Iron Cast

by Soria, Destiny;

  In the old days the Cast Iron had been a quiet, unremarkable pub. Its patrons had been the intellectuals and idealists of Boston, men without a penny to their name but enough on their minds to keep the fire in the hearth burning well into the night. When he took over, Johnny had dragged the club into the modern era, and now its spectacular shows were the worst-kept secret in Boston.

  Ada waited backstage with the other musicians, her violin on her lap and her fingers intertwined with Charlie Lewis’s. They sat on a threadbare sofa, talking in hushed voices while the rest of the band pretended not to eavesdrop.

  “I’m just saying that Corinne should have told me what was going on,” he said. “Maybe I could have helped.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted you to help,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

  “What?” He leaned forward, tilting his head to better see her face. Charlie was lean and rangy, with close-cropped hair and eyes that caught the light like a dark prism. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing the tattoo of a twisting, leafless tree on the tawny brown skin of his left forearm.

  “I meant—Corinne had it under control,” Ada said.

  “That’s not what you said.”

  Ada plucked at the E string on her violin, wishing fervently that she hadn’t spoken. This was not a conversation she wanted to have backstage, surrounded by their fellow songsmiths, with a severe lack of sleep draining her better judgment.

  “Can’t we just forget it?” she asked. “At least for tonight?”

  Charlie regarded her for another few seconds, then nodded and leaned back. Ada squeezed his hand and rested her head on his shoulder in relief. She’d first met Charlie almost a year ago, when she and Corinne had attended a show at the Red Cat with Johnny. She’d never heard anyone play a French horn like Charlie could. She figured he probably knew that, considering his cool confidence in asking her out the next day, drawling his sultry Southern accent and winking like they shared a secret.

  In retrospect, she liked how effortless it had been. Being with Charlie was easy, and these days, precious few things in her life were.

  The stage door opened, and Corinne stuck her head in. She had a half-empty gin and tonic in hand and was wearing her favorite evening dress. It was pale pink and shimmery with tiny beads, capped at the shoulders and fluttering around her calves. A gold-and-silver headache band glimmered over her dark hair. The entire getup was in stark contrast to her usual fare of whatever wrinkled garment she stumbled over first in the morning. Tonight she was onstage, and when Corinne put on a show, she liked to shine the brightest.

  “You all ready?” she asked.

  The musicians gave their assent and started filing through the door. When Ada passed Corinne, she lifted her left hand to Corinne’s right for their signature handshake. They tapped their fingertips together twice. A brief touch, easily overlooked. Ada didn’t know how it had been possible to miss such a simple gesture so fiercely.

  She took her spot stage left, a few feet away from Corinne, who gave her a broad smile. Corinne was dazzling under the stage lights, the beads on her dress glinting with every small movement. Ada smiled back and propped her violin under her chin. Her own dress of midnight-blue silk was simple in comparison, but Ada didn’t mind. Subtlety had its own distinction amid the flair of Boston’s nightlife.

  The faint aroma of spicy hors d’oeuvres and bittersweet beverages filled the room, mingled with perfume and cigarette smoke. The club was packed tonight, elbow to elbow with men in black suits and women in glittering dresses. The Cast Iron was small and humble in comparison to the Red Cat, its main competitor, but that didn’t stop its loyal patrons from putting on the ritz for every performance. The lights were almost blinding, and Ada could barely make out Johnny at his corner table, entertaining the nervous senator and his wife. For Johnny the evening shows were all business, though he still refused to wear a dinner jacket. Jackson, also underdressed for the occasion, was sitting by Johnny, halfway through a beer. She noticed Gabriel at a table near the stage, though he didn’t have a drink in front of him.

  Corinne stepped up to the microphone, which was custom-made from brass and carbon. She didn’t even have to speak before the crowd fell silent.

  “Welcome to the Cast Iron” was all she said.

  Ada recognized her cue and sent the first mournful note into the air.

