extra careful out there.”
* * *
OCTOBER 23, 1929
(THREE WEEKS BEFORE)
Dolly made her way down the narrow stairs into the speakeasy. Violet’s piano player played bluesy ragtime, and a blond girl in a fringed evening shift whirled and danced by herself.
“Gin?” the bartender said.
“Champagne.” She seated herself at the bar. “Start me a tab, please.”
“Sure thing, miss.”
When he returned with a shallow glass twinkling with bubbles, she slid the slim, wrapped package across to him, two dollars on top of it. “In advance,” she said.
He nodded and turned away, putting the parcel under his jacket.
Dolly turned in her chair, studying the room. Only the blond girl was dancing. Couples huddled together over the tables or in the velvet-upholstered booths, and a group of men stood in one corner across from the door. Violet herself moved around the room, stopping at each table to chat. When she saw Dolly, she came up to the bar. The hazy mirror behind it cast ovals of gold onto her dark skin and gave her black eyes a velvety look, like a pansy petal. “I’ve told Lazlo Penske to expect you,” she said. “He’s difficult, and he’s expensive but the best around for special orders. There’s something he wants you to see.”
“Is that usual?”
“I don’t know. If he knocks down his price a bit, it’s a good thing for you.”
Dolly nodded her thanks and looked at the dancing girl. “Is that Fiona Earnshaw?”
“That’s her.” Violet raised a hand to two newcomers.
“Is it wise to let her stay?”
Violet watched the girl. “It’s handy to know what the White King is up to. I’ve got family to protect, among other things.”
Dolly lifted the glass to her lips without drinking. It didn’t take hard work to draw a line between the Order of Saint Michael and the waterfront fire two years ago, but she had no need to press Violet about it. She looked back at the dancing girl. “There are rumors, you know, that she has a shimmer-shim problem.”
Violet nodded. “I’ve told her to stop bringing it here, but I know the signs. And if she takes a shot outside before she comes in . . .” She shrugged.
The song finished, and the girl staggered back to a booth in the corner.
Dolly beckoned to the bartender and slid over a sawbuck. “The bottle, please, and another glass.”
He complied. She drained her glass, then, holding the bottle by the neck, the glasses in her other hand, walked over to the booth.
The blond girl looked up. Her pupils were nearly invisible in irises like scraps of the summer sky. “Bubbly!” she said. She waved her hand over her head. “Philippe! Is it the good stuff?”
Dolly glanced over her shoulder to see the bartender nod.
Fiona lowered her hand. “Who’re you?”
Dolly slipped into the booth and poured a glass of champagne. “I’d cut back on the gin if I were you. With the shim, you’re giving your liver a death sentence.”
“Oh, a Samaritan,” the girl said. “What’s your name?”
“Dolly White.”
“I don’t know you, do I?”
“No, but I know you.”
Fiona shook her head, the yellow light flaring off her pale bob. “Everybody knows us. My father is Ambrose Earnshaw, Commissioner of Magi. My brother is Francis Earnshaw. Semper Servo and all that.” The girl held out her hands, palms up. “Ladies and gentlemen, meet magicless Fiona, runt of the litter.”
Dolly pushed the shallow champagne glass forward, using the back of her hand to nudge the gin glass out of Fiona’s reach. “I hear you’re getting married.”
“I heard that too,” Fiona said.
“It’s not to your liking?”
Animation left Fiona’s pretty face, and except for those eyes, she looked sober. “Tony’s fine.”
“But there’s someone else. Someone you love.”
“There was.”
It could have been said with bitterness, but the last word, instead, rang with the hollowness of loss. Some gesture was called for. She touched Fiona’s hand briefly. “Tell me,” she said.
Fiona looked down at the table. “His name is Rob. Magic-less. There is no problem with his pedigree, but Daddy—” She reached for the empty champagne glass. Dolly poured in a splash. “Daddy has other plans.”
“Defy Daddy. You have money, don’t you?”
Fiona shook her head. “I did. My grandfather—Mama’s father—left me money in a trust, to come to me when I turned twenty-five. The executor died two years ago, and Daddy got control of the money.” She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.
