“The neophytes ask, ‘Why should our praxis include the Sovereigns? They did not chain me. They did not cheat me. Their policies did not starve my parents, and their boots never fell on my shores.’ These are fools’ questions. If capitalism is nothing but the grand consolidation of wealth, of power, who but the Court can say they’ve amassed more?
For all their strength, and all their knowledge, the Court needs mortals. They feed, they toil, they worship. But the Court can’t Keep all of them. So instead, it herds. A bribe here, a suggestion there, until the humans are corralled by the very institutions that claim to protect them. Think: how much have the bourgeois shaped our society, in just the past ten years? Can you imagine what a cabal can craft, when we give them two millennia?
Capitalism starts with the Court. Imperialism starts with the Court. It is the very antithesis of the proletariat revolution, because the Court wants nothing less than for all of humanity to resemble itself. A towering pyramid, impossibly bound, that leaves all below powerless, nay, eager, for the chance to be eaten.
You might have been crushed by a mortal’s boot. But make no mistake. The Court gave them that leather.”
Unaddressed letter by Aubrey Keaton, Freeholder of Brixton, 1884
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1865
Wintertime
Her breath frosts in the air. Snow pools at the entrance. The fire roars, lighting damp walls. But no matter how close she nears it, the cold never leaves her fingers.
This had been a good cave. Large but hard to see. High up, and free of others. Harriet stayed here longer than her custom, thought even of walling off its mouth with pine, hibernating like the bears below her. But then the snow came. And came. And came. And a biting cold, shortly after.
She blows into her hands, and tries to wrap herself in her Pa’s blue coat. But it’s barely a coat anymore. Just stains and loose threads, roughly patched together. She had always skipped Ma’s sewing lessons. That was women’s work. But now…
Harriet slides onto the stone. It’s warmed by the flames, a small mercy. She pretends that it’s the wooden porch, and she’s looking over the fields, as the sun sets in summer. It’s a happy image to sleep to, better than the nightmares. And look. The flame even matches their colour.
A soft… soulful… amber.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
She wakes up to something heavy. A snout on her cheek, and a wet paw on her shoulder.
Harriet doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare to even flinch. She bats open an eye, looks at its silhouette in the dying flames. Long, graceful. A mountain lion. It swishes its tail as it nudges her skin. She can smell the blood beneath its claws.
The cat slinks off. Her gun’s two feet away. She tries to reach for it with bruised, bony fingers.
They graze across crumbs. Stupid. Stupid. Did she really not hoist up her food, because she thought the winter would protect her? Fear grips her heart, and the windchimes, soon after. They ring so loudly now. When she falls under their spell, she’ll pass whole days in slumber.
No. She blinks. Can’t slip. She finds the old Springfield, squeezes the stock. She has to be quick. Fluid. One shot, or her throat’s out. Harriet closes her eyes. Primes her muscles for the pounce.
But when she springs up, muzzle ready, a larger shadow’s already leapt over her.
Harriet can only see a mass, crashing into the wall, its snarls mingling with the cougar’s. There’s a sound like nails on chalkboard. The grind of shredding flesh. Harriet stands, her gun lifted. Doesn’t matter what that thing is, a bullet-
“Not so fast, gadji.” Harriet gasps as cold steel is pressed to her neck. The strange voice whispers in her ear. “We have other sources of supper.”
Strong arms loop around hers, and tiny coins chirr with her brief struggle. Harriet follows the blade with her eyes. Curved, and sharp, and angling upward. The man holding her back is taller.
The commotion by the cave wall has died down to soft sounds. Like someone drinking. She realises that the large mass is a man. A gargantuan man, taller and wider than any she’s ever seen. He towers over the cougar, now a mangled pool of flesh. She feels a hand on her gun. The man with coins, pulling it back.
“Good. Good.” He starts guiding her arms, so that the Springfield’s barrel to the ceiling. “Keep the pushka away, and no-one-”
She fires. Not angled to hit, but to deafen. Her plan works. The man stumbles. The blade leaves her throat, and she moves quickly, slamming the gun’s barrel into something soft behind her. She starts to run, but screeches. The man’s grabbed her hair. She’s thrown to the wall. Her gun flies from her hands.
