“I’d gut you right here, if I didn’t think he’d jump on the blade right after you,” Adelia whispered. Her knife dug into Archie’s side, the point of it pressed between her ribs. “If there’s one thing I know about Winslow Houndstooth, it is that he cannot be tied down, no matter how much he ‘likes’ the latest flower he’s landed on.” An ugly, brittle smile crept across her face. “Just because he wouldn’t have you—”
Archie cut her off with a laugh. “’E’s not my type, cherie. Put your knife away. You’re embarrassing yourself, even more ’ere than you were at the bar.” She took a deft step away from Adelia’s blade, and turned to walk back into the bar. “Try to calm yourself down, eh?” She called over her shoulder. “I think the baby is making you crazy.”
Adelia stared after her. Archie’s voice drifted back to her from the bar—“Ah, Houndstooth, right where I left you! ’Ow about some water to befriend the whiskey in your belly, eh? You should be keeping your wits about you during our big caper.”
“It’s not a caper—” came the weary reply.
Adelia looked down at the knife in her hand; a drop of Archie’s blood fell from the tip of the blade to the plush red carpet at her feet. It blended right in.
“Well, well, well. Miss Reyes,” came a smooth, sleek voice from the shadows of the lounge. “What on earth have you been up to?”
*
Hero finished rigging the bombs in the wee hours of the morning. They were pleased by the simplicity of the setup; each one of the waxed-leather wallets was fixed to the top of an existing buoy in the Harriet, keeping them safe from accidental bumps and early detonation. The wax was a precaution—one never knew what might happen to a buoy during a stampede of ferals—but Hero felt fairly confident that the risk of immersion was low, and that the chances of success were incredibly high.
As they nudged Ruby toward the floating dock next to the hippo paddock of the Sturgess Queen, Hero raised one hand to their lips, and felt a smile lingering there. Houndstooth. He had a reputation—every one of the hoppers on this team had a reputation—but he had turned out to be so much more than an English snob with a taste for pretty eyes. Hero wondered what would happen when the job was over—would they go home together, to Hero’s little house with its little pond? Retirement alone had been dull, and lonely, and not the respite they’d so needed. But what if Houndstooth were there? Maybe sitting on the porch and drinking sweet tea and watching the fireflies come out wouldn’t be such a lonesome proposition anymore. Maybe it would be the peaceful retirement they’d been hoping for when they bought the little house with the little pond.
Maybe, Hero thought, closing the paddock Gate and turning Ruby loose.
Maybe.
They walked up the dock, exhausted, and walked into the entryway of the Sturgess Queen. Upstairs, they knew, Houndstooth would still be awake, watching the window for their return. They could sleep beside him for a few hours, before it was time for the action to begin.
To Hero’s surprise, there were voices in the lounge. The Sturgess Queen was supposed to be empty during the night—all the gamblers and drinkers headed to the Inn or to one of Travers’ pleasure barges to recover from their losses and their headaches. The voices that Hero heard weren’t shouting over a craps table, though. They were soft ones—voices that didn’t want to be heard. Hero paused at the foot of the stairs when they heard a familiar accent drifting through the doorway.
“Their plan will work. And it will work quickly. It’s going to happen today—the ferals will be gone by nightfall.”
Adelia. The skin on the back of Hero’s neck prickled.
“Oh, Adelia. Did you even try to seduce the Englishman?” The voice that answered Adelia was rich, smooth. Slick. Travers. Hero swore under their breath. Archie was right.
“I told you, I don’t do seduction. Besides, the French one got in the way, and I—”
“Ah, excuses. I—that knife would be put to better use elsewhere, Miss Reyes,” came Travers’ reply. “In Miss Archambault’s heart, for example? In Mr. Houndstooth’s gullet?” Hero covered their mouth with both hands as Travers suggested ways to kill the hoppers with all the insouciance of a ma?tre d’ reading off the specials.
“The time for manipulation and the arrangement of coincidences is over, Adelia,” Travers continued, his voice growing cool. “I’ve been willing to work with you to maintain your illusion of camaraderie, but now we do things my way.” A creak and a rustle of cloth. “I have business to attend to out on the water tonight. Find me back here before noon. Bring Houndstooth’s tongue with you as proof that you’ve done your job. No ears or toes, do you understand? That’s a good girl.”
Hero heard Adelia shout something that had the cadence of a vicious epithet. A door slammed—one or both of them leaving the room via a different entrance. Hero immediately turned to creep up the stairs to their room, each step cautious and silent. They moved slowly, trying to keep the boat from creaking under the weight of their footfalls.
They had to tell Houndstooth. They had to tell him, and they had to do—what? Something. Anything.
But then the door behind them swung open, and it was too late.
Adelia’s face was already contorted with restrained rage from her conversation with Travers. When she saw Hero standing there, so close to the door to the lounge that it was impossible for them not to have heard everything, her expression dropped into something like relief.
“Hero,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “I suppose you’ve finished rigging the bombs? I suppose you haven’t been up to tell Houndstooth that you were successful? I suppose you just wanted a word, before you go up to bed?”
Hero took several steps backward, but they were too late to dodge Adelia’s lightning-quick knives. They didn’t even see her hand move before they felt the pain in their gut. Hero dropped their hands to the hilt of the knife that protruded from their belly like the stump of a silvery umbilicus.
“I—”
Before they could so much as begin making an appeal to Adelia—an appeal for what? For mercy? Surely it was too late for that—Hero felt a blow strike them in the chest, like a punch. And there, like magic, the hilt of another knife had sprouted from their chest.
Hero fell to the plush red carpet of the entryway, at the bottom of the stairs. They looked up the stairs, away from Adelia, toward the suite where Houndstooth was waiting for them. They wanted to scream, to shout, to warn him—but it was so hard to draw breath. They hiccupped with pain, and tasted copper. They fought; they struggled, and managed to draw a single lungful of air.
“No no, dulce Hero. Sin gritando.” Adelia’s whisper was right next to Hero’s ear. The last thing Hero saw before they passed out was Houndstooth, standing at the top of the stairs, his mouth open in a scream to answer the one for which Hero had been unable to find breath.
Chapter 12
ARCHIE SAT ON THE DIVAN and watched Houndstooth pace.
“Cherie, you should ’ave a drink. Sit down. Something. You are driving me crazy with this pacing.”