CHAPTER 7 #2
“Thanks.” I glance out the window into the storm, where rain lashes the exterior shell of the train, and the wind howls like it’s trying to rip off the roof. Still, it’s preferable to the shitstorm I’m in.
“How long’s this going to last?” I text.
“I won’t lie, Loredana,” Dad replies. “Bliss is a kick in the balls. The withdrawal symptoms should ease up in a week or two, but until then, we have to prepare for the worst.”
Two weeks. I’m not even sure I can survive two hours.
“I don’t get it, Dad. You’ve passed controversial laws in the past. Stuff people hated. No one reacted like this. Why now?”
“This time, it’s not about the law.”
“What’s it about, then?”
“Before the vote, the Blues tried to sway us. Me. The other low-citizen reps. They promised us kickbacks if we killed the bill. I thought it was just standard corruption. Happens all the time. But now I realize… it wasn’t bribery. They were counting heads, seeing who’d sell out for access.”
I clench my hands at my sides, suddenly feeling as exposed as a nerve. If Dad is right, the violence won’t end with the withdrawals.
“They’re going to kill all of us, aren’t they?”
“No,” Dad assures. “I won’t let that happen. I promise. But until Reeve reins in the shit-stirrers, you need to lay low. Stay in your dorm unless you have to go to class. No introductions. No visibility.”
A moment passes before he adds:
“And Loredana—whatever happens, stay the hell away from Blues.”
Logs crackle cheerfully in the fireplace as I glance at the stained-glass door of Edmund’s salon.
My reflection looks ghostly in the glass, wide-eyed and terrified.
I know I should heed Dad’s warning to avoid Blues, but for the first time in my life I’m caught in a double bind: damned if I return to the green carriage, damned if I stay in the blue.
Now that it’s confirmed the Blues want revenge on the representatives who voted against them, along with their families, Edmund’s invitation makes no sense…
unless, of course, he’s planning an ambush.
But if that’s the case, why isn’t he here?
Nearly twenty minutes have passed with no sign of him.
If he were here, I could handle it. This uncertainty is much worse.
Charlotte seems to feel the pressure, too. Despite Jack telling us to make ourselves comfortable, she hasn’t sat down once. She’s pacing the salon, silent yet restless, chain-smoking cigarettes faster than pencils slide through a sharpener.
Then Dickie, perched on the arm of a chair, asks Charlotte why she’s so twitchy. That’s all it takes. She launches into a dramatic retelling of the train platform incident, her voice high-pitched and her gestures wild. I know it’s not only for Dickie’s benefit; she needs the distraction.
So do I.
Jack lounges back with a deck of cards, strip-shuffling lazily while Charlotte talks. His eyes track her movements, distant and unfocused, as if he’s only half-listening. Probably because he’s so drunk that if I punched him in the face, he’d bleed whiskey.
Apart from his heavy drinking, Jack is definitely Charlotte’s type. I can’t help but wonder why they broke up, especially since she claimed he’s the one. If it’s because of his alcoholism, I don’t understand why she won’t say so.
“And that’s when I knew,” Charlotte says, stubbing out her cigarette on a plate of smoked salmon, “Mr. Lee was going to challenge Lore to a death duel. So, with no time to lose, I told Harrison—”
“Harrison?” Dickie interrupts from his chair, where a Pinkie is polishing his two-tone shoes. “Why didn’t you tell Waldsten first?”
Charlotte narrows her eyes, clearly annoyed. “Because it was more important to warn Harrison, so I could stop him from—”
“You still should’ve told Waldsten first. If it were me, I’d be mad.”
“Well, it wasn’t you, Dickie. And thank fuck for that.”
“Someone else warned me about the death duel,” I say.
“Who?” Jack pauses mid-shuffle.
“I don’t know. One of the low-citizens in the crowd whistled the beginning of The Last Walk.”
Jack laughs, then resumes shuffling. “It wasn’t a low-citizen, darling.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Um, hello?” Dickie says, checking the shine on his shoes. “Because it’s illegal. You’re not allowed to play The Last Walk in public unless it’s during an execution or a sanctioned duel.”
“You’d lose at least a hundred civil credits,” Jack adds. “And no low-citizen has that much spare change lying around.”
“Well, you’re a low-citizen, and you sure seem to have a lot of spare change,” I say.
“That’s different.”
Charlotte’s eyes flick to Jack’s hand, her chin tilting stubbornly. I know she wants to tear off his glove to see his Blood Ring as much as I do. Instead, she clears her throat loudly to get everyone’s attention, then dives back into her story.