When he approaches, she leaps. Scratching skin, clothes, anything she can grab. She even bites at the air, but a punch takes her back. First to her cheek, then her gut, then a kick to her knee. She’s lifted off the ground. He runs. Her back bashes on a wall. The hands that wrap around her are stunningly cold.
“Keh…” she sputters voicelessly, flailing around. “Gheh… i-ich, k-k-keh…”
He shoves her back in the rock, squeezes harder. She gets a look at the man. Dark hair, dark skin, bright robes like an Injun. But he’s not wearing beads or feathers. And she’s never seen Injuns wear beards.
“Du-te dracu, pidză!” She sees the flare in his eyes, like embers. He starts leaning in, mouth towards her neck. “When I’m through with your corpse-”
“Stop!” Harriet jerks her head. The voice of the large man, still leaning over his kill. It carries a thick drawl. Takes his partner’s surprise, as much as hers. “Drop the girl.”
“She’s feral, Red! Little more than a dog! Bátu died in a mine, mother’s probably a whore! We bring her to town, they’ll just fucking-”
Harriet screams, and claws at his face. When the man loosens his grips, she slams her boot into his groin. He roars. She’s dropped, and scrambles. Grabbing her gun and flipping around just as he’s about to hit her.
“Nnnnneh!” She tries to sound threatening, but it comes out a hoarse squeak. “Geh-gehhhhhhh-”
The man with coins doesn’t move. His sword drawn, defensive. But his partner starts to rise from the ruined corpse that was his kill. Harriet’s breath stops. He’s even larger than she thought. Arms like tree trunks, chest like a barrel. Blood drips from his chin, and his nails are impossibly long.
She hoists up her gun, hands trembling. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.
Just stares her down, with eyes glowing red.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
August, 2004
Two Weeks After the Reeve’s Assassination
“And if you’re lonely…” A voice comes over the guitar riff. “You know I’m here waiting for you….”
The boy on the sign bobs up and down with the protestor’s steps. The photo is grainy, ill-coloured, cheap. It shows him kneeling on the floor, playing with blocks, looking up. Red X’s cross out his eyes.
“... I’m just a crosshair…”
‘SAIF, AGE THREE,’ it reads. ‘TONY BLAIR MURDERS CHILDREN.’
“... I’m just a shot away from you…”
“Urgh, they’re playing Franz Ferdinand at cafes, now?” Harriet’s ‘date’ rolls his eyes. “What posers.”
They’re at a ‘coffee house,’ which Harriet thought only temperance leaguers went to, but was assured that they’re ‘cool.’ Everyone here dresses like the man across her: jeans and flannels and stitched hats called ‘beanies.’ When she asked him why he wore a scarf, he told her it was antique. When she brought up that ‘antique’ people also wore top hats and frock coats, she only got a stare.
“I promise, their next album? Gonna be soft as shit.” Harriet’s confused. She thought Franz Ferdinand got shot. “That’s what always happens when an indie goes big. Coldplay, Radiohead, you hear them all the time now, and they’re new stuff, you just go…”
Harriet tunes out after that. The protest is more interesting. There’s not many of them out this night, maybe a hundred, with twenty Met surrounding them. They all hold torches so onlookers can read their signs. Perhaps they have family there. She’s enraptured by the rage in their movements. The passion in their cries.
She feels a pull on her shoulder, and looks at her date. “Uh, ya ask me somethin’?”
“Yeah. Favourite bands?” He sounds flustered. “The Strokes, Arcade Fire…?”
“Uh, I like Bob Dylan.”
He blinks a few times, but Harriet’s already turned back to the protest. “Are you actually listening to me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Because I was talking about independent labels, not-”
“This war, with Iraq,” Harriet interrupts. “Why we fightin’ it?”
He lowers his cup. “You don’t know? It’s on the news all the time.”
“I-I don’t trust them telly speakers.” She sips her coffee, hates the taste. “It jes’ seems like they’re killin’ lotsa people-”
“Well, they’re not meaning to. They have to get Saddam.”
“Why?”
“They say he’s hiding nukes. Harbouring terrorists.”
“An’ that’s a bad thing?”
