“She’s breathing,” Gabriel said, the relief evident in his voice.
Ada saw that he had taken one of Corinne’s hands in his own. When Ada caught his eye, he dropped her hand and grabbed Jackson’s gun from the ground.
“Here,” he said, flicking on the safety and giving it to her. “Just in case.”
Ada stared at the unfamiliar weight in her hands. It was relatively small and would fit easily in her coat pocket. That was where she tucked it, for now.
“How long will Jackson stay asleep?” Gabriel asked.
“Not long,” Ada said.
“Stay with Corinne,” he said. “I’m going to help Charlie get Saint down so we can reuse those chains for Sleeping Beauty.”
Gabriel took both of Jackson’s wrists and dragged him out of the aisle and toward the center of the warehouse. Ada maneuvered to rest Corinne’s head on her knees. She hummed a low tune, willing the melody to follow Corinne into her dreams, to bring her back soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When Corinne regained consciousness, it was like waking from an afternoon nap. Ada’s music was inside her, filling her up with a serenity she had never found anywhere else. It wasn’t until she had opened her eyes that her head began to split and her throat began to burn. She coughed and sucked in ragged breaths.
“You’re all right, you’re all right,” Ada kept repeating, though Corinne couldn’t help but feel it was more for Ada’s benefit than her own.
She sat up with Ada’s help.
“Can you walk?” Ada asked. “We’ve got Saint in the car. We didn’t want to move you until you woke up.”
“Where’s Johnny?” Corinne pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to edge out her agonizing headache.
“Gone. Who knows where. He must’ve slipped out while the lights were off.”
Corinne nodded slowly, relieved that she didn’t have to face him again. She accepted Ada’s help in standing. They walked outside together, with Corinne leaning on Ada’s shoulder. Saint was in the backseat of the car, head resting against the window. Charlie stood a few feet away, watching the street nervously. Gabriel was leaning against the driver’s side door, smoking a cigarette. On the ground beside him was Jackson, who was fettered well with iron and apparently unconscious.
“What are we going to do with him?” Corinne asked.
“Drop him off at the police station, I guess,” Ada said. “They probably know he’s one of Johnny’s crew.”
Corinne would have much preferred to drop Jackson into the bay, but maybe Haversham would be an equally fitting fate. She straightened up and was relieved when her knees supported her. She went to Gabriel.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” she asked.
He nodded and ground out the cigarette under his heel. Corinne grabbed his wrist and led him away from the car, back inside the threshold of the warehouse, where they could be alone.
“Corinne,” he started.
“Thank you,” she said. “I mean, I’m not saying I forgive you, because most of this is your fault anyway.”
“I’m—”
“You never made it a secret how you feel about what I do for a living, so I suppose I should have seen it coming.”
“Corinne—”
“It’s not like you redeemed yourself or anything, but at least you’re not a psychopath like Johnny. And I—”
Gabriel leaned down and kissed her, sliding his hand around the nape of her neck, his touch so light she could barely feel it. For a split second the press of his lips, slightly chapped, felt like something she wanted—then her mind caught up. She pushed him back.
“No,” she said.
There was more she wanted to say, but she couldn’t remember any of it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He took a small step away from her. “This is the second time in so many nights I’ve thought you were dead.”
It was easier for her to think, now that he had moved back. As always, the steel of his gun was nudging at her consciousness, pulling her focus. Her headache was getting worse.
“You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not sympathetic,” Corinne said. “Especially since you were the one who sold me out the first time.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice softer.
In the dull light of the warehouse, the angles of his face were less severe. Corinne could see a glimpse of the vulnerability she’d seen outside Down Street.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” she said.
Gabriel broke her gaze. He stared to his right, where half an hour ago Saint had been dangling from iron chains. He released a slow breath.
“My father was a Bolshevik activist in Russia,” he said, dropping his eyes. “Eleven years ago, before the Bolsheviki took power, he was in a protest that got out of control. Several police were killed, and my father was executed in the street. Some of his comrades helped my mother and me flee the country. I knew I shouldn’t attend those meetings at Down Street, but I couldn’t stay away. Those ideas felt like the only thing my father had ever given me.”