Blues are not slaves to nature. Nature is a slave to us. —RICHARD PREW, BLUE REPRESENTATIVE
CHAPTER 7
Harrison doesn’t seem like such a sell-out anymore. Not when I’ve been a Public Person for less than two hours, and I’m already climbing into the getaway car of a Blue. I made the choice, survival over pride, but my pride still lingers, like a pointed finger in the back of my mind, cold and accusatory.
Quitter. I hear the word in Hillaire’s flat voice.
The blue first-year carriage makes ours look like a matchbox. A spiral staircase twists up to the second deck, its wrought-iron railing adorned with motifs of fans and hummingbirds. Security cameras blink from the ceiling, and armed Coppers stand guard at every corner. The air smells of fresh breakfast mingled with the fragrant aroma of cigar smoke. Rather than open seats, there are shuttered cabins with gold-trimmed windows, drawn closed for privacy. The soundproof walls absorb all noise, wrapping the carriage in eerie silence. Through the cabins’ stained-glass doors, I catch glimpses of Blue silhouettes, massive and blurred like giants in a dream.
“We’re up on the second deck,” Jack says.
He drinks from his flask as we climb the stairs, his bulky body swaying off-kilter. All I can think about is how he’s getting away with breaking the law in plain sight. In all my years of studying, I never encountered a loophole that explains how someone like Jack can outrank a Copper or walk around so casually in public.
Even Jack’s green shawl-lapel suit is a violation; the flannel looks wrinkled and damp, and his leather derbies are speckled with mud, as if he rode a hoverbike to the Roaring Rails Station. But despite his intoxication, he doesn’t seem like the type to throw away civil credits. Charlotte likes wild
men, not stupid ones.
At the top of the stairs, Jack shoulders open a cabin marked with a bronze plaque that reads, SALON THIRTEEN. MAXIMUM CAPACITY: FIVE PERSONS.
As I approach the door, a sense of danger wells in my gut, as if I’m stepping into a hand that could close around me at any moment. My parents’ advice about the Prews returns to the forefront of my mind. Dad and Mom knew Edmund’s parents once, when they were classmates at Grandmaster. I don’t know exactly what happened between his parents and mine—Dad and Mom always change the subject when I ask for details—but they give me plenty of dark-eyed looks, each with the same warning: Stay away from the
Prew family and their influence.
That includes Edmund.
Getting close to him will cost me, maybe not now, but eventually. Still, if I have to choose between dying on my first day as a Public Person and sharing a short train ride with him, I choose the latter.
I walk in.
The shift from shadowy to bright stings my eyes. Light floods the room from a chandelier blooming from the coffered ceiling like a ripe, golden apple, its chain swaying gently with the train’s motion. The salon is flamboyant and spacious. There’s a fireplace and pale marble statues of nude women holding trumpets, posed as if announcing our arrival. A deeply recessed window frames the view beside five plush seats: low-armed, thickly piped, all arranged around an oiled parquet table piled high with breakfast platters, a monogrammed cigarette case, two half-empty whiskey bottles, and a scattered deck of cards.
As I look around, my first thought is that the plaque on the door stating a maximum capacity of five is bullshit. This salon could easily seat twenty people, including Jane.
Jack drops into a chair and props his feet on the edge of the table. There’s no sign of Edmund except for a navy-blue greatcoat hanging from a brass coat tree.
“Go ahead, darlings,” Jack says, pouring himself a shot of whiskey. “Take a seat.”
Charlotte, standing behind me, closes the sliding door and then whirls on him with pinched eyebrows. “Not until you show it to me.”
“Show you what?”
“Your Blood Ring.”
Jack raps his knuckles on the table. “No.”
“Take off the glove.” She sets her head in a hard-jawed, downward tilt.
“Or I’ll do it for you.”
“You’d have a better chance of taking off my pants.”
“If the Copper back there had stared at your ass the way he did your Blood
Ring, maybe I would.”
“Maybe you should be grateful instead.”
“I am grateful, but—”
A toilet flushes in the lavatory. Charlotte and I swivel toward the door.
Behind the frosted glass, someone washes and dries their hands with a towel.
