The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(71)

Henri tightened his grip on the gun. He hadn’t thought of taking the money too. His only concern had been getting Yvette free, but the idea was sounding better and better the more the old thief spoke. Might be enough money in the deal to make a proper run for it. Maybe take a steamer across the ocean and start over. Fresh canvas and all that.

No use in tipping your hand, though. “Finish your drink, Rings.”

The men sat in tension-wire silence, everyone’s eyes on the gun as they sipped their gin, until the lights quickly flickered. That was the signal. The buyer was on his way down. The mood immediately shifted into high-stakes uncertainty. Henri patted his jacket again and removed the book with his free hand. He readjusted his grip on the gun, his hand grown damp from sweat, ready to fire if he must.

Three bullets. Christ almighty.

“Stand up and turn around,” he said to Rings. The crew of thieves lurched in their seats as Henri pressed the nose of the gun to the back of the man’s head. “A little extra insurance so no one gets the wrong idea.”

A moment later a trio of men entered the subterranean room. One with a flat cap and devil mask, one in a bowler and skull mask, and one wearing the hooded robe of the grim reaper, as if playing their part in the cabaret’s hellish theme. So, the monsieur did not wish to be identified. A waste of time. Henri couldn’t care less who he was or why he wanted the book. All he wanted was Yvette. But where was she?

Even from behind, he could tell Rings sported a devilish grin on his face, knowing the odds had heavily tipped in his favor. “Greetings, monsieur. I’m sorry I cannot shake your hand, but, as you can see, we have a small situation we’re dealing with.”

The reaper remained silent. His escorts pulled their weapons.

“Easy,” Henri said. “I know you don’t care if I blow this man’s brains all over the floor. Don’t really care myself. But I do think you want this little treasure all in one piece.” Henri dangled the book over the bucket of mop water. “Any move toward me and it goes in the slop. Shoot me, it goes in the slop. Then good luck reading the message from fairyland.”

The reaper betrayed a second of panic at the mention of “fairyland,” nearly lunging forward to save the book. Instead, he held up his hand, motioning his men to back off and put their guns away. So, it really did have a secret message in there about fairies. That was something to bargain with.

“You’re right,” the reaper said. “We can settle this like gentlemen.”

“Easy enough. Show me Yvie and the money you were going to give to Rings, and we’ll call it a day well spent.” Henri grinned, cunning and sharp.

“Backstabbing bastard.” Rings shook his head like a desperate man looking for a way out and swore he should have killed Henri himself.

Henri waited for one of the men to go get Yvie, but no one moved. Which meant they didn’t have her. Either they hurt her too badly to bring her, or worse, killed her. Or she got away. Knowing Yvie, he was banking on the latter.

“The girl isn’t actually here.” The reaper was trying to cover over the truth the same way the monger on rue de Giardi tried passing off his day-old fish as fresh caught. “Come with us. A gentleman’s agreement. You give me the book, and I’ll take you to Yvette.”

“And the reward money for finding the book? Have you left that behind as well?”

When the reaper didn’t answer, Henri let the book slip an inch through his fingers, catching it by the corner at the last second.

“Yes, yes, I have the money!”

Henri tapped the end of the pistol against Rings’s head. “How much he tell you he’s going to bring?”

“A thousand.” Henri tapped the pistol again, only harder. “Okay! Ten thousand.”

The men in the room gasped. Rings had obviously been lying to them about the amount of money they were waiting on. Everyone agreed the boss got the bigger cut, but cheating your own men out of their share? That’s a good way to get your throat slit in an alley when you’re coming around the devil’s asshole.

“Is that right, boss? You brought ten thousand with you?” The reaper affirmed it with a slow nod under his hood. “Tell you what,” Henri replied. “You put that money out where I can see it, and I’ll consider your proposal.”

No one moved. Henri thought he’d overplayed his hand. But then the reaper reached inside his robe and drew out a thick leather wallet the size of a mackerel and set it on the coffin table. Henri had never seen such a fat take. Of course, that got him wondering. If a man like the reaper, after dealing with petty thieves inside a shabby cabaret, was willing to give up ten thousand cash for a book no one can read, one had to wonder what the payoff was.

In the end, Henri’s practical street-thief nature took the route it knew best.

“Done,” he said and tossed the book over the reaper’s head. Like a bump-and-run on the street, he used the misdirect to swipe the wallet and dash for the exit.

Right away he faced a split-second decision: go up the back stairs and be pinned in the alley at le trou du cul du diable or break for the street up front and be gone for good.

With youth and adrenaline pumping his legs, Henri ran for the front stairs of Hell’s Mouth.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Marion Martel was not taking refusal well.