“Meaning?”
“Meaning he uses hemopaths’ talents as an escape, but he fell down the rabbit hole and there’s no coming back.” She dusted off her dress in short, jerking movements, trying to hide the trembling of her hands. She told herself it was just the cold.
“Bitch,” Harry howled toward the black sky. He tried to drag himself upright, but he finally gave up and collapsed onto the concrete. “I hope the ironmongers get you. I hope you—”
He was interrupted by the rolling wail of sirens. Corinne’s heart skipped a beat at the sound. They were coming closer. Too loud, too fast.
Harry was laughing. It was an unsettling sound, with barbed and bitter edges. He was still lying on his back, mindless of the alley’s filth.
“Bulls are coming for you,” he managed to gasp out. “Better run, slaggers.”
Corinne whipped around and sprinted for the door with Gabriel at her heels. She took the half flight of stairs to the club two steps at a time, barely remembering to shout a warning to Gordon over her shoulder. Once inside, she lost track of Gabriel in the throng of people. That didn’t matter, though. He would tell Johnny. She had to find Ada.
The band was still playing, and she couldn’t hear the sirens over the music and clinking glasses and bursts of laughter. The patrons were still blissfully unaware. Corinne darted through the crowd to the dance floor, but she couldn’t see Ada and Charlie among the whirling black jackets and sequined silk. She scrambled onto the stage to survey the entire club. Behind her, the musicians had stopped playing. She could see Johnny calmly shaking the senator’s hand while Jackson waited to escort him and his wife out the back door. Some of the patrons had realized that something was wrong and were hastily gathering coats and purses. The last of the musicians had already packed up his instrument and was slipping out the back, headed for the basement to wait out the raid.
After the law had passed, Johnny made sure that his crew knew how to make themselves scarce at a moment’s notice. It was illegal to perform or participate in any sort of hemopath activity, whether songsmiths’ emotions, wordsmiths’ illusions, or the less invasive talents, like Saint’s. Technically, the regs who paid for the show were also breaking the law, but the cops never seemed interested in arresting them. The lawmakers had written the law with a vagueness that made it possible for police to arrest hemopaths for just gathering in large groups, even without evidence that they had been performing. Maybe in a court of law the charges wouldn’t stick, but hemopaths were carted straight to Haversham, and no one ever left Haversham. Except Ada.
Johnny caught Corinne’s eye and waved expectantly toward the microphone in front of her. He didn’t seem rattled by the turn of events. But then, Corinne couldn’t remember ever seeing Johnny Dervish rattled by anything. She turned on the microphone and cleared her throat. The remaining laughter and conversation died down as the unsuspecting patrons turned their attention toward her.
“That’s all for tonight, ladies and gents. Don’t forget to tip the band.” She stepped away from the microphone, then changed her mind and leaned back. “By the way, the cops are about to break down the front door, so now would be an excellent time to start panicking.”
The reaction to her words wasn’t immediate. A few people even laughed. But without the band playing, the sound of encroaching sirens swept through the room. The crowd of carefree patrons quickly degenerated into a seething mess of confusion and alarm. It wasn’t likely that the cops would arrest the regs, but that didn’t mean they wanted to stick around for a raid. Johnny would give her hell for it later—he liked to keep his patrons happy, and purposely throwing them into a panic was not the best business practice. But Corinne wasn’t worried about the regs right now. The cops would have to fight their way through the fleeing patrons in order to find any hemopaths to arrest. An extra minute or two was all she needed. Satisfied with her work, Corinne slipped backstage to continue her search for Ada.
Ada couldn’t hear the sirens from the basement, but she knew what was happening as soon as the first musicians started maneuvering down the stairs with their bulky instrument cases. She’d known a raid would happen eventually. According to Charlie, the cops broke up shows at the larger, ritzier Red Cat at least once a month. So far, the Cast Iron had remained below the notice of the bulls, but the bribes Johnny paid could go only so far.