Iron Cast (28 page)

Despite the hardened, graying snow on the sidewalks, the city was bustling with pedestrians wrapped in warm coats. Corinne cracked the window for some fresh air and could hear them laughing as the car rumbled past. She dug under the seat for the aspirin bottle and shook a few into her hand.

“I hate this rattling death trap,” she murmured.

“Does that help?” Gabriel asked, nodding toward the pills.

Corinne swallowed them dry and considered. “Not really,” she said. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The jolting worsened her headache, but her face was so hot she couldn't stand it. The night rolled by in a blur of golden light and shadow.

“What does it feel like?”

Gabriel's voice was barely audible over the engine, and for a second Corinne wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. No one had ever asked her that before. The doctors and scientists who studied hemopaths' blood hadn't found a satisfactory explanation for their aversion to the iron element—or for anything else. In the eighteenth century, when the terms
witchcraft
and
magic
were replaced with
hemopathy,
it was generally agreed that there was something different—and therefore diseased—in hemopath blood. There was never any further consensus reached about the exact nature of the difference.

Iron was painful to be near and excruciating to touch. Alloys like the steel in the Ford were less severe but still unpleasant. Corinne
never thought much about the cause that was hiding somewhere in her blood. Her body's reaction to iron was just a natural part of her life. She couldn't touch fire or drink arsenic either.

“You know when you put two magnets together and they repel?” she asked.

Gabriel didn't say anything, but his gaze slid away from the road and onto her for a moment. Corinne decided that was his way of saying yes.

“It feels like that,” she said, closing her eyes. “As if every drop of blood in your body were one magnet, and the iron were another. Or like holding a red-hot brand half an inch from your skin. Except the pain is waiting everywhere. It's in the ceilings and the walls and the floors. It's in the simplest objects that no one else ever thinks twice about. The whole city is a minefield.”

Gabriel's reply was a long time coming. “I'm sorry.”

Corinne wondered if he was sorry for his gun or for the car or just for her in general. She would gladly accept apology for the first, but the second he couldn't help, and even the notion of the last infuriated her.

“I wouldn't trade it,” she said. “Not for anything.”

His eyes met hers again. Corinne could feel her heartbeat in her head, pounding once, twice, thrice. Gabriel looked forward again. He had to keep the car at a crawl on the slick road, and Corinne watched the passing streets through the frosty window.

They were only a few blocks from the Cast Iron when Gabriel spoke again.

“I wish you and Ada would reconsider going to Down Street.”

He didn't look at Corinne this time. She studied his profile, but she couldn't read him in the uneven shadows. She could see that his hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

“Johnny wouldn't want us to give up,” she said. “We have to figure out who's responsible.”

“And what about when the HPA catches up with you? Or the ironmongers? Dammit, Cor, it's not a—”

He had to swerve to miss a car that was backing into the street. Corinne slid across the seat and into him. He turned his head, and for a split second their lips were a hairbreadth apart. He smelled of champagne and cigarettes, and she could feel the hard line of his shoulder against her chest.

Outside, a car horn rang out, and Corinne blinked out of her daze. She dragged herself back to her side. Gabriel swore again under his breath and straightened the car. Corinne saw the storm brewing in his expression, but he was silent now. She'd never seen his temper crack before. It was almost a relief to know that his control wasn't as perfect as it always seemed.

“Johnny gave me everything,” Corinne said. “I was sick and alone, and he was there for me. Without him I would never have become a wordsmith. I would never have met Ada. There's nothing I wouldn't do for him, even now that he's dead.”

Neither of them said anything more until Gabriel braked the car in front of the Cast Iron.

“I don't know what to think about you,” Gabriel said.

The way he said it was like a confession. His grip on the wheel had loosened. The amber glow of a streetlight through the window softened his features, until all the angles and severity were faded, and he seemed suddenly unguarded.

“Think the worst,” Corinne said. “I don't like expectations.”

She was watching him closely, so she caught the smile that brushed his lips. It felt strangely like a victory.

At nine thirty, Ada was waiting in the common room, with her coat already buttoned and her hat firmly in place. Corinne and Gabriel were supposed to be back an hour ago, and telling herself not to worry wasn't doing any good. Her heart was still clenched tightly, and nerves burned at the base of her throat. Saint was still in the armchair with his sketchbook. Occasionally he would squint toward the ceiling, trying to visualize, then hunch over again. The sound of pencil on paper was soothing, but not enough to ease the ache in her chest.

When the panel slid open and Corinne skipped down the stairs, Ada didn't know whether to hug her or smack her.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

Corinne raised an eyebrow at her and headed for their room. She was barefoot and held a shoe in each hand. “Well, after the party we had to catch a show,” she said over her shoulder.

Ada heard some scrambling, and then Corinne reemerged wearing her ankle boots. More suitable for the weather, but not for the evening gown she still wore under her coat.

“Then we had to get a nightcap,” Corinne continued. “And of course there was some passionate necking in the back of the Ford.”

Saint looked up with a start, just becoming aware of their conversation.

“Wait, what?” he said, blinking.

Corinne laughed.

“If you'd been here earlier, you could have been my date,” she said. “You missed a night of champagne, caviar, and my relatives trying to outdo the Havershams in snobbery.”

Saint actually looked a little sick at the notion. “I honestly can't think of a worse way to spend an evening,” he said.

“Me neither.”

“Aren't you going to change?” Ada asked her. “And where's Gabriel?”