I fall quiet, turning Jack’s words over in my mind. Blues are tribal, often loyal to a fault. They don’t break ranks unless there’s something big to gain or something even bigger to lose. If the whistle came from a high-citizen, it’d be rare. Nearly unheard of.
“No, I’m not exaggerating. At least a hundred people were mobbing us,” Charlotte says as she finishes her story. “How the hell did you guys not see anything?”
Jack raps his knuckles against the window. “Because only the salons on the right side of the train had a view of the platform. Ours is on the left.”
“I’d wager Ed saw it,” Dickie says, reaching for another piece of chocolate cake. “His broad’s salon is on the right.”
“Wait a minute.” I feel a low swoop in my gut. “You’re saying Edmund’s been with his fiancée since before we left the station?”
“Yeah.” Dickie scratches his nose. “So?”
“So how exactly did Charlotte and I get invited to his salon?”
Silence.
“Jack…” Charlotte clutches the sides of her face, her voice stretched with dread. “Please tell me you called Edmund.”
“Of course, I did.” Jack tosses the cards onto the table. “But he didn’t pick up.”
“Oh, hell.” Her voice jumps an octave. “Oh, hell. Oh, hell.”
“Relax, broad.” Dickie pats Charlotte on the back. “Jack and I are allowed to have guests.”
“Not these guests,” she snaps, jabbing a finger at herself, then at me.
Jack looks me over. “Ed doesn’t use Bliss.”
“But his bloodsucking tick of a twin does,” Charlotte fires back. “How the hell could you do this to us?”
“I would’ve waited for a call-back, darling, but when you told me you were dying, I took it as urgent.”
“Not as urgent as it’s about to be.” Charlotte grabs her handbag like a weapon. “Lore, we need to go.”
But I’m already halfway to the door. I knew it.
I knew the second we entered Edmund’s salon that this couldn’t be a free pass.
Whether he uses Bliss or not doesn’t matter.
If he finds us here without an invitation, he might report us for trespassing or, worse, offer us a choice to stay in exchange for something I can’t afford to give.
I reach the door and try to turn the handle, but it won’t budge.
At first, I think the handle is jammed, until I feel resistance and realize someone else on the other side is trying to open the door, too.
I step back as a silhouette shifts behind the stained glass, and the door slides open with a bang that rattles the panes.
“Well…” says a deep, lilting voice. “Isn’t that a daisy?”
The Blue in the doorway is so tall that he has to lower his head to meet my eyes.
When he does, I see the salty-smelling sweat; it clings to him like mist, streaming across his flushed skin, dripping from his mussed, dark brown hair, down the proud set of his face, and pooling at the base of his throat.
His white dress shirt hangs open, with three buttons torn clean off.
There’s a fresh cut above one eyebrow, two more slashes across his cheeks.
From the smear of lipstick on his jaw and the fact that he was just with his fiancée, I don’t need to guess what he was doing.
Edmund looks at me, his breath slightly ragged, his blue eyes cold as something floating in the sea. Then he turns to Charlotte, and his mouth slants in shock, as if he’s trying to match her to a memory that no longer fits. For a moment, something close to grief flickers across his face.
Then his hands curl into fists. Rage flashes through him as his shoulders drop low, the kind of crouch you see in animals before they leap.
I swing toward Charlotte protectively. She’s pinned to the table, arms stiff at her sides, jaw held at an upward tilt. Her gaze remains fixed on Edmund’s, even as her body betrays her. One foot jerks back, and her mouth twitches as if she wants to speak, maybe to explain, but she remains silent.
Jack gets up from the table with a sudden, drunken stumble. “It was me, Ed. I invited them.”
The fury on Edmund’s face falters, veers off course, and crashes headlong into confusion. His head whips toward Jack. “Why? Back to get burned twice?”
Jack’s jaw tightens, then he sighs and throws his empty shot glass onto the table. “It’s messy, Ed. I know. But—”
“Someone put a hit out on the Bliss girl,” Dickie cuts in, nodding at me. “Or that’s what Lady Charlotte claims.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a hit,” Jack says. “Maybe they’d have been fine. But I wasn’t willing to take that gamble.”
“Gamble?” Edmund turns on me, and as he steps closer, the air thickens with cologne-laced sweat and the woody tang of cigar smoke.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to recognize me from Bogart’s broadcast. But his expression doesn’t change.
He gives me a quick, feral once-over, the kind you give a carcass to see if the meat is suitable.
Then he leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him.
His nostrils flare as the stench from my train seat hits.
“Well,” Edmund mutters, his voice dropping low, “it’s a gamble now.”
He walks off. The lavatory door swings open, and he’s at the sink, wiping blood from his face as he kicks the door shut behind him.