“What would you do if you had money?”
“Of my own, you mean? I’d leave the house. I’d marry Rob, if he’d have me.” She sniffed again. “I’d run away if I could, but even Mama’s jewels are locked up in Daddy’s vault.”
“Vaults can be opened.”
“The vault’s blood-magicked,” Fiona said, the confirmation Dolly expected.
“Well.” Dolly folded her hands on the table, about an inch away from Fiona’s. “That just makes it challenging.”
Now Fiona did look up. “You’re a thief.”
“I am that.”
“You want to steal something from Daddy.”
Dolly smiled and nodded.
“Do you . . . do you think you would help me?”
Dolly looked thoughtful. “I’d need someone I could depend on. With the shim . . .” She shook her head. “If you could give it up . . . Could you go for four days without a slug of it?”
Fiona’s eyes widened, but she considered the question. Her head bobbed in a quick nod.
Dolly smiled more broadly. “Fiona, I think we can help each other.”
Chapter Seven
OCTOBER 27, 1929
(THREE WEEKS BEFORE)
THE FOG CARRIED A metallic smell above the brine of Elliott Bay. Dolly’s steps plonked on the wharf. She watched and listened. This was a neighborhood of unlicensed magickers, subject to random sweeps by the police and the midnight punishments of the Order of Saint Michael. They were wary of outsiders.
The daily newspaper carried a front-page picture of a ruined roadster, owned by Miss Fiona Earnshaw. Miss Earnshaw had been unharmed. A rain-slicked road was given as the cause. This accident was a bad turn of events, if the girl had so little control.
Penske’s Kitchen Herbs sat close to the end of the pier, one dim electric light glowing above the door. The tiny bell fixed above it chimed as she went in.
Light seeped out from the open arch behind the counter. She inhaled the scents of thyme, fish, cedar, and smoke. Bundles of dried plants hung from the ceiling, and the long bins stretching the length of the room were filled with crushed dried leaves and flowers.
A man came through the arch. He was taller than her, with a fringe of fine black hair circling a shining bald spot. He walked with a bit of a stoop and wheezed slightly. “We’re closed. Come back tomorrow, lady,” he said.
“Violet Solomon recommended you,” she said. “I’m having a dinner party. Very exclusive. She said you have the best fresh herbs.”
He stepped forward and rested his hands on the counter, his breathing labored. His gaze was both intense and distant, as if he stared through her into something she could not see. He was filled with fatigue or grief. She could not always distinguish those two.
He held out one hand palm up and twitched his fingers. She handed him her list.
“Paean’s Touch,” he said.
She nodded.
“Oblivion powder, bladders of spider web, a bone needle, preservation vials . . .” He glanced up. “Blood magic. This must be very exclusive.”
She didn’t bother to respond.
“You’re the one from San Francisco,” he said. “Your . . . dinner parties are the best, Violet says.”
Dolly’s job in San Francisco had been a spectacular failure, and the client she had disappointed was notorious for punishing those who failed him.
“Oh, the last one was a complete fiasco,” she said cheerfully. “But I’m optimistic about this next one. If I can get the right ingredients.”
She waited while he considered. He looked up at her again, and the distance left his gaze as he studied her.
“Did she tell you the price, that Violet?”
“She said there was something you wanted me to see.”
“Yes.” His voice roughened, and his eyes had a sheen she didn’t like. But she needed the best.
Since she fled San Francisco, she had spent months researching and preparing for the Earnshaw job. Violet had come through with the greengrocer, and Fiona was all lined up, but Dolly needed the best tools. The whole job could have derailed with Fiona’s car crash. Could the girl even carry out her part, if it really meant giving up shim? Involving her was a risk Dolly was starting to question.
She needed Penske badly. And she could only hope he didn’t realize it.
