Again, Faolan bowed his head slightly. “Thanks.”
Pierce aimed to figure this hustler out and then determine how to approach him about the demon—if he was the hustler they needed to find. Perhaps he could approach the subject within a bet.
Faolan broke, and within seconds, he hit each ball into the pockets.
Bloody cocker ain’t so bad.
Pierce casually shrugged and retrieved the balls to set back into the rack. As planned, he played poorly, missing the balls completely on his attempt to break.
Faolan snorted at him.
“Och, ye sure ye played the game before?”
Pierce ignored the jab and broke the formation. He took a good few minutes getting them in, losing miserably.
“Double or nothin’?” Pierce offered.
Faolan set the balls up into the rack. “Sure.”
“Let’s wager more than money, eh?”
“What do ye mean?” he asked, lifting the rack.
“Information,” Pierce said delicately.
Faolan took the chalk and rubbed it over the tip of his cue stick. The high-pitched squeaking hurt Pierce’s teeth.
“What kind o’ information?”
Pierce breathed in slowly.
“I’m searching for somebody . . . or, I should say, something.”
“What sort o’ thing?”
Pierce bit his bottom lip. “A demon.”
Faolan did not look at all surprised.
“Demon, eh?” He blew the excess chalk off. “I might be able to tell ye something about that. If ye win, that is.”
Bloody hell, I found him!
“An’ if ye win, I’ll—”
“Ye tell me who ye really are,” Faolan insisted.
That caught Pierce off guard. Was his Scottish performance lacking? He was trying to use the right dialect, like loot’s for let’s and ah for I.
In any case, he said, “Agreed.”
The lad smiled wider and Pierce leaned over with his cue stick. He sharpened his sights and hit the cue ball right into the three balls, scattering them over the patchy red felt. After that, it was child’s play. Pierce called the pockets before making each shot. In seconds, the game was over.
“Beat that, eh?” he dared with a cocky smile of his own.
Faolan kept his smirk even as he narrowed his eyes. It was clear the hustler had figured out he was being hustled. After setting the balls up, Faolan readied himself to break. Before he did, he flicked his eyes up to Pierce.
“One baw in the upper right pocket neuk, two baw in the left upper neuk, an’ three baw down in the right neuk pocket.”
“Eh?” Pierce said, confused, just before Faolan hit the cue ball and broke the small pack.
Ball one and ball two went straight into the upper pockets, while the third hit the edge and rolled steadily over the table toward the right-hand corner pocket. Pierce watched in utter disbelief as it dropped from sight.
Faolan snatched up the four crowns and jingled the coins in his hand.
“Beat the Earl of Kilmorey, did ye now? Wanna start talkin’?”
Never had Pierce seen anything like it! The shock had rendered him stupid.
“How . . . how did you bloody well do that?” he said, forgetting his Scottish accent.
“Ah, you’re a Brit,” Faolan said. “Now, we’re getting somewhere.”
Pierce dolefully realized that the game was up.
“Everything all right in here?” Joaquin said, entering the room with Taisia.
When Faolan eyed him, his entire demeanor changed. Faolan straightened his back and stiffened, his expression serious. He didn’t appear frightened or even startled by Joaquin’s sudden appearance, even though Joaquin did look a tad intimidating with his height and pale skin.
“Aye,” Pierce said, setting the cue stick on the table. “Just playin’ a friendly game, ’tis all. Faolan Shea, this is Joaquin and Taisia.”
“I take it,” Joaquin said, dropping his own accent, “that you got discovered?”
Pierce opened his mouth when Faolan answered for him.
“Actually, we made a wee wager about information concerning a certain demon?”
Joaquin nearly fell over.
“You’re the hustler?” Taisia asked, coming over to the end of the table.
“Och, sounds like ye lot have been searching for me. How did ye know about me, eh?”
“Do you know where the demon is?” Taisia asked, avoiding the question.
Faolan didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he smiled at her.
“Aye, pretty lassie, I do. To see it, though, I’ll need to take ye to the demon’s owner.”