The boy’s mouth hangs open. “How could it not be?”
“Well, I dunno. Ya jes’ told me ya appreciated all those…” Harriet’s eyes fall back to the marchers, a finger curling through her hair. “... ‘independent labels.’”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The pub was louder than it had any right to be at 3 AM. Its name, ‘The Gilded Dragon,’ implied an age that wasn’t there. It was a den of faux wooden tables and seats that shined too clean. The accents were wrong too, short vowels and harsh ‘R’s. It rises with the flow of the sports game on television. Football, she thinks. The United States kind. Grown men thrashing into each other. Harriet sighs, walks with her head down. London was home to some 20,000 Americans, and she did her utmost to avoid all of them.
That Janet invited her here was either a sign of unusual stupidity… or a direct provocation.
Nocturni can drink. Why is unclear. Maybe alcohol mixes better with aether. For fear of spoiling the fun, Harriet chooses to never ask. She goes to the bar and, like always, orders their strongest whiskey. Tips her glass to the barman. Sips. It hits her gut like a brick. Perfection.
Only then does she look for Blackbird. And it takes a mere instant to find her.
Vampires are forbidden from exposing their true natures to mortals. It’s the one thing all Courtmen and Unbound agree on. Humans, no matter how disparagingly they might be viewed, are quite frightening in large numbers. They’re also prone to violence, demagoguery, hysteria. The risks are too high. Everyone adjusts accordingly… except for Janet Lavender.
Nestled into a booth, Janet wears a short black dress. It’s joined by a black choker, black hat, black fishnets, and tall black combat boots with laces that are also black. Holding up an Agatha Christie novel, Harriet can see her black-painted nails, matching the shade of her lip gloss, her eye shadow, her hair dye. Two ankh-shaped silver earrings provide the only sort of distinction. And where most Nocturni, Harriet included, use aether to make their skin blush and mimic life, Janet’s skin is deliberately pale, corspelike, cold. She is the mortal epitome of a vampire, and she always has been, matching her image to the tides of the decades. Mourning clothes in the gothics; leather jackets in the age of punk. The only constant is that ridiculous black colour, and the object always on her mind:
“Hey, Janet,” Harriet smiles. “How’s the list lookin’?”
A second’s pause, before Janet calmly sets her book down. Wordlessly, she coils her hands through black leather gloves, before carefully pulling open a black three-ringed binder. The pages are all laminated, many torn at the margins and yellow with age. In each row is a name, an address, and the date and grievance that enraged her. Harriet watches the woman flip through each page calmly, scanning the lines like they were freshly written. A good many are scratched. Some were added only yesterday. Reeve FitzGerald was on page four.
Janet sighs. “It’s not getting any shorter.”
“But at least I’m not on it!” Harriet awkwardly grins. She gets no reply. “You, uh, wanna tell me why I’m in a room with a buncha chest-beatin’, beer-guzzlin’, cowboy-wannabes?”
“It was the client’s decision, not mine.” Janet reopens her book. “And one shouldn’t speak of their countrymen so disparagingly.”
“There’s a lot ta disparage. Country used ta mean a frontier, bein’ self-made, twenty miles from the nearest postman. Not drivin’ Ford pickups with half my drawl an’ a fist fulla… fuckin’ burgers.” Harriet scowls when Janet doesn’t look up. “What? Should I assume that everythin’ in whatever-the-fuck estate yer from was nice an’ peachy?”
“I despised my home.” Janet turns a page. “That’s why I’m not speaking.”
Harriet leans back, eases off. Janet was once Kept to the New Sun herself, groomed for leadership, among other things. From the moment she was Shorn, the Court made her Enemy Number One. But she’s still here. And in Harriet’s eyes, that earns someone the right to act all mysterious.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Her red hair spills forward. “So, client? That’s new. Who-”
She’s cut-off by heavy footsteps, straining floorboards, clinking spurs. She scowls. The man who approaches looks the same as the first day she met him; a bear of a man, with a cattleman’s hat and an eternally greying stubble. His hands pull at his studded belt, a blue ‘8’ emblazoned on his starlight silver jersey. Her eyes sharpen on his, glowing that signature colour.