“Lead the way,” she said, and followed him through the arch into the back room. As she had guessed, it was filled with amulets, blessed medallions, and other charms. There were delicate protective amulets of silver and the government-issue steel and onyx bands soldiers had used during the war. Penske had magical vessels and alembics and a flat of magical herbs. They went out the back door and along a narrow wharf. He started down a flight of stairs marked with light reflecting off the water.
As she looked at the rippling steps, a memory overtook her of a long fall into a twilit place.
She forced herself to step down.
Next to a thick masonry wall, Penske led her lower, along a shallow flight of steps. She would hear the soughing of the waves above her. It was cold here, and dark.
She looked around. “Where are you taking me?”
“Why? Are you afraid the fairies will steal you?”
“Not anymore,” she said.
“You sound like you’ve visited them already.”
“I did.”
“Really?” His voice echoed a bit. “What did they give you?”
“A nose for magic,” she said. “No gift for it, but an ability to recognize it and recognize charlatans.”
“And what did they take from you?”
The stairs ended, and she stepped onto a thin layer of mud. She didn’t bother to answer. The darkness was not uniform; buildings blocked out the stars. Penske stopped at one of them.
He unlocked the door, and she followed him in. It was some kind of warehouse. The first room was bare. Penske walked across it to a set of double doors that coasted back when he pushed them. Cold air rolled out, condensing into a silvery mist as she watched. He disappeared inside. After a moment she stepped into the mist.
It had a familiar smell: ice.
Two small jewel-toned lanterns lit the room. At first glance, it seemed as if a woman floated in midair, her black hair spread around her head like a rayed crown, her feet pointed, her hands crossed on her chest. A white silk cloth draped her body.
Dolly took a breath and came into the room. The woman was not floating. She was frozen in ice so transparent Dolly could only find the smoothed edges of the block by the glancing of the light.
Penske stood at the foot of the block. She understood his wheezing now; an air elemental was breathing him. Air elementals were the most dangerous elementals because they were the most curious about humans. In return for breathing him, knowing him, the creature was keeping the ice frozen. “Your daughter?”
“My niece, Sofia,” he said. “My sister’s child. Dead five days.”
“Did she drown?”
He shot her a look of incandescent anger. “Take a look. Tell me how she died.”
She moved up to the edge of the ice block and peered down. The woman seemed twenty-two or-three, a couple of years older than Fiona. Her skin was pale except for the purple lines marking her neck. “Someone strangled her.”
“Yes.” She heard the roughness of his breath. “Someone strangled her.”
“I’m not a detective, Mr. Penske. Far from it.”
“I don’t need a detective. I need vengeance.”
“I can’t avenge her.”
“Look at her! All she did, to earn this death, was say no. Because of who he is, there will never be justice for her. This could be you.”
In fact, in height, in the shape of the face and the shoulders, the hair, it could be her.
Her current job was work enough. She couldn’t split her attention to track down another wealthy man, find his weakness, and puncture him, no matter how much she needed Penske. And she had promised her client in Wichita a void mask. She could not spare the time, not now.
“She drew an attractive man into her light, and he killed her,” she said. “If I cried for every woman that happened to, Mr. Penske, I’d cry every day. You must know who did this.”
“We know,” he said.
“There’s no evidence?”
“While someone choked the life out of her, he was with his friends at a supper club. They all swore it. His notes to her, ones filled at first with poetry and later with threats, caught fire in my sister’s desk when no one was present and burned to ash. There is only one thing, a blessed medallion. She tore it from his neck. She scratched him. His skin was under her nails.”
“So you have his essence,” she pointed out.
Penske shook his head. “She lay hidden for three days. Even a preservation vial could not restore his essence.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a scrap of red silk. “The price for my help is your help. Avenge my niece.”
“My guest list’s already pretty full,” she said.
He held the silk out to her. She didn’t want to touch it, to look at it, but in this room, pinned under his gaze, she didn’t dare refuse. She took the cloth and flipped it back. The medallion was commonplace: Saint Michael, sword raised in his right hand. Semper Servo. Always Protect.
She flipped it over, tilted it to the light to read the engraving. FAE.
“Oh,” she said. “Francis Ambrose Earnshaw?”
