Iron Cast

by Soria, Destiny;

  “What did you tell Angela?” Corinne asked.

  She moved behind the bar, still watching her brother as he walked the length of the Cast Iron, his hands shoved into his pockets. It was strange, having him here. Two parts of her life that were never supposed to meet had collided.

  “I told her that my sister left me a mysterious urgent note to meet her at one of the most notorious hemopath clubs in town,” Phillip said. He had stepped between two tables to examine one of the framed photos hanging on the wall—Johnny shaking hands with his predecessor.

  Corinne thought he was joking at first, but then he turned and she saw the frank expression on his features.

  “Wait, you told her the truth?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Did you tell her about going to Haversham too?”

  “She’s my wife,” Phillip said, speaking slowly, as if Corinne might not understand otherwise. “I love her, and I trust her. So yes, I told her about the asylum.”

  It had never occurred to Corinne before that her brother might love Angela. She had always guessed that the entire arrangement was some kind of political agenda. She felt the sudden need to apologize for thinking of him in such ungenerous terms. That urge confused her even more, so finally she gave up thinking about it and dug out the bottle of cognac to fix them each a sidecar.

  “So what is it?” Phillip asked once he had come to sit across from her at the bar. He accepted the drink but eyed it doubtfully, swirling the amber liquid in the glass.

  Corinne had considered a hundred different ways of approaching the subject with Phillip. She had talked through all of them with Ada the night before, weighing each argument, trying to decide which would convince him to help. In the end, Corinne knew that she just had to say it.

  “I need you to talk to Mr. Haversham and get him to stop the experiments at the asylum.”

  It sounded so simple leaving her lips. As if all it would take was a memo from Mr. Haversham, and Dr. Knox would pack up his work and give all his victims proper burials.

  Corinne wasn’t a fool. She knew it wouldn’t be that easy. But she also recognized, possibly for the first time, that she and Ada couldn’t do it by themselves.

  “I don’t think I can do that,” Phillip said.

  He finally took a sip of his cocktail. Corinne could read all over his face that his brief foray into the basement had left him scarred. Yet still he wouldn’t help.

  “I know you hate hemopaths,” Corinne said. “But what he’s doing down there—”

  “I don’t hate hemopaths,” Phillip said, looking at her sharply. “Why would you say that?”

  “Father always says your campaign platform is going to be—”

  “Father says that,” Phillip said, interrupting her a second time. “I never have. Is that really what you’ve been thinking all these years?”

  “You married into the family that’s made its fortune torturing hemopaths, so it’s not that much of a stretch.” Corinne slammed her glass down on the bar. Liquid sloshed onto her knuckles.

  “I didn’t know any of that was happening,” Phillip said. “Neither did Angela.”

  He grabbed a towel from farther down the bar and handed it to her. Corinne accepted it, keeping her eyes on her brother.

  “And now that you do?” she asked.

  Phillip tapped his finger against the glass. He was quiet for a long while.

  “I want to help you,” he said. “I just don’t know what I can do. Angela’s father is a businessman, not a humanitarian. If I go to him about this, he’ll just tell me I have a bleeding heart.”

  “What a lovely family you’ve hitched yourself to.”

  Phillip shrugged. “Angela didn’t choose her family.”

  “I guess none of us did.”

  Phillip’s mouth curved into a bare smile, but there was sadness in it. “You remember the summers on Martha’s Vineyard?” he asked. “You used to follow me around like a puppy. We’d search for sea glass together.”

  Corinne’s first impulse was a sarcastic reply, but it died in her throat. She could almost smell the salt spray again, feel the hot sand sticking to her skin as she knelt beside him at the edge of the surf. He was using a stick to gently nudge a starfish back into the oncoming tide. She’d thought for sure it was dead, but he assured her it wasn’t.

  “Chin up, young man,” he’d said to the pale-yellow star, sounding so much like their father that she’d wanted to giggle. “You’ve got a second chance to get it right.”