Harriet stands up, digs in her pocket for her gun, and shows her adoptive father fang.
“FIRESIDE!” Janet rises. “Stand down!”
“Twenty steps back, motherfucker!”
Red Eddards sighs through his thick Southern accent. “Nice ta see ya, too.”
“Ten seconds, Janet. That’s how long ya got ta tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on before I blow both yer goddamn brains out!”
Red folds his arms. “Seems like ya’ve borrowed yer girlfriend’s sailor mouth-”
“Ashlin’ an’ I are friends.”
“Fireside, please,” Janet tries to interrupt. “Mr. Eddards made an offer-”
“Ahhhh. An offer?” Harriet turns towards Red, whistles. “What’s it this time? Grab a pint with the New Sun? Give my body to a Court Reeve? Or maybe, Keaton’s mancave started gettin’ a lil’ smelly. So he sent fer his lapdog’s daughter ta do his MOTHERFUCKIN’-
“Ladies,” Red nods towards his back. “Do y’all mind?”
They only then realise the stares they’ve attracted from mortals. Janet retreats. Harriet doesn’t move. Red’s eyes shift slowly to the hand still in her pocket.
“Keaton had nothing to do with this,” Janet explains, quieter. “When your father approached me-”
Red interrupts. “Though it wouldn’ hurt ta take a line or two from his playbook.”
Harriet snarls. “The hell’s that s’posed ta mean?”
“What in God’s name are ya doin’, shootin’ the Reeve? That man was the greatest godsend the Unbound ever had!”
“He was makin’ us fat. Soft.”
“So ya had ta go an’ paint the world’s biggest target on yer back?”
“If some idjit’s fool ‘nuff ta try an’ kill me, I’ll welcome ‘em with opens arms!”
“I’m sure that’s what those who died fer us wanna hear.”
“Least I’m tryin’ ta make them proud.”
“Both of you, stop it!” Janet’s showing fang now, too. “I did not bring you two together so that you could unfurl a century of history-”
“But that’s all Keaton is. History. An’ a history a’ failures at that!” Harriet scowls at Red. “Remember when he had me bomb that Orange water tower, an’ it kicked off a goddamn war?”
“Yes, an’-”
“Or that ‘undercover’ mission where he pumped me with opium an’ stuck me in a goddamn whorehouse?”
“Fireside, I don’t think anyone here’s going to say that was-”
“Or how ‘bout when, anytime Ashlin’ or I suggested anythin’, he’d use his books an’ his big words ta shut us down! Called us fuckin’... lumpy proletariats!”
“Lumpenproletariat,” Red corrects.
“Coulda jes’ said women,” Harriet snorts. “That’s what he was really mad about.”
“Fireside, look.” Janet removes her face from the hand she buried it in, waiting for Harriet to turn. “Do you trust me?”
“Should I?”
There’s a pause. “... No. But I’ve never led you astray. And-”
“This ain’t goin’ back an’ singin’ ‘kumbaya’ in Brixton,” Red interrupts. “It’s shit that can bring down the Court. Shit of yer calibre.”
Harriet stops, breathes slow, sees the sincerity in his eyes. She’s still attracting stares, all over the pub. She squeezes the grip of the gun in her pocket, tries to funnel her rage through. Browning HP. Semi-auto. Thirteen rounds.
“Fine.” Harriet slowly sits down. “Sell me.”
Everyone relaxes. Red grabs a chair from behind and scooches it over. “Well, let’s start with a question. What’s the Court’s single greatest strength?”
“Money.”
“Ding-ding-ding. Investin’s a big-picture game, an’ five hundred years is a hella long time fer collectin’ interest.”
Janet’s returned to her book. “Her investment portfolio’s the only thing keeping the New Sun afloat.”
“But she ain’t the Court’s main financier. That’s her ol’ getter, Caedmon.” Red growls. “Big, lotsa armour, walks around with an axe. Now until the Seventh Revolt, Caedmon led the whole Court roost. But that was before Blackbird here-”
“She doesn’t need the history.” Janet looks up. “Suffiice to say, the Court needs Caedmon’s assets, his companies, but he’s ancient, and half Wilds aside. Barely understands what a currency is.”
