Canon in Crimson (Symphony in Red Book 1)

by Rachel Kastin

  “Seriously, though,” I said, catching my breath. “You won’t tell me?”

  “Really, Vic, we don’t know,” the Torpedo told me earnestly. “Never thought to ask, I guess.”

  Come to think of it, I hadn’t either.

  §

  Arnaud was insufferable. If I had to listen to one more story about a famous person he’d met, act like I agreed with one more comment about the superiority of the French people, or escape one more advance, I was going to scream. I didn’t think I could take one more minute.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to. After a particularly insulting remark about a girl like me associating with a “Chinaman,” which gained him a (purely accidental, of course) heel ground into the top of his foot, relief arrived. I was starting to apologize for my clumsiness when the Ghost appeared, whisked me out of Arnaud’s arms, and just to make it complete, gave me a kiss fit to reclaim a stolen lover. It was very convincing.

  Very convincing.

  Wait just a minute. Did he…?

  Well, there was no time to think about that now. Grateful to be done with Arnaud, I turned and threw him a genuine smile.

  “Thanks for the dance,” I told him sweetly, and dismissed him with a little wave. That should ruffle his feathers, I thought spitefully. And it was true. Obviously very annoyed, he walked away without saying anything, starting to search the room for his now-occupied pétite-amie, Lumière. The Ghost and I left the floor too, and I sipped a much-needed glass of champagne while I kept a close eye on Arnaud. What happened next would determine everything.

  At first, it looked like it was going to go perfectly. Arnaud found Lumiere dancing with Cointreau, and the two of them jumped apart as if they’d been electrocuted. They three of them stood there not saying anything.

  Now, if Alger’s elaborate plan was going to work, there had to be a disturbance big enough to keep Jackson busy for just a few minutes. In other words, they had to fight. I dug my nails into the Ghost’s hand, waiting, every muscle tense. Come on! I wanted to scream at my recent dance partner. You’ve just been seriously slighted twice in under a minute! Say something awful, you arrogant jerk!

  But they didn’t fight. Instead, after they stared each other down for a moment, Cointreau just sighed and left the floor. Arnaud shook his head, gathered up Lumière, and went into another room.

  Oh, hell. This was not good.

  §

  I was nervous.

  No, that’s not quite right; actually, I was worried. Staring pensively out my window at the people passing in the street, I knew I had to start getting ready soon. We were leaving in less than an hour.

  A week ago, I’d brashly strode into this job just to prove a point, but now that it was about to happen, I was starting to regret it. I’d been over how the sequence of events should play out countless times, making sure everything fit together. It should go off without a hitch. But even though the plan wasn’t really mine, I’d had to fill in so many of the gaps—I just didn’t know if I’d thought of everything. And besides the planning, there was the execution. I’d have to be brilliant, quick, irresistible. Flawless. The problem was, I didn’t feel flawless just then. I felt more like an anxious girl in desperate need of reassurance.

  The truth was, there was only one person who could help me find the confidence I needed. So I sighed, dragged myself out of my chair, and went to see Alger.

  Trudging up the stairs and down the hall, I told myself that I could do it. If I just talked to him, he’d say what I needed to hear, and everything would be better. Right? When I got there, I reached out to knock—but then I couldn’t help remembering the last time I’d gone to see him alone and the way things had changed in the weeks since then. I imagined talking to him now: the way he’d look at me, and the way he wouldn’t look at me. And the hard edge of his voice—the impersonal tone, devoid of all the warmth and affection that used to comfort me. No, I wouldn’t find what I was looking for here. I pulled my hand away and headed back towards my room.

  As I rounded the corner, I heard the sound of a door opening, and footsteps in the hallway. I thought about going back, but I forced myself to keep walking. There was nothing to go back for. After a few seconds, the footsteps retreated, and the door closed again.

  I was on my own.

  §

  Three minutes left, I thought, staring at the distraction that hadn’t happened. Timing, timing, timing! Seeing the problem, the Ghost turned to look at me.

  “And now?” he asked calmly.

  Now? I stared back at him, my heart slamming against my ribs like it could break out and run away. What did he mean, “now?” What was I supposed to do about this? I wasn’t not the one in charge. Then I realized that right now, I was the one in charge. One way or another, I had to think of something, and fast.

  So I did.

  “Now,” I answered, “Plan B.”

  And I told him what to do.

  §

  Two minutes. I ducked, slid, and dodged my way across the dance floor, hoping most of the other guests would be too splifficated to notice. The Gang would have almost everything loaded into the carts by now, but if I didn’t stop Jackson from getting out that door for another seven minutes, they were still history. A quick look back told me that the Ghost had reached the Montpelliers, and he was talking to them already—which meant he had already planted the evidence as well. I could make this work.

  I tried not to sound breathless when I got to Harrington and Emerson, who greeted me warmly.

  “Miss Crimson,” Emerson said, “we were wondering if you’d ever escape Pierre. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  I gave him the sardonic look I’d been holding in all night.

  “Well, it’s been interesting. But listen, I really am glad to see you. You’ll never believe what my friend found out.”