  The cool water had rushed over their hands and knees, and when it rushed back into the sea, the starfish was gone. Phillip had laughed and put his heavy hand on her shoulder. Farther up the beach, their mother was calling them back for lunch, radiant in a blue dress and a white sun hat. For just that moment, Corinne had thought her life was perfect.

  “I remember,” she said quietly.

  Phillip absently rotated his glass in his hands, letting the liquor swirl almost to the lip.

  “Then your second year at the Academy you stopped spending any time at home.”

  “That’s when I manifested and moved here,” Corinne said. “I haven’t been back to school since then.”

  Phillip surveyed the club’s interior again with new dubiety. Then he took a long drink.

  “I thought you’d hate me if you ever found out,” Corinne said. It cost her more than she would’ve thought to say those words, but she was glad that she had.

  “I guess we don’t really know each other that well, do we?” Phillip said.

  “Guess not.”

  Phillip rested his arms on the bar and looked at her.

  “I know you’ve been on your own for a while now,” he said. “But we can be in this together, if you want to be. You’re my sister, no matter what else you are.”

  A slow smile spread across Corinne’s face. “I think maybe you just found your campaign platform,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Haversham wants you to run for office, doesn’t he? You leak to the press the story of me being taken to the asylum, of you coming to get me and seeing what’s really going on there. You and Mr. Haversham can clean house, and you’ll run on the platform of making Boston safe for everyone, even hemopaths.”

  Phillip stared at her. “That sounds like a wonderful way to lose an election,” he said finally.

  “You’ll get the hemopath vote,” she said. “And once I give a few speeches to the reporters about how scared I was when they dragged me off the street without even charging me with a crime, and how happy I was when my big brother came to my rescue, then you’ll get the vote of every half-decent family man in the city.”

  Phillip set down his glass and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he weighed the possibilities.

  “Everyone would know about you,” he said. “Couldn’t they arrest you again?”

  “It’s only illegal to perform hemopathy, not to be one,” Corinne said. “They’d have a hard time proving anything.”

  “Even so, you’d be hounded day and night by every journalist trying to earn his stripes. You’d really do that for me?”

  “I’ll do anything to stop what’s happening in Haversham,” she said. She paused. “I mean, I’d do it for you too.”

  Phillip cracked a smile and shook his head with what could only be termed ruefulness.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”

  “You know how much I hate to be the voice of reason,” Corinne said, eager to prove her argument, now that she actually had one. “It’s not as if you have enough political experience to inspire confidence in the population otherwise. You were at a cushy outpost for barely a year of the war, and you don’t have a medal or a commendation to your name. Ned Turner’s already got the anti-hemopath agenda all wrapped up, so this is really your only option.”

  He stared hard into his drink, then downed the rest in a gulp.

  “You’re a real pain in the ass sometimes, you know?” he said, swiping h
is sleeve across his mouth.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “This will probably end up being a terrible mistake, but I’m in.”

  Phillip stuck out his hand, and she shook it. Trying to conceal her elation, she poured them each a finger of cognac and lifted her glass.

  “Here’s to us and a successful partnership,” she said.

  “I wasn’t aware that we were going into business together,” Phillip said wryly.

  “I suspect we may have an easier time being business partners than siblings.”

  He laughed at that and clinked his glass against hers. “To my little sister,” he said. “Who’s better at politics than she ever was at dinner parties.”

  The mention of dinner parties jarred something in Corinne’s memory. A flash of invaluable information that might just be the final piece of the puzzle.

  “And here’s some free campaign advice for you,” she said. “Ned Turner’s seat is going to be vulnerable this term.”

  Phillip raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you say that?”

  “Sorry, secrets of the trade.” She swallowed the rest of her drink. “You should get back to your blushing bride. I just remembered I have to ruin someone’s day, and I don’t want to be late.”

  “Corinne, wait.” Phillip stood up when she rounded the bar. “When are you going to come home?”

  It was a question she’d spent the past four years trying to ignore. Corinne cast a glance around the Cast Iron, which even in its stillness made her feel more alive than she ever had at the Wells estate. Johnny Dervish had taken a lot from her, but he had given her at least one thing.