“So the Court works around him with an army of Kepts,” Red explains. “Bankers, traders, accountants. Young, and modern, and capable of buildin’ whatever infrastructure they need.”
“Great fer them,” Harriet replies. “Where do I come in?”
“Some of those Kepts have gotten sloppy.” Red pulls a laptop from his leather bag, sets it on the table. To his right, Harriet can see Janet struggle with print-outs of Yahoo Maps. “Ya ever heard a’ Enron?”
No. But Harriet can guess. “Are they in tech?” It’s either that, or finance.
“Energy. An’ a little tech.” Red shrugs. “Though, towards the end, they started gettin’ desperate. Tryna trade stocks on the weather.”
Oh shit. Tech AND finance. “Ya seem familiar.”
“Yeah, well, I go back ta Texas from time ta time. Was there when it all happened.” Red leans in. “Five years back, by market cap, Enron was America’s seventh largest company. But stocks are strange. Fake, funny numbers, that aren’t real ‘til ya withdraw, so nobody really cares. It’s all part a’ this new capitalist scheme, uh, global financialisation. Shareholder value -”
Janet’s hackles rise. “Josiah…”
“With the colonies gone, an’ cheaper so-called ‘developin’ countries’ usurpin’ the industrial modes a’ production, Western billionaires have moved their vectors of wealth from the creation a’ consumptive goods ta-”
“Josiah! Enough with the Keaton theories.” Janet’s voice turns to a whisper. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
“Uh, actually, Janet, I have heard about these guys,” Harriet taps the table. “They’re the fuckers who played ‘round with California’s grid, right? To raise their stocks? Got that, uh, killer robot involved?”
“If ya mean ‘It helped Arnold Schwarzenegger get the governor’s seat,’ then yes.”
Harriet looks smugly at Janet. She drank from some numbers kid at LSE last year who liked to ramble. Learned a lot. Lousy feed.
“Well, the short version,” Red goes on. “Enron was fakin’ numbers. Lotsa numbers. The accountants were in on it, the regulators were in on it. When it broke, all three exploded. Billions of wealth gone, tens of thousands of jobs lost. An’ then there were the links ta Bush an’ Cheney. It was bad. Lotta burns.”
“Except the robot guy,” Harriet adds. “He got elected.”
Both Red and Janet fall silent. Harriet takes a second to savour her display of knowledge. And here they thought she was lumpy.
“So, basically, there’s some company a’ the Court’s that’s goin’ Enron?”
“They’re all goin’ Enron. It’s one a their oldest tricks,” Red explains. “Divvy the Court’s wealth between a hundred firms, have them all invest in each other. Lotsa growth, lotsa green. Mortals see it, think they’re missin’ out. They invest. Then the Court pulls, just before they realise their ‘investment’ was made outta clouds.”
Harriet squints. “Issat legal?”
Janet snorts. “Not for mortals.”
“Even Blair has his limits, though. They gotta hide well.” The laptop screen lights up Red’s face. He’s frantically typing. “But this Polyphron, tech firm, it’s growin’ too fast, too large. They put a young blood in charge, an’ he’s squeezin’ Sovs dry. Hundreds of millions in jes’ three years. It’s books gotta be better cooked than a Thanksgivin’ turkey.”
“How’d ya learn about this?”
“Our informants. Whistleblowers.” Red shrugs. “Keaton didn’t abandon every tradition, Harriet. We still have eyes.”
“If those books were to… publicise… the courts can’t protect him. A disaster would unfold.” Janet gestures with her hands. “All the Court’s investments, smoke. And not just in Polyphron, but around it as well. That lack of due diligence, regulators will notice. And if they look into one…”
“The others follow.” Red stops typing. “Like dominoes.”
“It’s the event of a lifetime. The chance to hit the Court precisely where it most hurts.”
“Ya mentioned a pup,” Harriet asks. “What’s their name?”
Red smirks, and flips the laptop. A video starts to play. “Harriet, meet the face of the Court’s future Enron…”
She looks at the screen. Her eyes go wide.
“Soteris Chrysanthou.”
It’s him. The man from Cyprus, who offered bread at the church. With his olive skin and his flashy smile. Harriet still has his card, tucked in a drawer somewhere. But there he stands, right in front of her, shaking Minister Harcourt’s hand.