Chapter Thirteen
Smugglers
Faolan Shea led them out of Mary King’s Close and through the streets of Edinburgh. Pierce found it strange Faolan was taking them to this demon despite the fact that the hustler had won the bet.
“Where are we off to?” Pierce asked, coming up alongside the Scotsman.
“To South Bridge,” he answered without breaking his stride.
“And the demon is there?”
“Its owner is, as I told ye before at the tavern.”
“How does a bloody demon have an owner?”
“It just does, all right?” he answered brusquely.
Despite his harsh tone, Pierce continued. “Why are you taking us, even though I lost the wager, eh?”
“The wager was for information. I said nothin’ about taking ye anywhere. I’m doing this of my own accord. Besides, I haven’t forgotten about our agreement. Ye still owe me your story, laddie.”
Pierce huffed vexingly at being called laddie.
“Who’s the owner?” Pierce went on.
“She’s the leader of the Underground Gang. They’re a bunch of whisky smugglers.”
“The leader?” Pierce wondered aloud. “What’s her name?”
“Pierce,” Joaquin said. “Leave him alone, eh?”
He scowled at his big brother. “I’m only asking some questions.”
“You’re asking too many, so stow it, Bunny Boy,” Joaquin jested.
Pierce gritted his teeth so hard they could’ve broken. He held his tongue and followed Faolan on.
After crossing one road after the next, they finally reached South Bridge and entered through an archway that appeared to be another alleyway, which led them down into an underground thoroughfare. The air cooled and became stagnant as they descended. It was a gloomy place, dark and dank. There was a foul feeling that crawled under Pierce’s skin like poison being injected from a syringe, stiffening his muscles and sickening his blood. A chill ran down his spine as if a ghoul had blown its icy breath into his ear. Bad things had happened down here.
As the outside light fell behind them, kerosene lanterns, hanging from pikes on the walls, dotted the manmade tunnel, showing the puffs of breath from each visitor.
After a while, they entered a large chamber lined with rows of what looked to be stone fireplaces situated side by side, with another set of holes atop them being used as storage compartments. Most holes were filled with alcohol barrel parts, tools, and barley sacks. Workers were busy assembling casks.
“Welcome to the Vaults,” Faolan said. “In the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, this was a nasty area to be in. It was used as a brothel and as a pub.” He pointed to the stone pits in the walls. “And slum housing for the city’s poorest. Ye can imagine the dismal quality of sanitation.”
Pierce’s stomach turned and he was queasy just thinking about it, especially after his brief visit inside Newgate Prison.
“Nowadays, they’re used mainly for storing illegal ingredients to brew whisky and wine. See?”
They exited the Vaults and entered an area where crates were being lowered down through a sewer hole by people aboveground to the others waiting below.
After passing through that tunnel, they arrived in a second cavern, which housed its own distillery. Over a dozen copper stills, standing
on three, pipe-like legs, were lined up near the walls. The boiling chambers were nearly bottle-shaped, with tall brass pipes attached to them. People stood on iron rod ladders running alongside the boiling chambers, throwing in or stirring the mash through portholes. Fires, encased within brick rings, burned underneath the boiling chambers, eating up the cold air and making the whole place smolder. Alcohol vapors steamed through small spaces in the pipes, which then traveled to the fat, round boilers, sitting on cylindrical bases built out of more bricks, and then ran on through to the condenser, where the newly crafted whisky flowed in through coil piping. Some workers rolled empty casks to fill them under the spigots. Once filled, workers pushed them along into the Vault.
There was something familiar to it all.
The hot and steam-clogged chamber suddenly turned into a cold cellar.
Another shredded memory.
Pierce had these from time to time. Sometimes, these memories occurred in dreams, only for Pierce to forget them completely upon awaking.
The subterranean space he found himself in had a low ceiling and sagging food storage shelves by the wall. A single light bulb, hanging above, shined dull light over makeshift brass pot stills that took up the entire earthen floor.
Where is this?