I stand still, trying to look composed, waiting for Edmund to emerge.
Then I notice something strange. The silhouette barely reaches the doorknob’s height, too small to belong to a Blue.
The boy who steps out has an upturned nose and a shock of carrot-colored hair that looks as if a gust of wind blew it back. Freckles pepper his cheeks, and his pudgy chin makes him look much too young to be a student. There’s a food stain on the lapel of his burnt-orange suit.
“Charlotte, you old broad,” the boy says, tugging on a pair of gloves as he strolls over. “Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. How have you b—”
He cuts himself off, squints at her, and plants a hand on his hip. “You trying
to get Jack back or something?”
“No.”
“Then what’s with all the slicing and dicing?”
Charlotte touches her nose, probably her most cosmetically enhanced
feature. “Uh, I—”
“And why do you smell like a fart?”
“Oh, shove off, Dickie.” She swats his hand away. “It’s not me who smells. It’s Lore.”
The boy brushes past her and circles me like a dog. He sniffs the air once, twice, curious but silent, until Charlotte jumps in to introduce us.
She begins by stating my name, age, and academic major in a formal tone, and mentions that my dad is a Green Representative. Then she moves on to her ex, Mr. Jack Carroway, a twenty-one-year-old Green first-year majoring in energy shield defense. Finally, she introduces the freckled boy as Mr.
Dickie Langley, an Orange first-year. At just fifteen, he’s only the eighteenth person ever granted special permission to become a Public Person and attend
Grandmaster University as a minor.
“It’s because I’m good with computers… a prodigy, if you will,” Dickie brags after we log evidence of our introductions into our Blood Rings. He pulls me into a clammy handshake, sniffs me like a dog again, and says, “Yep —you definitely dealt it.”
“I didn’t deal anything.” I yank out of Dickie’s grip. “The smell is from my seat. Whoever sat there before me spilled something.”
“The carriages are cleaned between stops, so it shouldn’t smell anymore.”
He turns to Charlotte, full of purpose. “What about your seat? Did it—”
“Enough swatting at flies, Dickie,” Charlotte cuts in. “We already know the Copper was setting up a hit. The question isn’t how he planned to kill Lore. It’s whether he’s got enough backing to try again.”
“What exactly do you mean by that, darling?” Jack spins his empty shot glass on the table with two fingers.
“You’re not accusing Blues of being behind this, are you?” Dickie demands.
“No, I—of course not, I just…” Charlotte gives me a pointed look, jerking her head as if I’m supposed to take over.
I nod. “Where’s Edmund?”
“In salon six,” Jack says. “With his girl.”
“With Rebecca?” Charlotte drops her cigarette case. “I thought they broke up?”
“They did. You don’t know Ed’s new girl.”
“I still wanna know her name.”
“Irene.”
Charlotte bends down to grab the case, frowning as if she’s mentally searching through every Irene she’s ever met. “How long have they been dating?”
“Almost a year.” Dickie slides into the seat beside me. “But Ed’s not dating Irene, broad. He’s engaged to her.”
“What? No fucking way. I have so many questions.”
A buzz from my Bond pulls me out of the conversation. I glance at the caller ID, feeling a rush of relief when I see it's Dad.
Before answering, I wave to Dickie. “When’s Edmund coming back?”
“As a betting man, I’d wager any minute,” Dickie says as he accepts a slice of chocolate mousse cake from a passing Pinkie. “Edmund never shacks up with his broad for long.”
That means there’s a good chance Edmund will walk in during the call.
Dad will see where I am, and worse, he’ll know who I’m with.
I let the call ring out. As soon as it goes to voicemail, Dad texts me.
“Where are you, Loredana? Are you safe?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Just can’t take a call right now.”
“Are you still on Harrison’s jet?”
“No. On the train to Grandmaster. I wanted to fly home, but as soon as we landed in the Rainbow District, I had to become a Public Person. Illegal entry otherwise.”
Dad doesn’t reply for a long minute. Either he’s been interrupted or he doesn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry, Loredana,” he finally writes, “for risking so much over this vote, and for putting you and your sisters in danger. I knew most Blues were against the Bliss ban, but I didn’t predict this kind of blowback. None of us did.”
