Chapter 1
HATCH
“You want me to… what?” I ask the doorman, trying to keep the sharp edge of frustration out of my voice.
The short, beady-eyed guy is skinny everywhere but his belly, looking like a lab mouse with a gold chain in a green velour suit.
His damp, pale skin is flushed high at the cheeks and his pupils are blown, both probably from whatever cloyingly sweet drug seeps from his pores.
It’s also the reason he couldn’t look like he cared less if he tried, vaguely waving to the costume masks lining the wall behind the curtain he just drew back.
“Just wear the mask, don’t be an ass. Them’s the rules, don’t be a tool,” he hiccups. “No name is the game, and the games never change. Secrets for thee are not from he. Castle don’t need your name, not for the game. I’m not to blame, for the game stays the same.”
I blink.
He blinks back slowly.
A sole Edison bulb in a gilded wire sconce barely illuminates the small vestibule, but my eyes zero in on its three doors—one in front of me, one at the top of a staircase, and another to my right. Lucy’s behind one of them and this high as a kite motherfucker is standing in my way.
It took less than fifteen minutes to get here since I skipped the ferry and bribed a fisherman to haul as much ass as his Jon boat would allow.
With that little time, Dash wasn’t able to hack any of The Rabbit Hole’s systems—claiming there was no system at all, actually.
It also has no online presence, and Harry, our Fury man on the island, is just godawful at phones, so he didn’t even reply to my text.
But the vibes alone are familiar, and I’ve been in enough places like this to have a good guess.
Which means I have zero patience to fuck around right now.
“Dude, you’re wasting my time. I’ll pay the cover, just let me in.”
“Well, there’s no time on Wander, so none to squander.
” He continues on his bullshit in his thick Lowcountry drawl, hard to understand even for me thanks to the slur at the end of each word.
“I like you, bo, so I think you should know. Everything’s a trick, and new blood must learn quick.
Or else he dies trying using what Castle’s supplying.
But first, dress up or get out. If he don’t wear a mask, then to the street he goes. No skin off my nose.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter and cross my arms.
My worn leather jacket stretches around my shoulders as I size him up, weighing my options.
I could easily take him, but starting a brawl in my first few minutes here isn’t exactly the first impression I’m trying to make.
In fact, I’m not trying to make an impression at all.
Best to get in, do recon, and get the hell out with Lucy none the wiser.
Plus, Harry would have my hide if I fucked up his reputation on Wander.
The doorman crosses his arms too, mirroring me as he leans against the door I’m guessing I want to go through. With the new posture, a bulge sticks out at his side underneath his velvet coat, revealing a holstered gun.
The sight of it rushes seductive adrenaline through my veins, begging me to fuck shit up. I almost groan as I force the urge away. Any other time, I’d be down, but I have to know what Lucy’s gotten herself into.
Guess I could just ask him if he knows Lucy. But if she finds out someone’s looking for her, I have no doubt she’ll flee again.
I almost regret not telling McKennon where his daughter is. He’d be halfway here, locked and loaded for whatever’s behind doors numbered one, two, and three. Although, to be fair, from the outside, it looks like number three is just direct access to the neighboring bakery.
This situation is delicate, though. I can’t have Lucy hightailing it out of here again. Not when I just found her.
After one full minute of staring at the guy, he still doesn’t budge, and my patience is fried. I tear a bronze steampunk style skull mask off the wall and yank off the tag. My fingers curve inside its open aviator goggles as I point it at him.
“Your rhyming game’s weak, you know.”
He gives me a vague smile, seemingly looking through me rather than at me. “My rhymes might not thrive, but the weak stay alive. The Castle in the sky is the one with the power. I’m just here, guarding his tower.”
I fasten on my mask, muttering, “Like talking to Robert fucking Frost.”
When I check myself out in the mirror, it dawns on me that this might could work in my favor.
The mask isn’t so large that it covers my mouth, but it rises up to my hairline and hides the rose tattoos lining my right brow that are usually covered by my hat, my eyebrow piercing, and the burn scars that lightly freckle my face, allowing me to keep my cover.
He snorts. “I’ll take Frost. He rhymed like a boss.”
“Whatever man.” I scoff and walk to the door.