As Pierce walked on, everything was whisked away like mist in the wind, out of sight and wiped from memory.
Halfway into the real distillery, a woman entered with a black man and a white man.
“What do ye mean ye didn’t get it, Tavish?” she yelled over her shoulder at the white man.
“We were ambushed,” the bloke explained. He stuck his thumb at the black-skinned man walking abreast of him. “Ruairi and me were lucky to have gotten away.”
“Ye both are useless!” she exclaimed, the word useless coming out as, nyaff.”
Pierce only needed to catch a glimpse at the tall redhead for his life to flash before his eyes.
“Fuckin’ hell!” he shrieked, taking Taisia by the hand and ducking beside the copper stills.
“What is it?” she asked as he led her behind the bulky equipment and back toward the way they had come in.
“Keep going,” he told her.
He rushed out of the distillery, ignoring the confused looks of the brewers. They left through the smuggling tunnel and reentered the Vaults. Pierce didn’t stop until he found a storage den to hide in among the sacks, small crates, and whisky casks.
Joaquin joined them seconds later.
“Christ, Pierce,” he huffed infuriatingly. “What was that about?”
Catching his breath from the panicked sprint, Pierce said, “I know that person.”
“Who?” Joaquin asked. “The woman with the strong vocal cords?”
Pierce nodded. “That’s Coira MacCrum. A former smuggling rival of a friend of mine.”
“Juan Fan?” Taisia guessed.
“Aye. Coira came at Fan with a knife once. I jumped in to save her.” He raised his shirt to show the scar etched into his side. “And in turn, Coira gave me this little love mark.”
Taisia’s eyes widened. “She’s the one who stabbed you?”
“Aye.” To Joaquin, Pierce retorted, “And that’s why I ask a lot of questions.”
“Is that so?” said Faolan, appearing around the doorway. “Seems like there’s more to your story than we first believed, eh?”
“Ne smey nichego govorit’!” Taisia spouted, taking a step toward the hustler while pulling her pistol out from under her belt.
“Whoa, now,” Pierce said, gently grabbing her by the wrist of the hand holding the gun. “Easy.”
Throughout their long journey to Edinburgh, Taisia had been teaching Pierce basic words and phrases in Russian. He had to admit, it wasn’t a simple language to learn. Yet, whatever she had rapidly raged on about was utterly lost to him.
“Keep the head, my bonnie lass,” Faolan said, throwing up his hands. “I won’t say anything. Ye have me word.”
Did he understand her? Pierce wondered.
Joaquin suddenly clutched his stomach and groaned through gritted teeth. He would’ve fallen over if Pierce hadn’t caught him.
“Bloody hell, are you all right?”
“It feels as though my insides are fuckin’ tying themselves up into knots,” Joaquin complained.
They needed to act fast. Dammit, why did it have to be Coira-bloody-MacCrum?
“Do you know where the demon is?” Pierce asked Faolan hopefully.
“Ye planning on stealing it, laddie?” he inquired, crossing his arms.
“Don’t call me laddie, and no, we only need it to take something back.”
Joaquin took in some deep breaths and rose. He patted Pierce on the shoulder.
“I’m fine,” he assured him and then leaned against the wall. “Faolan, can we get to it? Just for a few moments?”
Faolan uncrossed his arms and slipped his hands into the pockets of his pinstriped slacks. “Can’t. Only Coira can allow access to the demon, and since she owns it, it cannot do anything unless she gives it permission.”
“Perfect,” Pierce grumbled.
“I’ll go to her,” Joaquin said. “And ask her myself.”
“You’re too bloody weak,” Pierce pointed out. “What if she tries something, eh?”
“I’ll protect him,” Taisia spoke up.
Pierce turned to her with eyes so wide they could have popped out of their sockets. “Come again?”
“I will go with him and keep him safe,” she repeated.
Taisia must have been a warrior in her past life. She never thought twice about her own safety when it came down to someone she cared about. Pierce could only imagine how protective she’d be with their future children.
“I can handle this,” Joaquin insisted.
