Iron Cast (23 page)

“It's not Luke we want to talk to again,” Ada said.

“His name might be on the deed for the Red Cat, but he's not the head of their crew,” Corinne said. “His wife, Eva, is.”

By half past one, Corinne had fallen asleep on her cot, her grandfather's watch cradled in her hands. Ada wrapped herself in her blanket and sat with her back against the wall for almost an hour before she gave up. She was exhausted, but sleep wouldn't come. Corinne was convinced that if they just asked enough dangerous people enough dangerous questions, then they could somehow make sense of Johnny's murder. That if they found answers, then they could somehow stop the HPA from inching ever closer. That they could prevent the Cast Iron from closing its doors for good.

Ada had told Corinne that together they could do it, because that's what she was supposed to say. That was always the way of things between them. Ada made the promises, and Corinne found a way to keep them. But this time Ada wasn't so sure. Ever since Johnny's death she hadn't been able to shake the feeling that Haversham was somehow inevitable.

Eventually she climbed off her cot, dragging her blanket like a cape into the common room. When she saw Saint sitting on the couch, working in his sketchbook, she almost turned around. He glanced up, and his face colored. He hunched back over his work.

Ada decided she didn't care and curled up in an armchair. For half an hour they were silent. Ada laid her head on her arm and tried to doze off, but sleep didn't come any easier than it had in her bed. She gave up and stared at Saint until he met her eye.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.

His freckles were still drowning in blotchy red. One of the things Ada had always liked about Saint was how his emotions always flared on his face. In the Cast Iron it was usually impossible to tell what anyone was feeling.

“I want to know what you were thinking,” Ada said.

Saint's throat worked with a swallow. He looked back down at his sketch.

“I'm serious,” Ada said.

“What does it matter now?” he murmured.

“I'm trying to figure out how I'm supposed to live with you. How I'm supposed to ever trust you again.” Ada straightened in the chair and put her feet on the ground.

“They were going to put me in lockup,” Saint said. “All that iron and steel. It's worse than the asylum.”

“The bulls didn't have enough to arrest us.”

“That's never stopped them before,” he said. “Not when it comes to hemopaths.”

“Even if they did, Johnny would've gotten you out.”

“You don't know that.”

“He got me out of the asylum, didn't he?”

Saint's mouth quirked with the start of a reply, but he just pressed his lips together.

“What?” Ada asked.

Saint placed his pencil on the top of his sketchbook and watched it roll down the incline into his lap.

“Just because he got you out doesn't mean he would've helped me.”

“Don't be stupid. Why wouldn't he?”

Saint adjusted the sketchbook and dropped the pencil again. It rolled more slowly this time. He waited until it hit his lap to reply.

“Bad blood.”

Ada instinctively looked for something to throw at him. Saint had never been one to talk riddles before. Maybe Corinne had rubbed off on him. Finding no suitable projectile, she pressed forward.

“What have you ever done to Johnny?”

Saint held the pencil in both hands, pushing his thumbs against the middle as if to snap it in half.

“Not me. My dad.”

“Your father died saving Johnny's life—and half the troop. And you told me they'd been friends for years before the war.”

Saint's eyes flickered to hers. There was a crinkle between his eyebrows, but Ada couldn't tell if it was anger or determination or something else altogether.

“They were friends, but my dad didn't save anyone.”

Ada frowned. The priest had told the story at the funeral: how the small Allied troop had come across a German squadron. Seeing that they had stumbled into a slaughter, Temple had drawn fire to himself, giving eleven soldiers—including Johnny—enough time to retreat. Johnny had been one of the pallbearers at the graveside.

“Johnny got drunk at the wake,” Saint said. “He told me what really happened.”

The color had faded from his cheeks, and his shoulders were hunched. Before she could convince herself otherwise, Ada moved to sit next to him on the sofa.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

“They did run into a German squadron on the highway, but the troop hid in some trees before they were seen. Johnny said it wasn't the best position, but chances were good that the Germans would just pass them by.” The pencil snapped in Saint's hands.
“My dad lost it and ran. The Germans heard him, and that's when they opened fire.”

Saint turned his head toward Ada, his eyes damp.

“Johnny was the only one who saw what really happened. He told the survivors that my dad had been trying to draw fire. Everyone believed him. My mother, my sisters, everyone. I'm the only one he told.”

He had the jagged end of the broken pencil against his thigh and was driving it downward. Wordlessly, Ada pried it from his grip. It felt irreverent, talking about Johnny like this, like he couldn't at any moment throw open the door to his office and holler at them to keep it down.

“I asked him why he lied,” Saint said. It came out like a gasp. He was struggling against tears. “He told me that debts have a way of being paid, in time.”

Ada retrieved the other half of the pencil from the floor and set them both on the coffee table.

“If Johnny was holding it against you, then why has he let you stay?” Ada asked. “The bad blood was between him and your father. It doesn't have anything to do with you. Johnny would never have left you to the bulls.”

“Haven't you ever wondered about that day?” Saint asked, turning to face her. “You and Cor have run that money a hundred times before without a problem.”

Ada bit her lip. She'd had plenty of time to wonder while in the asylum, but she'd spent most of it wondering why Saint had betrayed her, and when Corinne was going to show up. It was true that the errand had been routine. Once a month, she and Corinne would drop off money on the Common for one of the clerks at Johnny's bank. It wasn't a large sum—just some grease money to
ensure that whenever the Bureau of Internal Revenue got nosy, they wouldn't find anything amiss with Johnny's accounts.