Now it’s my turn to hesitate. He probably thinks I’ll wave it off, maybe
even tell him it’s not his fault.
But it is his fault.
“I’d rather talk in person,” I text. “You still at the Capitol Estate?”
“Yeah,” Dad replies. “Coppers can’t secure a ground exit, so we’re getting airlifted. What about you? Any protests on the train?”
“Not exactly. But I could use a bodyguard.”
“Don’t worry. President Reeve ordered full protection for targeted reps and their families. A team’s waiting for you at the university.”
“Are they Coppers?”
“Yeah. Why?”
I twist my Blood Ring nervously. Dad should know what happened, but I can’t explain it all now, especially with Edmund likely to walk in any second.
“Coppers are just as hooked on Bliss as everyone else,” I text. “Better to use Pinkies or drones, ones that’ve been checked for tampering.”
“Fine. I’ll have your Coppers swapped out for Pinkies.”
“Thanks.” I glance out the window into the storm, where rain lashes the exterior shell of the train, and the wind howls like it’s trying to rip off the roof. Still, it’s preferable to the shitstorm I’m in.
“How long’s this going to last?” I text.
“I won’t lie, Loredana,” Dad replies. “Bliss is a kick in the balls. The withdrawal symptoms should ease up in a week or two, but until then, we
have to prepare for the worst.”
Two weeks. I’m not even sure I can survive two hours.
“I don’t get it, Dad. You’ve passed controversial laws in the past. Stuff people hated. No one reacted like this. Why now?”
“This time, it’s not about the law.”
“What’s it about, then?”
“Before the vote, the Blues tried to sway us. Me. The other low-citizen reps. They promised us kickbacks if we killed the bill. I thought it was just standard corruption. Happens all the time. But now I realize… it wasn’t bribery. They were counting heads, seeing who’d sell out for access.”
I clench my hands at my sides, suddenly feeling as exposed as a nerve. If Dad is right, the violence won’t end with the withdrawals.
“They’re going to kill all of us, aren’t they?”
“No,” Dad assures. “I won’t let that happen. I promise. But until Reeve reins in the shit-stirrers, you need to lay low. Stay in your dorm unless you have to go to class. No introductions. No visibility.”
A moment passes before he adds: “And Loredana—whatever happens, stay the hell away from Blues.”
Logs crackle cheerfully in the fireplace as I glance at the stained-glass door of Edmund’s salon. My reflection looks ghostly in the glass, wide-eyed and terrified. I know I should heed Dad’s warning to avoid Blues, but for the first time in my life I’m caught in a double bind: damned if I return to the green carriage, damned if I stay in the blue. Now that it’s confirmed the Blues want revenge on the representatives who voted against them, along with their families, Edmund’s invitation makes no sense… unless, of course, he’s planning an ambush. But if that’s the case, why isn’t he here? Nearly twenty minutes have passed with no sign of him. If he were here, I could handle it.
This uncertainty is much worse.
Charlotte seems to feel the pressure, too. Despite Jack telling us to make ourselves comfortable, she hasn’t sat down once. She’s pacing the salon, silent yet restless, chain-smoking cigarettes faster than pencils slide through a sharpener.
Then Dickie, perched on the arm of a chair, asks Charlotte why she’s so
twitchy. That’s all it takes. She launches into a dramatic retelling of the train platform incident, her voice high-pitched and her gestures wild. I know it’s not only for Dickie’s benefit; she needs the distraction.
So do I.
Jack lounges back with a deck of cards, strip-shuffling lazily while Charlotte talks. His eyes track her movements, distant and unfocused, as if he’s only half-listening. Probably because he’s so drunk that if I punched him in the face, he’d bleed whiskey.
Apart from his heavy drinking, Jack is definitely Charlotte’s type. I can’t help but wonder why they broke up, especially since she claimed he’s the one. If it’s because of his alcoholism, I don’t understand why she won’t say so.
“And that’s when I knew,” Charlotte says, stubbing out her cigarette on a plate of smoked salmon, “Mr. Lee was going to challenge Lore to a death duel. So, with no time to lose, I told Harrison—”
“Harrison?” Dickie interrupts from his chair, where a Pinkie is polishing his two-tone shoes. “Why didn’t you tell Waldsten first?”
