To Best the Boys(26)
His bold eyes slip to my dress, then return to mine with an alarmed glare. “These men are about to tear this room apart, and they’re going to tear you apart with it because you look just like one of them.”
“One of whom? An Upper? Except I’m not, and everyone here knows it.”
His jaws clamp so tight, the sound snaps in my ear. “And that’ll mean exactly nothing in ten seconds when the people in here notice you. They won’t care. You came from there tonight. And dressed like that, you’re not one of this group right now either.”
I flinch and clench my fist at the small sting his words give. I came down here because I care. Because I live here. The bias is ridiculous, and Lute of all people should know it. He doesn’t fit in with people any better than I do.
I scowl toward the front of the room where the boys are all standing on their table now, and the crowd surrounding them has their hands and hats in the air. And yet Lute is right. Coming from the Upper party without knowing the town was triggered may have been accidental—but it won’t matter. The atmospheric shift is clear. The energy and rage in here are a furnace about to blow.
Lute’s gaze softens and he leans in long enough to murmur, “It’s not you, Rhen, it’s them. Just . . . please.”
A sizzle in the air is followed by a snap, and the next moment a man near the counter lifts up a stool, and something inside me starts yelling that we all need to go. We need to go now.
And then a bottle is flying across the room and hits someone near the pub counter. And the place explodes into chaos.
9
I swerve back to Lute, but he’s already yanked off his jacket to toss over my shoulders. He tugs it around me to hide my dress, then throws his arm over my head and presses me toward the door.
The sound of breaking bottles and angry fists hitting bone fills my ears as Lute shoves us through the doorway and out onto the jammed street, where he slips his arm from my shoulders and grabs my hand as I gasp. “What in Caldon’s name is wrong with them?”
“They’re angry. Everyone is. Look around, Rhen.”
“I know they’re angry! But they’re taking it out on each other instead of the people they’re mad at. They’re not even thinking.”
“Exactly.” His grey eyes flash as he pulls me from the midst of the throng of bodies to the other side of the street, then yanks us against a wall as a new flood of marchers goes running by. The moment they pass, he veers us into a side alley and releases my hand.
Keeping his vantage point to the pub, he gives a quick scan of me—from my fingers clenching his loaned coat, down to my dress hem that’s sweeping the stones at our feet. My hands are shaking, and I grip the jacket tighter in hopes he won’t notice. The next second he’s apparently concluded I’m fine because he tilts his head to the alley as his black hair slips over one cheekbone. “Let’s get you home before this whole place—”
“Oi! What’ve we got here? Fancy dress for a fancy lady, eh?”
A rough gentleman I don’t recognize looms toward us from the crowded street. Two men slip up behind the man, and the stench of alcohol and anger rush my senses as he jerks his thumb back at the pub. “Thought we wouldn’t see you sneaking out of Sow’s?”
Lute shifts his stance. “We’re not seeking trouble. She’s just headed home.”
“Is she now?” The man takes two steps forward while his eyes assess my body too slowly. “Heading back to her place in high society, from the looks of it. Maybe she can explain why her kind is having parties right now while we’re left with the bill.”
I feel Lute’s body ripple as he slides his hand beneath my elbow. “She had nothing to do with it. If you want to pick a fight, Booth, the pub’s all yours. Now if you’ll excuse us—the fog’s thick enough to draw in predators tonight. I suggest you be on the lookout.”
I glance up. The ocean mist has condensed so rich we can barely see six feet in front of us, but either the man’s new to town or is too drunk to care what a thick night mist means, because rather than react, he just peers at his companions. “You defending her association with those fancy folk, Lute?” A leer edges his lips. “Or maybe you’re just busy associatin’ with her in your own way?”
“I’m defending your right to keep your throat in one piece.” Lute’s voice is low. He nudges me to walk behind him, farther into the alley.
Except before I’ve moved a step he’s released me, and the heckler’s fist flies through the air in a drunken lunge. I twist and duck at the same moment Lute lifts his own fist to clock the man right in the chin. The assailant’s knuckles barely scrape my cheek before Lute pitches the man backward into his friends, who stumble apart and let the man hit the ground.
“What the?”
“Now you’ve done it, Wilkes.”
All three of them raise their faces to us, and my lungs lodge in my throat as my cheek throbs like the dickens. Ah, hulls.
Lute’s hand slides around my back and urges me to go, but it’s unneeded—I’m already running. He stays right behind me up the miasma-cloaked alley before we cut in on another side street, while the men pursue us with curses through the dark. Until the air gives a sudden crackle and a low clicking sound picks up, followed by the sulfuric scent from earlier that bleeds toward us through the fog.