Chapter Thirty-Nine
CHAPTER
Thirty-Nine
CASSANDRA COMES TO in a groggy blur of memories and pain. The first thing she’s aware of is a splitting headache, pounding in two places: at her temple, and then at the back of her head, where she was evidently knocked out.
The second is that she’s lying on a round table, her arms tied behind her. Looped to an anchor embedded deep in the wood.
A figure watches her from a gloomy archway, features swathed in darkness. But she recognises the posture, the incline of his head that meant he was disappointed in whatever she’d screwed up that day. Those hands, clasped behind his back.
Chiron? she tries to whisper, but her throat is too dry.
She licks her lips, and comes away with blood. She struggles to sit up, her arms protesting at the extra stretch. The room lurches sickeningly; bile rises in the back of her throat. With effort, she forces it down, willing herself to not be sick.
It takes a few minutes, but the room settles, along with the burn in her arms. The figure vanishes—just another shadow, she thinks—leaving an empty archway, under which an impressive set of double doors groans ominously.
Everything has a slightly moist, scaled sheen to it, the stone walls shimmering grey-green where light from a dozen decaying candles hits.
Several throne-like chairs are propped against the walls; only a few encircle the table.
No windows. But no instruments of torture, either.
This isn’t a dungeon, or it wasn’t, before they put her in it.
If she concentrates, she’s certain she can hear the sound of water, from somewhere far below.
The thought should be comforting, but really it just adds to the extra layer of panic sloshing around her stomach.
The wood beneath her is stained dark. Cassandra tries not to think about what that means for the last occupant of this table.
She gives her ropes an experimental pull, just as the doors creak open. Five figures walk through it, gold masks glinting in the half-light.
“Cassandra Fairfax,” one of them says.
Something icy slides down the pit of her stomach. Fear. But she tries to swallow it. Cass Holt, she thinks desperately. You’re Cass Holt, the untouchable thief.
“The society, I take it?” she says coolly.
Another masked figure, this one in a corset, sighs impatiently. “That would be us. My God, you’re slow.”
Cassandra surveys the figures. It’s impossible to identify them in their elaborate costumes—which is probably the point, she figures—but there’s no mistaking that some of the postures and voices are familiar.
“This is some initiation rite,” she says.
“Oh, the time for that has long passed, I’m afraid,” one of them says, sounding amused. “But we do have a new member.”
A man walks in, the edge of a swagger in his stride, his gold mask tilted rakishly across his eyes.
There’s just enough of his face visible to discern features: deep blue eyes; a chiselled jawline with the ghost of stubble; an oddly familiar smirk.
As he pushes up one sleeve, she catches the tanned outline where a watch should be.
“Roth, you absolute fuck,” she snarls.
He stiffens at the sound of his name. In two strides, he reaches out and backhands her. Stars dizzy her vision.
“It’s the Devil to you. Don’t be so fucking disrespectful,” he says.
Her face burns with the imprint of his hand. She tastes blood and spits it on the floor; Roth jumps back.
“Careful of those fancy shoes, Roth,” she says, enunciating his name, despite the pain of moving her jaw.
She laughs at him, and what’s visible of his face goes purple with fury. In the back of her mind, a voice that sounds very much like Lowell murmurs, don’t antagonise them. But she lifts her eyebrow jauntily, like they’re trading insults, not blows. Like she’s not trussed up on a table.
Because if she remembers where she is, that there are five of them against one of her, that her chances of leaving this room alive are zero—that no one’s saving her this time—
Remember Cass Holt. But thieves live such explosive, short lives for a reason.
Her vision swims, still recovering from Roth’s slap, and in those blurry seconds, Chiron’s silhouette flickers back into her eyeline. Concussion, perhaps.
Roth lifts his arm to hit her again, a proper fist this time—and another of the masked people catches it. Their eyes lock, and this time she reels back in shock.
Edmund Sharpe.
“Bastard,” she hisses. “If Low—”
The blow this time is entirely unexpected. Blood fills the inside of her mouth.
“Oh, so it’s okay for you to hit her?” Roth says peevishly.
Edmund ignores him. “Judgement would have a word.”
Cassandra is still glaring at Edmund through watering eyes. But her attention is drawn to another person in a shapeless robe. Though their features are indistinguishable, there’s something about their posture, the slightly careful way they walk.
“We asked you nicely,” they say, and Cassandra is sure she recognises that voice.