“Ah, ah, ah!” The guy steps up to me, immediately putting me on edge until I realize he’s pulled up a card reader app on his phone. “For the mask you must pay. Tap your card to stay.”
“Are you for real? I have to pay for the goddamn mask you’re making me wear to get in?”
He rolls his eyes—or tries to. They mostly just shift up and down lazily. “Fuck off, my dude, no need to groan. Next time I can just leave you alone, all because you’ll bring your own.” He pauses for a second then taps the bill on the screen. “That’ll be fifty bucks.”
“Oh, so you’ll break character for money, hm? Figures.”
I shake my head and go for the cash in my wallet instead of a card, careful not to let him see how much I’ve got.
The guy doesn’t need to know Furys are walking ATMs. Buying as much as we can with paper means our credit fucking sucks, but we wouldn’t trust the American banking system if they paid us.
Grandma Fancy has tin cans full of money buried all around the Fury land in locations only she sort of remembers.
After I fork over a fifty, I hold up an extra ten between two fingers. “Will this make you talk straight?”
He snatches the bill out of my hand, shockingly fast for a guy who spoke slow as molasses on a cold winter’s day just a few syllables ago. His lips purse as he examines the fifty against the Edison bulb. Then his eyes dart from it to my wallet before scanning me.
A slow smile creeps across his face.
“Hamilton’s nice, I shouldn’t mind if I do. But I do think, it’ll be a Jackson for you.”
“A Jackson…? And here I thought you liked me.” I smirk, allowing the edge of annoyance to slice through it.
He shrugs. “If I did not, it would’ve been Grant that I sought.”
“Fuckin’ A, man. Gotta hand it to you, you grift with the best of ’em.”
I rip a twenty free from my wallet and it’s out of my grip in a flash. He pockets the bills with just as much speed, disappearing them all like magic.
“Pleasure working with ya.”
“Can’t say the same,” I grumble. “Now can I go in?”
He points to my ball cap. “Hat’s off too, bo. Dress code.”
“You gotta be—”
He pulls back a curtain on the opposite wall, revealing hats, jackets, ties, the whole nine. My gaze drags from it back to him.
“Seriously?”
He shrugs again. “Them’s the rules—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I take the closest one—a short top hat with red ribbon above the bill—and switch it with my snapback, rolling up the worn ball cap and stuffing it inside my back pocket. “I’m assuming that’s—”
“Twenty bucks? Yup.”
I hand the cash to the grinning fool, mentally plotting out how I’ll be getting all that shit back. But when I move to step past him, he stops me with a hand on my chest.
“Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast.”
My glare travels from his fingers up to his crooked, sleepy grin. He doesn’t notice the danger he’s increasingly in as he scans my black Henley, leather jacket, and jeans.
“You need a blazer and tie—”
“Listen here, bo, there are at least seven different ways I could break your wrist right now, and only two of them would make a mess.” The menace dripping from my voice sobers him up mighty quick, melting the smile off his face as he snatches his hand away.
“You don’t want to tempt me with a good time, do you? ”
He shakes his head violently.
I grin, patting his head.
“That’s a good boy. Now…” Stepping back, I resume my lethal tone. “Let. Me. In.”
He scampers back to the door to swing it open wide for me, revealing a stairwell with black and white spiral walls. Cool air blasts into the stuffy vestibule, bringing with it scents of tropical lotion, cotton candy, alcohol, tantalizing cigarette smoke, and… something else that tickles my nose.
Goddamnit, I better not be allergic to whatever the fuck’s down there too.
“D-Don’t forget the Smoke.” His fingers shake as he holds out a silver poker chip. “Alice is on in a few m-minutes.”
Smoke? Alice?
I take the chip, keeping the questions to myself. After being so cagey, the casual way he offered the information gives me the feeling I’m supposed to already know the answers.
A quick glance as I flip the chip in the air shows a wispy curl—smoke, maybe?—engraved on one side and a rabbit in a top hat on the other.
“Thanks…?” My brow lifts, waiting.
“D-Dorman.” It takes me a blink to realize he did in fact give me an answer.
“Dorman.” I deadpan. “You’re Dorman the doorman?”
“Like I said. No name’s the game.” His eyes flick up to my hat before meeting mine again, daring a smirk. “Hatter.”