  §

  One minute.

  “How sure are you?” Harrington asked me. “Did he see her take it?”

  I shook my head impatiently.

  “No, of course not. But he swears she had it in her pocket.”

  Emerson crossed his arms, considering.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t want to act too soon if I can’t be sure.”

  I glanced back over at the Ghost, who was just sending off his new friends, having given them a timely warning about the presence of an undercover Bobby, and the London police’s interest in them.

  “Well,” I told Emerson frankly, “you’d better be sure soon, because it looks like they’re on their way out.”

  §

  Time! This was really it. Jackson had finally placated della Rossa, and he was headed towards the cellar door, right on schedule. The Montpelliers were nearing their exit as well. Emerson had gone to make his move while I waited with Harrington. But was he going to make it?

  For an infinite, agonizing moment, Emerson stood there, looking back and forth from his suspects to the man who threatened to undo all we’d worked for. I knew what he must be thinking: What if I can’t stop them myself? There’s two of them and one of me. Who knows what they’ll do if they’re desperate? If I go get help, they could get away, but if I go after them alone, they could get away anyway.

  At the very last second, he decided. Just as Jackson reached for the doorknob, Emerson grabbed his shoulder. He turned around, and appeared shocked to see Emerson holding up an ID.

  “London police,” he said. “I’m requesting your help.”

  §

  I started to breathe again when Emerson and Jackson dashed over to apprehend the escaping thieves—but not my escaping thieves. Cornered by a bull and an unnaturally large security guard, the couple had no choice but to play innocent. (Let’s forget for the moment that they were innocent.) They protested that they knew nothing about the situation, that they didn’t even know what they were supposed to have done, and that they couldn’t believe they were being treated like this.

  Until Emerson reached into Ariane’s pocket and pull
ed out della Rossa’s ridiculously expensive, tacky, oversized missing engagement ring.

  Both of the Montpelliers gaped in disbelief, Jackson crossed his arms and glowered, and Emerson looked pleased. Next to me, Harrington let out a low whistle.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” he said.

  “Me neither,” I breathed.

  He looked at me doubtfully for a second and then laughed.

  “I guess it’s a good thing you took a chance then.”

  But we didn’t play games of chance.

  §§

  It took more than enough time for Jackson to finish untangling that knot. By the time they’d finished trussing up my patsies and waiting for Emerson to get a car to bring them to a local police station, the few extra minutes I’d needed to buy my compatriots had long passed.

  The Ghost caught up with me just as Jackson was finally ready to head down to the cellar, and I for one didn’t want to be there when he figured out what had happened, no matter how clean my nose was in the matter. So I asked Harrington to say goodbye to Emerson for me, and we slipped out.

  The Driver had been needed to shuttle the rest of the Gang around, so we had to take a taxi, and I couldn’t say a word about the miracle we’d just pulled off. So all the way home, my excitement channeled itself elsewhere, my thoughts circling back through the events of the last few days.

  And eventually, maybe because he was sitting next to me, I found those thoughts settling on the Ghost. Before the job, I’d thought that Alger was the one who would make me feel better—but the Ghost had been the one who’d actually believed in me. You have any power you choose to use. When everything had nearly spun out of control at the last minute, the Ghost had looked to me for direction. Athena, he’d called me, trusting my strength and intelligence to get the job done. Plus, wasn’t he the one who’s always treated me like one of the Gang from the very beginning? And wasn’t he the one at my bedside when I woke up after being poisoned?

  And, I thought, stealing a glance at him as the taxi let us out in front of the house, how about that kiss?

  By then, it was nearly midnight and everyone else was home already. A warm light glowed downstairs, and I could hear the sounds of the Gang excitedly sifting through the undoubtedly absurd amount of wealth we’d just gained. I stopped for a moment, listening to the echoes of their banter and watching their silhouettes. But I didn’t want to go in there just yet.

  Grabbing the Ghost’s hand and putting a finger to my lips, I took him around to the back, and we crept in the window. He gave me a questioning look when we got inside, but I shook my head. After that, he just followed me silently up the stairs and into my room. I closed the door behind us, taking pains to avoid making any noise. Then I turned and closed the distance between us, and for the first time that night, I was the one who leaned in to whisper to him.

  “Don’t you dare say no,” I said.

  And then, letting loose all my energy and exultation, I returned his kiss. He tensed, and at first, I thought he was going to push me away, just like Alger. But instead, he surrendered, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me back.

  And then he showed me what happens when you don’t stop before things get too out of hand.

  Chapter 22—My Antonia

  “That’s close enough,” one of the two guards outside Tony’s wrought-iron gate told R7, pulling his revolver. His partner followed suit, and they both set their sights on her.

  She considered ignoring the warning, strolling up to the gate, and knocking both of them out, but it didn’t seem like the best way to start off a productive conversation with Tony. Besides, she figured, they’d probably start shooting, and she wasn’t sure whether she could stand up to that many shots at a time—not to mention that this was already the third uniform she’d gone through in a month. So instead, she sighed and stopped a few feet away, raising both her hands in a surrendering gesture.

