CHAPTER 15
We created gods, and in our blinding, reckless vanity, never asked the question: What happens if these gods come to despise us?
—DOMINIC CRUPP, AN ORANGE
My hands slam against metal as I crawl through the ventilation shaft.
Left. Right. Another left. The shaft twists and branches, stretching endlessly through the Speakeasy’s hidden anatomy.
Sweat drips down my face, leaving itchy trails.
My knuckles are scraped raw, glistening with blood and plasma, and every movement of my blistered feet sends a fresh twinge of pain up my legs.
The ache in my body begs me to stop and rest, but I can’t.
Almost there.
I take a sharp left, then glance down between the iron slats of a grate.
Below, the smoky glow of the Cigar Den stirs with hushed voices and clinking glasses.
I crawl forward, my rustling movements echoing in the confined space.
Ahead, music filters through the ducts, growing louder as I reach the Lindy Hop Ballroom.
The wild, familiar rhythm matches the pounding of my hands on the metal.
The Lucky Dice Loft is here, sandwiched between the Ballroom and the Den, a long, narrow corridor of private gambling rooms and high-stakes bets. And Edmund, if he’s still inside.
I ignore the tired burn in my shoulders as I push onward.
The grates above the rooms are now closer together, one for each private gambling space.
Through the slats, I glimpse flashes of silk, smoke, and blue.
High-citizens lounge in deep, overstuffed chairs, drunk and careless, diamonds spilling from their hands like teeth from a broken jaw.
Laughter fills the air, rising like champagne bubbles, too loud and too carefree.
I frown, wondering why the hell they’re laughing, until I notice the thick, vault-like walls that seal in the luxury. They’re likely soundproof. Most of the high-citizens look too drunk to read a text. They probably know nothing about the murdered students or President Reeve’s assassination.
I crawl forward, my breath coming in ragged bursts. Every grate seems to blur together until I suddenly hear a loud, wild laugh that sounds like Edmund’s, but it’s too pleasant to fit the feral animal I met on the Regal Express.
He’s in the seventh room.
I creep toward it and peer through the grate.
The dim light casts long shadows across a low, smoky room, wide enough for a felt poker table and a polished cherrywood bar.
Edmund sits at the center, flanked by two other high-citizens, their bespoke shoes planted on the intricate rug beneath them.
On the table, gemstones glitter in loose piles—emeralds, rubies, sapphires—scattered like dice across the felt.
Nearby, a Pinkie monitors the game. Its mechanical voice drones over the quiet chatter, announcing scores and confirming bets.
Edmund fans his cards in one hand, his shoulders loose and his smile wide, utterly at odds with the coiled fury I saw on the Regal Express.
His burgundy tie hangs slack at his collar, and his navy-and-gold waistcoat is dusted with cigar ash.
The sleeves of his crisp ivory shirt are rolled to his elbows, revealing a faint scar from the scorpion sting.
Two crushed cigar stubs and three empty brandy and beer glasses sit on a nearby sideboard, as if he’s been here for hours.
His pile of gemstones is pitiful compared with the gleaming towers stacked before his two opponents, yet he doesn’t seem to notice or care that he’s losing.
“Were you really stung by a deathstalker, Mr. Prew?” one of the Blues asks, a beautiful woman wearing a headdress of cascading pearls. She slips a cigarette into a diamond-studded holder. “Is it as painful as they say?”
Edmund stands, pulls a lighter from his pocket, and leans in to light the cigarette for her. “Not enough to cancel a party.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You were stung at a party, then?”
Edmund settles back into his chair with a laugh. “Not the kind I usually host.”
The other Blue at the table, a dark-skinned man with a pencil mustache, waves his beer glass at Edmund. “Speaking of parties, I hear on good authority that yours are rather… dare I say, infamous?”
A shadow crosses Edmund’s face, almost too quick to catch, before the smoke from his cigar masks it. “I learned from the best.”
I edge closer until my face nearly touches the grate.
From this angle, I see Edmund has been injured by more than the scorpion.
There’s a fresh cut along the side of his neck, too deep to be an accident.
It looks like it was made by a fingernail.
And Edmund must’ve allowed it. No one touches a Blue without permission.
If he’s cheating on Irene, he must’ve been with one of the women today.
It occurs to me, then, that maybe Edmund isn’t being careless about his affairs. What if he’s deliberately revealing the scratches as an open taunt to Irene? Since he’s not hiding them, it seems likely he wants her to see the evidence and know he’s been with other women.
