The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(42)
Henri entered using the key he’d been given five years after his initiation. The churned earth scent of mold that rose out of the basement always made him think of the bodies planted in the next street over. Good reminder about which side of the dirt he preferred to be in, and one he always took with him into the meeting room. More moldering earth breath hit his face as he descended the rickety stairwell. At the end of the basement hall, beneath the glare of an oil lamp, an armed guard stood watch outside a door. Henri was late, but they wouldn’t start without him.
“Jean-Baptiste le sauvage,” he said, naming the notorious pirate who terrorized the high seas two centuries earlier and this week’s password. The guard let him pass, and he stepped into the room.
At night the morbid space served as the Underworld room of Hell’s Mouth, the three-tiered cabaret catering to the demons-and-angels trend the occult-obsessed city couldn’t get enough of. Upstairs were the semichic Heaven and Hell, but the basement was for the truly dispossessed. Bats and bones and coffins—he didn’t like any of it, but he couldn’t deny the crowds. People clamored to get into the nightclub and rub up against a little sin and madness.
“Glad you could join us, Perez.” Rings, a burly man with a twice-busted nose and a pencil-thin mustache, made sure the expression on his face contrasted his words.
On the wall behind Henri’s boss hung a skull and crossbones with a scarf tied over the skull’s nose and mouth like a bandit. A gesture of comedy and tragedy in one ghastly combination. A reminder that their purpose on the streets was to act as plundering pirates, albeit ones set sail on a sea of hapless marks.
Four other young men watched Henri as he took the last stool. The man on his right showed more curiosity than he should have as Henri set his satchel on the floor. That was the problem of working with thieves: you couldn’t trust anyone.
“Right, loot on the table, men.”
A clattering of metal hit the tabletop as everyone emptied their pouches. Gold chains, pocket watches, rings, medals, ashtrays, and a silver hatpin with a jewel-encrusted bee formed a display worthy of a shop jeweler. Well, one who sold on the rue de Misère anyway. Rings sorted through each man’s offering, grunting neither approval nor disgust, as Henri had come to expect. Rings was all business. Profit his only companion, money his only lover.
“Two of you seemed to have come up short.”
Henri being one. He’d spent too much time sketching Yvie and hadn’t left enough time to pick his afternoon round of pockets.
“Out of your pay.” Rings scooped the assorted valuables into a leather duffel bag, items which he would later sell for twice what he paid his crew to fetch. “Now, on to other business,” he said, tightening the drawstring on the bag with one hard tug. “Seems our Yvette is still out there somewhere on the run.” He held his right hand up, each finger ringed by a silver or gold band. “I know some of the gang felt we ought to protect her. Take her in, if we found her, seeing how she used to be one of us. But I’ve had word her price has gone up. Seems she was spotted on the butte by a gent selling newspapers, near abouts where you live, Henri. Client’s getting anxious.”
Rings let his gaze fall on Henri for an extra-long, suspicious-feeling beat. The look made the vein in his neck start to pulse so hard he worried someone might see it jumping under his collar.
“And don’t ask me why, but this client is still demanding the book,” Rings said. “Worth a fortune, apparently, and our girl has got it. So, find the pair of ’em, and this crew will be eating frog legs and swishing champagne up on the boulevard with the bougie suckers for the next six months.”
“We’ll find her.” Theo was like a predator catching the scent of prey. “How hard could it be? She’s hiding on the butte somewhere. But then what? Who do we turn her over to?”
“Leave that to me.” Rings tapped his fingers on the table. “Just find her and I’ll get her in the right hands.” He made a rude grabbing gesture with his hands that made the men laugh, all but Henri.
“How do we know what the right book is?” he asked. An obvious question, but the rest of the room looked at Henri like he’d replaced their gin with water.
Rings leaned forward on his elbows. “Now, now, it’s a good question. Thing is, and I really shouldn’t tell you this part, but there’s supposed to be some gold lettering inside. Rumor is the book is a kind of treasure map.” He pointed a ringed finger at his crew. “But not one of you good-for-nothings better go getting any ideas. It’s protected with codes and shit, so just get the girl, get the book, and bring ’em both here. Got it?”
Henry got it, all right. Rings knew exactly what he was doing when he mentioned the word “treasure.” Yvie had the price of gold on her head, and now les flics and his gang of thieves would be tearing up the streets of heaven and hell to find her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Elena stood on the terrace of her soon-to-be mother-in-law’s second-story apartment, mixing a salve and contemplating the painful effect of adding a little salt for protection. The back of her neck still stung from the burn she’d received in the magic circle an hour earlier. She should have known better. Participating in an invitation to the elementals while in a state of flux was a foolish, foolish thing to do. They’d sensed her uncertainty the moment they entered the circle. Of course they had. Teasing her. Testing her. Tempting her while she was pinned in the liminal space between positive and negative energy, light and dark emotions. The inconsistency and doubt over her future as a witch weighing her down. Had they also sniffed out her fear? She’d lain awake the past two nights worrying over what would become of her if she could no longer work the vineyard, if she could no longer place her hands on the canes to commune with the thread of life running through the vines or shape the growth and coax the grapes to the perfect fullness to make the wine. A part of her would rather give up magic than risk sinking into the devious art of poison her mother had followed. That, she believed, was the reason for the swipe.