That fire is still in his eyes.
The world slows. White clouds form. He… he was Nocturni? But… but that means he…
“Sometimes we need a knife.”
… how could she…
“To crack open the shell. And see the pearl.”
An agent of the Court, and she couldn’t even tell.
“In Greece, he goes by Sotirios. But…” Janet stops. “Are you alright?”
Harriet blinks. The windchimes fade. Her thoughts are lost in fog. She leans back in her seat, awkwardly avoiding others’ harsh stares. “Uh… yeah.” She looks at the ground. “Jes’... think I saw him on the telly.”
Janet buys it. Red does not. He keeps watching, about to speak, but Janet butts in. “Chrysanthou is the founder, CEO, public face. Net worth of some two-hundred-million. Owns a skyscraper in Central London. But that’s just public info. In private, he’s the youngest Nocturni to ever receive Sovereign status. In mortal years, he’s forty-one.”
“So he’s good with tech?”
“Or smoochin’ the right investors.”
Harriet squints. “What’s he doin’ with the Defense Minister?”
“Launching Polyphron’s first product. Ares.” Janet furrows her brows. “A computerised security gate that the government hopes to implement in its counter-terrorist ops. According to Polyphron, it can identify, erm, choice individuals through scans of their blood.”
“Ah, there’s the fraud,” Harriet chuckles. “Ya can’t make a scanner that reads blood that fast.”
“I know,” Janet nods. “That’s why it reads aether.”
Harriet pauses, turns. “Yer kiddin’.”
“I wish that I was.”
“Yeah.” Red tilts his head. “An’ we all have doubt that it’s Blair’s terrorists that this thing’s gonna start taggin.’”
Harriet stares at the laptop again. It’s frozen on that handshake, just behind a podium. He called himself a builder. He said his machines help people.
So why build something that was trying to kill her?
“Gotta say, way ya two been goin’, can ya even be shocked?” Red sighs through his nose. “Right now, these are jes’ prototypes in Polyphorn’s office, but Blair’s hopin’ to have these in every airport, tube station, fuckin’ post office, by Q1 ‘06. An’ if we’re all put on it… heh, ya’ve got more ta worry about than the Reeve an’ fuckin’ Keaton.
“Assuming we’re right. Assuming they work.” Janet folds her arms. “And assuming we don’t expose them.”
Harriet bites her lip. “If those things are stuck between us an’ the books, exposin’ anythin’s gonna be pretty fuckin’ hard. Cuz, uh, I’m guessin’ ya didn’t get the books from yer ‘informants?’”
They give her a look.
“Great.” Harriet grins sarcastically. “Guess I’m breakin’ inta a motherfuckin’ skyscraper.”
“There’s only so much they can do. That we can do.” Janet replies. “I’m the New Sun’s sworn enemy. Red’s hands are tied-”
“An’ whose fault would that be?”
“I’d still show up in Ares,” Red snarls.”
“An’ I fuckin’ wouldn’t?”
“Harriet Eddards won’t be pulling the heist.”
Harriet catches the glare in Janet’s eyes. The woman’s smile. “No.” She shakes her head. “Yer not…”
“We think our little infiltrator…” Janet smirks. “... will go by Jessica Connolly.”
“The girl I pretended ta be at school?”
“The girl you conjured. In her entirety. Demolishing any link between yourself and King’s College.”
“I’m sorry, but ain’t Keaton already a fuckin’ shapeshifter?”
“In appearance, not in fact,” Red replies. “You change reality itself. Ya can magic new fingerprints, new documents, new DNA, new-”
“- blood types.” Janet finishes.
“I don’t magic shit,” Harriet replies. “That’s Paradox.”
“Which you control.”
“Barely. An’ its unreliable. Especially with tech. So I-”
“Conjure a text message onto this phone.” Red holds out his Nokia. “Right now.”
Harriet scowls, blood flowing, eyes burning. A buzz rings out as the phone rattles in his hand. He flips it open to read the message.
“‘Dixie Red sucks Court cock,” Red rolls his eyes and pockets the phone. “Very witty.”