  “Easy there,” she called to them. “I just came to talk.”

  “From what I hear, the fellas you talk to seem to end up in the hospital,” said the guard who’d spoken.

  R7 rolled her eyes.

  “I don’t want to talk to you saps,” she said. “I’m here to talk to Tony.”

  “What makes you think that’s gonna happen?” asked the guard as a few more men made their way to the entrance.

  “Well, I did ask nicely,” said R7 with a shrug that nearly scattered Tony’s men. “And I assumed you wouldn’t want to do this the hard way.”

  The men readjusted their grips on their revolvers, glancing at each other uncertainly, and R7 planted her feet, ready for them to call her bluff. By then she was staring down the barrels of ten pistols, and the number was getting larger by the moment. Eyeing them, she started to wonder if maybe she ought to have brought her gun after all. This was definitely going to qualify as a public incident.

  But just before things could truly go sideways, the front door swung open, and a tall, composed, salt-and-pepper haired woman wearing a man’s suit of the same color stood in the doorway.

  “Let her pass,” said Antonia Signorille.

  She didn’t even need to raise her voice; her men all just eased aside at her command, controlled just as surely as Von Krauss’ robots. R7 felt her shoulders tighten at the sight of Tony, and for a moment, she was gripped by the sudden urge to turn and bolt. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the city’s reigning mob boss—as powerful as Tony might be, R7 had little to fear from anyone these days, other than perhaps the Chief.

  No, the steel teeth that clamped down on R7 belonged to a hidden and far more vicious beast. What was coming next would require a lot more than pounding the problem into submission—memories and talents she’d inched out of their locked corner in her mind when she’d enlisted Percival Gregory, but would need in full to handle Tony. She heard G3’s voice echoing in her mind: You can’t run from your past forever. You’re going to need every part of who you are to do what you set out to do. She breathed deeply, shrugged off the grip of fear and memory, and squared her shoulders. There was nowhere to go but forward.

  She kept her face blank and her chin up as she walked through the gate and up to the door, where Tony stood waiting. R7 took in the mob boss’ relaxed posture, like a lion in the midst of her pride, her amused smile as she assessed her new prey, and her curious raised eyebrows. Dangerous, R7 thought, but not about to pounce, if she didn’t give the mob boss an opportunity.

  “I knew someone was wreaking havoc on my men,” Tony said in Italian, looking R7 up and down, “but I admit, I wasn’t expecting you, signorina.”

  R7 shrugged, hoping the gesture didn’t look at stiff as it felt.

  “Well, here I am,” she replied in the same language.

  “You know, I was sorry to hear about what happened to your colleagues,” Tony said. “A terrible waste of talent. I assumed you’d died with them, of course.”

  R7 clenched her teeth, ducking behind her mental barriers just a second too late to avoid the strafing of agony at the unexpected reminder. You should’ve been ready for that, she scolded herself, waiting for the worst of the pain to subside. She’s trying to throw you off balance.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” R7 said, still in Italian, her voice brittle but solid. “But since I’m alive, are you going to invite me in, or are we going to talk on the steps?”

  Tony’s smile sharpened and she shook her head.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything less brazen, considering the source,” she said, switching to English. “Come in, then.”

  With a few snaps and hand gestures, she summoned half a dozen armed wiseguys to escort them into the house and up the stairs to her study. She slid into the chair behind her antique wooden desk, and R7 gave the guards an I-just-dare-you look before turning her back on them to sit down in one of the chairs facing Tony.

  Hoping her hostility would cover the roiling mass of emotions just below her surface, R7 sat back in the chair and crossed her l
egs, waiting for Tony to start the conversation. The mob boss dug in a drawer and pulled out a cigar, which she chopped in a wicked-looking silver cigar cutter and offered to R7. R7 took it in a bid to show confidence, and Tony lit one for each of them.

  “So, should I assume that leaving a few of my men in one piece is your way of telling me I ought to let bygones be bygones and trust you?” asked Tony, sticking to English.

  Knowing she’d won the first round, R7 shrugged. She bit down on the cigar and barely restrained a grimace at the bitter taste.

  “Trust me or not, that’s up to you,” she said, “but either way, we have something in common.”

  “Those metal men are bad for business,” Tony agreed, puffing comfortably on her own cigar.

  “Your business in particular, as of yesterday,” R7 noted. “Any idea why that might be?”

  “I was hoping you’d come here to tell me,” Tony said, her dark brows rising again.

  The mob boss was a businessman, R7 thought, making an effort to chew on her cigar while she thought. She’d have to offer her something first. The truth might do best.

  “Okay,” she said, watching Tony’s face closely, “I know who made the mechanical men—some German mathematician named Ludwig Von Krauss.” Tony didn’t react, so R7 kept going. “I think he’s not working on his own, though. He wrote something that mentions ‘Them,’” she said, trying to pronounce the capital T. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Tony controlled her face like an actress, but R7 saw the telltale flicker of recognition in her eyes.

  “I’m not sure what it could mean,” she lied, leaning back in her chair. “Not without more information.”

  R7 gave up on the cigar and narrowed her eyes at the mob boss.