“No time for that,” Corinne said. “Gabriel kept the car running. If we don't make it to Down Street before ten, we won't get in to see the Witchers. We need to know what they know about Johnny.”

Corinne motioned with both hands in an attempt to herd Ada up the stairs. Ada, who was just starting to realize that Corinne was a little drunk, paid her no heed.

“Are you okay here?” she asked Saint.

“Better than I would be out there,” he replied, returning to his sketchbook. “Call if you need me.”

Ada allowed herself to be tugged up the steps. They went through the bar and out the front door, where the Ford sat, puffing exhaust. Ada took the front seat and sneaked a few long looks at Gabriel. If there had been any truth in Corinne's jab about passionate necking, Ada didn't see any evidence in Gabriel's demeanor. He was as poised and inscrutable as ever.

The saloon on Down Street didn't have a true name, and Down Street wasn't a true street, just a slanting alleyway in the heart of the West End. It wasn't easy to find, but Gabriel seemed to know the way. He parked a block away, and they all climbed out of the car in silence. There weren't many cars in the West End, or parties. The streets around them were dark and shivering with wind.

Ada kept an eye on Corinne as they walked. She seemed to be managing a straight line, which was a relief. No one had ever accused her of not being able to hold her liquor. Ada wished they'd had a chance to talk earlier. She knew there was no way to talk Corinne out of it, but she wasn't keen on the idea of meeting the Witchers on their own turf, even in peace. Down Street was a different sort of place from the Red Cat, and Ada was glad that
Gabriel had come. Even though the iron in his gun was like an itch she couldn't scratch, it made her feel safer. Corinne didn't like guns as much as she liked wit, but Ada had learned to appreciate how the presence of a weapon could make even the most hardened criminal think twice.

“What's the plan here?” Ada asked Corinne.

They were across the street from the saloon now. There were lights in the windows, and a couple of men were stumbling out, popping their ratty coat collars against the cold.

“The usual, I suppose,” Corinne said. “You and I will be daring and clever. Gabriel will complain and be generally useless.”

Gabriel didn't give any indication that he'd noticed the casual insult. His eyes were steady on the front door of the saloon. When they passed under a flickering streetlight, Ada could see the lines of a frown on his face.

“I meant how we'll get in to talk to the Witchers,” Ada said. “They don't have any reason to see us, or trust us.”

“I suppose we'll start by asking,” Corinne said.

Ada grabbed a handful of Corinne's coat and yanked her to a stop. Corinne stumbled backward but kept her feet. Her expression was peeved, but even in the dark Ada could see something harder that she didn't like. It was less determined and more fatalistic. She leaned closer to Corinne.

“How much have you had to drink?” she whispered.

“There's nothing wrong with a little liquid courage.”

“Maybe a little. But you're drunk.”

“I suppose that makes me extra courageous then.”

“No, it makes you reckless and stupid.”

Corinne jerked away from her, but not before Ada saw the hurt cross her face.

“If you want to wait in the car, then go,” Corinne said. “I'm not leaving until I talk to the Witchers.”

It was Ada's turn to be hurt. “I'm not going anywhere,” she said. “But if we just march in there, they'll throw us out. The back rooms are private for a reason. You know what goes on in there.”

“The Witchers know who we are,” Corinne said. “Surely that can get us through the door.”

It was true that they had been here a couple of times before, but always with Johnny, and Ada didn't remember those visits ever ending with anything but tense words and veiled threats. The Red Cat and the Cast Iron had their old rivalry, but at the end of the day Johnny and Luke Carson were both businessmen. If they let the bad blood spill into the public eye, then the patrons might think twice about coming. The Witchers were outliers, though, and more invested in their cause than in anything else.

“Silas is probably the only one here,” Gabriel said. “George usually travels after Christmas.”

He was so matter-of-fact that it didn't occur to Ada to doubt him, even though she had no idea why he would know the Witcher brothers' itineraries. Maybe Johnny had mentioned it. Gabriel was still looking at the front door of the saloon, his brow furrowed. Ada expected Corinne to say something, but she was studying Gabriel with a dissecting gaze.

“He'll meet with us,” Gabriel said at last, sounding strangely resigned. “Let's go.” He crossed the street, hands in pockets, not waiting to see if they would follow.

The Down Street saloon was possibly Corinne's least favorite place in Boston. It stank of sweat and fish. There was no music here, no poetry. The men who came here worked long hours for little pay,
and they were worn thin and jagged from laboring around iron and steel. The liquor was dark and flowed fast. The saloon was iron-free, but that was mostly because both the Witchers were wordsmiths. Even though it sported no entertainment, Down Street was a haven for all the blue-collar workers of the West End, not just hemopaths.

Corinne could feel the stares as they passed through. Even with their coats on, she and Gabriel weren't exactly subtle in their party attire. Most of the patrons were indifferent toward them, but one man spat toward her feet, and there were a couple of catcalls behind them that raised the hairs on her neck. She found Ada's hand and squeezed it once, more to comfort herself than for Ada.

Wine still sang in her blood, and if she wasn't careful to focus, the room would start to slip sideways. She kept her eyes on the tense line of Gabriel's shoulders as they neared the back. She didn't know why he was so confident that Silas Witcher would see them, but she was relieved that he wasn't fighting her anymore. It was hard enough trying to bring Ada on board without him brooding over his logical, but ultimately irrelevant, concerns.

Gabriel knocked on the door that led into the back rooms of the saloon. The door cracked open.

“No admittance after ten,” a voice barked.

“It's five till,” Gabriel replied evenly.