I lean back, wondering how to get his attention. Below, the game continues as the Pinkie flips a single card face-up in the center of the table.
The mustached Blue slides a diamond across the felt. “I raise.”
The Pinkie examines the diamond through a lens. “Flawless clarity,” it announces. “Excellent cut. 5.4 carats. Value: three million.”
The bet moves to Edmund. He absently rubs his eyebrow as he looks over his cards, as if seeing them for the first time. With the community cards, he has four of a kind, a hand strong enough to beat the mustached Blue’s full house. He calls the bet.
The Pinkie steps in, its mechanical limbs clacking as it sorts through Edmund’s meager stash.
“Ruby,” the robot declares, setting a stone aside.
“Vivid red. High clarity. Value: eight hundred thousand.” Next comes an emerald.
“Vivid green. Excellent clarity. Value: seven hundred thousand.” Then a sapphire worth five hundred thousand and a pink spinel worth three hundred and fifty thousand.
But the stones are still not worth enough to match the diamond’s value. As the Pinkie continues sorting, Edmund reaches for a beer bottle and tops off the mustached Blue’s glass. He lifts his own glass and holds it out.
The mustached Blue studies Edmund, then swirls his beer dismissively. “I don’t toast an opponent, Mr. Prew. Not until the game is finished.”
Edmund inclines his head, but doesn’t withdraw his glass. “That is exactly when a toast matters most.”
The mustached Blue arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You clink so the beer spills into each other’s glasses—just enough to prove neither of us poisoned the other.”
The mustached Blue glances down at his glass, considering for a moment. Then he laughs, sharp and delighted. “Well then. As long as we’re enemies.”
The mustached Blue raises his glass and taps it against the side of Edmund’s, firm enough that a few dark drops leap the rims and mingle.
The Blue woman exhales a ribbon of smoke, her smile turning curious. “How intriguing, Mr. Prew. If a toast is meant for enemies, what’s the equivalent for friends?”
Edmund takes a sip of his beer, then turns to her, his expression polite yet direct. “Friends drink from the same glass.”
He holds his beer out toward her.
She hesitates only a moment before taking the glass. As she drinks, her throat bobs slightly, and a flush creeps up her neck.
I’m feeling flustered myself, but not because of Edmund.
I don’t have time to wait for this game to drag on.
For all I know, they could play all night.
I reach for Dad’s daffodil brooch, pinned to my gown.
After I used its camera footage to force Edmund to uphold our agreement, I know he’ll remember it.
Carefully, I loosen the pin and hold the brooch out for a moment, its hard edges biting into my fingertips.
Then I drop it through the grate, where it lands on the table with a soft thud, its brilliance swallowed by the piles of gemstones.
A moment of stunned silence passes before the mustached Blue jerks his head up. “Who’s there?”
The Blue woman springs to her feet so forcefully that her chair topples sideways onto the rug. In one swift motion, she draws a pistol from a garter on her thigh and points it at the grate. “Identify yourself. Now.”
Edmund, meanwhile, stares curiously at the brooch. He picks it up slowly, turns it over in his fingers, and sets it back on the felt.
He remembers.
“Mr. Blakely. Miss Seymour.” Edmund’s voice cuts through the charged air. “I am afraid I must bid you good evening. Please accept my apologies—and an invitation to my party tomorrow night.”
The two Blues exchange a glance that shifts from surprise to disbelief.
“And the gemstones?” Miss Seymour asks.
Edmund pushes the remaining pile toward them. “A gift.”
The Pinkie hands each Blue a velvet satchel. They begin scooping the gemstones into their satchels with brisk, practiced efficiency, but when Miss Seymour reaches for the daffodil brooch, Edmund’s hand flashes out and gently catches her wrist.
“You have an excellent eye, Miss Seymour,” he says. “Excellent enough to observe that this brooch is not a gemstone.”
Her hand stills in his grasp. She looks up and meets his gaze, his smile still perfectly polite. After a brief pause, she lets out a soft, forced laugh and flicks her fingers, letting the brooch fall back onto the felt.
The Blues finish gathering the gemstones in silence.
Mr. Blakely tucks his cigar into the corner of his mouth and turns to leave, while Miss Seymour straightens her headdress, her gaze never quite leaving Edmund.
At the door, they both tilt their heads back, casting curious glances toward the ceiling vent.
The Pinkie opens the door for them, and they step out with reluctant grace.