Iron Cast(9)

“You smoke?” he asked. His voice sounded husky and strange.

In the darkness, Corinne couldn’t quite make out his features— just the lines of his profile, gray against the shadows. She shook her head but leaned against the wall beside him. Even though she wore heels, he was much taller than her, and she had to crane her neck to see his face.

“You didn’t like the set?” she asked. The flush from her dancing was starting to wear off, and the cold was creeping along her arms.

He took another pull from the cigarette, held it for a second, then exhaled through his nose.

“It was incredible,” he said.

“You left during Ada’s solo.”

“I’ve never— The way she was making me feel, it wasn’t—” He hung his head.

“I understand,” Corinne said.

“I don’t think you do.” There was a thread of anger in his voice that caught Corinne off guard. “You go into people’s heads, and you root around in there and tug on strings for entertainment or profit. How can you realize what it’s like for the rest of us?”

“Excuse me?” Corinne straightened and turned to confront him. “You knew what we did here when you signed on, and now you want to take me to task about it?”

Despite the chill on her arms, her cheeks flushed with heat as she glared at him. To her surprise, he didn’t rise to her challenge. He didn’t even move. In the shadows, his pale features were like cut glass: all sharp, unforgiving edges.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not trying to fight.”

Corinne considered him for a few seconds. She didn’t know anything about him. He was just another hired gun who would soon tire of the low pay and bizarre company and move on. It made more sense to go back inside, to rejoin the party. Instead she leaned back against the wall.

“Ada’s music affects some people more than others,” she said in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone. “When she plays loss and longing, she can send people into fits of weeping.”

“It wasn’t the loss,” he said. “It was the happiness.”

Corinne tilted her head, trying to read his expression in the gloom.

He still didn’t meet her gaze. He exhaled a puff of smoke like a sigh. “It reminded me of things I . . . hadn’t thought about in a long time.”

They were both quiet for a few minutes after that. Corinne could see puffs of her own breath in the air, mingling with the cigarette smoke. Finally Gabriel dropped the butt and ground it out with his heel.

“I have to make my rounds,” he said. “They’re probably missing you at the party.”

“Probably,” Corinne agreed.

His lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile, and Corinne couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit triumphant. They walked back to the door, but before Corinne could open it, there was a sound farther down the alley. Some garbage cans fell over and a shape rose up, lumbering toward them. Gabriel grabbed Corinne’s arm and yanked her behind him. Corinne sensed his gun before she saw it. The movement of steel sent a wave of nausea through her. No wonder she felt on edge around him.

“Put that away,” she said, pushing past him. “It’s just Harry.”

“Who the hell is Harry?” he asked.

“He’s nobody. He comes around sometimes.” Corinne took a few steps toward the scraggly man, who was dressed in a wrinkled suit, worn threadbare at the elbows and knees. His brown hair was matted and unkempt, and there were remains of some long-past meal in his beard.

“Johnny told you not to come back here,” Corinne said.

“Corinne, is that you?” he asked, shuffling forward. “I just need a little bit. Can’t you ask Ada to—”

“Ada won’t play for you anymore. Go home.”

“I can’t.” There was a snuffling sound, and Corinne realized he was crying. “Just a few bars, please. There’s ghosts in my head, and she’s the only one can shake them loose.”

“Go home,” Corinne repeated. She turned back toward the door, but then Harry was grabbing at the back of her dress. She could smell his sweat and grime and desperation.

“What about you?” He was crying. “You can give me some sunlight, some blue skies. I need to shake them loose.”

Corinne swung her elbow and felt it contact bone, but the man was unfazed. Gabriel pulled her free and shoved Harry away. Harry hit the concrete with a loud sob.

“He’s never been this bad before,” Corinne said, retreating a few steps.

“He’s drunk,” Gabriel said.

She shook her head. Even from a distance, Harry stank of urine and sweat—but not alcohol.

“No. He’s an edger.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he uses hemopaths’ talents as an escape, but he fell down the rabbit hole and there’s no coming back.” She dusted off her dress in short, jerking movements, trying to hide the trembling of her hands. She told herself it was just the cold.

“Bitch,” Harry howled toward the black sky. He tried to drag himself upright, but he finally gave up and collapsed onto the concrete. “I hope the ironmongers get you. I hope you—”

He was interrupted by the rolling wail of sirens. Corinne’s heart skipped a beat at the sound. They were coming closer. Too loud, too fast.