  “I’m always here for you,” she said. “And for Mother and Father. But I’m not coming home.”

  Phillip followed her gaze around the club but didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. He shook his head.

  “I suppose if the Wells family was going to have a black sheep, we could have done worse than you.”

  He reached out to ruffle her hair in the way she hated, but she dodged away and led him out the front door. The sun was bright today, casting a sheen on the last vestiges of ice from the night before.

  “Give Angela my regards,” Corinne said, which she thought might be the nicest thing she’d ever said to her brother.

  Phillip seemed to agree. He pulled her into a hug that caught her off guard, but after a second she relaxed into it.

  “Angela and I are thinking about renting a house on Martha’s Vineyard this summer,” he told her. “If you won’t come home, maybe you can find your way there, for a little while.”

  Corinne smiled against his shoulder. “Maybe I will,” she said. And she meant it.

  Phillip released her and crossed the street to his car.

  “I liked your wedding, by the way,” she called after him.

  “A little bird told me you ran out like a madwoman before we’d even said our vows,” he called back.

  “Vile slander, I assure you.”

  Phillip was laughing as he cranked the car, and he waved out the window as he drove away. Corinne waved back, unable to bite back a smile. She stood in the shadow of the Cast Iron for several minutes after he had left. She didn’t know how they would keep the club open, but she knew they had to try. Funds might run low without a steady stream of cash conned from unsuspecting regs to replenish the coffers, but Corinne wasn’t worried. She and Ada would find a way. A helpful start was the rather large warehouse full of liquor they had recently inherited, due to Johnny’s disappearance. Corinne didn’t think he would dare come back for it, now that Eva Carson and the Witchers knew of his treachery. Boston had no safe haven for Johnny Dervish anymore.

  She locked the door to the Cast Iron and started down the street. The last threads of a plan were coming together in her mind—a daring and stupid plan, to be sure. But she didn’t know how to live any other way.

  The cigar club where Councilman Ned Turner went to unwind was one of the most exclusive clubs in Boston. Members only, no guests. There were six separate lounges, each complete with its own bar and wait staff. Most days, like today, the councilman’s status earned him a private room.

  He was in a leather wingback chair in front of the fireplace, rolling a fat cigar between his fingertips. His eyes were closed as he blew out a redolent cloud of smoke.

  Corinne coughed politely, to let him know they were there. The councilman’s eyes sprang open, and he jerked forward in his chair. Neither Corinne nor Ada blinked.

  “Who are you? How did you get in here?” he demanded, craning his neck to survey the otherwise empty room. The wait staff was conspicuously absent. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and the flames in the fireplace behind the girls crackled and leapt, casting their distorted shadows across the wall and ceiling.

  “I think you’ll find that we never have any trouble getting into places we want to be,” Ada said. She stared pointedly at the cigar that he had dropped onto the rug.

  “What do you want?” Turner scooped up the cigar and rammed the lit end into the ashtray.

  “I’m a little hurt that you don’t recognize us, Councilman,” said Corinne.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Ada told her. “I’m very good at what I do.”

  “True, true.”

  Councilman Turner was staring at them with a growing expression of horror. He might not remember the incident on the Harvard Bridge well enough to recognize the culprits, but he had no doubt heard about their capture and subsequent escape. He put the pieces together while they watched; then he swore at them.

  “Rude,” Ada said.

  Corinne clicked her tongue. “And to think my father voted for you.”

  Turner jabbed the cigar toward Ada. “You’re a wanted fugitive, and you—” He shot a glare at Corinne. “Your family name might give you a reprieve this time, but you’d do best to go back to boarding school and hope your parents find someone desperate enough to marry you.”

  “Now, see, that doesn’t work for me,” Corinne said evenly. “Does it work for you, Ada?”

  “No, Corinne, it doesn’t.”

  “Here’s our counteroffer,” Corinne said, crossing her arms. “You release Silas Witcher and drop all charges against him and Ada.”

