CHAPTER 7 #4
Edmund tosses the jar of scorpions back to Charlotte. She catches it with a wince, bracing as if it might pop open and spill the scorpions. A large, dark vein jumps in her forehead, the same one that always appears when she’s scared past pretending.
“All right, Edmund.” She sets the jar on the table as if it just started ticking. “I’ll do it on one condition. Whatever the loser owes has to be legal. No blood. No bullshit.”
“Or forced intimacy,” I say.
Edmund cuts me a look like I’m a mosquito buzzing too close. He gets up, and as soon as his body leaves the chair, it relaxes, as if he’s not made for staying still.
“I accept,” he says. “Shall we formalize the agreement?”
Charlotte nods.
We record the terms in our Blood Rings. Once finished, Edmund closes the space between us and pulls me into an embrace, the customary gesture to seal an agreement.
His skin is still hot and sweaty, and his grip is too tight, as if he’s pouring his disdain into the formality.
I squeeze him right back, harder and harder, until he stiffens.
“Yours is not the embrace of a lady,” Edmund murmurs.
“Nor is yours the embrace of a gentleman,” I reply.
“I was a gentleman when I boarded this train. A lot has happened since then.”
I glance up at him, unsure what he means, but there’s no time to ask.
He pulls away and moves on to Charlotte.
Their embrace is awkward and brisk, so fast I almost miss capturing it on my brooch camera.
Then Edmund walks to the door and speaks to a Pinkie with freckles and a nest of dark curls.
The exchange is brief. Whatever is said ends with the Pinkie stepping out.
At the table, Jack pours out shots, five for each player.
Dickie perches on the edge, watching like a judge. “Some of these glasses are fuller than others,” he says, tilting one toward the light. “As a just man, I can’t ignore the unfairness.”
“Yeah, well, as a drunk man, this is as good as it’s gonna get.” Jack takes a long swig from the bottle.
Lightning flashes behind the window, drawing my gaze outside.
The rain has eased enough to reveal layers of forest, cliffs, and a jagged coastline curving toward the horizon.
The sun breaks through the clouds like a cracked yolk, spilling golden light over the energy shield as it rises impossibly high from the ocean.
This is the west end of the Civilized World, while my family’s estate is thirty miles from the east end.
And somewhere out there, Jane Bradford is still in the green first-year carriage. Waiting. Or already dead.
Edmund sits, plants his feet wide, and rolls up his shirt sleeve.
Jack unscrews the jar, tipping it until the two scorpions spill out, their legs whispering over the wooden table.
Dickie and I both jolt back. Edmund stretches out his arm, motionless even as one deathstalker skitters up his wrist. The scorpion’s tail curves high over its back, twitching side to side, the stinger ready.
“Careful, Ed,” Dickie mutters. “That one’s got mischief in its eyes. If it stings, are you gonna follow tradition?”
“Down to the swallow,” Edmund says, his eyes locked on Charlotte. “Shall we begin?”
Her arm twitches anxiously. “I… yeah. Just give me a second.” She flattens her palm on the table with a wince.
The scorpion responds immediately, drawn by her body heat, darting around an ashtray and scurrying up her wrist. Charlotte’s breath catches.
Through gritted teeth, she inches her hand toward the nearest shot glass, every movement stretched thin.
“Good health,” Edmund says with a wink.
He raises his glass, and the deathstalker on his arm goes still. Its tail arches higher, poised to strike, but Edmund continues lifting the glass until the rim reaches his mouth. With a smooth tilt, he throws back the shot.
“Dead easy,” Jack says.
“Wow. A real touch of terrific,” Dickie adds.
But not for us.
I nod at Charlotte, trying to look reassuring. I know I owe her for this. I’ll owe her until the day I die.
When Edmund sets his glass back on the table, she picks up hers.
Her hand is steady, but I notice the vein in her forehead pulsing again as she lifts the shot to her lips.
The scorpion stays still at first, then, as the glass reaches her chest level, it scurries down her arm, its pincers flared wide.
Charlotte freezes and bites her lip until a bead of green blood glints between her teeth.
I clamp my mouth shut, strangling any sound that might startle the scorpion. The seconds drip by, and as they do, I brace myself for a scream, a signal that we’ve lost.
But instead, I hear a bang, loud enough to shake the walls and rattle the windows. It’s coming from outside the train.
Everyone moves at the same time. Charlotte and Dickie dive under the table, while Jack lunges forward and traps the deathstalkers under a pair of whiskey glasses.
Edmund flinches, shaking his arm as if to shake off pain.
His hand fumbles for the antivenom, and he plunges one syringe into his thigh with a grunt.
“Lore, get down!” Charlotte yells from the floor.
I drop into a crouch and scramble to the window. My knees grind against the carpet, tearing my stockings, but I don’t stop. I don’t even breathe until I’m peering through the glass.
Outside, the shield crackles like a broken power line. Tremors ripple across the ocean as the impact erupts into a blinding halo of energy. Sparks burst. Fragments fly. Whatever hit the shield is shredding through it like a chainsaw buzzing through wood.
The train jolts forward, gaining speed until shrieks echo from the salons down the corridor. Sirens blare along the coastline, and above, I spot our patrol jets, sleek and AI-controlled. They dive toward the shield, engines roaring as they assess the damage.
The train’s windows darken as a shell of interlocking armor encloses us. The sounds of the sirens and the jets vanish, all swallowed at once. What remains is the fear, confusion, and silence, balanced like a blade before the drop.