  The musicians rarely rehearsed together for these shows. It was widely believed that a more spontaneous sound led to a more spectacular experience. Even though she’d played with Charlie only on the rare occasions when he wasn’t needed at the Red Cat, she knew he would find an entrance and intertwine with her melody. The goal, of course, was harmony, but not just in the music—in the emotions as well.

  Ada always started low, laying down loss and longing like a delicate lace. She kept her melody in the minor key, and for almost three minutes hers was the only sound in the room. Charlie’s horn opened soft, for a few bars matching her tone; then he began drawing out a new thread, a vague sense of hope that Ada recognized from the first time she’d ever heard him play. She forced herself to focus, following his lead into a wistful place. The other musicians were playing too, keeping the pace, tying everything together, but it was clearly Ada and Charlie’s show.

  The faces in the crowd were slack with the proffered feelings. Ada could sense the emotions that her fellow songsmiths were churning out, but with a little effort she could avoid being overwhelmed by them, letting the gentle melancholy slide off her like rain. It was different for the regs, who wouldn’t be able to put up more than token resistance even if they wanted to. Hemopathy for public consumption had been banned in Boston by city law six months ago, but the shows had continued behind locked doors, and attendance had barely faltered. There was something irresistible about the experience.

  Corinne moved closer to the microphone, her voice a gentle, swaying murmur. She was reciting a poem that Ada didn’t recognize. Something about an idle king and barren crags. The stage lights seemed to dim. Suddenly the ceiling above them was a blanket of stars, with a silver moon draped in gossamer threads of light. The audience burst into murmurs of appreciation and awe, but no one onstage broke stride.

  Corinne kept reciting, her voice only a hint louder than the music that enveloped them. She spoke of sinking stars, dark broad seas, and men who strove with gods. The constellations came to life. A thunderous Leo shook the heavens in a silent roar. The Twins danced together across the captured sky. The Water Bearer poured his load, sending a river of sparkling light across the patrons.

  The entire show was an intricate dance. Even the performers were never entirely sure whether Corinne was matching the music or whether Ada and Charlie were following her lead. Finally the stars began to dim. Corinne cast Ada a surreptitious glance, and Ada dipped her head slightly in recognition. She and Corinne had never played this particular illusion before, but she had an idea where Corinne was going.

  Corinne held up her hand and the other musicians fell silent. Ada drew out a long note, then slid into a new melody. Her hope wasn’t as good as Charlie’s, but she’d been told that her nostalgia was masterful. She pushed it into the room, shut her eyes, and envisioned the feeling like a mist, settling over each person.

  Ada had never wanted to be a star. There were certain doors that would never be opened to a girl whose parents had formed what society considered an unspeakable union. She didn’t believe in dreaming for the impossible, but the illusions and emotions that she and Corinne could weave together—those were more real to her than the heat of the spotlight, than the gushing of the crowd.

  She let herself be consumed by the strings of her violin, the curving action of the bow. If she thought too hard about the enigmatic talent that gave her these abilities, it would elude her. Instead she focused on the mechanics of her music and let a distant part of her mind touch that indescribable place beyond. The people below her would suddenly be remembering that perfect childhood birthday party or that firs
t sunset kiss.

  She escorted them past the memory with a final keening note. Then, following a clash of cymbals behind her, she sent them spinning into frenetic, delirious bliss. People leapt to the black-and-white tiled dance floor, hooting and swinging their partners with verve. A chance to remember and a chance to forget. It was what kept people coming to the Cast Iron, night after night.

  Once the dancing was well under way, Ada rested her instrument and let the other musicians take over. Corinne had already hopped off the stage at the behest of an eager partner. She was kicking up her heels and laughing wildly, drink sloshing in her hand. Ada smiled and stepped down to the floor. Her exhaustion was a distant memory now. Playing her violin always transported her well beyond her own limitations.

  “You gonna pity a poor Southern boy and take him for a spin?”

  Ada whirled to see Charlie, sitting on the edge of the stage behind her, his right foot swinging in time to the music. His grin was bright under the stage lights, and there was no trace of their argument in his features. Maybe tomorrow they would have to revisit it, but tonight the Cast Iron was effervescent with laughter and gleaming dresses and clinking glasses. Tomorrow was so far away.