Charlotte narrows her eyes, clearly annoyed. “Because it was more important to warn Harrison, so I could stop him from—”
“You still should’ve told Waldsten first. If it were me, I’d be mad.”
“Well, it wasn’t you, Dickie. And thank fuck for that.”
“Someone else warned me about the death duel,” I say.
“Who?” Jack pauses mid-shuffle.
“I don’t know. One of the low-citizens in the crowd whistled the beginning of The Last Walk.”
Jack laughs, then resumes shuffling. “It wasn’t a low-citizen, darling.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Um, hello?” Dickie says, checking the shine on his shoes. “Because it’s illegal. You’re not allowed to play The Last Walk in public unless it’s during an execution or a sanctioned duel.”
“You’d lose at least a hundred civil credits,” Jack adds. “And no low- citizen has that much spare change lying around.”
“Well, you’re a low-citizen, and you sure seem to have a lot of spare
change,” I say.
“That’s different.”
Charlotte’s eyes flick to Jack’s hand, her chin tilting stubbornly. I know she wants to tear off his glove to see his Blood Ring as much as I do. Instead,
she clears her throat loudly to get everyone’s attention, then dives back into her story.
I fall quiet, turning Jack’s words over in my mind. Blues are tribal, often loyal to a fault. They don’t break ranks unless there’s something big to gain or something even bigger to lose. If the whistle came from a high-citizen, it’d be rare. Nearly unheard of.
“No, I’m not exaggerating. At least a hundred people were mobbing us,”
Charlotte says as she finishes her story. “How the hell did you guys not see anything?”
Jack raps his knuckles against the window. “Because only the salons on the right side of the train had a view of the platform. Ours is on the left.”
“I’d wager Ed saw it,” Dickie says, reaching for another piece of chocolate cake. “His broad’s salon is on the right.”
“Wait a minute.” I feel a low swoop in my gut. “You’re saying Edmund’s been with his fiancée since before we left the station?”
“Yeah.” Dickie scratches his nose. “So?”
“So how exactly did Charlotte and I get invited to his salon?”
Silence.
“Jack…” Charlotte clutches the sides of her face, her voice stretched with dread. “Please tell me you called Edmund.”
“Of course, I did.” Jack tosses the cards onto the table. “But he didn’t pick up.”
“Oh, hell.” Her voice jumps an octave. “Oh, hell. Oh, hell.”
“Relax, broad.” Dickie pats Charlotte on the back. “Jack and I are allowed to have guests.”
“Not these guests,” she snaps, jabbing a finger at herself, then at me.
Jack looks me over. “Ed doesn’t use Bliss.”
“But his bloodsucking tick of a twin does,” Charlotte fires back. “How the hell could you do this to us?”
“I would’ve waited for a call-back, darling, but when you told me you were dying, I took it as urgent.”
“Not as urgent as it’s about to be.” Charlotte grabs her handbag like a weapon. “Lore, we need to go.”
But I’m already halfway to the door. I knew it. I knew the second we entered Edmund’s salon that this couldn’t be a free pass. Whether he uses Bliss or not doesn’t matter. If he finds us here without an invitation, he might report us for trespassing or, worse, offer us a choice to stay in exchange for
something I can’t afford to give.
I reach the door and try to turn the handle, but it won’t budge. At first, I think the handle is jammed, until I feel resistance and realize someone else on the other side is trying to open the door, too. I step back as a silhouette shifts behind the stained glass, and the door slides open with a bang that rattles the panes.
“Well…” says a deep, lilting voice. “Isn’t that a daisy?”
The Blue in the doorway is so tall that he has to lower his head to meet my eyes. When he does, I see the salty-smelling sweat; it clings to him like mist, streaming across his flushed skin, dripping from his mussed, dark brown hair, down the proud set of his face, and pooling at the base of his throat. His white dress shirt hangs open, with three buttons torn clean off. There’s a fresh cut above one eyebrow, two more slashes across his cheeks. From the smear of lipstick on his jaw and the fact that he was just with his fiancée, I don’t need to guess what he was doing.