Janet shrugs. “Well, at least we know it works on tech...”
“So we’re prayin’ I don’t pick up on the scanners? That’s the master plan?”
“Of course not, Fireside. I’ll be there, same as always. With a lot more time to get intimate with their network.”
“Cuz that really warned us about Cappie-”
“There won’t be a Cappie,” Janet says. “It’s a company. With employees. Most aren’t even Oathsworn! You just stroll in, take a lift to their files, and stroll out, all done! You won’t even be bringing your bloody pistol-”
“NO!”
Janet stops. Harriet’s sprung up again, her hands on the table, eyes wild and teeth bared. The windchimes are roaring. They can all hear her ragged breaths.
“No guns. No deal.”
Janet frowns. “It’s an office building. You can’t walk in armed!”
“Watch me.”
“We all know yer rules, Harriet,” Red lifts his hand. “But please. We got one shot at this. It ain’t the time-”
“Cram it! It ain’t ever my fuckin’ time. This whole talk, y’all’ve been ‘one shot’ this, ‘only one’ that, but I don’ see any a’ youse-”
“Are you not fucking listening!?” Janet rises with an anger to match Harriet’s own. They both hiss. “I tell you this could bring the Court down. That there’s an imminent threat to all our work! And you’d let that slide, you’d let this boy kill us! All to appease your insipid, childish fears-”
“Blackbird, hey-”
“And wave your fucking guns around like you’re Calamity bloody-”
Red shouts. “LAVENDER!”
The Shorn woman rears back, nails out, the black makeup around her eyes casting a ghastly image. Her voice has doubled over. “What?”
Red speaks slowly, calmly. “... Grab a mortal. Go outside.”
“I won’t have my vengeance stalled-”
“Please.” Red grabs her arm. “I jes’ want five minutes alone with my daughter.”
For a moment, Janet looks like she might tear his throat out. Or howl at the moon, or claw at the walls. The Wilds’ temptation is clear on her face. But it fades in her eyes just as quickly. Janet launches from the booth at a brisk pace. Barely slowing as she takes a drunk college boy by the arm and yanks him to her supper.
Red watches her leave. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He starts to turn. “Ya prob’ly know Janet better than I, but the woman’s always been a little…”
He stops. Harriet isn’t looking. She’s still facing the booth. Her head tilted down, her mouth hanging open.
Her eyes glazed over.
“Hey. Harriet?” Red slowly extends his hand, waving it over her face. Her pupils dilate, but she doesn’t give an answer. Red exhales, but rests his chin on his hand. “Don’t listen ta her. Or the TV, or the shoutin’. Jes’ follow my voice. Slow, an’ easy. Yer starin’ at that booth, right? What colour issit?”
Slowly, Harriet blinks. Her brows start to tremble. “I… I don’ need…”
“C’mon,” Red smiles. “There ain’t any wrong answers.”
She takes a slow breath. “Green.”
“An’ the table? What’s it made of?”
She presses her hand. “Plastic.”
“An’ if ya turn an’ look, how many fingers am I holdin’ up?”
Harriet shifts slowly, an impish glint in her eye. “Brown.”
Red chuckles. He only looks like he’s in his late thirties, but there are wrinkles beneath his eyes. “How are ya feelin’?”
“Ya coulda called.”
“I did. Fer seven years. An’ the first time ya picked up, ya told me not ta-”
Harriet runs into his arms. The embrace is quickly returned. She sniffles as she buries her face in his sleeve. Red lifts his hand and starts petting her hair.
“Been too long, little Sunrise.” Red whispers. “Been too long.”
They pull close, like the old days. When he shielded her from that fierce Wyoming wind.
Harriet’s breaths are ragged. “I’m scared.”
“Why? Ya jes’ shot a Reeve.”
She cannot say.
“Mmm.” Red nods. “Ya remember that boy, Julius? Owned the casino? Hitched ya in the room upstairs when we first landed in London?”
“It was his sister’s. Clara’s.” Harriet squints. “She died a’ cholera.”