  Ada smiled and took Charlie’s hand, pulling him onto the dance floor.

  After a couple of hours of dancing, Corinne abandoned the floor in search of some quiet. She made her way through the gauntlet of admiration and introductions and pleas for another set. She went through the storage room, waved at Gordon, then took the back door into the alley. If she was honest with herself, she wasn’t entirely surprised to find Gabriel there, leaning against the wall. She had noticed him leaving before the performance had ended. Corinne saw the red glint of cigarette embers and heard him exhale.

  “You smoke?” he asked. His voice sounded husky and strange.

  In the darkness, Corinne couldn’t quite make out his features— just the lines of his profile, gray against the shadows. She shook her head but leaned against the wall beside him. Even though she wore heels, he was much taller than her, and she had to crane her neck to see his face.

  “You didn’t like the set?” she asked. The flush from her dancing was starting to wear off, and the cold was creeping along her arms.

  He took another pull from the cigarette, held it for a second, then exhaled through his nose.

  “It was incredible,” he said.

  “You left during Ada’s solo.”

  “I’ve never— The way she was making me feel, it wasn’t—” He hung his head.

  “I understand,” Corinne said.

  “I don’t think you do.” There was a thread of anger in his voice that caught Corinne off guard. “You go into people’s heads, and you root around in there and tug on strings for entertainment or profit. How can you realize what it’s like for the rest of us?”

  “Excuse me?” Corinne straightened and turned to confront him. “You knew what we did here when you signed on, and now you want to take me to task about it?”

  Despite the chill on her arms, her cheeks flushed with heat as she glared at him. To her surprise, he didn’t rise to her challenge. He didn’t even move. In the shadows, his pale features were like cut glass: all sharp, unforgiving edges.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not trying to fight.”

  Corinne considered him for a few seconds. She didn’t know anything about him. He was just another hired gun who would soon tire of the low pay and bizarre company and move on. It made more sense to go back inside, to rejoin the party. Instead she leaned back against the wall.

  “Ada’s music affects some people more than others,” she said in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone. “When she plays loss and longing, she can send people into fits of weeping.”

  “It wasn’t the loss,” he said. “It was the happiness.”

  Corinne tilted her head, trying to read his expression in the gloom.

  He still didn’t meet her gaze. He exhaled a puff of smoke like a sigh. “It reminded me of things I . . . hadn’t thought about in a long time.”

  They were both quiet for a few minutes after that. Corinne could see puffs of her own breath in the air, mingling with the cigarette smoke. Finally Gabriel dropped the butt and ground it out with his heel.

  “I have to make my rounds,” he said. “They’re probably missing you at the party.”

  “Probably,” Corinne agreed.

  His lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile, and Corinne couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit triumphant. They walked back to the door, but before Corinne could open it, there was a sound farther down the alley. Some garbage cans fell over and a shape rose up, lumbering toward them. Gabriel grabbed Corinne’s arm and yanked her behind him. Corinne sensed his gun before she saw it. The movement of steel sent a wave of nausea through her. No wonder she felt on edge around him.

  “Put that away,” she said, pushing past him. “It’s just Harry.”

  “Who the hell is Harry?” he asked.

  “He’s nobody. He comes around sometimes.” Corinne took a few steps toward the scraggly man, who was dressed in a wrinkled suit, worn threadbare at the elbows and knees. His brown hair was matted and unkempt, and there were remains of some long-past meal in his beard.

  “Johnny told you not to come back here,” Corinne said.

  “Corinne, is that you?” he asked, shuffling forward. “I just need a little bit. Can’t you ask Ada to—”

  “Ada won’t play for you anymore. Go home.”

  “I can’t.” There was a snuffling sound, and Corinne realized he was crying. “Just a few bars, please. There’s ghosts in my head, and she’s the only one can shake them loose.”

  “Go home,” Corinne repeated. She turned back toward the door, but then Harry was grabbing at the back of her dress. She could smell his sweat and grime and desperation.