Edmund looks at me, his breath slightly ragged, his blue eyes cold as something floating in the sea. Then he turns to Charlotte, and his mouth slants in shock, as if he’s trying to match her to a memory that no longer fits.
For a moment, something close to grief flickers across his face.
Then his hands curl into fists. Rage flashes through him as his shoulders drop low, the kind of crouch you see in animals before they leap.
I swing toward Charlotte protectively. She’s pinned to the table, arms stiff at her sides, jaw held at an upward tilt. Her gaze remains fixed on Edmund’s, even as her body betrays her. One foot jerks back, and her mouth twitches as if she wants to speak, maybe to explain, but she remains silent.
Jack gets up from the table with a sudden, drunken stumble. “It was me, Ed. I invited them.”
The fury on Edmund’s face falters, veers off course, and crashes headlong into confusion. His head whips toward Jack. “Why? Back to get burned twice?”
Jack’s jaw tightens, then he sighs and throws his empty shot glass onto the table. “It’s messy, Ed. I know. But—”
“Someone put a hit out on the Bliss girl,” Dickie cuts in, nodding at me.
“Or that’s what Lady Charlotte claims.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a hit,” Jack says. “Maybe they’d have been fine. But I wasn’t willing to take that gamble.”
“Gamble?” Edmund turns on me, and as he steps closer, the air thickens with cologne-laced sweat and the woody tang of cigar smoke. I hold my breath, waiting for him to recognize me from Bogart’s broadcast. But his expression doesn’t change. He gives me a quick, feral once-over, the kind you give a carcass to see if the meat is suitable. Then he leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him. His nostrils flare as the stench from my train seat hits.
“Well,” Edmund mutters, his voice dropping low, “it’s a gamble now.”
He walks off. The lavatory door swings open, and he’s at the sink, wiping blood from his face as he kicks the door shut behind him.
The second the door closes, I grab Charlotte by the wrist and drag her toward the exit. “Time to go.”
“No, Lore.” She yanks back, her eyes half-lowered and still burning with shame. “It’s been a long time coming, okay? I can’t keep running.”
“From that?” I jab a thumb at the lavatory door. “Yes, you fucking can, Char. He’s an animal.”
“I told you it ended badly,” she says. “There’s no clean way out of this. So stay behind me—and please don’t make it any worse.”
Charlotte pulls away from me and turns to Jack with a daggerlike glare.
He’s hunched over the table, squinting at a toy carbon-fiber airplane as he adjusts its circuit with a multimeter.
“I get it now,” she says. “This is your way of getting revenge for—”
“If I wanted revenge, darling, I’d have taken it a year ago.” Jack calmly tests the toy airplane’s voltage. “Stop blaming me for the wreck you drove
yourself into.”
“That I drove into?”
“You knew back at the Royce Club that Ed was done with you. I warned you when you asked for my help, but you still chose to come.”
“Because I thought he knew I was coming.”
Dickie, still chewing chocolate cake, mumbles, “Wait—why doesn’t Ed like you anymore?”
Charlotte doesn’t answer him. All her focus, all her fury, is locked on Jack. “You should’ve told me Edmund wasn’t the one who invited us.”
“That’s not the problem, darling. You are.”
Edmund strides out of the lavatory, barely changed. He’s still a mess of blood, sweat, and tousled hair, vibrating with an energy that feels wired to detonate. The only differences are the smear of lipstick wiped from his jaw and the water streaks on his white dress shirt, a failed attempt to wash away the bloodstains.
He crosses to the table, drinks half a pitcher of water, then snaps his fingers at Charlotte.
She nods and exhales deeply through her nose. “Miss Waldsten,” she begins, working calm into her voice, “it is my pleasure to present Mr.
Edmund Prew, a Blue first-year majoring in—”
“My major is undecided,” Edmund says.
Charlotte nods quickly and continues. “Mr. Edmund Prew is the son of Phillipa Prew and the late Lionel Prew. At twenty-one, he excels in various athletic pursuits, including crew, polo, shooting, and horse racing. Having won the Junior Blue Fencing Championship four years ago, he is also a
skilled fencer who—”
“Enough,” Edmund says. “Move on.”
