Iron Cast(11)

Ada sucked in a ragged breath and climbed the five steps to the door. She turned the brass handle in slow, agonizing degrees and pushed her palm against the smooth wood until the door creaked open a couple of inches. She peered through the crack, expecting any second that someone would yank it open from the other side. She could see Danny behind the bar, arguing with one of the cops.

After a few seconds, Danny caught sight of her and inclined his head toward the stage in the briefest of gestures, then resumed his vehement denial that he’d ever seen any hemopath activity in the Cast Iron. The backstage door was open, and Corinne was being prodded by a burly uniformed officer onto the stage and down the steps to the dance floor. She was loudly declaring that she’d only come here for a good time and had never so much as talked to a hemopath in her life. Ada bit her lip, thinking that they might actually be convinced. Corinne’s dress was nice enough, and she knew how to carry herself like a blue blood.

Then another cop produced a burnished gray rod, no bigger than a pencil, and Ada knew it was over. She didn’t let herself think anymore. There was no time for that. She was halfway to the stage when the cop pressed the iron against Corinne’s neck and her gasp of pain revealed her as a hemopath. They were grabbing their earplugs as Ada reached the microphone, the melody already thrumming in her throat. She’d hummed only a few notes when the hands started lowering, earplugs forgotten. She watched their faces as they searched the room in confusion. They spotted her, but not soon enough. Their faces were already slack, eyes glazing over.

Since the law had passed six months ago, there had been a push in law enforcement to develop hemopath-resistance techniques. Given enough time, the cops would probably find ways to withstand emotions and illusions, but Ada had been honing her skill a lot longer than they had been learning to resist it.

It was a fluid melody that she offered, deceptively complex—but then trust was a complex feeling. With enough focus, she could concentrate the full force of the music on the cops in the room. Danny would still feel residual effects, but he would be able to keep his head about him at least.

Corinne looked up and met Ada’s eyes. She was smiling. She extricated herself easily from the cops, who were standing in dumb fascination, ready to believe anything that Corinne wanted to tell them . . . or show them.

She patted the shoulder of the man next to her in an exaggerated show of sympathy. Then she started to speak to them in quiet tones. She was fiddling with her brass pocket watch, a habit that had become a ritual. They hung on her every word, nodding occasionally, even laughing once. Ada focused on her melody, layering trust and blurring the edges of their memory. The instinctual harmony between her and Corinne extended beyond the shows they played for regs.

Movement on the other side of the room caught her attention. Gabriel was standing in the doorway to the storage room, watching the cluster of cops around Corinne with visible unease. He was reaching for his gun when Ada caught his eye. She shook her head, careful not to drop any notes. He would be starting to feel the effects of her song now, though not with the same overwhelming intensity that she was aiming at the bulls. His hand drifted back to his side, and he blinked.

Corinne had almost finished whatever she was murmuring to her rapt audience. Ada could tell that she was building up to the big finish. Her brown eyes were bright with a triumph that Ada had learned to both relish and dread.

“Oh my stars,” Corinne cried, with a sudden Southern drawl that had Danny snickering behind the bar. The policemen didn’t seem to notice her abrupt theatrics.

“I think that bank down the street is on fire.” Corinne flung her arm in the direction of the front door. There weren’t any windows there, but the cops were falling over each other to stare at the blank wall.

“I don’t—”

“Wait, I see it, there’s smoke!”

“Let’s go.”

“And maybe just to be safe you shouldn’t come back,” Corinne called after them with a wave.

The door swung closed.

For a few seconds the Cast Iron was silent. Then Danny guffawed and hurled a dish towel at Corinne.

“Getting a little sloppy, don’t you think, kid?” he asked. “They’ll be back before long.”

“Not a chance. I made sure to explain in detail how thoroughly they had searched the place,” Corinne said. “Not a hemopath in sight. What a regrettable mistake.”

“Still,” Danny said with a shrug. “Better leave the acting to the thespians.”

Corinne put her hand to her heart as if wounded.

“Why must you hurt me, Danny? I’ve been practicing that fire gag for weeks.”

“What poem did you use?” Ada asked, hopping off the stage.

“ ‘That Nature Is a Heraclitean Fire,’” Corinne said. “Hopkins.”

“Appropriate.”

“Not really—the poem is a foray into questions of transience and immortality. Also clouds.”

Corinne grinned at her and lifted her hand, palm up, for their signature handshake. Ada knew it was the closest thing to gratitude Corinne would ever express, but she didn’t mind. The two simple taps of their fingertips together somehow held more significance than words ever could.

“That was a close one,” Ada said. “If they’d already been wearing their earplugs—”

“But they weren’t,” Corinne said. “Did you lay down some memory loss?”