“You were already wowin’ crowds with those guns a’ yers, way back then. Shootin’ plates. Hittin’ coins outta the air. Julius loved it. Thought it attracted business. But then one night, I was downstairs, playin’ cards, an’... Blam! From upstairs, we heard Julius scream. Bullet went right over his eyes. But he was bent sideways cuz ya… heheheh, ya ruined the wallpaper.”
Harriet giggles with him, wiping her eyes.
“When he asked in that fancy accent, ‘Red, what the blazes is she doin’? Practisin’ indoors?’ I told him ya needed that Springfield ta sleep at night. Musta turned around, an’ clicked the trigger.” He sighs, blinks a few times. “... If the Almighty threw ya in Hell with a gun, ya’d have a blast, huntin’ demons. But take that away, ya lose that control. That safety. An’ then suddenly, yer jes’ like the rest of us.”
“Issat wrong?” Harriet grows stern. “It’s the City, Dad.”
“I know.”
“If I’m caught…”
“I know that too.”
Harriet swallows, her eyes are back on Soteris. That passionate heat and youthful skin. Even to mortals, he was a boy. But he stood on that stage like he owned it. And shook Harcourt’s hand like he would own it, soon.
If he was a Sovereign… and he knew her…
“Look for me, and I will find you.”
She’s not scared because she can’t take him.
“You can still be saved.”
She’s scared because he knows she can.
“Tell me that this will break them.” Harriet says. “That this ain’t like the others. That it’s gonna work.”
Red sighs. “Ya know I can’t.”
“That’s what I need.”
There’s a pause. Slowly, Red starts to readjust himself on his chair. Harriet lifts off, settling back into her booth. He looks at her. “Ya never actually asked me why I stuck with Keaton.”
“Cuz yer a Commie.”
“Cuz he’s right. We can’t fight ‘em now. An’ win.” Red looks at the ground. “Last Revolt, we outnumbered the Court, two ta one. Still lost. An’ every year, that number’s only gotten worse. There’s no Rowe or Ratcatcher ta lead us. The young care fer crime, the old are lost in the Wilds. An’ we’re rippin’ ourselves apart, all the while.”
Harriet bites her lip. She hadn’t helped with that.
“An’ the mortals?” Red scoffs. “Don’ get me started with them. This Blair fella, with his markets an’ wars… thirty years back, the Left woulda shredded. But the unions, the clubs, they’ve battered broken down. Mortals don’t care ‘bout equality. ‘Bout us. They’re jes’ tryna stay the next step ahead.”
Harriet’s face wilts. “How’s a stock blowup gonna change it?”
“It won’t. That flame’s gone. Keaton an’ I, we’d be stompin’ on cold ashes. But that don’t mean we throw ourselves at a wall, strikin’ whatever names we can from Janet’s stupid list. The Unbound, they’re still waitin’, still listenin’. If we hit the Court hard, hard enough they can’t mend… they’ll rally. An’ settle. An’ stand an’ fight.”
“Ya make it sound like we’re on a suicide charge.”
“You haven’t been?”
She gives him a faint smile.
“It might be.” Red frowns. “But it might not. An’ after everythin’ the Court’s done, after everyone the Court’s hurt, the Kepts, the Oathsworn, the colonised, the killed… the Unbound can’t die quiet. I won’t sit an’ watch ‘em win.”
Harriet returns to the screen, but doesn’t focus on Chrysanthou’s eyes. She stares at his hand. How easily had he lied to her? What sins were wrapped around that offered loaf of bread?
Did he crush unions? Squeeze working folk? Use parts made from slaves, his own or someone else’s, and tell himself and the world that, really, he’s helping them? What about the Minister he so gleefully sells to? Harriet sees Saif. That Iraqi boy, with crosses over his eyes.
How many of those protestors wanted guns tonight, and were forced to carry signs?
Clacking heels grow louder. Janet sits down, wiping drips of red with her pale skin. “Apologies that I’m late. The meal-”
Harriet stands so forcefully that she pushes the table away from her. Lifts her arms in front of her face, wrists touching, fingers curled. After a pause, she disconnects, elbows parallel to her shoulders. Like she’s breaking chains.
Her head bearing down, she sees Red Eddards’ eyes gleam. Janet blinks. “What is she doing?”
“She’s in.”
Then he stands and follows her, with the Unbound’s old sign.