Keeping her eyes open wasn’t a problem. Despite the madness of the day and Starr’s narcotics, sleep visited Pity in slim measure. And when it finally did, it brought frenzied, broken dreams, feverish images impossible to knit together.
Inhale, aim… exhale…
Twelve bullets for twelve men, who shattered into shards of glass when she fired, each one a burst of crimson and wearing Finn’s face… Empty chambers, and still the killers came and came and Finn lying everywhere… everywhere…
She awoke drenched in sweat. At first, Pity thought the knock was one of the gunshots that had scored her nightmares. But when she didn’t answer, it sounded again.
Slipping a gun from beneath her pillow, she hobbled to the door, ignoring the pains of protest in her leg. “Who is it?”
“Santino. There’s someone with me who’d like to speak to you.”
The tension in her muscles released. “Hold on.”
She traded the gun for a robe and opened the door.
“Pity.” Sheridan was with Santino, a rim of red around his eyes. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“I wasn’t nearly as asleep as I’d like to have been, Mr. Sheridan.”
“Patrick. May I come in?”
She moved aside so he could enter.
“Clock’s ticking,” said Santino.
“I won’t be long.” Sheridan closed the door behind him and gave her a frayed smile. His shirt collar was open, and the faint sour scent of sweat clung to him.
He looks like he’s gotten even less rest than me. “What did Santino mean?”
“Only that in an hour Selene’s mandate of protection for the Old Reds expires. From what I gather, Cessation is about to become even more perilous than usual. There’s a train departing from Last Stop shortly. I’ll be on it.”
“You’re leaving?” said Pity. “But I thought… your business with Selene…”
“That may be the problem.” Worry weaved into his words, turning them reluctant. “It’s possible Selene wasn’t the only target yesterday. I’d hoped that my visit here would be chalked up to the usual debaucheries, but there are… certain parties who would be displeased with her interference, even for an unlikely candidate like myself.”
Pity remembered what the final assassin had said: help from back east. Max might think Selene unable to elevate Sheridan to the top of CONA, but perhaps someone else disagreed.
“But before I left, I wanted to thank you,” he continued. “If you hadn’t been there, things would have ended very differently.”
She felt a pang of guilt. “They almost did.”
“But here we are, still standing. Us traitorous Patriots need to stick together, right?”
A bit of warmth stirred within her. “My mother was the Patriot, not me.”
Sheridan gave her a knowing look. “The other night I asked you what brought you to Cessation. But after learning who your mother was, I’m no longer surprised. I hope you’ve found whatever it is you’re looking for here.”
“Thank you,” Pity said. “I’m sorry you didn’t.”
Some of Sheridan’s fatigue fell away. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a waste of time. It’s a shame I can’t stay longer.”
“Maybe,” Pity said as Santino tapped lightly on the door. “But if Cessation is about to hit a rough patch, perhaps it’s best that you get moving. While you still can.”
The sun had set and pinprick stars had begun to appear in the purple velvet sky as Pity gazed out at the dim, empty streets of Cessation. From Eden, the occasional staccato of gunfire could be heard, and earlier, something had been aflame. She could still detect acrid hints of burnt rubber and wood on the wind, the perfume of the last two days.
Sheridan had been right to leave when he did. With the demise of the Old Reds, the other gangs were carving up their former territory bit by bit. Santino had assured her it would calm down soon, but for the moment it remained a bloody progression. During the daytime, the Tin Men patrolled the city and kept the peace as best they could, but at night they withdrew to hold the asphalt moat around Casimir. Like an island, it floated—safe but isolated.
The danger without was easy to see. It was the troubles within that still had Pity on edge, coupled with the enduring memories of what had already passed.
The attack played out in her mind, over and over, intertwining with the morning of Finn’s death until frustration made it difficult for her to tell them apart. The questionable decisions she had made, the opportune moments lost. Talons of doubt targeted her like the assassins’ rain of bullets. The more she thought about it, the more it felt as if each shot had hit her, lodging somewhere in her gut, festering in a way she couldn’t quite—
“What do you think of the view?”
Pity pivoted on her crutch, gun halfway out of her holster before she could stop herself.
It was Siena Bond. The woman had approached as quietly as a coyote in the brush. Eden’s sallow lights carved hard shadows into her face.
Pity relaxed. “Sorry.”
The shadows cracked as Siena’s mouth twitched up on one side. “Can’t blame you for being jumpy, I suppose. So? The view?”
“Not quite as nice as it was a few days ago.”
“Ain’t that true. When this city is good, it’s very good, but when it’s bad…” The bounty hunter put out a hand. “Siena Bond.”
It was as rough as unsanded wood. “I’m—”
“Serendipity Jones.”
“It’s Pity when I’m not performing.”
“Pity, then.” Siena gazed out at the dusk-drowned city. “From what I’ve heard, your show is something to be seen. And those are some nice guns you have, too. Theatre fixed you right up.”
“It wasn’t the Theatre,” Pity replied. “They’re mine.”
Siena reached for a nearby vine and plucked a flower. “They must have cost a pretty penny.”
A vague itch of discomfort ran over her skin. Not a single direct question had been asked, and yet Pity felt as if she were being interrogated. “They were my mother’s.”
One by one, Siena picked the petals from the flower and let the evening breeze take them. “She give them to you?”
“She would have,” Pity said, “if she hadn’t died first.”
Siena stopped plucking. “Hmm.” One petal left, she let the ruined stem fall to the grass. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to open any old wounds. Lucky for Selene you know how to use them, though. Olivia tell you about the porter?”
“What porter?”
“The one they found hanged in his room this morning. Used to be an Old Red, though it seems he opted to side with his old boss instead of his new one.”
That answers the question of who helped the assassins into Casimir. “Sounds like he made the wrong decision.”
Siena chuckled. “Made the right one at the end, though. The last thing you want to do is betray Selene and then have her get her hands on you.” She looked at Pity askance. “But you know how that shakes out, don’t you?”
Beeks’s screams echoed in Pity’s memory. “I do.” But there was enough weighing on her mind without dwelling on the Finales, too. “You’re a bounty hunter, right?” she asked, changing the subject. “Are you looking for someone in Cessation?”
Siena’s stony eyes glinted at her, a gaze to set strong men fleeing. There was something disconcerting about the woman. She didn’t have the dominating authority of Selene or the dreadful iciness of Beau. Whatever it was about her was more… raw.
“Maybe,” Siena replied carefully. “Though I’m considering another offer at the moment.”
Maybe? Pity took a step backward, sensing a significance masked by the simplicity of the word. Something hinted at. Her stomach tightened.
No, she thought. It wasn’t possible.
The better offer was undoubtedly Daneko—so far he had eluded capture, and there were plenty of rumblings about what Selene might pay to see him dragged in dead.
And how much more to bring him in alive.
“’Course,” Siena continued, “I’m a patient sort of woman, so I suppose any business I have here could wait.” She hooked her thumbs through her belt. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Pity Jones.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” she replied mechanically, breathless.
As Siena strolled toward the garden’s exit, Pity’s blood turned cold. It wasn’t possible, she thought again. Her father didn’t care so much that he’d send a bounty hunter looking for her.
Would he?