But two weeks ago, three cops with earplugs had shown up instead of the clerk. Ada and Saint never even had a chance to run.

“The clerk ratted on us for reward money or something,” Ada said. “Johnny didn't have anything to do with it. Why would he?”

Saint didn't have an answer for that. He lowered his head again. Ada could see the lines of a building taking shape in his sketchbook, but there wasn't enough detail yet to identify it. She thrust her palms together in her lap, trying to relieve the frustration in her chest.

“If you didn't trust Johnny, couldn't you have at least trusted me and Cor?” she asked at last.

He was quiet for a while, running his fingers across the page, smudging the lines slightly.

“I was scared,” he said. “Just like my dad. I'm sorry, Ada.”

Ada considered standing up and leaving him there. She considered letting those words be the last between them. In some ways, maybe it would have been easier. But she couldn't stop thinking about his father's funeral, how she had held his hand, and how he had trembled during the three-volley salute. She couldn't walk away now.

“I forgive you,” she said.

Saint looked at her through his shaggy auburn bangs.

“Really?”

“Only because I need help reining in Corinne. After cracking Haversham, she thinks she's some kind of mastermind.”

After a moment of hesitation, a smile crept across Saint's face. Ada smiled back.

CHAPTER TEN

When Corinne woke up, she was shivering so hard that she almost couldn't make it to her feet. The pocket watch clutched in her hand had no warmth, and her toes ached. She got dressed in as many layers as possible, including her coat and ankle boots. Ada's bed was empty, her blanket gone. Bleary-eyed, Corinne stared at the space above the bed, where Saint's painting of the tree and wildflowers now hung in pride of place. Despite her discomfort, she couldn't help but smile.

She stumbled into the common room, where the furnace was fuming. Even so, it was only marginally warmer.

“Another few inches of snow since last night,” Ada said.

She was on the couch, her legs curled beneath her, her blanket around her shoulders. Her hair was still wrapped in the silk scarf she wore to bed. She had a damp newspaper in her lap, and there was a mug of something hot on the table. Corinne stared at it enviously for a few seconds, then went to stand by the furnace, willing the warmth to seep through her layers.

“Where's Saint?” she asked.

“The Mythic. He left a few minutes ago.”

Corinne didn't have anything nice to say about the Mythic or its inhabitants at present, so she adhered to the old adage and said nothing at all.

“A hemo went missing last night,” Ada said. “Apparently he was snatched right off the street.”

“Ironmongers?”

“I don't know. There's not much to the article. His name was Stuart Delaney. A musician at the Red Cat.”

“Never met him.”

“Me neither. I wonder if those HPA agents had anything to do with it,” Ada said. There was a frown etched between her eyebrows as she took a sip of her coffee.

“If Carson is taking money from the agency, then he must be up to his eyeballs in something,” Corinne said.

She moved reluctantly away from the furnace and huddled onto the couch beside Ada.

Ada handed Corinne the mug and flipped the paper open to the back page.

“There was nothing in the obits about Johnny. Do you—do you think we're supposed to write one?”

Ada's voice was thin and wavering at the edges, and she didn't look up from the paper. Corinne shrugged and took a long sip, not caring that the bitter drink scalded her tongue and throat. Discussing Johnny's obituary wasn't something she could handle this early in the morning.

“When Gabriel gets here, we need to talk about tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“If we want to see the Witchers, we'll have to leave here by eight. We'll sweet-talk our way into the back rooms and get them to tell us what they know.”

The details of the plan were still fuzzy, but Corinne knew she would find a way. If Carson was in the dark, then the Witcher brothers had to know something about Johnny's death—or maybe the Witchers were behind it all. Either way, after tonight the Cast Iron crew would know who killed him. Then they could start planning their revenge.

Ada hadn't replied. She was giving her the look she always gave when Corinne had forgotten something she shouldn't have.

“What?” Corinne asked, already feeling a headache coming on.

“It's Tuesday.”

“So?”

“Tonight is your brother's rehearsal dinner.”

“Oh for cripes' sake,” Corinne said, plunking the mug onto the table. “Don't we have more important things to worry about?”

“If you miss the rehearsal dinner, your parents will have every bull in the city looking for you.”

Corinne scowled at her. “I could call and—”

“What excuse could you possibly give that your mother will accept, Cor?”

“What's going on?” Gabriel was coming down the stairs, unwinding his gray scarf. His coat was still covered in flecks of white. Ada had given him the keys last night, when he had insisted on going home.

“Corinne is trying to dodge her sisterly duties,” Ada said.

“This is ridiculous,” Corinne said. “I can't waste all night at my stupid brother's rehearsal dinner. We need to talk to the Witchers and find out what they know.”

“We could go without you,” Gabriel pointed out.

“No we can't,” Ada said.

“Don't even think about it,” Corinne said.

Gabriel shrugged out of his coat and sank into an armchair. Corinne groaned and struggled to climb to her feet without sacrificing the warmth of her blanket. She shuffled to her room, sighing indignantly all the while. She left the door open as she dug through the trunk at the foot of her bed, searching for the dress her mother had given her for the occasion months ago.

“You don't understand. I'm never going to get out of there,” Corinne shouted to them.

“The dress is hanging on the doorknob,” Ada said.

“No it's not.”

“Yes it is.”

“I'm looking at the doorknob right now and I'm telling you, it's not— Oh.” Corinne pulled off a few scarves and uncovered the cream-colored dress. “My mother will keep me there all night. Unless—”