Charlotte swallows and pivots to me, rattling off my details like a script she’s trying not to mess up. We barely finish logging the introduction through our Blood Rings when Edmund steps past her and takes my hand. His grip is so firm that the edge of his Blood Ring digs into my skin. I flinch, but before I can pull away, he bows and presses a kiss to the back of my hand.
“Pleasure, Miss Waldsten,” he says. “Now, sit.”
We do. Charlotte braces herself, her fingers knotted in her lap as we take the chairs closest to the window. I rub my hand on my dress, as if I can wipe away the feeling of Edmund’s mouth.
Across the table, Edmund, Jack, and Dickie fall into rhythm. The cards are pushed aside, and a vase of bright hydrangeas is moved to the edge. Edmund slides the half-eaten cake back to Dickie, who hands him a guillotine cutter.
Edmund clips the end of his cigar, lights it, and exhales smoke that billows across the table. Then he tosses the lighter to Jack, who relights the cigarette hanging from his mouth.
The three of them settle in, shoulder to shoulder, and stare us down from the far side of the table.
“Miss Deering,” Edmund says, smoke curling off the edge of his sentence, “perhaps you can assist me in solving our dilemma.”
“Fine.” Charlotte straightens. “But first—what the hell’s with all the
frills? You never used formal language with me before. Why are you now?”
Edmund looks at her, silent and cold, until she finally lifts her chin.
“What dilemma?” she asks.
“You wish to remain in my salon. I wish for you to leave. Who decides?”
Charlotte’s lips press into a line, then loosen with effort. “It’s your room. I get that, okay. But as a lady, I should—”
“Lady?” Edmund’s teeth close around the word like a trap. “Your behavior at The Royce Club suggests otherwise, Miss Deering, and as such, I am under no obligation to treat you as one.” He stubs out his cigar, grinding it into the ashtray until the tip gives out. “Seeing as you and Miss Waldsten are guests of Mr. Carroway, I shall not override his invitation by forcing you out.
However, if you are going to stay, you will do so on my terms.”
“What terms?”
Edmund slams a shot glass onto the table so hard the hydrangea petals shudder.
“Ha.” Dickie slides the butter dish toward Charlotte. “You’re toast.”
Charlotte stares down at the glass, her voice barely a rasp. “A shot duel?”
“Yes.”
“And the rules?”
“Only one.” Edmund draws a small jar from his pocket and rolls it across the table.
Inside, two pale yellow scorpions twitch against the glass, their claws tapping the sides, tails coiled high. Deathstalkers. Bred for sport and engineered to kill, their sting is lethal enough to take down half the students on this train.
“Oh, piss off, Edmund.” Charlotte knuckles the jar away. “If you want me
dead, why not do it yourself?”
“If I wanted to, I would.”
“Stop being dramatic, Lady Charlotte.” Dickie flips open a polished wooden box containing two syringes. “We’ve got anti-venom.”
Charlotte exhales a scoff. “Yeah, well, I don’t like pricks. Not the needle kind, not the stinging kind, and definitely not the walking, talking kind.” She rounds on Jack, eyes flashing. “You’re really going to let him do this?”
“It’s your own choice, darling. Just like it was back then.”
“So, it is revenge.”
Jack stiffens, and for an instant, I glimpse past the drunken haze. Anger, or maybe sadness, like an animal licking its wounds in the dark. “Call it what
you want,” he mutters. “No point trying to change your mind.”
“And why is that?”
“Because the thief thinks everyone steals.”
Charlotte’s mouth parts, shocked.
Dickie’s brow crinkles. “Wait, who’s a thief?”
“Jack…” Charlotte’s voice breaks on his name. “I was hurt, all right? I just wanted—”
She stops short when Jack grips the edge of the table and rises halfway from his seat. Beside him, Edmund burns just as fiercely. There’s nothing drunk in their stares now, only focus, like Dad back in the hunting blind at home.
I move behind Charlotte and reach for my daffodil brooch. My fingers, slick with sweat, slip twice before I feel the button click and see the camera in the petals start recording. I don’t know what Edmund expects to get out of this challenge, but every instinct screams at me to get it on film.
