Four Dead Queens(18)

“Let’s not do anything rash,” Mackiel said.

“Rash?” I barked out a laugh. “You’re the one holding the pistol.”

“Point taken, darlin’.” He placed the weapon on his desk, splaying his ringed fingers wide in surrender. “Better?”

I shook my head. “You let us go.” I gestured to the messenger. “You let us live. And I’ll consider telling you what I saw on those chips.”

Mackiel’s kohl-lined eyes studied the messenger. “I’ll let him go. You”—his gaze flashed back to mine—“stay here.”

But I didn’t want to be in the same quadrant, let alone the same room, as him. There was something sinister about his expression—something greedy and hungry that made my skin crawl. This was not the boy who had cried for weeks after burying his father or cared for me after I nearly lost mine. But I couldn’t let him see how much this hurt. Mackiel took your weaknesses and twisted them for his gain.

“No deal,” I said.

“Now, now, darlin’.” His words sounded melodic and soothing, but something desperate scratched at the surface. “You know I would never really hurt you. Promise.” But that was my word. A word I’d always used, but never really meant. “You know you can’t go home.” He wasn’t referring to my lodgings downstairs.

I wanted to throw my hands over my ears; I wanted to scream at Mackiel for using my family against me. Instead I said to the messenger, “Come here.”

The messenger hesitated, glancing between Mackiel and me. I shot him an annoyed look. Finally, he shuffled over.

“Kera.” Mackiel’s voice was lined with steel. “Let’s sit down and talk about this for a moment.” He removed his bowler hat and set it on his desk. Sweat glistened on his brow. I was making him nervous. Good.

“We’ve talked enough. You’ll let us go, and you won’t follow. Neither will your henchmen.”

Mackiel shrugged his shoulders, two sharp points visible under his large coat. “I can’t control their every movement. They’re still free men, after all.”

Free? Hardly. I ground my teeth. “Yes, you can. And you do. Don’t play me, Mackiel.”

“Me?” He pointed to himself and widened his eyes. “Never. Why don’t we have a chat,” he said, nodding to his desk chair. “Let’s slow things down a little, make things more civilized.” He grinned widely. “Dinner?”

The darkness that had been bubbling beneath Mackiel’s surface for months was now revealed. His eyes narrowed. Movements frenetic. He watched me with the same intensity that he studied his targets. Calculated. Yes. That was it. But now I was the prey.

I had to go someplace where there was no chance he would follow.

“Sure,” I replied. “But first”—I threw the now-empty comm case at his head—“duck!”

As he ducked, I pushed the messenger out the open window and into the black waters waiting below.



* * *



—

THE WATER WAS as freezing as I’d imagined.

Of course, I hadn’t thought this plan through, and in the moments before I hit the ink-dark water, I questioned my decision. It was winter. It was nighttime. The water would be bitterly cold.

For the first time tonight, I wasn’t disappointed.

The water punched my lungs. The waves were needles relentlessly stabbing my face, neck and bare arms. Salt burned my nostrils and stung my eyes. I wasn’t sure if I was up or down in this weightless watery grave.

And while I should’ve struggled for the surface, I thought of Mackiel and that day seven years ago.

We’d only known each other for a few months when I’d suggested we jump off the Jetée. It was a simmering summer’s day, and the water was the same crystal blue as the sky above. Mackiel had been hesitant. He was even narrower then, a thin reed of a boy. But I’d promised to look after him, boasting about being a strong swimmer. I’d spent every summer swimming off my parents’ boat, and I could hold my breath for long amounts of time.

“I’ll look after you,” I’d said. “Promise.”

And so we jumped.

When Mackiel had struggled and dipped beneath the surface, I thought he was playing. Mackiel was always playing. His face contorted, air bubbles sparkling up around me as he gulped like a fish. I giggled at his antics.

I realized my mistake when his face turned red, then blue.

I dove beneath and managed to pull him to the surface, tucked his limp body under my arm—he’d fit easily back then—and dragged him to shore.

He immediately spluttered the water from his lungs, but it wasn’t until he smiled that I relaxed. He never believed in my promises again, as if I’d meant to hurt him.

A current tugged at my clothes, dragging me back to the present. There I was, surrounded by darkness. I kicked and kicked until my head pierced the surface. My gasp was a breath of fog upon the water. I looked around, searching for the gas lamps on the dock.

As I treaded water, I expected to become accustomed to the frigid pain. I didn’t. And my skirts were intent on dragging me to the bottom of the sea to join the others who’d tried to deceive Mackiel. I imagined pale arms reaching up from the sea floor, ready to snag my boots.