‘You’re the faithful assassin,’ she said. ‘You’re the cold killer who only cares about following the boss’s orders. If he says kill, you kill. If he says let them live, then you let them live. You don’t care. Your only concern is being the very best at your job.’ She deliberately forced herself to look away from Lily and around the room, at all the guns hanging from the walls. ‘You’re an assassin. You’re a gun-moll. You’re his executioner.’
Lily bent forward and picked up Irene’s free hand from the arm of the chair. She brushed her lips against it, in a mockery of a courtier’s salute. ‘You’ve got a real gift for words, Librarian.’
‘I read a lot,’ Irene admitted. ‘It’s an addiction.’
‘And you’re used to working with your hands.’ Her fingers traced across the old scars that laced Irene’s palm. ‘Perhaps you’re right, and we don’t have to be enemies for the moment. I can respect another professional who’s prepared to get her hands dirty.’
‘Unless your boss says differently,’ Irene said.
‘Well, yeah, of course.’ Lily made it sound like the most reasonable thing possible, and to her, Irene reflected, it would be. ‘A servant like me doesn’t disobey orders.’
‘Why a human boss, though?’ Irene asked. ‘Why not a Fae one?’
Lily made a rude noise as she released Irene’s hand. ‘Have you met some of the guys who’d like to take that sort of role? They’d be more interested in their own career than in mine. I need to be stronger, before being the servant of anyone who really matters. A powerful patron needs a powerful servant. A weak patron just uses up their servants like chewed lemon peel.’
‘And a human boss is willing to take suggestions about the right orders to give?’ Irene guessed.
‘George is a good boss,’ Lily said. She spoke with an affectionate tolerance, as though discussing a well-trained dog. It was the sort of tone that went with statements such as And he knows to go outside before doing his business. ‘I’ve taught him exactly how to use me. And he takes a hint when I want him to. I’ve spent a while cultivating him, and I don’t want it messed up. So what exactly are you doing here in my neighbourhood?’
Lily had slipped the question in casually, but there was no doubt she wanted an answer. Irene turned her glass in her hand while she considered the best response. ‘I’m looking for something that’s been stolen,’ she finally said.
‘A book?’ Lily asked.
Irene was tempted to say No, a child and ask for Lily’s help in retrieving Evariste’s daughter. But that wouldn’t help. Quite the opposite. The risk of ending up in Lily’s debt, and compromising the Library that way, paled in comparison to the risk of telling the Fae the full story. If the Fae caught wind of a dragon contest going on in their midst, there’d be no end to the trouble they’d cause. They’d see a weakness and move to exploit it – just as the dragons would do to them, if the positions were reversed. The situation would degenerate faster than the eye could follow. And if the dragons traced the leak back to the Library via Irene . . .
She’d thought the situation couldn’t get much worse. She’d been wrong. The situation could always get worse.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you. But it doesn’t involve you or your kind.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Lily said. ‘There are too many dragons in town lately, and they’re messing with me and mine. I’m concerned that they’re moving in on my territory. And I wouldn’t want to think you’re working with them.’ She levelled her gaze at Irene again, like the barrel of a gun.
The implied threat echoed in the room.
‘I might talk to dragons,’ Irene said with a smile. But fear crawled its way down her spine and nestled in her stomach like a block of ice. She forced herself to keep on speaking. ‘But that’s not an excuse to shoot me on sight. Or them.’
‘Are you sure?’ Suddenly Lily was holding a gun in her hand – a small sleek piece of metal that gleamed under the room’s lights like silver. It seemed to have its own gravity, drawing Irene’s eyes to it like a black hole. Lily had moved so fast that Irene hadn’t been able to track the movement.
‘I’m sure you aren’t going to shoot me without an order from your boss,’ Irene answered, her throat dry.
Lily actually smiled. ‘Just so long as you understand that I would put a bullet through you without the least little bit of hesitation. If he gave me an order.’
The gun vanished into its holster. ‘Now, do you want me to fit you out with something before we go outside?’
‘That might not be the best idea,’ Irene admitted. ‘I don’t want to risk the police taking me in on the Sullivan Act.’
‘Well, if you do change your mind, come back to me,’ Lily said. ‘But we should go join the boys before they wonder why we’re taking so long. The drinks are on me, with no obligation to you. You okay with that?’
‘It’s a deal,’ Irene agreed. She followed Lily towards the door at the far end of the room.
It had insulating felt lining on the other side, and gave onto a short, deeply carpeted corridor, which led to another felt-lined door. Irene could hear the faint sounds of music on the other side.
‘Welcome to the Underground,’ Lily said, swinging open the door. A wave of noise, music and cigar smoke swept into the corridor. ‘Come and sit over at George’s table, so he can say bye-bye politely.’
‘And so I can be seen with him, of course,’ Irene said with resignation.
‘That’s how it works,’ Lily agreed. She kicked the door closed and led the way into the large room.
Irene was very conscious of people staring at her and Lily – some obviously so, while others pretended to hide their interest. This was a speakeasy that served people who had money to spend or to waste. Everyone was well dressed – even the waiters were outfitted in smooth black-and-white suits, and the fawning hostesses were clad in expensive, barely-there confections of fringe. A few couples drifted around on the small dance floor, but most people were clustered at their tables.
The room buzzed with a febrile sense of tension. The laughter was too loud, too self-indulgent. Women in their cocktail dresses with bared shoulders and arms posed like marionettes in the dim lighting, exposing flashes of knee or thigh as they sipped drinks and played with long cigarette-holders. The men in their tailored suits, all wide lapels, big shoulders and silk ties, were posturing as much as the women. And they all knew that at any moment the police might arrive. Irene could smell the nervousness in the air just as much as the alcohol or smoke.
Electric light fixtures hung from the ceiling above, but they were deliberately dim. The light picked out the glitter of necklaces, cufflinks and tiepins, and sparkled on full and empty glasses. The only well-lit spot in the whole room was the bar: the bottles behind it gleamed like a distant promise of heaven from the outskirts of hell.