  “What about you?” He was crying. “You can give me some sunlight, some blue skies. I need to shake them loose.”

  Corinne swung her elbow and felt it contact bone, but the man was unfazed. Gabriel pulled her free and shoved Harry away. Harry hit the concrete with a loud sob.

  “He’s never been this bad before,” Corinne said, retreating a few steps.

  “He’s drunk,” Gabriel said.

  She shook her head. Even from a distance, Harry stank of urine and sweat—but not alcohol.

  “No. He’s an edger.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he uses hemopaths’ talents as an escape, but he fell down the rabbit hole and there’s no coming back.” She dusted off her dress in short, jerking movements, trying to hide the trembling of her hands. She told herself it was just the cold.

  “Bitch,” Harry howled toward the black sky. He tried to drag himself upright, but he finally gave up and collapsed onto the concrete. “I hope the ironmongers get you. I hope you—”

  He was interrupted by the rolling wail of sirens. Corinne’s heart skipped a beat at the sound. They were coming closer. Too loud, too fast.

  Harry was laughing. It was an unsettling sound, with barbed and bitter edges. He was still lying on his back, mindless of the alley’s filth.

  “Bulls are coming for you,” he managed to gasp out. “Better run, slaggers.”

  Corinne whipped around and sprinted for the door with Gabriel at her heels. She took the half flight of stairs to the club two steps at a time, barely remembering to shout a warning to Gordon over her shoulder. Once inside, she lost track of Gabriel in the throng of people. That didn’t matter, though. He would tell Johnny. She had to find Ada.

  The band was still playing, and she couldn’t hear the sirens over the music and clinking glasses and bursts of laughter. The patrons were still blissfully unaware. Corinne darted through the crowd to the dance floor, but she couldn’t see Ada and Charlie among the whirling black jackets and sequined silk. She scrambled onto the stage to survey the entire club. Behind her, the musicians had stopped playing. She could see Johnny calmly shaking the senato
r’s hand while Jackson waited to escort him and his wife out the back door. Some of the patrons had realized that something was wrong and were hastily gathering coats and purses. The last of the musicians had already packed up his instrument and was slipping out the back, headed for the basement to wait out the raid.

  After the law had passed, Johnny made sure that his crew knew how to make themselves scarce at a moment’s notice. It was illegal to perform or participate in any sort of hemopath activity, whether songsmiths’ emotions, wordsmiths’ illusions, or the less invasive talents, like Saint’s. Technically, the regs who paid for the show were also breaking the law, but the cops never seemed interested in arresting them. The lawmakers had written the law with a vagueness that made it possible for police to arrest hemopaths for just gathering in large groups, even without evidence that they had been performing. Maybe in a court of law the charges wouldn’t stick, but hemopaths were carted straight to Haversham, and no one ever left Haversham. Except Ada.

  Johnny caught Corinne’s eye and waved expectantly toward the microphone in front of her. He didn’t seem rattled by the turn of events. But then, Corinne couldn’t remember ever seeing Johnny Dervish rattled by anything. She turned on the microphone and cleared her throat. The remaining laughter and conversation died down as the unsuspecting patrons turned their attention toward her.

  “That’s all for tonight, ladies and gents. Don’t forget to tip the band.” She stepped away from the microphone, then changed her mind and leaned back. “By the way, the cops are about to break down the front door, so now would be an excellent time to start panicking.”

  The reaction to her words wasn’t immediate. A few people even laughed. But without the band playing, the sound of encroaching sirens swept through the room. The crowd of carefree patrons quickly degenerated into a seething mess of confusion and alarm. It wasn’t likely that the cops would arrest the regs, but that didn’t mean they wanted to stick around for a raid. Johnny would give her hell for it later—he liked to keep his patrons happy, and purposely throwing them into a panic was not the best business practice. But Corinne wasn’t worried about the regs right now. The cops would have to fight their way through the fleeing patrons in order to find any hemopaths to arrest. An extra minute or two was all she needed. Satisfied with her work, Corinne slipped backstage to continue her search for Ada.