Jackson paused, considering. Almost faster than Ada could follow, Saint rounded the corner of the bar, charging Jackson. For the space of a breath, they struggled over the gun. Then Jackson yanked it free, shoved him to the floor behind the bar, took aim, and fired.
There was a scream, mingled with the deafening gunshot. When she felt the raw pain in her throat, Ada realized it was her own. She ran forward, too intent on Saint to think about the fact that Jackson was in her path. When he leveled the gun at her, Ada stopped. Her chest heaved as she stared down the barrel. She couldn’t see Saint over the bar. She couldn’t feel anything but her own hammering heart.
“Shoot her,” Johnny said, “before she tries anything.”
“No!” Corinne struggled against Johnny, heedless of the blade breaking skin.
Ada stumbled backward on numb legs, unable to tear her eyes away from the gun. Jackson moved with her, kicking stools aside, aim never wavering. But he didn’t pull the trigger. Ada stopped when she hit the edge of a table. She reached back, pressing her palms against the satin tablecloth, trying in vain to steady herself.
“Do it now,” Johnny said.
But Jackson still hesitated, glancing toward Johnny with an unreadable expression on his face. Ada’s eyes found Corinne’s, and she knew what Corinne wanted her to do. It was their last chance. She had to sing.
Ada’s mouth was bone dry, and she trembled uncontrollably. She needed only a few notes to trap Johnny and Jackson under her will, but Johnny needed fewer than that to slit Corinne’s throat. Ada licked her lips, mind fumbling for the right melody.
“Useless,” Johnny snapped. “Give it to me.”
He shoved Corinne forward, and Ada’s song caught in her throat as Corinne careened into her. Johnny moved to take the gun from Jackson, but Jackson spun on him immediately and rammed the barrel against Johnny’s chest, right at his heart.
“Madeline loved a good revenge story,” Jackson said.
Johnny’s eyes widened in realization, but it was too late. Guy Jackson had aimed the gun, but it was James Gretsky who pulled the trigger.
A gunshot echoed around them, seeming to fill up the world. For a moment, the Cast Iron was perfectly, completely still.
Then Johnny crumpled to the ground. Ada’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and her ears rang from the shot. She clutched at Corinne’s elbows, still trying to steady her. Behind the bar, Saint came into view, dragging himself upright. He was paler than usual but otherwise unharmed. Corinne took a step forward, then another, but she didn’t seem to know where she was going exactly. James still had the gun trained on the lifeless heap that had once been the indomitable Johnny Dervish. His expression was somewhere between horror and relief, and there were silent tears streaming down his face. The gun was trembling in his grip.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Finally, with careful steps, Saint came around the bar. He went to James’s side and gently closed a hand around his wrist. James relaxed as Saint lowered the gun and pried it from his fingers. A few interminable seconds passed; then James let out a single, strangled sob and threw his arms around Saint.
Corinne turned to look at Ada. Crimson spilled from the cuts on her neck, pooling at her collarbone. Ada could see in her eyes what had to be done. She nodded once and picked her way around the scattered chairs to where Saint’s wildflower painting hung on the wall. She lifted it free and crossed the room to him and James.
“It’s time to leave,” she told them.
James pulled back from Saint and looked at her, disoriented. Ada pressed the painting into Saint’s hands, and he stared down at it as if he were seeing it for the first time. It was the only one of his paintings that had survived. And soon it would be the only thing left of the Cast Iron.
“Head toward the Red Cat,” Ada said, pleased to find that her voice wobbled only slightly. “Charlie will be there.”
Saint looked between her and Corinne uncertainly.
“But what about—”
“Go,” Ada said, giving both him and James a little shove toward the door.
“We’ll catch up,” Corinne said.
Saint looked like he had more to say, but he only nodded and took a few steps backward, hugging his painting against his chest. James hesitated where he stood. He couldn’t seem to pull his eyes from the blood on the floor. Finally Saint took his hand, and he turned away. They left through the front door.
Corinne had leaned against the table beside Ada, squeezing the sides of her skirt in white-knuckled fists. She had lost more of the jet beads from her dress, and her dark hair was slick with sweat. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Ada let her gaze drift around the Cast Iron, avoiding Johnny’s body. She wished they could’ve known it at the height of its glory, before it had been tainted by greed and hate.
“It wasn’t all bad,” Corinne said at last.