Even though Charlotte told me to stay behind her and let her handle the situation, I can’t sit still and watch Jack and Edmund gang up on her. I take a steady breath and brush my fingers against Edmund’s sleeve.
“If you’re not throwing us out, then what’s the point of the challenge?”
The look Edmund gives me is unsettling, as though something behind his eyes is pacing. “We are acquaintances, Miss Waldsten. Address me accordingly.”
Even if we’re acquaintances, I shouldn’t have to use formal language in a private setting. Neither should he. Blues aren’t bound by the behavior laws, so he’s using formal language to condescend and assert his power.
“Perhaps I would, sir, if I knew your name.”
He blinks, briefly stunned, as if I told him his blood wasn’t blue. Then he turns fully to me. “We were already introduced, Miss Waldsten. Edmund Prew. But to you, Mr. Prew. Is it a difficult name to remember?”
“No. I would say it is easy to forget.”
A strange expression crosses his face, caught between flustered and amused, before his features harden again. “Well, it won’t be easy if you forget it a second time.”
I nod, jaw clenched. The cut above his eyebrow is bleeding again, a thin blue slash that glints at me like a threat, reminding me that my seat at this table is borrowed. One more wrong word, and I’m out.
Edmund turns back to Charlotte. “The challenge is simple. If you win, you
and Miss Waldsten shall each be granted a request. If I win, I shall claim one from each of you.” He extends a hand, palm open, as if offering something generous. But I know better. There’s no reason to include me in this deal
unless he already knows what he wants.
That’s fine.
I know what I want, too.
“No,” Charlotte snaps, shoving her chair back so hard it screeches. “You know what? Screw this. Screw it all. I’m not playing—and I’m not staying.”
“That would be unwise,” Edmund says.
“Why, Mr. Prew?” I cut in. “Do you intend to report us for trespassing?”
He grunts. “There is little use if you are dead.”
“What makes you so certain I will die if I return to the green carriage?” I rest my hand on my purse as if it holds something sharper than it does. “I am not unarmed.”
“Indeed. But of what use is a saber if you do not know where to point it?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“My meaning, Miss Waldsten, is that I know how the Copper intends to
kill you.”
“Because you are involved?”
“Because the evidence is stinking up my salon.”
I glance at my dress, where the foul smell still lingers, seeping through the fabric onto my skin. Whatever it is, it can’t be lethal on contact, or I’d already be dead.
“See,” Dickie says, nudging Charlotte’s arm. “I wasn’t swatting at flies.”
Charlotte looks over my dress, now worried. “What is it, Edmund? Some kind of chemical?”
He leans back, a slow curve forming on his lips. “I have no desire to offer aid to you or Miss Waldsten without terms.”
“This is not about aiding me,” I say. “There is a student in the green carriage. Miss Bradford. She is a target, too, and if we do not act, she will die.”
“Then perhaps you should stop spending time you cannot afford.”
Edmund tosses the jar of scorpions back to Charlotte. She catches it with a wince, bracing as if it might pop open and spill the scorpions. A large, dark vein jumps in her forehead, the same one that always appears when she’s scared past pretending.
“All right, Edmund.” She sets the jar on the table as if it just started
ticking. “I’ll do it on one condition. Whatever the loser owes has to be legal.
No blood. No bullshit.”
“Or forced intimacy,” I say.
Edmund cuts me a look like I’m a mosquito buzzing too close. He gets up, and as soon as his body leaves the chair, it relaxes, as if he’s not made for staying still.
“I accept,” he says. “Shall we formalize the agreement?”
Charlotte nods.
We record the terms in our Blood Rings. Once finished, Edmund closes the space between us and pulls me into an embrace, the customary gesture to seal an agreement. His skin is still hot and sweaty, and his grip is too tight, as if he’s pouring his disdain into the formality. I squeeze him right back, harder and harder, until he stiffens.
“Yours is not the embrace of a lady,” Edmund murmurs.
“Nor is yours the embrace of a gentleman,” I reply.
“I was a gentleman when I boarded this train. A lot has happened since then.”