  Councilman Turner’s eyes narrowed, and he relaxed marginally into his chair. “You two think you’re really clever, don’t you?”

  “We think quite a lot of things about ourselves, as a matter of fact,” Corinne said. “Chief among them being that we’re both a lot smarter than you.”

  “And we have better things to do than stand around here proving it,” Ada said.

  The councilman snorted and reignited his cigar with the table lighter.

  “I’m not going to negotiate with a couple of slaggers,” he said, puffing a thick cloud of smoke in their direction.

  “Oh, you must be confused,” said Corinne.

  “This isn’t a negotiation,” said Ada.

  “It’s blackmail.”

  The councilman snorted again, blowing smoke through his flared nostrils. “You don’t have anything on me.”

  “We took two thousand dollars from you on the bridge,” Corinne said.

  “Allegedly,” Ada corrected.

  “Right, allegedly. And I happen to know for a fact that you requisitioned twenty-five hundred from the city to buy those elephants.”

  Turner’s cigar looked perilously close to being dropped a second time. He was trying in vain to rearrange his features and hide his surprise. Corinne smiled.

  “Now,” she said, “I wonder if you, being the honest civil servant you are, gave back that extra five hundred?”

  A bright red flush was creeping from the councilman’s jowls to his ears.

  “We just want what’s best for the city,” Ada told him.

  “And you think what’s best for Boston is letting criminals loose on the streets?” he demanded.

  “Trust me, Silas Witcher and Ada here are not the worst criminals you have t
o deal with,” Corinne said.

  “We can keep the Witchers and Eva Carson in line,” Ada said. “Hemopaths can give more to Boston than they take. You just have to give us the chance.”

  “And while you’re at it, you can tell your HPA lapdogs to lay off Gabriel Stone,” Corinne said, ignoring the sideways glance that Ada gave her. “He’s under the Cast Iron’s protection now.”

  Councilman Turner put out his cigar again and dropped it in the ashtray. His hand was trembling a little in the firelight. No doubt he was thinking about his hard-won reputation going up in smoke if even one reporter decided to pay attention to what these two girls had to say.

  “Fine,” he said. “It doesn’t matter anyway. When Prohibition takes effect, you’ll all be shut down for good.”

  “Have a nice day, Councilman,” Corinne said. “You know, if politics is too stressful, you can always take your own advice and try to find someone desperate enough to marry you. I hear the quiet family life isn’t all bad.”

  Before the councilman could manage a reply, they were both gone.

  It was only Thursday night, but the club at the corner of Clarendon and Appleton Streets had a dance floor that was packed before the show had even begun. If the neighboring buildings hadn’t been deserted, there would have been noise complaints. Despite the two extra bartenders under his command, Danny was swamped, doling out cocktails almost faster than he could keep track of the tabs.

  Corinne felt like every drop of her blood was singing with the magic of it. The lights in the Cast Iron blazed so brightly that her vision blurred at the edges. They had pulled out the best tablecloths and polished the dance floor until it sparkled. Corinne had ripped the photograph of Johnny off the wall and replaced it with one of Saint’s paintings. The bucolic scene that he’d given to Ada, with the sprawling tree shading emerald grass and wildflowers, wasn’t the Cast Iron’s usual aesthetic, but it was the only one of Saint’s paintings that the HPA agents had left alone, and it felt right for it to be hanging in a place of honor.

  Corinne circulated through the room, glad-handing the patrons like she’d watched Johnny do a thousand times before. James had returned and was sitting at a corner table with Saint, nursing a drink. He even managed a halfhearted smile as Corinne passed. Eva Carson was here, sharing a table with the Witcher brothers. George, who was bearded and pudgy, in a simple brown suit with elbow patches, did not look at all pleased to be there. He glowered when he caught sight of her, but beside him Silas gave her a courteous nod, albeit begrudgingly. Eva was halfway through a Manhattan and wearing a gold dress that was probably designed solely to make men like George Witcher uncomfortable. She winked at Corinne when their eyes met.