“I was not asking,” Taisia stated matter-of-factly, her face hardening.
Pierce knew that look all too well. They could stand around and argue for hours and she wouldn’t yield.
“All right,” Pierce sighed with frustration. “Be careful. Don’t underestimate how dangerous Coira can be.”
“You should clear out,” Joaquin advised Pierce. “Meet us back at the Black Iron Tavern.”
“No bloody way,” he stated. “I’m not leaving everyone behind.”
“If you’re an enemy of Coira’s,” Faolan joined in, “it’d be best to do what your brother says. If she catches ye, it’ll be the end of ye and them.”
Pierce glanced at both Taisia and Joaquin. He clenched his fists tightly. Not only could he be of no help, but now he’d become a liability to the group.
“Take this,” Joaquin said, returning the dragonfly key. “Remember what I said, just in case.”
“Aye,” Pierce said, accepting it.
Voices were headed their way.
“Go,” Faolan urged. “Quickly.”
Pierce turned to Taisia and kissed her.
“Be safe,” he said before darting off.
* * *
The twisted feeling in his intestine subsided, leaving a throbbing ache in its wake. Joaquin hoped another episode wouldn’t soon occur.
“Ready?” Faolan asked him and Taisia.
“Da.”
Joaquin nodded.
“Right,” said Faolan. “Follow me.”
They abandoned their hiding place and went out into the open where the workers were going about their duties.
Faolan led them back through the narrow smuggling alcove. Coira and her men watched as the crate that had been brought down earlier was pried opened by another of Coira’s little helpers.
Joaquin studied the leader of this Underground Gang. Coira wore black and tan striped britches that flared widely over shiny boots. She had on fingerless lace gloves and a dark red tailcoat over a vest and a white linen shirt. Bird feathers and dried flowers decorated her velvet top hat, and a plaid band was wrapped around the crown and tied behind, where it hung very low.
Once the smuggler had pried the lid up w
ith his prybar, Coira crouched beside it. She flicked her wrist and a blade tip sprang out from under her sleeve. She used it to slice open one of the sacks inside the crate, and then flicked her hand to retract the hidden dagger. She scooped the malt up from the sack as if it was chicken feed and smelled it.
“It’s good,” she declared, letting the tiny grains slip through her long fingers before dropping the rest. “Get it to the Vault.”
When she rose, her attention turned to Faolan.
“What are ye doin’ here?” she spouted angrily.
Her accent was very thick, using words like whit for what and guid for good. Joaquin fed off what he heard to help curve his own tongue. His life greatly depended on it.
Her tone worked like a magic hex that froze everyone in place.
“Don’t tell me you’ve hustled a days’ worth already?” she asked.
“No, Madam MacCrum,” he said respectfully. “I . . .”
“Then why are ye down here?”
“I brought someone to see ye,” he finished.
Joaquin saw what Pierce meant about not underestimating her.
Coira stood a good five-six or so, with a beautiful, but fierce face. Strange, curvy eyebrows that were blatantly drawn or tattooed in by design, arched over her perfect oval-shaped eyes, the blue irises highlighted greatly by dark kohl. Her lively lips were painted black. Her short, curly hair shimmered raspberry red. Joaquin was unsure whether to be frightened or aroused by her. Perhaps both, and when she shifted those perfectly shaped eyes on him, he tried to hide his interests.
“Who the fuck are ye, then?” she demanded.
“Franklin Marsh,” he answered in a Scottish accent. “I’m here about a certain thing ye be possessing.”
Joaquin wanted to approach the matter cryptically to keep from alarming her. Not to mention, he had Taisia to consider. Although she had appointed herself to the mission as his protector, he would be the one doing the protecting, if need be. He owed it to Pierce.
“Is that so?” Coira asked, placing her hands on her waist. She pointed her chin at Taisia. “And ye are?”
“I am his companion,” she answered in her own accent.
“Are ye now?” She snorted. “What sort of companion? A body to keep ’im warm at night?”
The Underground Page 14