I glance up at him, unsure what he means, but there’s no time to ask. He pulls away and moves on to Charlotte. Their embrace is awkward and brisk, so fast I almost miss capturing it on my brooch camera. Then Edmund walks to the door and speaks to a Pinkie with freckles and a nest of dark curls. The exchange is brief. Whatever is said ends with the Pinkie stepping out.
At the table, Jack pours out shots, five for each player.
Dickie perches on the edge, watching like a judge. “Some of these glasses are fuller than others,” he says, tilting one toward the light. “As a just man, I can’t ignore the unfairness.”
“Yeah, well, as a drunk man, this is as good as it’s gonna get.” Jack takes a long swig from the bottle.
Lightning flashes behind the window, drawing my gaze outside. The rain has eased enough to reveal layers of forest, cliffs, and a jagged coastline curving toward the horizon. The sun breaks through the clouds like a cracked yolk, spilling golden light over the energy shield as it rises impossibly high from the ocean. This is the west end of the Civilized World, while my family’s estate is thirty miles from the east end.
And somewhere out there, Jane Bradford is still in the green first-year carriage. Waiting. Or already dead.
Edmund sits, plants his feet wide, and rolls up his shirt sleeve. Jack
unscrews the jar, tipping it until the two scorpions spill out, their legs whispering over the wooden table. Dickie and I both jolt back. Edmund stretches out his arm, motionless even as one deathstalker skitters up his wrist. The scorpion’s tail curves high over its back, twitching side to side, the stinger ready.
“Careful, Ed,” Dickie mutters. “That one’s got mischief in its eyes. If it stings, are you gonna follow tradition?”
“Down to the swallow,” Edmund says, his eyes locked on Charlotte.
“Shall we begin?”
Her arm twitches anxiously. “I… yeah. Just give me a second.” She flattens her palm on the table with a wince. The scorpion responds immediately, drawn by her body heat, darting around an ashtray and scurrying up her wrist. Charlotte’s breath catches. Through gritted teeth, she inches her hand toward the nearest shot glass, every movement stretched thin.
“Good health,” Edmund says with a wink.
He raises his glass, and the deathstalker on his arm goes still. Its tail arches higher, poised to strike, but Edmund continues lifting the glass until the rim reaches his mouth. With a smooth tilt, he throws back the shot.
“Dead easy,” Jack says.
“Wow. A real touch of terrific,” Dickie adds.
But not for us.
I nod at Charlotte, trying to look reassuring. I know I owe her for this. I’ll owe her until the day I die.
When Edmund sets his glass back on the table, she picks up hers. Her hand is steady, but I notice the vein in her forehead pulsing again as she lifts the shot to her lips. The scorpion stays still at first, then, as the glass reaches her chest level, it scurries down her arm, its pincers flared wide. Charlotte freezes and bites her lip until a bead of green blood glints between her teeth.
I clamp my mouth shut, strangling any sound that might startle the scorpion. The seconds drip by, and as they do, I brace myself for a scream, a signal that we’ve lost.
But instead, I hear a bang, loud enough to shake the walls and rattle the windows. It’s coming from outside the train.
Everyone moves at the same time. Charlotte and Dickie dive under the table, while Jack lunges forward and traps the deathstalkers under a pair of whiskey glasses. Edmund flinches, shaking his arm as if to shake off pain.
His hand fumbles for the antivenom, and he plunges one syringe into his
thigh with a grunt.
“Lore, get down!” Charlotte yells from the floor.
I drop into a crouch and scramble to the window. My knees grind against the carpet, tearing my stockings, but I don’t stop. I don’t even breathe until I’m peering through the glass.
Outside, the shield crackles like a broken power line. Tremors ripple across the ocean as the impact erupts into a blinding halo of energy. Sparks burst. Fragments fly. Whatever hit the shield is shredding through it like a chainsaw buzzing through wood.
The train jolts forward, gaining speed until shrieks echo from the salons down the corridor. Sirens blare along the coastline, and above, I spot our patrol jets, sleek and AI-controlled. They dive toward the shield, engines roaring as they assess the damage.
The train’s windows darken as a shell of interlocking armor encloses us.
The sounds of the sirens and the jets vanish, all swallowed at once. What remains is the fear, confusion, and silence, balanced like a blade before the drop.