“I don’t think threats count as ‘nice,’” she retorts.
“Cassandra,” they say, and it sounds chiding, even somewhat muffled under the mask. “The river endures for a little longer. But it cannot endure forever.” They pause, calculating. “Here is what will happen: you’re going to sign over Chiron’s bookshop.”
Sure enough, there’s the paperwork lying on the table, just out of reach.
Ink and blood, with Roth’s name already signed in full.
One blank space for her, then all of it dipped into what remains of the river to cement the transfer of power.
So terribly easy, with two willing participants—but how rarely it happens.
Roth, owner of the bookshop. Cassandra can’t think of anything more repulsive.
“You’d waste a tributary bookshop on Roth?” She laughs weakly. “And then, what, you’ll let me go?”
“No.”
This one is… what was it? Judgement? No, Eveline. The old woman who had been so eager to convince Cassandra of her rationality. Like her ownership was a problem of administration.
The woman steps forward. “You had your chance, Cassandra Fairfax. I’m sorry you didn’t take our warning seriously.”
“I’m not seeing the ‘or else’ part of this,” she says. “You know, ‘give us the bookshop or else—’”
“Or else we’ll get creative—” Roth growls.
“It will be painless,” Edmund says, interrupting. “Or it will be long, and slow, and terrible.”
“You could just kill me right now and take the bookshop,” she suggests.
It’s not that she’s advocating for her own death, but… there’s something here that she’s missing. They didn’t have to kidnap her. They could have simply killed her and taken the bookshop for themselves without any of this pageantry. Besides, the more questions she asks, the more time she’s buying.
And whoever tied those knots didn’t do as good of a job as they should have.
“Unless you still need me,” she suggests.
The glances around the table confirm her suspicion.
“Last time, we were too late to intervene. We’re not taking any chances,” Edmund says.
Her eyes narrow. “It was you, then. Who murdered Chiron.”
Silence falls in the room. The low-level bickering between two of the masked people stops.
“The river is already dying in the bookshop,” she continues, buying herself more time to work through the knots. “Even if you took a paradox book, the choice would unravel. It’s pointless.”
“Is that what you think we’re doing?” the corseted woman says derisively. “What a waste of a protégé.”
“Enough of this.” Judgement nods, and one of the members draws a knife. “Hand over Chiron’s bookshop.”
The last knot keeping her hands tied together falls away. Behind her back, she flexes her fingers.
She grins savagely. “It’s not Chiron’s bookshop. It’s mine.”
Cassandra springs to her feet and barrels towards the exit. Her head pounds with every footstep; her stomach roils. A sound tickles the edge of her consciousness. But underneath it all, there is that bleak iceberg of fear, rising from the water.
How could she let this happen? She should have put up a proper fight. She should have seen the pitch-dark bookshop, the fresh footfall in the dusting of snow. The society have been trying to get their hands on the bookshop for months.
Cass Holt would have known.
There’s a surprised second when the society realise that she’s shaken loose the ropes. Then they converge on her, a swarm of fabric and gold. The one in the bedazzled corset—the Empress?—draws something small and shiny from her pocket. A gun.
“Stop right the fuck there,” she commands.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit—
Cassandra dives behind a chair, just in time for the bullet to sail clean past her, embedding itself in the wall. Next to it, Roth yelps. The corseted woman swears, tearing off her gloves to reload the gun.
The man in the top hat, silk rope askew around his neck, gestures wildly at the corseted woman. “You said you were a good shot!”
“It’s fucking decorative, Perce!”
The gun goes off again, and this time splinters shower Cassandra as a bullet strikes the edge of the chair. A century worth of ornate heirloom gone.
“You shot Hartley with it!” he yells.
“For the last time, no names!” The corseted woman waves her hand impatiently. “Look, I was perfectly fucking reasonable—”
There’s a third bang—and a scream. More swearing.
Cassandra peers out from behind her hiding place.
The corseted woman is clutching her hand, while Eveline argues with the man in the top hat.
The gun is sprawled on the ground, out of reach of them all, smoke drifting from the barrel.
Just enough of a distraction for them to forget about her.
She tenses herself, checks her footing. Only one chance to reach the exit—and she’ll make it count.
She’ll be free before they even realise she’s escaped.
She takes one last deep breath and pushes herself off the floor. The doors yawn open, safety waiting for her.