Redemption Song (Daniel Faust #2)(35)

I leaned closer. “Did she win?”

Emma grinned. “I imagine it could have gone either way, if they’d had a proper fight, but the prince intervened to stop him. Then Sullivan screamed for a vote, only to learn that he had no friends left in that hall. Not one. Caitlin had spent years secretly forging pacts and negotiating trades of support with more than half of Sitri’s inner cabinet. They wanted her in Sullivan’s chair, since she’d proven she’d be far easier to work with.

“The prince decreed that her elevation had already taken place, at the moment she demanded it. Therefore, this was a case of a commoner daring to lay hands upon one of Sitri’s personal elect. A most serious crime. Sullivan lost more than his job. His lands, his thralls, his wealth…they literally tore the clothes from his body before casting him out into the street. As is custom, the prince took half of everything Sullivan had, and Caitlin was granted the other half. Thus began her rise to power. She became Sitri’s hound not too much later.”

I thought the story over. All the parts of the plan that could have gone wrong, all the variables. Only one possibility stood out in my mind, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“It was a setup, wasn’t it?” I said. “I mean, besides winning over the cabinet members in secret. She knew Sullivan would attack her, given his temper. The only way she could have known Sitri would back her play is if she set it up with the prince ahead of time. He went in for the fifty-fifty split.”

Emma cocked her head. “Nobody can say for sure, but the prince does love his little games, and he enjoys the company of people who know how to play. So. Sullivan’s back, and he wants vengeance. This isn’t good. I’ll fill Caitlin in, and we’ll decide how to proceed from there. You need to stay well clear. You don’t stand a chance against Sullivan, as I’m sure you’ve learned.”

“Don’t count me out yet. I’ve got—”

I was going to say something pithy about cards up my sleeve, but the words died on my tongue. What did I have, really? My apartment and everything in it was in ashes. My car was dead on some back street with a shredded tire and a bent rim, and even if I could afford repairs, it was probably already sitting in an impound lot. Sullivan’s goons had taken everything else I owned—my wallet, my cards, my keys. I had nothing left but the dirty clothes on my back.

I thought back to Pixie’s soup kitchen, how I thought a lot of the hungry people in line looked just like me. Now I understood why. Losing it all was so much easier than you’d think.

“Just don’t count me out,” I said. “I’m not done fighting yet.”





Eighteen

It was two in the morning by the time I got to the Scrivener’s Nook, with my feet aching and my bones tired. A door next to the bookstore opened onto a narrow stairway. I trudged up the steps, shoes heavy on the shabby carpet, and knocked on the door to the second-floor apartment.

Bentley opened the door. He wore a striped nightshirt and a stocking cap, like a character out of a Dickens novel. He took one look at me and waved me inside. He didn’t need to ask any questions.

Bentley and Corman’s kitchenette was as cluttered as their shop downstairs, festooned with antiques and curiosities and bric-a-brac. Spotlessly clean, but a tiny tornado of chaos. I followed Bentley into the kitchen and sat down at their folding card table while he put on a pot of hot cocoa.

“I was having one of my insomnia fits,” he said. “I suppose there was a good reason for it after all. I was just going to make some cocoa and indulge in a bit of Jane Austen.”

Corman poked his head around the corner, rubbing his eyes. He’d pulled a terrycloth robe over his boxers, letting it hang unbelted as he stumbled across the apartment.

“Thought I heard the door,” he grumbled. “Oh, hey kiddo. You look like shit.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve had better nights. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake anybody up. I just didn’t know where else to go.”

Bentley shook his head as Corman dropped into a folding chair next to me.

“Never apologize for needing help,” Bentley said. “You’d open the door for either of us. Now then. Would you like to talk about your troubles? Or would you like to get some sleep? It’s your choice.”

The couch looked inviting, but so did the aroma drifting from the kettle on the stove.

“Is that the Ghirardelli stuff?” I said.

“It certainly is. Also, there are tiny marshmallows in a bag in the pantry. If you’re staying up, that is.”

If I’d really wanted to clam up and bed down for the night, they wouldn’t have pressed me. That said, Bentley knew how to bribe a man.

“Splash a shot of Kahlúa in there and you’ve got a deal.”

“Go grab it yourself,” Corman said, nodding toward the refrigerator. “This is your house too.”

That was when the tears finally hit me, and I had to clench my fists at my sides and breathe deep to keep from breaking down. I got the story out, bit by halting bit. The hot chocolate helped. So did having Bentley and Corman at the table, patient, listening. Everything is a little easier when you’ve got family around you, whether they’re family of blood or family of choice.

Bentley didn’t even say, “I told you so,” considering how he’d been portending doom since the day Caitlin walked into my life. The two of them had since established an uneasy détente, but he made no secret about how he felt when it came to me rubbing shoulders with “her crowd.”